By Jerry Mack Grubbs
It was the 21st day of December and I had spent a few moments at the cemetery remembering a close friend and visiting old memories. It was a beautiful day, crisp and clear with a gentle breeze blowing. I tucked my neck down into the collar of my coat as I finished writing a few thoughts, closed my notebook and headed back to the car.
I turned left as I exited the cemetery and headed for a Christmas visit with another friend from my past. I see her only once each year now and yet twenty years ago we were together every working day. I knew a little of her hopes and dreams and some of her disappointments. But today she and I will reflect on days gone by, catch up on the events of the current year and after a brief hug, say our goodbyes for another year. Oh, we will promise to get together more often; go to lunch and have Mexican food, but it will not happen.
It will not happen because life gets busy with obligations and routine commitments. But mostly it will not happen because our lives become intertwined for a season and then a pruning separates the old from the new. This year she will once again say, "I wondered if you would come this year." And I will think, "We prune, gather, stack and burn but no one can prune away my memories." We lived and laughed and worked and played. We even shared that friend who is now silent that I visited in the cemetery. She will ask if I know what day this is and we will both know it is the anniversary of his passing.
While sitting at a red light and thinking about the upcoming visit with her, I noticed a black BMW sedan pass by in front of me. It was spotless, so spotless it caught my eye. But what really caught my attention was a red wagon full of Christmas presents in the back seat of that car. When the light changed I impulsively decided to follow the BMW. Pulling in close behind the black car I noticed that it was a 530xi. That didn't mean anything to me but I was sure it meant something to the owner. I wanted to jot down the license plate number but I didn't. The BMW was headed east on Fourth South Street and I decided to pull up beside it to get a closer look at the red wagon in the back seat. But my attention was drawn to the occupants of the car.
It is interesting what you can see in a person if you look close enough. I'm not talking about receding hairlines on men and turtleneck sweaters on women to hide what cosmetic surgery can't roll back the clock on. I'm talking about the look of happiness, contentment, worry or grief. Today I saw worry and grief chiseled in stone on the faces of the couple in the spotless black BMW sedan. They were well dressed. The lady passenger didn't have a single blond hair out of place and the morning sun danced on her golden necklace. The driver wore a heavy starched white shirt with monogrammed cuffs. They each had an unopened water bottle cradled in the console cup holders. They appeared to be in their mid thirties but the strain on their faces gave them the appearance of statues devoid of life or manikins in a department store window.
They did not speak. They did not look at each other or toward me but stared straight ahead as though in a trance. I wanted to know their story. I wanted to know who the little red wagon full of Christmas presents was for. As I continued to follow the BMW, it turned toward the University of Utah Hospital. I began to imagine that this couple had a young son or daughter gravely ill and that they were filled with despair. I lost them in the hospital parking terrace but I wasn't too concerned. How many couples would be pulling a red wagon full of Christmas presents through the corridor of the hospital? To my dismay the couple was just entering the elevator when I reached the main foyer. All I knew was that they were headed up. I was blocked by a sea of people. Something was wrong. There had been a "Code Pink" issued just as I entered the hospital. Code Pink meant there had been an infant abduction and every exit to the hospital was being closed off. It took several minutes before everyone knew that it was just a security drill.
Security drill or not, I had lost the couple with the red wagon full of Christmas presents. But what I could not forget was that look of despair on their faces. There are some things that money cannot buy. It cannot buy health and it cannot buy happiness. The look on the faces of that couple told me that they would trade anything for what they did not have, a healthy child. A spotless black BMW sedan, starched white shirts and gold necklaces become nothing more than pruned limbs, gathered, stacked and prepared for burning if that sacrifice would restore what that couple had lost.
While wandering the halls of the hospital in search of the little red wagon full of Christmas presents, I came across another friend from the past. What a pleasant yet unexpected reunion we enjoyed. We exchanged phone numbers and agreed to meet for lunch one day. I left the hospital with a lighter step because of a friendship renewed coupled with a pain in my heart for a couple I did not know. I returned to my car and continued on my journey to visit that friend with whom I had laughed and worked and played so many years ago. I didn't have a little red wagon full of Christmas presents for her but I did have memories to share and moments to remember. I heard her voice. I enjoyed her smile. Our friendship has survived the pruning, gathering, stacking and burning that separates the old from the new. After the pruning comes the tender new growth. Oh, how good it is to be alive and pull my little red wagon along the road of my mind and fill it with memories, hopes and dreams and friendships renewed.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Sunday, December 24, 2006
The Look of Christmas
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
The year was 1952. I was six years old and anxious for Christmas to come. I had written my letter to Santa requesting a 24" J.C. Higgins bicycle. I didn't know how to ride a bike but I was sure that in no time I would be sailing up and down the dirt road in front of my home.
My joy was complete Christmas morning as I entered the room and saw my candy apple red bicycle next to the tree. There were other presents with my name on them but I had only one thought…get outside and learn to ride my new bike. My brother Bill got a bike also but he was seven and he already knew how to ride. Bill climbed on his bike and was soon out of sight. I quickly discovered that a 24" bicycle was too tall for a six year old. It was impossible to sit on the seat and keep my feet on the pedals. Sometime the bicycle cross bar was even a challenge. My dad assured me that I would grow into the bike.
Learning to ride this oversize bicycle proved very challenging for me. I couldn't pedal with enough momentum to keep my balance so my brother came up with a plan. I pushed my bike over to a gently sloping hill. Holding the bike while I straddled the cross bar and got my feet on the pedals, my brother gave me a gentle shove down the incline. If I could have remembered my birth this would have been the second most frightening experience of my life. I was convinced that I was about to die. I crashed. I survived, but the candy apple red paint on my bike didn't do as well. I cried as I pushed my bike home. My brother was still laughing as we came into the front yard. I thought how strange it was that he got so serious and concerned about my welfare when my mother appeared in the doorway. She consoled me and assured me that my bike would function just as well with the paint scuffed up a little.
I eventually learned to ride my candy apple red bike with the white side wall tires. The world was different in those days. Mother let us ride our bicycles to town seven miles away. After we moved to the city, my brother and I rode all the way to granny's house thirty-three miles away. Young boys on a two lane country road traveling so far away made us feel all grown up. We eventually rode the tread off the tires of those bikes. That was okay because with bald tires we could slam on the brakes and skid farther which was a great pastime.
I no longer worried about the scrapes and scratches on my candy apple red bike. I left it out in the rain. I occasionally left it in the neighbor's yard and took little regard for it unless I couldn't find it when I was ready to travel once more. One day I looked and looked for my bike and couldn't find it anywhere. When I asked mother if she knew where my bike was, she said, "Yes, I gave your bike away to some needy children who will appreciate it and keep it out of the weather." I was so angry with her that I could cuss but cussing would get me the "you know what." Of course I never tried cussing my mother but I got the "you know what" for other things and I wasn't going to invite that experience into my life intentionally. I was in a bad mood for days. I even ran away for four hours but I decided that wasn't a good plan. No matter what I did or what I said, my candy apple red bicycle did not come home.
As Christmas approached I requested a new bike. Mother said I couldn't ask for another bike because I didn't take care of the bike I had. I told her if I couldn't have a bike I didn't want anything; apply the pressure, right. I knew my parents would eventually cave under the pressure and I'd get a new bike. As Christmas neared I looked high and low for evidence of a new bike tucked away in a safe place. See, when you live out in the country your parents sometimes loose faith in Santa and they stash a few things here and there just incase Santa can't find your place on Christmas Eve.
With all my snooping and searching I could find no evidence of a new bicycle that would be standing shining and bright in our living room on Christmas morning just waiting to make me the happiest boy alive. Mother said that if I didn't decide what I wanted for Christmas she would ask Santa to just bring me some clothes. With a reluctant heart I made other choices for the coming Christmas. Mother reminded us that there were many children on Santa's list so we needed to be careful about how much we asked for. Her comment reminded me of that poor little boy who was riding my candy apple red bike. I hoped he crashed and I didn't even know who he was.
Christmas morning finally arrived. I planned to act excited although I was still unhappy about not getting a bicycle. To my surprise there were two shiny green bicycles with white trim; one for me and one for my brother. I ran across the living room to claim my new bike. Coming closer, I realized the bike wasn't new. It was my old 24" J.C. Higgins bike painted a different color. It wasn't even a good paint job. I was angry at mother for lying to me about giving my bike away. I thought of all the months I had missed riding my bike. She had lied to me. Even with my old bike back I was still unhappy that I wasn't getting a new bicycle for Christmas. This was turning out to be the worst Christmas of my life. I looked at my brother and I could see the same disappointment in his eyes. I turned to my mother and as our eyes met I knew at that instant that I held her happiness in my hands. I saw a longing in her eyes that even a ten year old boy could recognize. Would I do the right thing? Would my light burn bright this day? I knew my mother had painted my bike with her own hands. The unsteady lines and brush strokes of the green paint took on new meaning to me. I ran to mother and threw my arms around her, hugging her has tight as I could and thanking her for my bicycle. As my brother and I took our bikes outside to ride, we decided it was nice to have new tires and fresh paint. We grinned at each other and peddled down the road. I never forgot the power we held in our hands that morning when we looked up into the eyes of our mother on a Christmas long ago when there were so many children on Santa's list.
The year was 1952. I was six years old and anxious for Christmas to come. I had written my letter to Santa requesting a 24" J.C. Higgins bicycle. I didn't know how to ride a bike but I was sure that in no time I would be sailing up and down the dirt road in front of my home.
My joy was complete Christmas morning as I entered the room and saw my candy apple red bicycle next to the tree. There were other presents with my name on them but I had only one thought…get outside and learn to ride my new bike. My brother Bill got a bike also but he was seven and he already knew how to ride. Bill climbed on his bike and was soon out of sight. I quickly discovered that a 24" bicycle was too tall for a six year old. It was impossible to sit on the seat and keep my feet on the pedals. Sometime the bicycle cross bar was even a challenge. My dad assured me that I would grow into the bike.
Learning to ride this oversize bicycle proved very challenging for me. I couldn't pedal with enough momentum to keep my balance so my brother came up with a plan. I pushed my bike over to a gently sloping hill. Holding the bike while I straddled the cross bar and got my feet on the pedals, my brother gave me a gentle shove down the incline. If I could have remembered my birth this would have been the second most frightening experience of my life. I was convinced that I was about to die. I crashed. I survived, but the candy apple red paint on my bike didn't do as well. I cried as I pushed my bike home. My brother was still laughing as we came into the front yard. I thought how strange it was that he got so serious and concerned about my welfare when my mother appeared in the doorway. She consoled me and assured me that my bike would function just as well with the paint scuffed up a little.
I eventually learned to ride my candy apple red bike with the white side wall tires. The world was different in those days. Mother let us ride our bicycles to town seven miles away. After we moved to the city, my brother and I rode all the way to granny's house thirty-three miles away. Young boys on a two lane country road traveling so far away made us feel all grown up. We eventually rode the tread off the tires of those bikes. That was okay because with bald tires we could slam on the brakes and skid farther which was a great pastime.
I no longer worried about the scrapes and scratches on my candy apple red bike. I left it out in the rain. I occasionally left it in the neighbor's yard and took little regard for it unless I couldn't find it when I was ready to travel once more. One day I looked and looked for my bike and couldn't find it anywhere. When I asked mother if she knew where my bike was, she said, "Yes, I gave your bike away to some needy children who will appreciate it and keep it out of the weather." I was so angry with her that I could cuss but cussing would get me the "you know what." Of course I never tried cussing my mother but I got the "you know what" for other things and I wasn't going to invite that experience into my life intentionally. I was in a bad mood for days. I even ran away for four hours but I decided that wasn't a good plan. No matter what I did or what I said, my candy apple red bicycle did not come home.
As Christmas approached I requested a new bike. Mother said I couldn't ask for another bike because I didn't take care of the bike I had. I told her if I couldn't have a bike I didn't want anything; apply the pressure, right. I knew my parents would eventually cave under the pressure and I'd get a new bike. As Christmas neared I looked high and low for evidence of a new bike tucked away in a safe place. See, when you live out in the country your parents sometimes loose faith in Santa and they stash a few things here and there just incase Santa can't find your place on Christmas Eve.
With all my snooping and searching I could find no evidence of a new bicycle that would be standing shining and bright in our living room on Christmas morning just waiting to make me the happiest boy alive. Mother said that if I didn't decide what I wanted for Christmas she would ask Santa to just bring me some clothes. With a reluctant heart I made other choices for the coming Christmas. Mother reminded us that there were many children on Santa's list so we needed to be careful about how much we asked for. Her comment reminded me of that poor little boy who was riding my candy apple red bike. I hoped he crashed and I didn't even know who he was.
Christmas morning finally arrived. I planned to act excited although I was still unhappy about not getting a bicycle. To my surprise there were two shiny green bicycles with white trim; one for me and one for my brother. I ran across the living room to claim my new bike. Coming closer, I realized the bike wasn't new. It was my old 24" J.C. Higgins bike painted a different color. It wasn't even a good paint job. I was angry at mother for lying to me about giving my bike away. I thought of all the months I had missed riding my bike. She had lied to me. Even with my old bike back I was still unhappy that I wasn't getting a new bicycle for Christmas. This was turning out to be the worst Christmas of my life. I looked at my brother and I could see the same disappointment in his eyes. I turned to my mother and as our eyes met I knew at that instant that I held her happiness in my hands. I saw a longing in her eyes that even a ten year old boy could recognize. Would I do the right thing? Would my light burn bright this day? I knew my mother had painted my bike with her own hands. The unsteady lines and brush strokes of the green paint took on new meaning to me. I ran to mother and threw my arms around her, hugging her has tight as I could and thanking her for my bicycle. As my brother and I took our bikes outside to ride, we decided it was nice to have new tires and fresh paint. We grinned at each other and peddled down the road. I never forgot the power we held in our hands that morning when we looked up into the eyes of our mother on a Christmas long ago when there were so many children on Santa's list.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Gone From My View
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
I lost a friend this week. I didn’t loose him like you loose a shiny penny that drops out of your pocket. I didn’t loose him like a favorite book that is temporarily misplaced. I lost him in life. He is gone from my view but not from my heart. His name is James Marvin Moore but everyone called him Jimmy. He had rough edges just like the rest of us but his personal battle with cancer began to smooth and polish his imperfections.
I felt fortunate to be counted as one of his many friends. He was always anxious to help anyone in need. His voice still rings in my ears. “Mister Jerry, I can get that old dump truck running for you,” he said. And fountains of memories gush forth and flood that day we worked on the old truck together. “Mister Jerry, I’ll help you rebuild that washed out dam if my boss will give me a few days off,” he said. And the next six days were filled with hard work and pleasant conversation.
From our first introduction I asked Jimmy to not call me Mister Jerry. I’m just plain Jerry I told him. “You’re not plain to me,” he said. “When you do something to loose my respect I’ll stop calling you Mister Jerry.” That is how Jimmy was . . . once he set his mind on something there was no changing him. For the most part that attitude about life served him well.
Jimmy didn’t amass the treasures of the earth but he gathered about himself a multitude of friends. Those who judge a man by the cost of his coat would take no notice of Jimmy. While those who view a man from where he started and where he finished the day found a warm friendship in this man who always offered a strong handshake and a soft countenance. I can hear in my mind Jimmy saying, “That man is doing the best he can.”
How grateful I am that I was able to visit Jimmy one last time. During his struggle he lost his life but he didn’t loose his positive attitude. He lost his fight with cancer but he didn’t loose the love and caring concern of his companion and wife. Jimmy lost his beloved pickup to the creditors but on one could repossess his friends. They had been purchased and paid for in full. That price was his loyalty. That price was his love. That price was his gentle open acceptance of others. I will miss him and I will not forget him.
We were friends in life and we are friends in death. Some things are not lost even in death. James Marvin Moore, you may be gone from my view but you are not gone from my heart. I am a better person today because of the tenderness you pointed out in me. In reality, it was through your eyes that you saw that tenderness. It is my responsibility to strive to live up to what you saw in me. I’m still trying.
I lost a friend this week. I didn’t loose him like you loose a shiny penny that drops out of your pocket. I didn’t loose him like a favorite book that is temporarily misplaced. I lost him in life. He is gone from my view but not from my heart. His name is James Marvin Moore but everyone called him Jimmy. He had rough edges just like the rest of us but his personal battle with cancer began to smooth and polish his imperfections.
I felt fortunate to be counted as one of his many friends. He was always anxious to help anyone in need. His voice still rings in my ears. “Mister Jerry, I can get that old dump truck running for you,” he said. And fountains of memories gush forth and flood that day we worked on the old truck together. “Mister Jerry, I’ll help you rebuild that washed out dam if my boss will give me a few days off,” he said. And the next six days were filled with hard work and pleasant conversation.
From our first introduction I asked Jimmy to not call me Mister Jerry. I’m just plain Jerry I told him. “You’re not plain to me,” he said. “When you do something to loose my respect I’ll stop calling you Mister Jerry.” That is how Jimmy was . . . once he set his mind on something there was no changing him. For the most part that attitude about life served him well.
Jimmy didn’t amass the treasures of the earth but he gathered about himself a multitude of friends. Those who judge a man by the cost of his coat would take no notice of Jimmy. While those who view a man from where he started and where he finished the day found a warm friendship in this man who always offered a strong handshake and a soft countenance. I can hear in my mind Jimmy saying, “That man is doing the best he can.”
How grateful I am that I was able to visit Jimmy one last time. During his struggle he lost his life but he didn’t loose his positive attitude. He lost his fight with cancer but he didn’t loose the love and caring concern of his companion and wife. Jimmy lost his beloved pickup to the creditors but on one could repossess his friends. They had been purchased and paid for in full. That price was his loyalty. That price was his love. That price was his gentle open acceptance of others. I will miss him and I will not forget him.
We were friends in life and we are friends in death. Some things are not lost even in death. James Marvin Moore, you may be gone from my view but you are not gone from my heart. I am a better person today because of the tenderness you pointed out in me. In reality, it was through your eyes that you saw that tenderness. It is my responsibility to strive to live up to what you saw in me. I’m still trying.
Wednesday, December 6, 2006
Going Home
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
My dream world has been active again. This week I dreamed I was walking across this vast land of ours. I walked over mountains, through valleys and across the grassy plains of the Midwest. I waded across streams and swam rivers. I seemed to be driven by an inner voice moving me eastward. I took in deep breaths of air and was humbled by the scenery of this beautiful country.
I thought how much faster it would be if I could fly or drive but I wasn’t dissatisfied that I was relegated to walking this tremendous distance. I never felt tired. Looking down I was surprised to see that I was barefoot but my feet weren’t sore or bothered in the least. I remember being thankful that it wasn’t wintertime. I could survive the heat much easier than the cold.
I was being mentally pulled eastward toward an unknown destination. I was aware of the fact that I was going to find someone and bring them home. I didn’t know where this journey would take me but I was certain that I would learn many valuable lessons on the way there. Nothing slowed me down. I walked through blazing sun, strong winds and sometimes heavy rain but I continued placing one foot in front of the other. I sang songs and made up stories in my mind to pass the time. I relived memories long buried in the recesses of the deepest chamber of my heart. I was happy. I was content. I was going home.
But I wasn’t going home. I was moving a direction that was taking me far away from home. Why did I feel like I was going home? I was puzzled by this strange sensation. As the foot steps and miles passed under my feet I gradually became aware that home isn’t necessarily a place. It can be a feeling. It can be anywhere you feel safe, loved and appreciated. Who was this person that I was looking for that would make me feel at home once I found them? The one thing I knew for certain was that once we were together we would be so close that we could share a single raindrop. Home would be wherever we were together. I was filled with a love that is difficult for me to describe; as difficult as it is to describe a beautiful sunset to someone who has never seen one.
I realized it was this feeling of love that energized me and gave me a determination to continue my journey. I knew that nothing would stop me, not weather, not mountains, not the heat of day or the cold of night. I would find what was lost to me and I would be home. I was going home.
My dream world has been active again. This week I dreamed I was walking across this vast land of ours. I walked over mountains, through valleys and across the grassy plains of the Midwest. I waded across streams and swam rivers. I seemed to be driven by an inner voice moving me eastward. I took in deep breaths of air and was humbled by the scenery of this beautiful country.
I thought how much faster it would be if I could fly or drive but I wasn’t dissatisfied that I was relegated to walking this tremendous distance. I never felt tired. Looking down I was surprised to see that I was barefoot but my feet weren’t sore or bothered in the least. I remember being thankful that it wasn’t wintertime. I could survive the heat much easier than the cold.
I was being mentally pulled eastward toward an unknown destination. I was aware of the fact that I was going to find someone and bring them home. I didn’t know where this journey would take me but I was certain that I would learn many valuable lessons on the way there. Nothing slowed me down. I walked through blazing sun, strong winds and sometimes heavy rain but I continued placing one foot in front of the other. I sang songs and made up stories in my mind to pass the time. I relived memories long buried in the recesses of the deepest chamber of my heart. I was happy. I was content. I was going home.
But I wasn’t going home. I was moving a direction that was taking me far away from home. Why did I feel like I was going home? I was puzzled by this strange sensation. As the foot steps and miles passed under my feet I gradually became aware that home isn’t necessarily a place. It can be a feeling. It can be anywhere you feel safe, loved and appreciated. Who was this person that I was looking for that would make me feel at home once I found them? The one thing I knew for certain was that once we were together we would be so close that we could share a single raindrop. Home would be wherever we were together. I was filled with a love that is difficult for me to describe; as difficult as it is to describe a beautiful sunset to someone who has never seen one.
I realized it was this feeling of love that energized me and gave me a determination to continue my journey. I knew that nothing would stop me, not weather, not mountains, not the heat of day or the cold of night. I would find what was lost to me and I would be home. I was going home.
Sunday, December 3, 2006
Memory Lane
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
It was just two pennies and a nickel. But even in 1958 when I first stood on this spot seven cents would no longer buy a soda pop. Today it would barely cover the tax on the purchase of a bottle of water. But when I looked down and discovered the two pennies and a nickel on the asphalt parking lot of the Magnolia Ridge Condominiums, I was standing very near the spot where the mighty oak tree grew so many years ago that served as the lofty perch for my tree house. Change had come to these piney woods of East Texas. Buildings, asphalt and fences adorned the landscape that once was the playground of a young boy filled with imagination, hopes and dreams. My dreams eventually carried me far from home and away from these peaceful woods of summer.
Reaching down, I picked up the two pennies and a nickel. They were scratched and marred from being run over by the wheels of vehicles coming and going on peoples' journey through life. But like the scratches on those coins, I have had my share of nicks and scratches as I have traveled in search of my dreams. My hope is that in that process I haven't left painful scratches on the memories of those I have met.
As I enjoyed the thoughts of many wonderful times spent in that grand old oak tree, I continued my walk down memory lane. The summer of 1958 came to a close and having graduated from Valley View Elementary, I was off to a new school. My brother Bill was a year ahead of me in school and he had been walking to Forest Park Junior High for a year. When you grow up with an older brother there are lots of things that you don't have to figure out on your own. I don't know if that is a blessing or not. On the road to school was a home with a red door. Bill told me that the red door meant a prostitute lived there. I watched every day to see if I could see what a prostitute looked like but there was never anyone out in the yard when I passed by.
In 1964, the night of my high school graduation, Charles Hineman, Eddy Gilmore and I headed for Galveston, Texas for a few days of R&R on the beaches of the Gulf of Mexico. Late that night as we passed through downtown Houston, Texas, Charles pointed to two women standing near the curb and said, "Now there are a couple of real prostitutes." When Charles made that comment about the prostitutes I though once more of what was said about the woman who lived in the house with the red door on our way to school. As I walk by that home these many years later the door is still painted red. I wonder how old that prostitute must be today. What I really wonder is how long does a label stick even if there is no basis of truth in it.
Walking on down memory lane I noticed the large concrete culverts that carried the storm water away form the surrounding development of homes and school. During those junior high days I played in those culverts for hours on end. That was where my friends thought it was time for me to have my first smoke. They didn't realize I had already had my first and last smoke. It was when I was in the fourth grade. I hadn't told anyone about my smoking and I wouldn't tell anyone unless I found that special dream girl who would melt my heart. When that happened I knew I would spill my guts, share all of me, secretly feeling glad that someone on this earth knew me completely, warts and all.
Leaving the memory of the culverts, I walked onto the school grounds. The first building I came to was where I took a drafting class. In that drafting class the teacher made me learn to print all over again. He wasn't satisfied with just regular printing but all the words had to be in neat precise block letters. I spent years practicing my cursive penmanship and now my teacher said that wasn't good enough for those drafting assignments. Mother said that was when I began to loose my flowing penmanship that she always complimented me on. Mother had to find something to brag on me about. There was my older brother Bill with his piano accomplishments, teachers saying he should be in voice lessons and he was already sitting first chair trombonist in the band even though he was only an eighth grader.
I don't remember him crowing like a young rooster about his talents. He didn't have to. Mother was crowing enough for him. If you grew up with an older brother, I'm sure you heard the words, "Why can't you be more like your brother?" Well, we are each different and my parents finally figured that out. I don't remember resenting them for their comments. I often wondered why I wasn't more like my older brother also. The big problem was that I liked being me.
I peered into many other classrooms and memories flooded back, too many to share with you today. But looking west of the school at the forest of pine trees that gave our school the name, Forest Park Junior High, I remembered the pinecone fights that erupted with little provocation. Those pinecone wars were not conducted with fluffy open pedal brown pinecones that have dropped their seeds. They were hard green torpedoes with sharp spikes all over them. There was never an argument whether or not you scored a hit. The victim would have blood oozing from each of those needle pricks. The pinecone wars of Forest Park raged at lunch break all through my junior high days.
We bragged and displayed our war wounds until we returned to afternoon classes. There would be no more talk of what went on at lunch time. To be caught hurdling those hard green missiles at another student was grounds for a trip to the principal's office for a brief but painful encounter with his behavioral modification program. The principal's name has slipped my mind but I still remember what his paddle looked like.
My best friend Nick and I always tried to be on the same side as we divided up before the pinecone war games began. At least that was the way it was until Nick blew off two of his fingers making home made fireworks. Cherry bombs weren't powerful enough for Nick. Going to school one morning, I stopped by Nick's home to walk the rest of the way to school with him. Nick's mother greeted me at the door and asked if I heard the sirens the previous evening. Nick wouldn't return to the pinecone wars for the rest of that year. I stayed behind with him for several weeks but eventually I was drawn back to the games down in the woods and Nick busied himself with other interests as his hand continued to heal. Soon we weren't walking home from school together anymore. Nick had been the only friend who stood by me and helped fight the boys trying to force me to take a puff on a cigarette down in the storm sewer culverts. Where was I when he needed a friend?
But this is a walk down memory lane; a walk that includes reflections of the good choices and the not so good. I made some of both. If it were possible, I would open my chest and reveal my heart but you might not like all you see. So I'll just provide glimpses of me here and there in hopes that if there are any tears they are from laughter not boredom or sadness. Even my poor choices taught me much about life. I'm not proud of all my choices but I'm thankful I learned lessons from a good share of them.
It was just two pennies and a nickel. But even in 1958 when I first stood on this spot seven cents would no longer buy a soda pop. Today it would barely cover the tax on the purchase of a bottle of water. But when I looked down and discovered the two pennies and a nickel on the asphalt parking lot of the Magnolia Ridge Condominiums, I was standing very near the spot where the mighty oak tree grew so many years ago that served as the lofty perch for my tree house. Change had come to these piney woods of East Texas. Buildings, asphalt and fences adorned the landscape that once was the playground of a young boy filled with imagination, hopes and dreams. My dreams eventually carried me far from home and away from these peaceful woods of summer.
Reaching down, I picked up the two pennies and a nickel. They were scratched and marred from being run over by the wheels of vehicles coming and going on peoples' journey through life. But like the scratches on those coins, I have had my share of nicks and scratches as I have traveled in search of my dreams. My hope is that in that process I haven't left painful scratches on the memories of those I have met.
As I enjoyed the thoughts of many wonderful times spent in that grand old oak tree, I continued my walk down memory lane. The summer of 1958 came to a close and having graduated from Valley View Elementary, I was off to a new school. My brother Bill was a year ahead of me in school and he had been walking to Forest Park Junior High for a year. When you grow up with an older brother there are lots of things that you don't have to figure out on your own. I don't know if that is a blessing or not. On the road to school was a home with a red door. Bill told me that the red door meant a prostitute lived there. I watched every day to see if I could see what a prostitute looked like but there was never anyone out in the yard when I passed by.
In 1964, the night of my high school graduation, Charles Hineman, Eddy Gilmore and I headed for Galveston, Texas for a few days of R&R on the beaches of the Gulf of Mexico. Late that night as we passed through downtown Houston, Texas, Charles pointed to two women standing near the curb and said, "Now there are a couple of real prostitutes." When Charles made that comment about the prostitutes I though once more of what was said about the woman who lived in the house with the red door on our way to school. As I walk by that home these many years later the door is still painted red. I wonder how old that prostitute must be today. What I really wonder is how long does a label stick even if there is no basis of truth in it.
Walking on down memory lane I noticed the large concrete culverts that carried the storm water away form the surrounding development of homes and school. During those junior high days I played in those culverts for hours on end. That was where my friends thought it was time for me to have my first smoke. They didn't realize I had already had my first and last smoke. It was when I was in the fourth grade. I hadn't told anyone about my smoking and I wouldn't tell anyone unless I found that special dream girl who would melt my heart. When that happened I knew I would spill my guts, share all of me, secretly feeling glad that someone on this earth knew me completely, warts and all.
Leaving the memory of the culverts, I walked onto the school grounds. The first building I came to was where I took a drafting class. In that drafting class the teacher made me learn to print all over again. He wasn't satisfied with just regular printing but all the words had to be in neat precise block letters. I spent years practicing my cursive penmanship and now my teacher said that wasn't good enough for those drafting assignments. Mother said that was when I began to loose my flowing penmanship that she always complimented me on. Mother had to find something to brag on me about. There was my older brother Bill with his piano accomplishments, teachers saying he should be in voice lessons and he was already sitting first chair trombonist in the band even though he was only an eighth grader.
I don't remember him crowing like a young rooster about his talents. He didn't have to. Mother was crowing enough for him. If you grew up with an older brother, I'm sure you heard the words, "Why can't you be more like your brother?" Well, we are each different and my parents finally figured that out. I don't remember resenting them for their comments. I often wondered why I wasn't more like my older brother also. The big problem was that I liked being me.
I peered into many other classrooms and memories flooded back, too many to share with you today. But looking west of the school at the forest of pine trees that gave our school the name, Forest Park Junior High, I remembered the pinecone fights that erupted with little provocation. Those pinecone wars were not conducted with fluffy open pedal brown pinecones that have dropped their seeds. They were hard green torpedoes with sharp spikes all over them. There was never an argument whether or not you scored a hit. The victim would have blood oozing from each of those needle pricks. The pinecone wars of Forest Park raged at lunch break all through my junior high days.
We bragged and displayed our war wounds until we returned to afternoon classes. There would be no more talk of what went on at lunch time. To be caught hurdling those hard green missiles at another student was grounds for a trip to the principal's office for a brief but painful encounter with his behavioral modification program. The principal's name has slipped my mind but I still remember what his paddle looked like.
My best friend Nick and I always tried to be on the same side as we divided up before the pinecone war games began. At least that was the way it was until Nick blew off two of his fingers making home made fireworks. Cherry bombs weren't powerful enough for Nick. Going to school one morning, I stopped by Nick's home to walk the rest of the way to school with him. Nick's mother greeted me at the door and asked if I heard the sirens the previous evening. Nick wouldn't return to the pinecone wars for the rest of that year. I stayed behind with him for several weeks but eventually I was drawn back to the games down in the woods and Nick busied himself with other interests as his hand continued to heal. Soon we weren't walking home from school together anymore. Nick had been the only friend who stood by me and helped fight the boys trying to force me to take a puff on a cigarette down in the storm sewer culverts. Where was I when he needed a friend?
But this is a walk down memory lane; a walk that includes reflections of the good choices and the not so good. I made some of both. If it were possible, I would open my chest and reveal my heart but you might not like all you see. So I'll just provide glimpses of me here and there in hopes that if there are any tears they are from laughter not boredom or sadness. Even my poor choices taught me much about life. I'm not proud of all my choices but I'm thankful I learned lessons from a good share of them.
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