By Jerry Mack Grubbs
Anyone who has grown up in the shadow of an older brother will sympathize with my situation. My brother Bill was taller, more talented, and carried a picture of one of the best looking girls in the school in his back pocket. “Bill has a picture in his wallet of Patsy wearing a two-piece swimsuit,” I said. Karen gave no response, just continued eating her school lunch. How irritating. How can I plan my next strategy when I don’t get a response? Maybe she was absorbed in other thoughts and didn’t hear what I said. “Did you hear what I said?” I asked. “Yes,” came her one word reply. This conversation wasn’t going well. Apparently there would be no discussion of photographs in a two-piece with this girl who was wearing my high school ring around her neck. Shouldn’t I have rights if she was going to go steady with me? At least I was entitled to an answer. “What do you think about that?” I asked. “About what?” she asked. “About Bill having a picture of Patsy in a two-piece,” I said in exasperation. “I don’t think about it,” she answered. The bell rang signaling the end of lunch break and we returned to our Spanish class. Just as we walked through the door to the classroom Karen said, “The answer to your other question is no.” “I didn’t ask another question,” I said. “I know, but you eventually will ask and the answer to that question that you haven’t asked is still no.”
The Spanish teacher surprised us with a pop quiz that took my attention for the next few minutes. I hate these classes where you go to lunch during the middle of the class period. It’s like having the same class twice in a row. I finished the little inconvenience of that quiz, passed it back to the girl behind me for grading, and soon had my score of 82. That wasn’t bad but Karen flashed her quiz sheet at me which showed a 98. I need to start dating someone dumber, I thought. Or at least date someone who will flash more than a pop quiz score. Class was over and I walked Karen to her next class before heading off to study hall. There was no more discussion of photos in a two-piece. Instead we talked about an argument that Leslie Duffel and Charles Hineman had this morning. How boring. Maybe Charles was asking Leslie for a picture of her in a two-piece to put in his wallet. That would just be my luck. Charles and Leslie were the ones instrumental in getting Karen and me together. Charles was my friend and Leslie was Karen’s friend. We often double dated and when they were having problems it seemed to be contagious: sort of like being exposed to the flu. Karen would tell me what Charles did. I would see nothing wrong with what he did and pretty soon I was the one in trouble.
In study hall I came up with my master plan or my new attack on the photo in the two-piece problem. I just wouldn’t say another word about it. That would drive Karen to curiosity and she would bring up the subject again or nothing would ever be said; either way I thought my chances of getting that photo was about as good as finding a catfish on every single hook of my trotline out at Cherokee Lake. That had never happened in case you are wondering.
After school I met Karen at our regular meeting place and walked her to her car. I carried her books as usual and treated her with the same respect regardless of the fact that she had said no to my request of wanting a picture of her in a two-piece. That’s not true. I had never got around to asking that question. I had never even seen her in a two-piece and I would have been content with a picture of her in a regular swimsuit. But with girls you need to ask for more than you want or you will always get less than you’re planning on. If that sounds complicated, it is. I’m not an expert on this subject; I just have a lot of experience getting less. Finding the 1962 white Chevrolet Belair in the parking lot, I opened the door for Karen and once she was in the car I handed her her books. Man, this woman packs a lot of books home each night. I’m glad I didn’t have that much homework. After she drove away I put my two feet in gear and headed back across the parking lot. These two feet are what I’d be driving home unless I found Charles and we went for a shake at the Golden Point drive-in on Highway 80. After drinking our shakes he would always drive me home. With the argument he and Leslie were having I knew he wouldn’t be taking her home after school. He was waiting for me as I suspected. I got a strawberry shake and Charles got a chocolate. He had woman problems and there wasn’t much I could do for him. I was just thankful that my relationship with Karen wasn’t so complicated. Who cares if she could guess my questions before I asked them? But I wasn’t giving up on that photo of her in a two-piece yet. Charles just laughed when I told him what I was trying to do.
Back in the sixties girls didn’t call guys on the phone unless it was an emergency or there was just a short question that needed to be answered like why haven’t you called me? Karen and I talked on the phone almost every night. I would take the phone in my parent’s bedroom closet and talk until mother came in and said, “It’s time for you to get off the phone.” That meant I had at least another fifteen minutes before she really got mad. Tonight was no different. I called Karen and we talked about the events of the day. I stayed true to my conviction and never brought up the topic of swimsuits and photographs. Right at the very end of our conversation when mom had given me my last warning, Karen said, “You can have a picture of me in a swimsuit if mother says that it is okay.”
Oh great. I bet Bill didn’t have to ask Patsy’s mother if it would be alright for him to have a picture of her in a two-piece snuggled warmly in his hip pocket. Why do I have to live by different rules? “You don’t think I’ll ask your mother, do you?” I said. “Can if you want. But that is the only way that I will let you take a picture of me in a swimsuit,” she explained. “How about in a two-piece?” I asked. “I don’t own a two-piece, have never worn one and I wouldn’t do that even if mother said it was okay.” I was pretty certain that the subject of the two-piece was closed to discussion.
My only problem now was in knowing when to approach her mother for permission. I could just say that she had given me permission but that would never fly. Karen would discuss it with her mom and I would probably end up looking for my class ring in the grass of her front yard like the last time I did something really stupid and she returned my ring via airmail. No. If I was going to get that picture I would have to face this problem head on or at least face to face with her mother.
The opportunity to speak with her mom about the swimsuit photo came just a few days later. I was invited to dinner at their home. Karen’s dad had passed away when she was twelve so there was just the three of us at the dinner table: Karen, her mom and me. After the meal was over I was helping her mother with the dishes while Karen worked on her homework in the family room. I finally got up the courage to discuss the question of the swimsuit photo. I thought I approached the subject in a rather mature manner. Karen’s mom was gentle with me but gentle didn’t mean she gave me the answer I was hoping for. Instead, she took the opportunity to express just how special the human body is. Then she explained how precious Karen was to her. I will never forget the question she asked me. “Which part of Karen is most important to you? If it is her body I don’t think you are the guy for her. Which ever part of her you want to carry with you all your life, take a mental picture of that and leave the swimsuit photos to the movie stars,” she said. I gave her a hug and I never brought the subject up again.
Karen Young’s mother passed away August 2, 1973. I still miss her and visit her grave each time I return home to Longview, Texas. I also drive by her home where they lived at 805 West Avalon. Just being there in front of her home helps me remember how I grew up a little that night as we stood in front of the kitchen sink drying dishes and feeling that closeness that comes between two people who love each other and overlook the immaturity of a skinny teenager’s weaknesses. She instilled in me a desire to be a better person.
Showing posts with label High School Days. Show all posts
Showing posts with label High School Days. Show all posts
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Mohair & More
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
Prologue: I wish I could say this article was a creation of my active imagination but it actually transpired. The year was 1962 and I was a junior in high school. The article is taken from my writings under the category called Pathetic. I would share something from my writings titled Hero, but you would probably doubt their authenticity. The clock turns back and the story begins . . .
I hated geometry. I'm not sure exactly why; maybe it was because of all the formulas we had to memorize. Memorizing wasn't difficult for me, I just wasn't motivated. I couldn't figure out for the life of me why I would ever need to know geometry. It is comical how some things turn out. Years later, as I became involved in the construction industry, I would use geometry more than any other math I was exposed to in my education. But I was sixteen at the time and more interested in what was being served at the school lunch cafeteria than memorizing formulas. Who cared how much square area was in a triangle or how many gallons of water would fit in a pyramid?
Just before class started I glanced at my watch and noticed I had fifty seconds before the tardy bell rang. I dashed out of the classroom to get a drink of water before having to endure the next hour of sheer boredom. As I hurriedly stepped into the hallway and turned to my left toward the drinking fountain, I was hit by a midget running down the hall trying to get to his class before the bell rang. He wasn't really a midget; I could have just as easily referred to him as a runt. He was just shorter than I was. In high school it was SOP (standard operating procedure) to use derogatory labels on people. His forehead hit me right in the nose. We both went sprawling to the floor. I was knocked out cold and would later discover at the doctor's office that my nose had been broken.
Needless to say, I missed geometry class and lunch. The next day as I slid into my seat for another day of A-squared plus B-squared equals C-squared, Judy handed me a copy of the previous day's homework assignment. Judy was the girl who sat next to me in class. As I looked down at the paper she handed me, I noticed that it was all filled out; the geometry problems were already solved. I looked up at Judy and her smile said, "You're welcome." Without a sound coming from my lips I mouthed the words, "Thank you."
A beautiful friendship developed from Judy's smile and her act of kindness. I say beautiful because from that day on, Judy did my geometry homework. A little chit chat before class each day was all she required in return for her services. It wasn't hard duty. She was easy to talk to and pleasant to be with so this arrangement was made in heaven. Notice I didn't capitalize the word heaven. I knew that cheating on homework wasn't pointing me in the direction of that heaven that you spell with a capital H but what the heck, I was only sixteen and I had plenty of time to make better choices later.
Our homework was kept in a folder that we turned in at the end of each term. There were three terms in each semester. I had earned a B- first term and we were just starting the second term. Before long, Judy was keeping my completed homework assignments and placing them in a folder. Her little smile each day at the beginning of geometry class told me not to worry, my homework folder was in good hands. Having my homework in good hand was important because it constituted one third of my term grade. My actual grade for the first term had been an A- but the teacher took ten points of my total grade because I turned my homework folder in two weeks late. It was two weeks late because it took the teacher a week to convince me that I was going to fail geometry if I didn't turn in a homework folder. How could you turn in something that didn't exist? Well, it existed but it just wasn't very current. I had sixteen missing assignments and she wouldn't accept the folder until it was complete. It took me another week of staying up late at night to get the back assignments completed. But with Judy on my team, this term would be a cake walk. I don't know where that term "cake walk" came from because it doesn't make sense but it made sense to keep smiling back at Judy and asking her those innocent questions like, "What did you do last period?"
Judy would always ask me how my nose was healing. My nose was fine and we both knew it. That was just an easy, safe subject to start our daily conversation. My only regret about our relationship was that I didn't have more classes with Judy. I could sure use her to do my English homework. But that wouldn't have worked out too well because Karen was in my English class. Karen was my steady. In fact she was the only steady I ever had in high school. Karen would have thought it disgraceful for me to let someone do my homework so I did the appropriate thing and promptly asked Judy to stop doing my homework assignments. Just kidding. I did the wise thing and didn't tell Karen about Judy doing my geometry homework.
I know I should have felt guilty letting Judy do my homework and concealing my relationship with her from Karen. But there really wasn't any relationship to conceal. I was just being friendly with the girl who sat next to me in geometry. When the teacher passed out the mimeographed pages of geometry problems for the next homework assignment each day, I would lift the papers to my nose and smell the chemical residue left on the paper before slipping them over to Judy for her to complete that evening.
For those of you old enough to remember the old duplicating machines before photo copiers, the ink was a faded bluish purple color and the chemicals from the duplicating process remained with the paper for hours after the copies were made. I loved that smell until I volunteered to operate the duplicating machine for my Spanish teacher. Too much of a good thing can spoil the experience. Enjoying the smell of the fumes from the mimeographed homework pages wasn't the only thing about to be spoiled in my life.
It started out like any other day in geometry. Judy wore her usual soft smile as I came down the isle toward her. As I leaned over to slide my books into the shelf below the seat of my desk, Judy turned toward me and said, "How do you like my new sweater?" "It looks great," I said. "It's made of real mohair," Judy said. "What's mohair?" I asked. "I don't know but if feels real smooth against my skin." When Judy said the word skin, my attention was drawn to those two pyramids hidden under her sweater. I couldn't remember the formula for figuring out the volume of a pyramid but there was a lot of volume under that mohair sweater. I don't know how long I stared, maybe only seconds, but suddenly I realized that Judy was looking at me as I stared at her gifts from Heaven. When our eyes met she was still smiling. That was a good sign. I felt my face go red with embarrassment and for some reason I didn't quite understand, I knew our relationship had changed.
Getting caught staring at a girl's pyramids isn't what you do if you just want to remain friends. That boy-girl stuff complicates friendships. What had that mohair sweater done to us? I had certainly seen girls in sweaters before. If a girl's sweater fit tight it drew attention to her parts. It the sweater fit loose it was just another sweater. But Judy's sweater was so tight it could have belonged to her little sister if she had one. I didn't even know if Judy had a little sister. I realized I didn't know anything about Judy except that she smiled a lot, made pleasant conversation in geometry class and she did my homework. I felt strange inside. Like I was in trouble but not certain what I had done wrong. It was like being on a rollercoaster ride and seeing the dip or curve up ahead and not being able to do anything about it: no steering wheel to grab hold of and no brake pedal to press. You had no control . . . you gave up control when you paid your twenty-five cents and strapped yourself into the seat of the rollercoaster. The ticket taker strolled by to make sure your lap belt was secure, took your ticket and said, "Have a great ride." I had a feeling that my friendship with Judy was going to turn into an emotional rollercoaster ride that wasn't going to be so great. I hoped I was just imagining things.
The bell rang and I bolted from my chair and headed for the door as quickly as possible. I didn't look back. As soon as I entered the hallway I was lost in the crowd of students moving to their next class. I wondered if I had blown our homework arrangement but the next day Judy acted as though nothing had happened. When the mimeographed homework assignments were passed back down the rows she made sure that I saw she had taken two copies: one for her and one for me. She had never done that before so this was a good sign that getting caught staring at her pyramids the day before hadn't damaged our friendship. With two copies of the assignment already in her hand we wouldn't have to go through the awkward moment of trying to slip my papers to her without being noticed. All of that worrying yesterday was for nothing. Life was good.
A week went by and it was evident that our friendship had not been damaged by that boy-girl stuff. At least that was what I thought until Judy showed up in the mohair sweater again. I started to say, "I see you're wearing your real mohair sweater again," but I didn't. Judy didn't mention the sweater either but she did show me the folder that contained my homework assignments. We smiled at each other and she said, "Would you like to take a look at your homework folder after school?" I can't, I work after school," I said. "Maybe you could come over and look at it when you get off work?" she said. "I don't get off work until midnight," I responded. I suggested that she just slip the folder to me as we left the classroom but she didn't think that was a good idea. I'm not totally naive. I had just dodged the big bullet. Judy was hinting in a polite way that she would like for our friendship to extend beyond the classroom. I liked things the way they were and I wanted to keep it that way, tight fitting mohair sweater or not.
I knew I was nearing a dangerous curve on this emotional rollercoaster ride with Judy. If I didn't do the right thing, Judy could get hurt. I didn't care so much about the homework. If she didn't want to make a duplicate of her homework assignment and put it in my folder anymore, that was okay with me. I never asked her to do my homework. She just started doing it when I got my nose broken by the guy who ran into me in the hallway. Although I had not asked her to do the work, my quiet acceptance of her efforts signaled that I was in agreement with her actions. But I wasn't stupid. For me to have asked her to stop doing my homework would be like having my mother come into my room and say, "Mack, I've been washing and ironing your clothes but if you would rather do it yourself, I can stop anytime." Now who's going to say, "Oh mother, I've missed a great opportunity by not doing my own laundry." Give me a break! If Judy was willing to do my homework why should I disrupt a good thing? I know what some of you are thinking about now . . . why didn't this guy's mother find something better to do with her time than give birth to this guy? I'm not claiming to be innocent, just content.
The following Friday Judy was wearing that tight mohair sweater again. I kept thinking about what she had said about how smooth and soft if felt against her skin. I was a little uneasy because I already had two uncomfortable experiences when Judy was in that sweater. It was like the sweater made her into a different person. Just before the bell rang for geometry class to be over, Judy slipped me a note and got up and was gone from the room before I had a chance to open the note and read what she had written. This note was not a hastily scribbled "enjoyed talking with you today" kind of note. As I opened the carefully folded paper and began to read her words, my emotional rollercoaster took a sharp curve and steep drop at the same time. My stomach was in my throat and I felt sick all over.
"Would you go to the Girl's Preference dance with me?" the note said. What was she doing to me? She knew I had a steady girlfriend. Besides, the dance was two months away. I hadn't heard of anyone even talking about that stupid dance yet. My weekend was ruined. I now knew why she had left the classroom so quickly. She wanted me to have to think about this all weekend. I couldn't go to the dance with her. And I wasn't about to let my girlfriend Karen know that Judy had even asked me. I could just see her reaction. "What have you been doing or saying that would cause Judy to ask you on a date?" Why is it always the guy's fault? I made classroom conversation, let her do my homework and admired her sweater. How could I have been so stupid to get caught looking at those pyramids? Why did I make "I had to work" excuses when she invited me over to her home? I wouldn't be in this mess if I had told her the truth at that time.
I wanted Monday morning to never come. I wanted to change schools, join the army or fake my own death. Monday did come. In fact it came screaming around the corner and before I knew it, second period was over and I was dragging myself down the hall to geometry class. "Maybe she changed her mind," I thought. Are you dreaming? Wake up, Idiot. I could see the headlines of the school paper. Student strangled with mohair sweater for turning down date to Girl's Preference . . . see page two for the rest of the story. If I didn't already have three unexcused absences I would have skipped class. Avoid, avoid, avoid had been my method of operation and now it would be my downfall. It was time to face the music.
I looked in Judy's direction as I entered the classroom. Yes she was there and she was wearing that blasted tight mohair sweater again. What had she done with the rest of her clothes? The sweater had become a bad omen for me. I confess; I took the chicken-way-out and during my previous class I constructed what I thought was a well written note thanking her for wanting to spend that evening with me but . . . there is always a "but" in this kind of note. After reading the note Judy looked straight ahead and didn't say a word. I thought, "Now that went well. Why was I so worried all weekend? And besides, she has plenty of time to ask someone else to the dance." Toward the end of the class when homework assignments were being passed back down the rows as usual, I was surprised that Judy took two sets of the homework papers. Apparently my emotional rollercoaster ride was over. At least that was what I thought until the bell rang and Judy jumped up and followed me out the door. She stuck right next to me as we left the classroom. I could almost feel her mohair sweater against my back. I'm certain I wasn't just imagining her breath on my neck.
As we entered the hallway Judy tugged at my arm and like an obedient puppy I turned to face her and prepared myself for whatever punishment she had planned for me. Breathing so heavy I could see her chest moving in and out, she stared right into my cowering brown eyes and said, "What does that skinny, toothpick of a figure blond you are dating have that I don't have?" I was taken back by the anger in her voice. It must have been a subconscious reaction. I momentarily glanced down at those pyramids covered by her tight mohair sweater, thought about that skinny blond she was talking about and quietly said, "Plenty." I didn't actually say the word, "Plenty." I just thought it. Some questions are better left unanswered.
Epilogue: I wish the story ended here but fat chance of that. We learn from the things we experience and it was evident I had a lot more to learn about girls.
Mohair & More (Part Two) by Jerry Mack Grubbs
Prologue: I keep three journals. The first journal captures the events, feelings, highlights, regrets and things I am grateful for in my daily life. The second journal catches glimpses of my mistakes, my successes, my pathetic choices, and my dreams. The third journal details the secrets buried in the deepest chamber of my heart. Last week I shared with you the first portion of an article taken from the category called pathetic choices. Today's continuation of that article will not make sense unless you have read Mohair & More (Part One). My purpose in sharing this story with you is two fold. First, I desire to put a smile on your face as I share my experience and secondly, I hope to unlock your memories and encourage you to reflect upon some of the choices you made in your youth.
To refresh your memory, last week the story ended with me pinned against the wall by Judy's pyramids and her glaring gaze as she took the opportunity to point out a few of my weaknesses. You might as well know from the start that I never saw Judy in that mohair sweater again. So, if your sole purpose in reading this article is to learn more about tight fitting sweaters and pyramids you will be disappointed. Although Judy never wore the mohair sweater again I did get the courage to ask her what happened to it.
My story continues . . .
If Judy had been a guy instead of a girl when she said those hateful things about my girlfriend Karen, my response would have been quite different. When she made those accusations it just helped me realize how lucky I was to have someone in my life like Karen. When Judy asked me what Karen had that she didn't have and my answer was, "Plenty," I wasn't referring to how she filled out a sweater. She was skinny. I made the mistake once of calling her a toothpick. For you guys still in the learning curve, that kind of comment won't get you to first base. But this all happened before I understood that dating was like a baseball game; first base, second base, etc. Karen may have been thin but she had plenty to offer. She played varsity volleyball and basketball, rode a horse like she was born on one and won many awards competing in rodeo events on her horse called King, but most important of all, she was willing to spend her high school years wearing my ring around her neck. Well, she wore my ring except for the times she took it off when I did stupid things like allowing Judy to do my geometry homework.
Actually Karen didn't find out about my deal with Judy until much later. After Judy confronted me in the hallway I was certain that my homework arrangement with her was terminated. She probably went home that night and burned my homework folder. But there was several weeks left in the term so I could still make up all those assignments if I had to. The optimum thing would be for Judy to just hand my homework over to me and tell me that she wasn't going to do the assignments anymore. Was I surprised! The next day when the teacher passed out the homework pages, Judy took two sets of homework just like before. She made sure that I saw what she had done. I guess we were going to be friends whether I went to the Girl's Preference dance with her or not. Like I said before, she had plenty of time to ask someone else to the dance. Judy even passed me a note and apologized for what she had said about Karen. This was turning out sweeter than I could have ever imagined. After a couple of weeks I was even beginning to wonder if I would ever get to see her in that mohair sweater again. No one ever went blind or got their fingers broken for just looking.
Things couldn't be better. The school term was ending and it was time to take the geometry final. The teacher's method for computing our class grade was simple. One third of our grade was an average of the midterm and final test scores. Another third of the grade was the average of our pop quizzes. I don't know why the teacher called them pop quizzes. We had a quiz every Monday and Thursday. These quizzes weren't just randomly popping up. The quiz might come at the first of class or toward the end but bet-your bottom-dollar you weren't leaving her class on those two days without being quizzed. Our homework folder constituted the last third of our grade. As I said before, things were looking good. I had a B+ average on my quizzes and I had an A- on my midterm.
As the teacher passed out the papers for our geometry final, Judy slipped me a note. On the front of the note were the words, Read this before you start your test. Opening the note it said, I thought you should know before you take your test that I threw your homework folder away last night. I looked over at her in hopes of seeing that familiar smile on her lips to let me know that she was just playing a joke on me. Her head was down and she had already begun taking her test. I quickly looked away for fear that the teacher might think I was trying to cheat by looking at her test answers. As I tried to concentrate on my test I kept telling myself that she must be kidding.
I finished my final before Judy did but I stayed at my desk and waited for her to complete her test. I was in hopes that we could talk about the true whereabouts of my homework folder. As she gathered up her books and turned in her test papers along with her homework folder, I followed her out of the classroom. The teacher called after me and asked where my homework folder was. I turned back momentarily and told the teacher that I had an urgent matter to take care of and I continued out the door. Lucky for me the teacher didn't say anything else.
Looking down the hall both ways I spotted Judy. I ran and caught up with her. "I need my homework folder," I said. The moment she opened her mouth I knew I was dead. Well, not actually dead dead but when mom got my geometry report card I might as well be dead. I would be grounded for life: no car privileges, no dates, and no life for me except school, church and chores. I never did anything bad enough to get grounded from church. I wonder how bad I would have to be for mom to say, "Mack, you can't attend church for three months." Mom and I once had a discussion about that very subject. She informed me that the only way I would get out of my church meetings was to be dead. Well, I wasn't going to kill myself over a bad grade in geometry.
I won't bore you with the details of what Judy shared with me there in the hallway about my shortcomings as a human being but her words are still etched on the wall of my brain like an ancient pictograph. Suffice it to say she made it abundantly clear that I would never see that homework folder much less use it to obtain a grade I did not earn and did not deserve. Her choice of words, earn or deserve, were puzzling to me. If I had agreed to go to the Girl's Preference dance with her, would I have earned and deserved my homework folder? If I had gone to her home after school and checked out my folder, would I have earned and deserved my folder?
Shake it off, let it go, get on with finding a solution to my problem, I thought. The solution certainly wasn't going to come from Judy. I went back to the teacher and told her I had misplaced my folder and would need some time to find it. She said I had one day to get that folder on her desk or I would fail the term. I failed the term. It was the first "F" of my school career. I couldn't imagine all the changes that were going to occur in my life over this one tiny "F". Why is it that something so unimportant to one person can be so catastrophic to another? Maybe mother was faking and pretending to be more upset about my past grades than she really was in hopes of motivating me to do better. No, her face got too red for her to be faking.
Our grades came out on three by five cards printed by the school. The front of the card was divided into the three terms of the semester and this is where the teacher recorded our term grades. The back of the card was for a parent's signature indicating that the grade had been reviewed. We had three days to return the report cards to the teachers. I tucked my report cards in my shirt pocked and headed home dreading the look on mom's face when she saw that "F". I had to do something. Mother didn't deserve the unhappiness my geometry grade was going to cause.
A beautiful thought entered my mind. I pulled the cards back out of my pocket and studied how the teacher had formed the letter "F" in the grade column. Sure enough, I could take a black pen and by just adding one line to that letter "F" it would transform into an "A". My problem was solved. You know the saying: what mom doesn't know won't hurt me. Mother signed the back of my report card and I promptly threw it away and told the teacher that I lost it. Lucky for me the teacher didn't call mom to verify that she had seen my report card.
I knew from a previous experience when I really did loose a report card that the teacher would not take the time to re-write all the information of previous term grades. With a B+ for the first term and an F for second term, I figured I could still pass the semester. There wasn't anything to get too excited about. Lying to the teacher and lying to mom by changing my grade was painful but not as painful as the truth would have been. If mom wasn't so strict I could afford to be more honest. My plan worked like an accomplished musician playing a precision instrument. Mom was happy. I was happy.
Epilogue: Happy endings are sometimes not an ending at all but just a momentary euphoria. I didn't realize it at the time but I had merely postponed a battle that could have easily escalated into my personal Armageddon, that final battle spoken of in the Book of Revelations in the Bible. Mom had an unbelievable memory. At the end of the semester she wanted to know how I could end up with a "C" in geometry when my three term grades had been B+, A and A. I decided enough time had passed that it wouldn't be a big deal for her to know what I had done so I told the truth. Boy, was that a mistake. I thought she would be proud of the way I buckled down and saved my geometry grade. Talk about a big deal! You would have thought I carved my initials in my little sister's arm the way mother acted. I have forgotten now how many things I was grounded from but I do remember that church wasn't one of them.
I continued to sit next to Judy and in time we became friends again. I once asked her why she never wore the mohair sweater anymore. "Are you stupid? It's hot out side. Besides, mother said it was too small and made me give it to my little sister." I missed that mohair sweater but I never mentioned it to Karen. Some things are better left unsaid, especially if you are trying to get to second base.
Prologue: I wish I could say this article was a creation of my active imagination but it actually transpired. The year was 1962 and I was a junior in high school. The article is taken from my writings under the category called Pathetic. I would share something from my writings titled Hero, but you would probably doubt their authenticity. The clock turns back and the story begins . . .
I hated geometry. I'm not sure exactly why; maybe it was because of all the formulas we had to memorize. Memorizing wasn't difficult for me, I just wasn't motivated. I couldn't figure out for the life of me why I would ever need to know geometry. It is comical how some things turn out. Years later, as I became involved in the construction industry, I would use geometry more than any other math I was exposed to in my education. But I was sixteen at the time and more interested in what was being served at the school lunch cafeteria than memorizing formulas. Who cared how much square area was in a triangle or how many gallons of water would fit in a pyramid?
Just before class started I glanced at my watch and noticed I had fifty seconds before the tardy bell rang. I dashed out of the classroom to get a drink of water before having to endure the next hour of sheer boredom. As I hurriedly stepped into the hallway and turned to my left toward the drinking fountain, I was hit by a midget running down the hall trying to get to his class before the bell rang. He wasn't really a midget; I could have just as easily referred to him as a runt. He was just shorter than I was. In high school it was SOP (standard operating procedure) to use derogatory labels on people. His forehead hit me right in the nose. We both went sprawling to the floor. I was knocked out cold and would later discover at the doctor's office that my nose had been broken.
Needless to say, I missed geometry class and lunch. The next day as I slid into my seat for another day of A-squared plus B-squared equals C-squared, Judy handed me a copy of the previous day's homework assignment. Judy was the girl who sat next to me in class. As I looked down at the paper she handed me, I noticed that it was all filled out; the geometry problems were already solved. I looked up at Judy and her smile said, "You're welcome." Without a sound coming from my lips I mouthed the words, "Thank you."
A beautiful friendship developed from Judy's smile and her act of kindness. I say beautiful because from that day on, Judy did my geometry homework. A little chit chat before class each day was all she required in return for her services. It wasn't hard duty. She was easy to talk to and pleasant to be with so this arrangement was made in heaven. Notice I didn't capitalize the word heaven. I knew that cheating on homework wasn't pointing me in the direction of that heaven that you spell with a capital H but what the heck, I was only sixteen and I had plenty of time to make better choices later.
Our homework was kept in a folder that we turned in at the end of each term. There were three terms in each semester. I had earned a B- first term and we were just starting the second term. Before long, Judy was keeping my completed homework assignments and placing them in a folder. Her little smile each day at the beginning of geometry class told me not to worry, my homework folder was in good hands. Having my homework in good hand was important because it constituted one third of my term grade. My actual grade for the first term had been an A- but the teacher took ten points of my total grade because I turned my homework folder in two weeks late. It was two weeks late because it took the teacher a week to convince me that I was going to fail geometry if I didn't turn in a homework folder. How could you turn in something that didn't exist? Well, it existed but it just wasn't very current. I had sixteen missing assignments and she wouldn't accept the folder until it was complete. It took me another week of staying up late at night to get the back assignments completed. But with Judy on my team, this term would be a cake walk. I don't know where that term "cake walk" came from because it doesn't make sense but it made sense to keep smiling back at Judy and asking her those innocent questions like, "What did you do last period?"
Judy would always ask me how my nose was healing. My nose was fine and we both knew it. That was just an easy, safe subject to start our daily conversation. My only regret about our relationship was that I didn't have more classes with Judy. I could sure use her to do my English homework. But that wouldn't have worked out too well because Karen was in my English class. Karen was my steady. In fact she was the only steady I ever had in high school. Karen would have thought it disgraceful for me to let someone do my homework so I did the appropriate thing and promptly asked Judy to stop doing my homework assignments. Just kidding. I did the wise thing and didn't tell Karen about Judy doing my geometry homework.
I know I should have felt guilty letting Judy do my homework and concealing my relationship with her from Karen. But there really wasn't any relationship to conceal. I was just being friendly with the girl who sat next to me in geometry. When the teacher passed out the mimeographed pages of geometry problems for the next homework assignment each day, I would lift the papers to my nose and smell the chemical residue left on the paper before slipping them over to Judy for her to complete that evening.
For those of you old enough to remember the old duplicating machines before photo copiers, the ink was a faded bluish purple color and the chemicals from the duplicating process remained with the paper for hours after the copies were made. I loved that smell until I volunteered to operate the duplicating machine for my Spanish teacher. Too much of a good thing can spoil the experience. Enjoying the smell of the fumes from the mimeographed homework pages wasn't the only thing about to be spoiled in my life.
It started out like any other day in geometry. Judy wore her usual soft smile as I came down the isle toward her. As I leaned over to slide my books into the shelf below the seat of my desk, Judy turned toward me and said, "How do you like my new sweater?" "It looks great," I said. "It's made of real mohair," Judy said. "What's mohair?" I asked. "I don't know but if feels real smooth against my skin." When Judy said the word skin, my attention was drawn to those two pyramids hidden under her sweater. I couldn't remember the formula for figuring out the volume of a pyramid but there was a lot of volume under that mohair sweater. I don't know how long I stared, maybe only seconds, but suddenly I realized that Judy was looking at me as I stared at her gifts from Heaven. When our eyes met she was still smiling. That was a good sign. I felt my face go red with embarrassment and for some reason I didn't quite understand, I knew our relationship had changed.
Getting caught staring at a girl's pyramids isn't what you do if you just want to remain friends. That boy-girl stuff complicates friendships. What had that mohair sweater done to us? I had certainly seen girls in sweaters before. If a girl's sweater fit tight it drew attention to her parts. It the sweater fit loose it was just another sweater. But Judy's sweater was so tight it could have belonged to her little sister if she had one. I didn't even know if Judy had a little sister. I realized I didn't know anything about Judy except that she smiled a lot, made pleasant conversation in geometry class and she did my homework. I felt strange inside. Like I was in trouble but not certain what I had done wrong. It was like being on a rollercoaster ride and seeing the dip or curve up ahead and not being able to do anything about it: no steering wheel to grab hold of and no brake pedal to press. You had no control . . . you gave up control when you paid your twenty-five cents and strapped yourself into the seat of the rollercoaster. The ticket taker strolled by to make sure your lap belt was secure, took your ticket and said, "Have a great ride." I had a feeling that my friendship with Judy was going to turn into an emotional rollercoaster ride that wasn't going to be so great. I hoped I was just imagining things.
The bell rang and I bolted from my chair and headed for the door as quickly as possible. I didn't look back. As soon as I entered the hallway I was lost in the crowd of students moving to their next class. I wondered if I had blown our homework arrangement but the next day Judy acted as though nothing had happened. When the mimeographed homework assignments were passed back down the rows she made sure that I saw she had taken two copies: one for her and one for me. She had never done that before so this was a good sign that getting caught staring at her pyramids the day before hadn't damaged our friendship. With two copies of the assignment already in her hand we wouldn't have to go through the awkward moment of trying to slip my papers to her without being noticed. All of that worrying yesterday was for nothing. Life was good.
A week went by and it was evident that our friendship had not been damaged by that boy-girl stuff. At least that was what I thought until Judy showed up in the mohair sweater again. I started to say, "I see you're wearing your real mohair sweater again," but I didn't. Judy didn't mention the sweater either but she did show me the folder that contained my homework assignments. We smiled at each other and she said, "Would you like to take a look at your homework folder after school?" I can't, I work after school," I said. "Maybe you could come over and look at it when you get off work?" she said. "I don't get off work until midnight," I responded. I suggested that she just slip the folder to me as we left the classroom but she didn't think that was a good idea. I'm not totally naive. I had just dodged the big bullet. Judy was hinting in a polite way that she would like for our friendship to extend beyond the classroom. I liked things the way they were and I wanted to keep it that way, tight fitting mohair sweater or not.
I knew I was nearing a dangerous curve on this emotional rollercoaster ride with Judy. If I didn't do the right thing, Judy could get hurt. I didn't care so much about the homework. If she didn't want to make a duplicate of her homework assignment and put it in my folder anymore, that was okay with me. I never asked her to do my homework. She just started doing it when I got my nose broken by the guy who ran into me in the hallway. Although I had not asked her to do the work, my quiet acceptance of her efforts signaled that I was in agreement with her actions. But I wasn't stupid. For me to have asked her to stop doing my homework would be like having my mother come into my room and say, "Mack, I've been washing and ironing your clothes but if you would rather do it yourself, I can stop anytime." Now who's going to say, "Oh mother, I've missed a great opportunity by not doing my own laundry." Give me a break! If Judy was willing to do my homework why should I disrupt a good thing? I know what some of you are thinking about now . . . why didn't this guy's mother find something better to do with her time than give birth to this guy? I'm not claiming to be innocent, just content.
The following Friday Judy was wearing that tight mohair sweater again. I kept thinking about what she had said about how smooth and soft if felt against her skin. I was a little uneasy because I already had two uncomfortable experiences when Judy was in that sweater. It was like the sweater made her into a different person. Just before the bell rang for geometry class to be over, Judy slipped me a note and got up and was gone from the room before I had a chance to open the note and read what she had written. This note was not a hastily scribbled "enjoyed talking with you today" kind of note. As I opened the carefully folded paper and began to read her words, my emotional rollercoaster took a sharp curve and steep drop at the same time. My stomach was in my throat and I felt sick all over.
"Would you go to the Girl's Preference dance with me?" the note said. What was she doing to me? She knew I had a steady girlfriend. Besides, the dance was two months away. I hadn't heard of anyone even talking about that stupid dance yet. My weekend was ruined. I now knew why she had left the classroom so quickly. She wanted me to have to think about this all weekend. I couldn't go to the dance with her. And I wasn't about to let my girlfriend Karen know that Judy had even asked me. I could just see her reaction. "What have you been doing or saying that would cause Judy to ask you on a date?" Why is it always the guy's fault? I made classroom conversation, let her do my homework and admired her sweater. How could I have been so stupid to get caught looking at those pyramids? Why did I make "I had to work" excuses when she invited me over to her home? I wouldn't be in this mess if I had told her the truth at that time.
I wanted Monday morning to never come. I wanted to change schools, join the army or fake my own death. Monday did come. In fact it came screaming around the corner and before I knew it, second period was over and I was dragging myself down the hall to geometry class. "Maybe she changed her mind," I thought. Are you dreaming? Wake up, Idiot. I could see the headlines of the school paper. Student strangled with mohair sweater for turning down date to Girl's Preference . . . see page two for the rest of the story. If I didn't already have three unexcused absences I would have skipped class. Avoid, avoid, avoid had been my method of operation and now it would be my downfall. It was time to face the music.
I looked in Judy's direction as I entered the classroom. Yes she was there and she was wearing that blasted tight mohair sweater again. What had she done with the rest of her clothes? The sweater had become a bad omen for me. I confess; I took the chicken-way-out and during my previous class I constructed what I thought was a well written note thanking her for wanting to spend that evening with me but . . . there is always a "but" in this kind of note. After reading the note Judy looked straight ahead and didn't say a word. I thought, "Now that went well. Why was I so worried all weekend? And besides, she has plenty of time to ask someone else to the dance." Toward the end of the class when homework assignments were being passed back down the rows as usual, I was surprised that Judy took two sets of the homework papers. Apparently my emotional rollercoaster ride was over. At least that was what I thought until the bell rang and Judy jumped up and followed me out the door. She stuck right next to me as we left the classroom. I could almost feel her mohair sweater against my back. I'm certain I wasn't just imagining her breath on my neck.
As we entered the hallway Judy tugged at my arm and like an obedient puppy I turned to face her and prepared myself for whatever punishment she had planned for me. Breathing so heavy I could see her chest moving in and out, she stared right into my cowering brown eyes and said, "What does that skinny, toothpick of a figure blond you are dating have that I don't have?" I was taken back by the anger in her voice. It must have been a subconscious reaction. I momentarily glanced down at those pyramids covered by her tight mohair sweater, thought about that skinny blond she was talking about and quietly said, "Plenty." I didn't actually say the word, "Plenty." I just thought it. Some questions are better left unanswered.
Epilogue: I wish the story ended here but fat chance of that. We learn from the things we experience and it was evident I had a lot more to learn about girls.
Mohair & More (Part Two) by Jerry Mack Grubbs
Prologue: I keep three journals. The first journal captures the events, feelings, highlights, regrets and things I am grateful for in my daily life. The second journal catches glimpses of my mistakes, my successes, my pathetic choices, and my dreams. The third journal details the secrets buried in the deepest chamber of my heart. Last week I shared with you the first portion of an article taken from the category called pathetic choices. Today's continuation of that article will not make sense unless you have read Mohair & More (Part One). My purpose in sharing this story with you is two fold. First, I desire to put a smile on your face as I share my experience and secondly, I hope to unlock your memories and encourage you to reflect upon some of the choices you made in your youth.
To refresh your memory, last week the story ended with me pinned against the wall by Judy's pyramids and her glaring gaze as she took the opportunity to point out a few of my weaknesses. You might as well know from the start that I never saw Judy in that mohair sweater again. So, if your sole purpose in reading this article is to learn more about tight fitting sweaters and pyramids you will be disappointed. Although Judy never wore the mohair sweater again I did get the courage to ask her what happened to it.
My story continues . . .
If Judy had been a guy instead of a girl when she said those hateful things about my girlfriend Karen, my response would have been quite different. When she made those accusations it just helped me realize how lucky I was to have someone in my life like Karen. When Judy asked me what Karen had that she didn't have and my answer was, "Plenty," I wasn't referring to how she filled out a sweater. She was skinny. I made the mistake once of calling her a toothpick. For you guys still in the learning curve, that kind of comment won't get you to first base. But this all happened before I understood that dating was like a baseball game; first base, second base, etc. Karen may have been thin but she had plenty to offer. She played varsity volleyball and basketball, rode a horse like she was born on one and won many awards competing in rodeo events on her horse called King, but most important of all, she was willing to spend her high school years wearing my ring around her neck. Well, she wore my ring except for the times she took it off when I did stupid things like allowing Judy to do my geometry homework.
Actually Karen didn't find out about my deal with Judy until much later. After Judy confronted me in the hallway I was certain that my homework arrangement with her was terminated. She probably went home that night and burned my homework folder. But there was several weeks left in the term so I could still make up all those assignments if I had to. The optimum thing would be for Judy to just hand my homework over to me and tell me that she wasn't going to do the assignments anymore. Was I surprised! The next day when the teacher passed out the homework pages, Judy took two sets of homework just like before. She made sure that I saw what she had done. I guess we were going to be friends whether I went to the Girl's Preference dance with her or not. Like I said before, she had plenty of time to ask someone else to the dance. Judy even passed me a note and apologized for what she had said about Karen. This was turning out sweeter than I could have ever imagined. After a couple of weeks I was even beginning to wonder if I would ever get to see her in that mohair sweater again. No one ever went blind or got their fingers broken for just looking.
Things couldn't be better. The school term was ending and it was time to take the geometry final. The teacher's method for computing our class grade was simple. One third of our grade was an average of the midterm and final test scores. Another third of the grade was the average of our pop quizzes. I don't know why the teacher called them pop quizzes. We had a quiz every Monday and Thursday. These quizzes weren't just randomly popping up. The quiz might come at the first of class or toward the end but bet-your bottom-dollar you weren't leaving her class on those two days without being quizzed. Our homework folder constituted the last third of our grade. As I said before, things were looking good. I had a B+ average on my quizzes and I had an A- on my midterm.
As the teacher passed out the papers for our geometry final, Judy slipped me a note. On the front of the note were the words, Read this before you start your test. Opening the note it said, I thought you should know before you take your test that I threw your homework folder away last night. I looked over at her in hopes of seeing that familiar smile on her lips to let me know that she was just playing a joke on me. Her head was down and she had already begun taking her test. I quickly looked away for fear that the teacher might think I was trying to cheat by looking at her test answers. As I tried to concentrate on my test I kept telling myself that she must be kidding.
I finished my final before Judy did but I stayed at my desk and waited for her to complete her test. I was in hopes that we could talk about the true whereabouts of my homework folder. As she gathered up her books and turned in her test papers along with her homework folder, I followed her out of the classroom. The teacher called after me and asked where my homework folder was. I turned back momentarily and told the teacher that I had an urgent matter to take care of and I continued out the door. Lucky for me the teacher didn't say anything else.
Looking down the hall both ways I spotted Judy. I ran and caught up with her. "I need my homework folder," I said. The moment she opened her mouth I knew I was dead. Well, not actually dead dead but when mom got my geometry report card I might as well be dead. I would be grounded for life: no car privileges, no dates, and no life for me except school, church and chores. I never did anything bad enough to get grounded from church. I wonder how bad I would have to be for mom to say, "Mack, you can't attend church for three months." Mom and I once had a discussion about that very subject. She informed me that the only way I would get out of my church meetings was to be dead. Well, I wasn't going to kill myself over a bad grade in geometry.
I won't bore you with the details of what Judy shared with me there in the hallway about my shortcomings as a human being but her words are still etched on the wall of my brain like an ancient pictograph. Suffice it to say she made it abundantly clear that I would never see that homework folder much less use it to obtain a grade I did not earn and did not deserve. Her choice of words, earn or deserve, were puzzling to me. If I had agreed to go to the Girl's Preference dance with her, would I have earned and deserved my homework folder? If I had gone to her home after school and checked out my folder, would I have earned and deserved my folder?
Shake it off, let it go, get on with finding a solution to my problem, I thought. The solution certainly wasn't going to come from Judy. I went back to the teacher and told her I had misplaced my folder and would need some time to find it. She said I had one day to get that folder on her desk or I would fail the term. I failed the term. It was the first "F" of my school career. I couldn't imagine all the changes that were going to occur in my life over this one tiny "F". Why is it that something so unimportant to one person can be so catastrophic to another? Maybe mother was faking and pretending to be more upset about my past grades than she really was in hopes of motivating me to do better. No, her face got too red for her to be faking.
Our grades came out on three by five cards printed by the school. The front of the card was divided into the three terms of the semester and this is where the teacher recorded our term grades. The back of the card was for a parent's signature indicating that the grade had been reviewed. We had three days to return the report cards to the teachers. I tucked my report cards in my shirt pocked and headed home dreading the look on mom's face when she saw that "F". I had to do something. Mother didn't deserve the unhappiness my geometry grade was going to cause.
A beautiful thought entered my mind. I pulled the cards back out of my pocket and studied how the teacher had formed the letter "F" in the grade column. Sure enough, I could take a black pen and by just adding one line to that letter "F" it would transform into an "A". My problem was solved. You know the saying: what mom doesn't know won't hurt me. Mother signed the back of my report card and I promptly threw it away and told the teacher that I lost it. Lucky for me the teacher didn't call mom to verify that she had seen my report card.
I knew from a previous experience when I really did loose a report card that the teacher would not take the time to re-write all the information of previous term grades. With a B+ for the first term and an F for second term, I figured I could still pass the semester. There wasn't anything to get too excited about. Lying to the teacher and lying to mom by changing my grade was painful but not as painful as the truth would have been. If mom wasn't so strict I could afford to be more honest. My plan worked like an accomplished musician playing a precision instrument. Mom was happy. I was happy.
Epilogue: Happy endings are sometimes not an ending at all but just a momentary euphoria. I didn't realize it at the time but I had merely postponed a battle that could have easily escalated into my personal Armageddon, that final battle spoken of in the Book of Revelations in the Bible. Mom had an unbelievable memory. At the end of the semester she wanted to know how I could end up with a "C" in geometry when my three term grades had been B+, A and A. I decided enough time had passed that it wouldn't be a big deal for her to know what I had done so I told the truth. Boy, was that a mistake. I thought she would be proud of the way I buckled down and saved my geometry grade. Talk about a big deal! You would have thought I carved my initials in my little sister's arm the way mother acted. I have forgotten now how many things I was grounded from but I do remember that church wasn't one of them.
I continued to sit next to Judy and in time we became friends again. I once asked her why she never wore the mohair sweater anymore. "Are you stupid? It's hot out side. Besides, mother said it was too small and made me give it to my little sister." I missed that mohair sweater but I never mentioned it to Karen. Some things are better left unsaid, especially if you are trying to get to second base.
Sunday, February 4, 2007
The Untouchables
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
The acceptable kill rate was four to one. I could fulfill my obligation to my country if I killed four of the enemy before I got killed. After that, my body could be shipped back to the states draped publicly in an American flag and delivered home for my family to mourn privately. My government would provide three hundred dollars for my burial expenses and my name would appear on the wall of the Vietnam Memorial. But there would be no future, no wife, and no children to bounce on my knee.
It would be years before I realized how discriminating the war was. Poor blacks and whites not in college were hit the hardest. The poor were targeted as though they were the most dispensable. I guess that is the way it has always been. The poor filled the ranks of the bulging surge of humanity being shipped to South East Asia. Fifty-eight thousand would not return alive. Many more would come home with serious wounds both physical and emotional. This was the destiny of many men during the Vietnam years. For those who lived, what they saw and what they endured changed them forever.
But war would not be my destiny, my future. The knowledge of my destiny was not derived from the ability to see into the future. It came from a priesthood blessing I received in which I was promised that I would be sealed up against the war. I have never understood why I should be sealed up against that war while so many others were not. But I have an outpouring of gratitude that I was spared the experiences that transpired in that foreign land.
For us here at home the message was clear. You want to stay out of Vietnam? Go to college. That wasn't a problem for me because I always planned to go to college. Upon high school graduation I registered for the draft as required by law. I also turned in all the necessary papers showing my college acceptance and received a 2-S deferment. I became one of the untouchables. I could not be drafted so long as I held a 2-S deferment. I didn't go to college to dodge the draft although I didn't want to go to war. However, regardless of my circumstances I would not have fled to Canada or Mexico to evade the hungry war machine gobbling up young me by the thousands. Although I was temporarily protected from war with my deferment, I was not in sympathy with the demonstrations taking place on campuses across the nation. I felt it would have been a betrayal of the servicemen already caught in a crushing vice between the Viet Cong and politics.
Our country was being torn apart. The irony of it all was that in Vietnam the military leaders were hovering above the firefight high enough to stay clear of enemy fire while others suffered and died on both sides. On college campuses and in the city streets the principal instigators of the demonstrations would stir up the populace and when the threat of police interaction was present, they would conveniently slink away, leaving the stirred-up students to take the brunt of the fight. No matter where you were, here at home or in South East Asia, the rhetoric was the same: propaganda, propaganda, and more propaganda. I struggled to understand the truth and where it was hiding.
After my freshman year of college I planned to serve a mission for the LDS Church. A problem arose almost immediately. My local draft board refused to issue me a 4-F deferment for missionary service. Without that deferment I could not serve a mission. The draft board accused me of requesting to serve a mission to avoid the draft. I reminded the draft board that I already had a college deferment and could retain that 2-S status for four years by staying in school. I desired to serve a mission because I wanted to make a difference in people's lives. On appeal, the draft board agreed to grant me a 4-F deferment on the condition that I would voluntarily extend my draft eligibility by ten years.
The draft board expected me to choke on that stipulation and withdraw my appeal. But I knew something they did not know. I had a blessing that sealed me up against the war. I signed the draft extension papers and within three months I was saying goodbye to my family and heading to the language training center to learn Spanish. I had been called to serve in the West Spanish American Mission. After three months of language training, I boarded a night train with seven other missionaries headed for the mission headquarters in East Los Angeles. Los Angeles had the second largest Spanish speaking population on this continent next to Mexico City. When I filled out my missionary papers there was a place to list my requested area of service. I requested an English speaking mission outside of the United States. I received a mission call to serve Spanish speaking people in California, Arizona and Nevada. Someone had more faith in me than I had in myself by sending me to a Spanish speaking mission. I had two years of high school Spanish and I wasn't a star pupil.
On that night train to Los Angeles as I sorted through my papers it occurred to me that my 4-F deferment would expire three months before the completion of my mission. I had been granted a two year deferment and not one day more. When requesting the missionary deferment I did not know that I would be called to serve a foreign speaking mission. The three months spent in the language training center did not count toward my two years of missionary service. I gulped and my throat went dry as cotton. I would be reclassified 1-A for the draft three months before I completed my mission. What this meant was that there was a high probability that I would be drafted before I was able to get reenrolled in college. Then I remembered the blessing I received and my heart was quieted. I shrugged my shoulders and said to myself that it would all work out.
True to their word the draft board reclassified me 1-A September 7th, 1967, three months before returning home from my mission. Within a week after my arrival I was ordered to report to the Gregg County Draft Board. As I opened the letter and read the instructions, I momentarily wavered in my faith of the blessing I received several years earlier. Had I misinterpreted the meaning of "sealed up against the war"? Maybe sealed up meant sealed up in a coffin, or maybe it meant sealed up against death but I would still be required to go to South East Asia. Then I remembered an old familiar saying about life, "shallow brooks are noisy but still waters run deep." Although I didn't fully understand why at the time, that little saying calmed me. My blessing was not from a shallow source and the noise of fear I was hearing in my mind wasn't from still waters. I remember telling myself, "Be still, be calm, I can do this, whatever comes."
It was difficult to be still and calm. My life was a tangle of emotions. My old girlfriend was engaged to marry Pat Cunningham. My mind knew that this was the right thing for her but my heart wasn't playing a different tune. I also had to report to the draft board in just a few days. I was shuffling around the house, just home from my mission with nothing to keep me busy. Mark, an old high school friend who heard that I was home called and asked if I wanted to go to a rally. "What kind of rally?" I asked. "An anti-war demonstration," Mark said. I thought it was strange that Mark would be interested in an anti-war demonstration since he just returned from Vietnam. But we were bored and decided we would go check it out. The crowd was peaceful but disorganized. They were milling around on the steps of the courthouse. I wondered what good a demonstration would do at eight o'clock in the evening in front the courthouse. The only people who would be in there at this time of evening would be the janitors.
I approached a shaggy haired young man who appeared to be in his early twenties. He was wear bell-bottom knit pants with an orange tie-dyed tee shirt a couple of sizes too small. I no longer remember what was printed on the back of his shirt. I asked him why they were demonstrating after the courthouse was closed. He looked at me as if he was staring right through me and said, "Peace, brother and free love." I didn't know very much about love but I was smart enough to know that love wasn't free. Mark and I stood around on the outer fringe of the crowd for a few minutes but most of what I was hearing were trite sayings like "make love, not war," and all manner of degrading names for the president and the government. I turned to Mark and said, "I've seen enough and heard enough, let's go get a shake at the Golden Point drive-in." With a shrug of his shoulders Mark and I headed across the courthouse lawn toward his dad's pickup. He was quiet. We glanced back one more time to look at the small crowd that had gathered. I said, "They sounded like a bunch of broken records just saying the same thing over and over, repeating each other." Mark said, "Those kids are loaded on pot and their brains are in neutral. That's why they call it spaced out. I've seen a lot of it in the military."
As Mark and I enjoyed our ice cream shakes he spoke of his experiences in Vietnam and said that he hoped I'd never have to see what he had seen. Much of what he described was unimaginable to me. Our mood turned somber and after a while he took me home. As we said our goodbyes Mark looked at me and said, "Jerry, I'm not a hero and I didn't volunteer for duty in Vietnam. I hated every minute of every day I spent there. I was scared the entire year but what I see here at home scares me in a different way. I witnessed an anti-war demonstration outside the military gates of Fort Benning, Georgia before being sent home on leave. I'm not an expert on the Peace and Free Love Movement, but I haven't seen one person at those demonstrations I'd want to share a foxhole with. There was sadness in his countenance as he turned, got in the pickup and drove away.
Two days later as I prepared to report to the draft board I was still thinking about the demonstrators on the courthouse steps a few nights earlier. In the Old Testament when Cain slew Abel it wasn't difficult to determine who was the good guy and who was the bad guy. The demonstrators referred to the president as a baby killer and all sorts of other degrading names. They didn't have one good thing to say about this country; the greatest country on earth. I wanted to be on the right side and I didn't want to give my life for an unjust cause but what was the right side? Then that same little saying came back to my mind, "shallow brooks are noisy but still waters run deep." Once again I told myself, "Be still, be calm, you can do this, whatever comes."
Looking back it seems odd that I was surprised to discover that I wasn't the only young man reporting to the draft board that day. We stood in a line and waited for our names to be called. As each person's name was called he stepped up to the front of the enlistment desk. When I heard my name called I moved forward to the desk as directed. An older woman with kind eyes and streaks of grey in her hair was seated at the desk. I waited for the list of questions that I had been hearing directed at each young man who had gone before me. Studying my papers for a moment she looked up at me and said, "Are you the Jerry Grubbs that dated Karen Young?" Surprised by her comment and while still trying to remember how I knew this lady, I said, "I am." "Well young man, Karen's mother thinks very highly of you. Do you want to go to Vietnam?" she asked. "No, I want to go back to college but I got called up before I could get back into school." I explained. Without taking her eyes off me she took my draft papers, slid them into the top drawer of her desk and instructed me to turn around, walk out of the office without saying a word to anyone and send her verification of my readmission to college when it was official.
I did exactly as she instructed. I didn't even know her name until I was outside the courthouse and looked down at the small card she handed me that read, "Edie Brown, Secretary, Gregg County Draft Board." After learning her name, I still didn't know who she was. At that time all I knew was that she was a friend of Karen's mother and because of that association I had become one of the untouchables once more.
The country was still deeply divided concerning the war as I returned to college in the spring of 1968. Edie Brown had been true to her word. My 2-S deferment declaring me untouchable arrived in the mail as promised. That demonstration I went to was the only one I ever attended. Ironically, I never witnessed more words of hate than I heard at that peace demonstration on those courthouse steps in December 1967. I wasn't envious of the soldiers in harm's way nor was I willing to join forces with the demonstrators. Both soldiers and demonstrators seemed to be caught up in the propaganda of the moment . . . while some were following orders to kill, others were being incited to riot. I would have been wounded by the actions of the demonstrators if I had been a draftee crawling my way through a dangerous jungle trying to stay alive, fighting a war I did not understand but choosing to fight rather than slither across the border and hide.
After Karen's mother passed away, I found Edie Brown and we spent an afternoon together. She was confined to a wheelchair and living alone. Edie was experiencing the challenges and debilitating effects of sugar diabetes. It was the first time I had seen her or talked to her since that day long ago when I stood in front of her desk at the county draft board. She shared her life story with me and how she became acquainted with Karen's mother. The two of them attended high school together in Ohio. With another mutual friend they moved to Longview, Texas in 1940 and remained close friends all their lives, meeting regularly to play bridge. It was at those bridge games that Edie Brown came to know who Jerry Grubbs was and what he meant to her lifelong friend. Karen's mother shared with Edie the feelings she had for this boy whom she referred to as the son she always wanted.
Karen's mother had touched my life in a way that I never imagined. When I began dating her daughter in 1960, I could not have guessed that she would be the influence that brought about the fulfilled my blessing of being sealed up against the war. By my promise, I never discussed with Karen's mother Edie Brown's involvement in my draft deferment. But I had experienced a miracle in my life and I have discovered that not all miracles are performed by unseen hands. Karen's mother's influence had spared me from the draft. What did I do to deserve that? I do not know. There were many men far better than I who suffered and died in that foreign land.
I had the opportunity to thank Edie Brown in person. One day, beyond this earth, I will thank Karen's mother; not just for her influence in keeping me untouchable from the draft but for all she taught me and her unconditional acceptance of me. I continue to be grateful for a blessing that sealed me up against the war that divided our nation forty years ago and as I look back, what a treat it was to have Karen's mom a part of the fulfillment of that blessing. Regardless of who was right and who was wrong in that war, the lesson I learned was to be still, be calm, there are forces at work that I may not understand at the moment.
The acceptable kill rate was four to one. I could fulfill my obligation to my country if I killed four of the enemy before I got killed. After that, my body could be shipped back to the states draped publicly in an American flag and delivered home for my family to mourn privately. My government would provide three hundred dollars for my burial expenses and my name would appear on the wall of the Vietnam Memorial. But there would be no future, no wife, and no children to bounce on my knee.
It would be years before I realized how discriminating the war was. Poor blacks and whites not in college were hit the hardest. The poor were targeted as though they were the most dispensable. I guess that is the way it has always been. The poor filled the ranks of the bulging surge of humanity being shipped to South East Asia. Fifty-eight thousand would not return alive. Many more would come home with serious wounds both physical and emotional. This was the destiny of many men during the Vietnam years. For those who lived, what they saw and what they endured changed them forever.
But war would not be my destiny, my future. The knowledge of my destiny was not derived from the ability to see into the future. It came from a priesthood blessing I received in which I was promised that I would be sealed up against the war. I have never understood why I should be sealed up against that war while so many others were not. But I have an outpouring of gratitude that I was spared the experiences that transpired in that foreign land.
For us here at home the message was clear. You want to stay out of Vietnam? Go to college. That wasn't a problem for me because I always planned to go to college. Upon high school graduation I registered for the draft as required by law. I also turned in all the necessary papers showing my college acceptance and received a 2-S deferment. I became one of the untouchables. I could not be drafted so long as I held a 2-S deferment. I didn't go to college to dodge the draft although I didn't want to go to war. However, regardless of my circumstances I would not have fled to Canada or Mexico to evade the hungry war machine gobbling up young me by the thousands. Although I was temporarily protected from war with my deferment, I was not in sympathy with the demonstrations taking place on campuses across the nation. I felt it would have been a betrayal of the servicemen already caught in a crushing vice between the Viet Cong and politics.
Our country was being torn apart. The irony of it all was that in Vietnam the military leaders were hovering above the firefight high enough to stay clear of enemy fire while others suffered and died on both sides. On college campuses and in the city streets the principal instigators of the demonstrations would stir up the populace and when the threat of police interaction was present, they would conveniently slink away, leaving the stirred-up students to take the brunt of the fight. No matter where you were, here at home or in South East Asia, the rhetoric was the same: propaganda, propaganda, and more propaganda. I struggled to understand the truth and where it was hiding.
After my freshman year of college I planned to serve a mission for the LDS Church. A problem arose almost immediately. My local draft board refused to issue me a 4-F deferment for missionary service. Without that deferment I could not serve a mission. The draft board accused me of requesting to serve a mission to avoid the draft. I reminded the draft board that I already had a college deferment and could retain that 2-S status for four years by staying in school. I desired to serve a mission because I wanted to make a difference in people's lives. On appeal, the draft board agreed to grant me a 4-F deferment on the condition that I would voluntarily extend my draft eligibility by ten years.
The draft board expected me to choke on that stipulation and withdraw my appeal. But I knew something they did not know. I had a blessing that sealed me up against the war. I signed the draft extension papers and within three months I was saying goodbye to my family and heading to the language training center to learn Spanish. I had been called to serve in the West Spanish American Mission. After three months of language training, I boarded a night train with seven other missionaries headed for the mission headquarters in East Los Angeles. Los Angeles had the second largest Spanish speaking population on this continent next to Mexico City. When I filled out my missionary papers there was a place to list my requested area of service. I requested an English speaking mission outside of the United States. I received a mission call to serve Spanish speaking people in California, Arizona and Nevada. Someone had more faith in me than I had in myself by sending me to a Spanish speaking mission. I had two years of high school Spanish and I wasn't a star pupil.
On that night train to Los Angeles as I sorted through my papers it occurred to me that my 4-F deferment would expire three months before the completion of my mission. I had been granted a two year deferment and not one day more. When requesting the missionary deferment I did not know that I would be called to serve a foreign speaking mission. The three months spent in the language training center did not count toward my two years of missionary service. I gulped and my throat went dry as cotton. I would be reclassified 1-A for the draft three months before I completed my mission. What this meant was that there was a high probability that I would be drafted before I was able to get reenrolled in college. Then I remembered the blessing I received and my heart was quieted. I shrugged my shoulders and said to myself that it would all work out.
True to their word the draft board reclassified me 1-A September 7th, 1967, three months before returning home from my mission. Within a week after my arrival I was ordered to report to the Gregg County Draft Board. As I opened the letter and read the instructions, I momentarily wavered in my faith of the blessing I received several years earlier. Had I misinterpreted the meaning of "sealed up against the war"? Maybe sealed up meant sealed up in a coffin, or maybe it meant sealed up against death but I would still be required to go to South East Asia. Then I remembered an old familiar saying about life, "shallow brooks are noisy but still waters run deep." Although I didn't fully understand why at the time, that little saying calmed me. My blessing was not from a shallow source and the noise of fear I was hearing in my mind wasn't from still waters. I remember telling myself, "Be still, be calm, I can do this, whatever comes."
It was difficult to be still and calm. My life was a tangle of emotions. My old girlfriend was engaged to marry Pat Cunningham. My mind knew that this was the right thing for her but my heart wasn't playing a different tune. I also had to report to the draft board in just a few days. I was shuffling around the house, just home from my mission with nothing to keep me busy. Mark, an old high school friend who heard that I was home called and asked if I wanted to go to a rally. "What kind of rally?" I asked. "An anti-war demonstration," Mark said. I thought it was strange that Mark would be interested in an anti-war demonstration since he just returned from Vietnam. But we were bored and decided we would go check it out. The crowd was peaceful but disorganized. They were milling around on the steps of the courthouse. I wondered what good a demonstration would do at eight o'clock in the evening in front the courthouse. The only people who would be in there at this time of evening would be the janitors.
I approached a shaggy haired young man who appeared to be in his early twenties. He was wear bell-bottom knit pants with an orange tie-dyed tee shirt a couple of sizes too small. I no longer remember what was printed on the back of his shirt. I asked him why they were demonstrating after the courthouse was closed. He looked at me as if he was staring right through me and said, "Peace, brother and free love." I didn't know very much about love but I was smart enough to know that love wasn't free. Mark and I stood around on the outer fringe of the crowd for a few minutes but most of what I was hearing were trite sayings like "make love, not war," and all manner of degrading names for the president and the government. I turned to Mark and said, "I've seen enough and heard enough, let's go get a shake at the Golden Point drive-in." With a shrug of his shoulders Mark and I headed across the courthouse lawn toward his dad's pickup. He was quiet. We glanced back one more time to look at the small crowd that had gathered. I said, "They sounded like a bunch of broken records just saying the same thing over and over, repeating each other." Mark said, "Those kids are loaded on pot and their brains are in neutral. That's why they call it spaced out. I've seen a lot of it in the military."
As Mark and I enjoyed our ice cream shakes he spoke of his experiences in Vietnam and said that he hoped I'd never have to see what he had seen. Much of what he described was unimaginable to me. Our mood turned somber and after a while he took me home. As we said our goodbyes Mark looked at me and said, "Jerry, I'm not a hero and I didn't volunteer for duty in Vietnam. I hated every minute of every day I spent there. I was scared the entire year but what I see here at home scares me in a different way. I witnessed an anti-war demonstration outside the military gates of Fort Benning, Georgia before being sent home on leave. I'm not an expert on the Peace and Free Love Movement, but I haven't seen one person at those demonstrations I'd want to share a foxhole with. There was sadness in his countenance as he turned, got in the pickup and drove away.
Two days later as I prepared to report to the draft board I was still thinking about the demonstrators on the courthouse steps a few nights earlier. In the Old Testament when Cain slew Abel it wasn't difficult to determine who was the good guy and who was the bad guy. The demonstrators referred to the president as a baby killer and all sorts of other degrading names. They didn't have one good thing to say about this country; the greatest country on earth. I wanted to be on the right side and I didn't want to give my life for an unjust cause but what was the right side? Then that same little saying came back to my mind, "shallow brooks are noisy but still waters run deep." Once again I told myself, "Be still, be calm, you can do this, whatever comes."
Looking back it seems odd that I was surprised to discover that I wasn't the only young man reporting to the draft board that day. We stood in a line and waited for our names to be called. As each person's name was called he stepped up to the front of the enlistment desk. When I heard my name called I moved forward to the desk as directed. An older woman with kind eyes and streaks of grey in her hair was seated at the desk. I waited for the list of questions that I had been hearing directed at each young man who had gone before me. Studying my papers for a moment she looked up at me and said, "Are you the Jerry Grubbs that dated Karen Young?" Surprised by her comment and while still trying to remember how I knew this lady, I said, "I am." "Well young man, Karen's mother thinks very highly of you. Do you want to go to Vietnam?" she asked. "No, I want to go back to college but I got called up before I could get back into school." I explained. Without taking her eyes off me she took my draft papers, slid them into the top drawer of her desk and instructed me to turn around, walk out of the office without saying a word to anyone and send her verification of my readmission to college when it was official.
I did exactly as she instructed. I didn't even know her name until I was outside the courthouse and looked down at the small card she handed me that read, "Edie Brown, Secretary, Gregg County Draft Board." After learning her name, I still didn't know who she was. At that time all I knew was that she was a friend of Karen's mother and because of that association I had become one of the untouchables once more.
The country was still deeply divided concerning the war as I returned to college in the spring of 1968. Edie Brown had been true to her word. My 2-S deferment declaring me untouchable arrived in the mail as promised. That demonstration I went to was the only one I ever attended. Ironically, I never witnessed more words of hate than I heard at that peace demonstration on those courthouse steps in December 1967. I wasn't envious of the soldiers in harm's way nor was I willing to join forces with the demonstrators. Both soldiers and demonstrators seemed to be caught up in the propaganda of the moment . . . while some were following orders to kill, others were being incited to riot. I would have been wounded by the actions of the demonstrators if I had been a draftee crawling my way through a dangerous jungle trying to stay alive, fighting a war I did not understand but choosing to fight rather than slither across the border and hide.
After Karen's mother passed away, I found Edie Brown and we spent an afternoon together. She was confined to a wheelchair and living alone. Edie was experiencing the challenges and debilitating effects of sugar diabetes. It was the first time I had seen her or talked to her since that day long ago when I stood in front of her desk at the county draft board. She shared her life story with me and how she became acquainted with Karen's mother. The two of them attended high school together in Ohio. With another mutual friend they moved to Longview, Texas in 1940 and remained close friends all their lives, meeting regularly to play bridge. It was at those bridge games that Edie Brown came to know who Jerry Grubbs was and what he meant to her lifelong friend. Karen's mother shared with Edie the feelings she had for this boy whom she referred to as the son she always wanted.
Karen's mother had touched my life in a way that I never imagined. When I began dating her daughter in 1960, I could not have guessed that she would be the influence that brought about the fulfilled my blessing of being sealed up against the war. By my promise, I never discussed with Karen's mother Edie Brown's involvement in my draft deferment. But I had experienced a miracle in my life and I have discovered that not all miracles are performed by unseen hands. Karen's mother's influence had spared me from the draft. What did I do to deserve that? I do not know. There were many men far better than I who suffered and died in that foreign land.
I had the opportunity to thank Edie Brown in person. One day, beyond this earth, I will thank Karen's mother; not just for her influence in keeping me untouchable from the draft but for all she taught me and her unconditional acceptance of me. I continue to be grateful for a blessing that sealed me up against the war that divided our nation forty years ago and as I look back, what a treat it was to have Karen's mom a part of the fulfillment of that blessing. Regardless of who was right and who was wrong in that war, the lesson I learned was to be still, be calm, there are forces at work that I may not understand at the moment.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
The Senior Prom
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
The events leading up to this date started months earlier. I actually didn't ask Karen to the senior prom. We had been dating exclusively since the beginning of our sophomore year and some things were just understood between us. At least that's the way it was until the summer of 1963.
That summer the Cobb family moved into the house next door to Karen's home on Avalon Drive. Their son Glenn was a year younger than us. As Karen and I dated through the summer, Glenn's name surfaced more and more. I became agitated at the mere mention of his name. I knew that it was jealousy on my part that Glenn had daily access to my girlfriend. My feelings of jealousy were not so much directed against Glenn, I didn't even know him other than by sight. The ups and downs of my relationship with Karen had always been out in the open. But I lived across town and our time together was limited to a couple of times a week during the summer. The only reason I was excited for school to start was because I would get to see her more often.
Summer ended and the new school year began. School activities and football games were in full swing. Life at Longview High School seemed normal on the outside but inwardly I knew something had changed. Our lives were on autopilot which included plans for the senior prom. We laughed and joked with classmates and friends. The laughing and joking was only skin deep for me. There was an unseen enemy invading the calm of my life but I couldn't identify it much less put a name on it. I could only wait and let life unfold.
My life didn't unfold, it unraveled. You could say that my train derailed. My train ride began in biology class my sophomore year when a skinny little blonde traded places with my lab partner and began sitting next to me the first week of school. If it was a setup I didn't resist. You have to know you are being setup before you can resist or go along with a plan. I was actually too naive to even realize what was going on. A couple of weeks after the skinny blonde became my lab partner I still wasn't getting the picture.
My future wasn't in the hands of fate; Karen was leading this military maneuver and I wasn't even aware that I had been drafted although her mother would one day save me from the real draft. Plans were put in place to insure that I would get a clear picture of the battlefield. My friend Charles Hineman was dating Karen's best friend Leslie Duffel. Leslie asked Charles to tell me that my biology lab partner would say yes if I asked her out on a date. I remember asking Charles, "How do you know that?" His response was typical, "Are you stupid. She sits by you in biology and English plus she has traded lockers so her locker is right across the hall from yours." It now made sense why I had been running into her so much. I finally mustered the courage to ask her on a date and our emotional train pulled out of the station, picked up speed, and Karen and I traveled together along the curves and straight stretches of high school life. We had traveled a long way since those early sophomore days but Karen decided to change trains soon after the beginning of our senior year.
For her it was like stepping off one train and onto another. The train she boarded was ridden by her next door neighbor, Glenn Cobb. From hindsight it was easy to understand what had happened. She said all the right things; even shed a few tears of sadness that our journey was over. It is easier to be gracious when you aren't the one left at the train station. Karen assured me that we would always be good friends but our life together had become boring. I didn't ask any questions, I just listened. She said that I was also too predictable, I didn't appreciate her and I often chose to be with my friends instead of her. I'm sure all those things were true. By the time she was through I wondered why she had ever gone out with me in the first place. Even if my brain had been encased in cement, I would have gotten the picture this time. I didn't need to hear anymore. Like an injured animal, I licked my wounds in the privacy of my own mind and dropped a curtain over my heart to protect it. It took me a while before I realized that some people need to build a case against you so their actions are your fault.
I had no conversations with Karen until several weeks later. With the casualness of a princess addressing one of her subjects she said, "Jerry, I thought I should let you know the color of my prom dress." I didn't answer her. I was too surprised to utter a response. It had never entered my mind that we were still going to the senior prom. "You're still taking me to the prom aren't you?" she asked. "You can drop dead if you think I am going anywhere with you," I said. "You know I have always planned to go to the prom with you," she replied. "When we talked about the prom you were dating me, not someone else. Get Glenn to take you if you want to go to the prom," I said. "I can't go with Glenn. He had already asked someone else before we started going steady," she said as her voice raised a few notches. "Raise your voice if you want, I'm not going to the senior prom with you or anyone else," I said. I walked away, shaking my head and wondering if my pain would ever end.
Well, my pain wasn't going to end soon. After school I went to work at the Salad Bowl Restaurant located in the Holiday Inn Motel on Highway 80. The restaurant closed at eleven but it took us until midnight to get everything cleaned up and ready for the next day. It only took about twenty minutes to walk home. I resisted having mother pick me up after work because I was fearful that she would eventually make me quit because of the inconvenience of the hour. She was always up when I came in the door and would have something for me to eat although I had already eaten at the restaurant. Mother said that she had something to discuss with me. It had not occurred to me that Karen or her mom would call and discuss the prom with my mother.
I no longer remember who placed the call to mom but it didn't matter. Mother thought it was my duty to take Karen to the prom. It wasn't right for a senior to not be able to attend her last prom of high school, besides she was one of the ladies in waiting, whatever that meant. I told mother that I didn't care if Karen was a lady in waiting or how long Karen had to wait. She could ground me, punish me any way she could dream up, I was not taking Karen to the prom. I think I was enjoying some sadistic pleasure in this dilemma that my old girlfriend had wedged herself into. She got herself in the crack. She could get herself out. It wasn't my problem.
Wasn't my problem? My problems were just beginning. I thought my train derailment when she gave me all the reasons why she was bringing our relationship to an end was the last scene, the closing act of this painful play. The next call was from Karen's mother. She wanted me to drop by her insurance office for a chat. I knew what that meant. We met at her office when we were going to discuss the skinny little blonde without her being present. I knew Karen had put her up to this little discussion and I wasn't happy but I thought too much of this lady to say no. Was this pain ever going to end?
Apparently not yet. Karen's mom and my mother shared the same name. They also shared the same opinion that I should take Karen to the prom. I could understand Karen's mother siding with her but I was puzzled why my own mother would want to subject me to the pain and humiliation of doing this. It was asking too much to take someone whom I deeply cared for to the prom while all along she would be wishing that she could be with her new Mister Right. The more these two women pressed me the more stubborn I became. If Karen was panicking, I didn't care. If she was embarrassed by all the discussion of her missing the senior prom, it was not my problem. I was nursing a wounded heart and that heart just needed to be left alone. My friend Charles Hineman thought it was the funniest thing. His girlfriend Leslie Duffel had stiffed him months earlier and he was now over the hump and able to take a deep breath without feeling like he was going to break in half. I knew I would get over the hump too if people would just leave me alone.
But mom knew that leaving me alone wouldn't get Karen to the prom. She had a long talk with me about whether I was going to be a boy or a man. She pulled several cards out of the deck: the shame card, the guilt card, etc. I didn't budge. Mother knew where my stubborn streak originated and some of it was coursing through her own veins. She spoke of doing the right thing even when it was hard. I battled her over the subject of what the right thing was. When all else had failed mother asked me to pray about it and promised that she would not bother me anymore about the subject if I would agree to follow the promptings I felt. I agreed. I didn't have to worry. I knew I was in the right.
But I still had a problem. Being right doesn't make you good. Being right doesn't place you above the responsibility to extend charity. If you withhold charity when it is within your power to extend it, don't count on charity when you are in need of it. Mother knew me better than I knew myself. She taught me these things from my youth. I just buried them somewhere down deep and mom knew in the quiet moments of my mind I would rediscover them.
Karen's mother called and asked for a second meeting with me. She could usually point out things in a way that I hadn't thought of before. She explained that she wasn't siding with Karen. She said, "I love you like a son and I love my daughter. I don't want to see either one of you hurt. Karen is just following her heart. What are you following, Jerry?" Her question was like a revelation to me. I had already decided to take Karen to the prom because it was what my heart told me to do. But now I would take her as a man, not a boy. I would take her out of love, not out of duty, not because it was the right thing to do but because it was a good thing to do.
Karen looked beautiful that night. I treated her with tenderness. I opened the car door for her but she didn't slide over next to me as I got in. That part of our lives had changed. At the prom we danced cordially and traded partners with other couples. I'm sure that Glenn found her and they danced some but I didn't watch for her or require anything special of her. My arrangement was to take her to the prom itself, not to the rest of the all night activities. Leaving the dance, as we approached her home Karen asked if I would like to go somewhere and talk for a while. I declined. I thought about saying something catty like, "I don't think Glenn would like that," but I didn't. "Would you do it for me?" she asked. "Do what?" I asked. "Go somewhere so that we can talk for a few minutes," she said. "Yes," I said.
I drove to a spot near her home that we had visited often at the close of a date. It was awkward at first. All we had shared over the years seemed to be walled off from us like it had been two other people and we were just watching memories of them from a distance. She leaned over to give me a kiss but I touched my hand to her lips. She said that she had something serious to discuss with me. "I've heard that you have been seeing Susie. You know what kind of reputation she has. I'm not interested in second-hand merchandise. If you expect us to ever get married you better stop spending time with her," she said. I hadn't been out with Susie or anyone else. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I wanted to say, "I'll date whomever I please, but I didn't. I just looked at her, cranked the car and drove her home.
I gave her mom a hug as we entered the house. We visited for a few minutes and talked about the events of the dance. The look her mother gave me as I turned to leave was worth every minute of that evening I had spent with the skinny little blonde I met in biology long ago. I excused myself and headed home. I was glad that I did it and I was glad it was over. Looking back on it, both my mom and Karen's mom were right. . .taking her to the prom was the right thing to do but it wasn't easy. And sometimes we make things harder than they need to be. Maybe I was slowly and painfully becoming a man.
The events leading up to this date started months earlier. I actually didn't ask Karen to the senior prom. We had been dating exclusively since the beginning of our sophomore year and some things were just understood between us. At least that's the way it was until the summer of 1963.
That summer the Cobb family moved into the house next door to Karen's home on Avalon Drive. Their son Glenn was a year younger than us. As Karen and I dated through the summer, Glenn's name surfaced more and more. I became agitated at the mere mention of his name. I knew that it was jealousy on my part that Glenn had daily access to my girlfriend. My feelings of jealousy were not so much directed against Glenn, I didn't even know him other than by sight. The ups and downs of my relationship with Karen had always been out in the open. But I lived across town and our time together was limited to a couple of times a week during the summer. The only reason I was excited for school to start was because I would get to see her more often.
Summer ended and the new school year began. School activities and football games were in full swing. Life at Longview High School seemed normal on the outside but inwardly I knew something had changed. Our lives were on autopilot which included plans for the senior prom. We laughed and joked with classmates and friends. The laughing and joking was only skin deep for me. There was an unseen enemy invading the calm of my life but I couldn't identify it much less put a name on it. I could only wait and let life unfold.
My life didn't unfold, it unraveled. You could say that my train derailed. My train ride began in biology class my sophomore year when a skinny little blonde traded places with my lab partner and began sitting next to me the first week of school. If it was a setup I didn't resist. You have to know you are being setup before you can resist or go along with a plan. I was actually too naive to even realize what was going on. A couple of weeks after the skinny blonde became my lab partner I still wasn't getting the picture.
My future wasn't in the hands of fate; Karen was leading this military maneuver and I wasn't even aware that I had been drafted although her mother would one day save me from the real draft. Plans were put in place to insure that I would get a clear picture of the battlefield. My friend Charles Hineman was dating Karen's best friend Leslie Duffel. Leslie asked Charles to tell me that my biology lab partner would say yes if I asked her out on a date. I remember asking Charles, "How do you know that?" His response was typical, "Are you stupid. She sits by you in biology and English plus she has traded lockers so her locker is right across the hall from yours." It now made sense why I had been running into her so much. I finally mustered the courage to ask her on a date and our emotional train pulled out of the station, picked up speed, and Karen and I traveled together along the curves and straight stretches of high school life. We had traveled a long way since those early sophomore days but Karen decided to change trains soon after the beginning of our senior year.
For her it was like stepping off one train and onto another. The train she boarded was ridden by her next door neighbor, Glenn Cobb. From hindsight it was easy to understand what had happened. She said all the right things; even shed a few tears of sadness that our journey was over. It is easier to be gracious when you aren't the one left at the train station. Karen assured me that we would always be good friends but our life together had become boring. I didn't ask any questions, I just listened. She said that I was also too predictable, I didn't appreciate her and I often chose to be with my friends instead of her. I'm sure all those things were true. By the time she was through I wondered why she had ever gone out with me in the first place. Even if my brain had been encased in cement, I would have gotten the picture this time. I didn't need to hear anymore. Like an injured animal, I licked my wounds in the privacy of my own mind and dropped a curtain over my heart to protect it. It took me a while before I realized that some people need to build a case against you so their actions are your fault.
I had no conversations with Karen until several weeks later. With the casualness of a princess addressing one of her subjects she said, "Jerry, I thought I should let you know the color of my prom dress." I didn't answer her. I was too surprised to utter a response. It had never entered my mind that we were still going to the senior prom. "You're still taking me to the prom aren't you?" she asked. "You can drop dead if you think I am going anywhere with you," I said. "You know I have always planned to go to the prom with you," she replied. "When we talked about the prom you were dating me, not someone else. Get Glenn to take you if you want to go to the prom," I said. "I can't go with Glenn. He had already asked someone else before we started going steady," she said as her voice raised a few notches. "Raise your voice if you want, I'm not going to the senior prom with you or anyone else," I said. I walked away, shaking my head and wondering if my pain would ever end.
Well, my pain wasn't going to end soon. After school I went to work at the Salad Bowl Restaurant located in the Holiday Inn Motel on Highway 80. The restaurant closed at eleven but it took us until midnight to get everything cleaned up and ready for the next day. It only took about twenty minutes to walk home. I resisted having mother pick me up after work because I was fearful that she would eventually make me quit because of the inconvenience of the hour. She was always up when I came in the door and would have something for me to eat although I had already eaten at the restaurant. Mother said that she had something to discuss with me. It had not occurred to me that Karen or her mom would call and discuss the prom with my mother.
I no longer remember who placed the call to mom but it didn't matter. Mother thought it was my duty to take Karen to the prom. It wasn't right for a senior to not be able to attend her last prom of high school, besides she was one of the ladies in waiting, whatever that meant. I told mother that I didn't care if Karen was a lady in waiting or how long Karen had to wait. She could ground me, punish me any way she could dream up, I was not taking Karen to the prom. I think I was enjoying some sadistic pleasure in this dilemma that my old girlfriend had wedged herself into. She got herself in the crack. She could get herself out. It wasn't my problem.
Wasn't my problem? My problems were just beginning. I thought my train derailment when she gave me all the reasons why she was bringing our relationship to an end was the last scene, the closing act of this painful play. The next call was from Karen's mother. She wanted me to drop by her insurance office for a chat. I knew what that meant. We met at her office when we were going to discuss the skinny little blonde without her being present. I knew Karen had put her up to this little discussion and I wasn't happy but I thought too much of this lady to say no. Was this pain ever going to end?
Apparently not yet. Karen's mom and my mother shared the same name. They also shared the same opinion that I should take Karen to the prom. I could understand Karen's mother siding with her but I was puzzled why my own mother would want to subject me to the pain and humiliation of doing this. It was asking too much to take someone whom I deeply cared for to the prom while all along she would be wishing that she could be with her new Mister Right. The more these two women pressed me the more stubborn I became. If Karen was panicking, I didn't care. If she was embarrassed by all the discussion of her missing the senior prom, it was not my problem. I was nursing a wounded heart and that heart just needed to be left alone. My friend Charles Hineman thought it was the funniest thing. His girlfriend Leslie Duffel had stiffed him months earlier and he was now over the hump and able to take a deep breath without feeling like he was going to break in half. I knew I would get over the hump too if people would just leave me alone.
But mom knew that leaving me alone wouldn't get Karen to the prom. She had a long talk with me about whether I was going to be a boy or a man. She pulled several cards out of the deck: the shame card, the guilt card, etc. I didn't budge. Mother knew where my stubborn streak originated and some of it was coursing through her own veins. She spoke of doing the right thing even when it was hard. I battled her over the subject of what the right thing was. When all else had failed mother asked me to pray about it and promised that she would not bother me anymore about the subject if I would agree to follow the promptings I felt. I agreed. I didn't have to worry. I knew I was in the right.
But I still had a problem. Being right doesn't make you good. Being right doesn't place you above the responsibility to extend charity. If you withhold charity when it is within your power to extend it, don't count on charity when you are in need of it. Mother knew me better than I knew myself. She taught me these things from my youth. I just buried them somewhere down deep and mom knew in the quiet moments of my mind I would rediscover them.
Karen's mother called and asked for a second meeting with me. She could usually point out things in a way that I hadn't thought of before. She explained that she wasn't siding with Karen. She said, "I love you like a son and I love my daughter. I don't want to see either one of you hurt. Karen is just following her heart. What are you following, Jerry?" Her question was like a revelation to me. I had already decided to take Karen to the prom because it was what my heart told me to do. But now I would take her as a man, not a boy. I would take her out of love, not out of duty, not because it was the right thing to do but because it was a good thing to do.
Karen looked beautiful that night. I treated her with tenderness. I opened the car door for her but she didn't slide over next to me as I got in. That part of our lives had changed. At the prom we danced cordially and traded partners with other couples. I'm sure that Glenn found her and they danced some but I didn't watch for her or require anything special of her. My arrangement was to take her to the prom itself, not to the rest of the all night activities. Leaving the dance, as we approached her home Karen asked if I would like to go somewhere and talk for a while. I declined. I thought about saying something catty like, "I don't think Glenn would like that," but I didn't. "Would you do it for me?" she asked. "Do what?" I asked. "Go somewhere so that we can talk for a few minutes," she said. "Yes," I said.
I drove to a spot near her home that we had visited often at the close of a date. It was awkward at first. All we had shared over the years seemed to be walled off from us like it had been two other people and we were just watching memories of them from a distance. She leaned over to give me a kiss but I touched my hand to her lips. She said that she had something serious to discuss with me. "I've heard that you have been seeing Susie. You know what kind of reputation she has. I'm not interested in second-hand merchandise. If you expect us to ever get married you better stop spending time with her," she said. I hadn't been out with Susie or anyone else. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I wanted to say, "I'll date whomever I please, but I didn't. I just looked at her, cranked the car and drove her home.
I gave her mom a hug as we entered the house. We visited for a few minutes and talked about the events of the dance. The look her mother gave me as I turned to leave was worth every minute of that evening I had spent with the skinny little blonde I met in biology long ago. I excused myself and headed home. I was glad that I did it and I was glad it was over. Looking back on it, both my mom and Karen's mom were right. . .taking her to the prom was the right thing to do but it wasn't easy. And sometimes we make things harder than they need to be. Maybe I was slowly and painfully becoming a man.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Snapshots
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
A book I read suggested that there are three major dates in our recent history that caused Americans to pause and take stock of themselves. These dates were the attack on Pearl Harbor, December 7, 1941, the assassination of President Kennedy, November 22, 1963, and the attack on the World Trade Center, September 11, 2001. When I read that statement I was instantly drawn back into the past like there was a snapshot of November 22, 1963. I didn't remember the specific date but I certainly remembered the events of that day as they unfolded. Here is what I saw as I opened the pages of that old mental photo album.
"Jerry Grubbs please report to the principal's office immediately!" said a voice over the intercom. The guys sitting at the table with me in the high school cafeteria roared with laughter. I had been warned that the call was coming but I was surprised that Mr. Fields was going to give me an adjustment during my lunch break. By adjustment I'm not suggesting that the principal was a chiropractor in a prior profession. "Why couldn't he call for me during Spanish or English class? Just my luck to have my lunch time gobbled up. What was left of my meal would probably be gone when I got back to the cafeteria. If it was still sitting on the table no telling what my friends would have done to it. I resigned myself to the fact that lunch break was over for me. I pushed my chair back, rose to my feet and headed up the stairs to Mr. Fields' office that was located on the floor above the cafeteria.
Casually walking into the office I found no one there. The secretary was gone and from the open door to the principal's office, I could see that no one was there either. There was a radio tuned to a news station on the secretary's desk. As I sat waiting for someone to return, I heard on the radio that President Kennedy had been shot in Dallas and was being rushed to the hospital. I decided this was headline news and I was going to be the Paul Revere who announced it to the cafeteria crowd.
Running down the stairs taking two or three steps at a time, I came into the Cafeteria and shouted that President Kennedy had been shot in Dallas. No one believed me until Mr. Fields came on the intercom system and confirmed the truth about what I had said. My excitement of being the first to announce this news was short lived. The principal instructed us to return to our classrooms where we would be given the details of this tragedy. A hush fell over the students and a somber mood prevailed throughout the entire school. We were shocked and saddened that such an event had occurred and we were collectively embarrassed that it had taken place in our native state of Texas.
That afternoon in my study hall class I was busy playing tic-tac-toe with Ronnie Brown. Ronnie and I had previous history together. I still carry a scar on my lip from when he smacked me in the mouth, cutting my lip on my own teeth. The fight had occurred the previous year when we were on our way to band practice. He was trying to pick a fight with my brother Bill who chose to turn and walk away from him. Furious that he couldn't agitate Bill into a fight Ronnie picked up a broken brick and hit Bill in the back. Seeing what had taken place I thought that if Ronnie wanted a piece of a Grubbs I would give him one. I plowed into him with fists flailing. If Ronnie had any lasting scars from the fight I would point them out to boast of my prowess. I later figured out that Bill had no need to fight with Ronnie. Ronnie wanted to date my brother's girlfriend Patsy Walker and Bill had no need to fight for what he already had. But the day President Kennedy was shot, Ronnie and I were passing the time playing tic-tac-toe. That's how guys are; they can be mortal enemies one day and sit together and play a game on another day.
Ronnie and I were busy with our game in study hall when my old girlfriend Karen Young started walking toward our table. "Here comes trouble," Ronnie said. I looked up and saw Karen looking at me and heading straight for our table. She and I used to sit together in study hall but we had been separated for talking too much. That was long before she decided I was too boring to go steady with. She said it was like we had become an old married couple; same disagreements, same reconciliations, same weekend dates and so on and so on plus I was always working when she wanted to do something. That is why I referred to her as my old girlfriend although she was eight days older than me. I still cared about her but a two thousand pound bull sitting on my chest wouldn't be able to get me to admit it. She and I hadn't spoken in months. She was busy parading around in Glenn Cobb's football jacket that was six sizes too big for her. The tips of her fingers barely protruded out of the coat sleeves. Besides, it wasn't even cold enough to wear a coat yet. I was a senior and Glenn was a junior. It was humiliating that a junior had stolen my girlfriend. Isn't it interesting how some of us blame others for our problems. Glenn didn't steal Karen. She just changed trains.
But now Karen was walking straight toward our table. At first I thought she was just passing by but that didn't make sense. She had avoided me completely since the last time she tried to make light conversation with me and I told her to drop dead. I wish I could say that those words popped out of my mouth before I had time to think, sort of like being startled by a mouse in your lunch sack. But that wasn't the case. My mother taught me to guard another person's feelings as I would my own and to never intentionally hurt someone using the lame excuse that I was just getting even. Getting even when it is meant to hurt someone else only exposes how small you are. I was a small person that day, I knew it and Karen suffered because of how immature I acted. You don't treat someone you really care about that way. In spite of my previous behavior and to my surprise, Karen stopped right by my chair. I thought she must be going to make a comment about the death of President Kennedy. See, by now we had been informed that it wasn't just an assassination attempt; the president had died at the hospital.
Standing next to my chair, Karen simply said, "Would you like to go to a Cowboys football game with me in Dallas next weekend?" I hadn't been that close to her in months much less looked into those sky-blue eyes. During that time I had been very careful to not let our eyes meet in case she could read what was in my heart. At least she wasn't wearing Glenn Cobb's jacket when she came to visit. My heart raced as I thought about the implications of her question. Before my brain was fully engaged and I could think of something hurtful or sarcastic to say, my tongue revealed my heart and I said, "Sure I would like to see a Cowboys' game." "But do you want to go with me?" she asked. I hesitated. Before I could answer, Ronnie Brown said, "If he doesn't want to go, I will." I wanted to punch his lights out right there in study hall but from previous experience I knew he was a scrapper and I remembered the scar on my lip from his knuckle sandwich last year. The last thing I needed at that moment was a fist fight in study hall.
I could tell that Karen was nervous. She wetted her lips with the tip of her tongue and her eyelids blinked irregular. She was waiting for my answer. A part of me wanted to stand up and give her a hug but my pride wouldn't allow me to go down that easy. I knew it took a lot of courage for her to talk to me, especially after that last time she tried to have a conversation and I told her to drop dead. How do you tell someone with your lips that you will have to think about it but your eyes are saying, "Yes, yes, yes"? I resolved to say nothing that would wound this special person in my life. She never looked away, never took her eyes off me from the time she started speaking to me. She reminded me of an innocent lamb waiting to either be pardoned or executed. I have never forgotten that tender look on her face that day.
There is an old Indian saying that within each of us lives two wolves, a vicious one and a kind one. The one that prevails within us is the one we feed. I had tried feeding the vicious wolf and it only brought me pain. Today I would feed the kind wolf. Trying to appear calm on the outside while erupting with excitement on the inside, I couldn't afford to get too excited about the prospects of spending the weekend in Dallas with Karen. I was still grounded at home for the same reason I had been called to Principal Fields' office for an adjustment. I was grounded from everything except school, work and church. I suggested that mom ground me from church also but she just stood there with that stern look of disappointment. I knew that look and it meant "not in your wildest dreams, buckwheat."
The bell rang and study hall was over. I had been saved by the bell so I thought. The bad wolf part of me wanted to keep Karen in suspense for a while but I was honest with her. I told her that I was grounded and couldn't give her an answer until I spoke to my mother. When I explained my situation to Karen she suggested that we leave that problem up to her mom. "Answer my question. Do you want to be with me?" she asked. My eyes told her yes and I left it at that as I gathered my books and moved toward the door.
School was over and it was time for me to head to the restaurant at the Holiday Inn Motel were I worked as a dishwasher and busboy from four until midnight. The talk at every table that evening was about the assassination of the president. As I walked home after work that night, I thought of the events of the day and wondered if my world would ever be the same again. Few days are burned into my memory as vividly as the snapshot of that day when the shutter clicked; a picture was taken and stored in my mind over forty years ago. Where were you and what where you doing on November 22, 1963 when a president died in Texas?
If you are too young to remember the death of President Kennedy, you can share a remembrance of 9-11 or another snapshot of your life. My mother said that April 12, 1945 created a snapshot in her life. It was the day President Roosevelt died in Warm Springs, Georgia.
A book I read suggested that there are three major dates in our recent history that caused Americans to pause and take stock of themselves. These dates were the attack on Pearl Harbor, December 7, 1941, the assassination of President Kennedy, November 22, 1963, and the attack on the World Trade Center, September 11, 2001. When I read that statement I was instantly drawn back into the past like there was a snapshot of November 22, 1963. I didn't remember the specific date but I certainly remembered the events of that day as they unfolded. Here is what I saw as I opened the pages of that old mental photo album.
"Jerry Grubbs please report to the principal's office immediately!" said a voice over the intercom. The guys sitting at the table with me in the high school cafeteria roared with laughter. I had been warned that the call was coming but I was surprised that Mr. Fields was going to give me an adjustment during my lunch break. By adjustment I'm not suggesting that the principal was a chiropractor in a prior profession. "Why couldn't he call for me during Spanish or English class? Just my luck to have my lunch time gobbled up. What was left of my meal would probably be gone when I got back to the cafeteria. If it was still sitting on the table no telling what my friends would have done to it. I resigned myself to the fact that lunch break was over for me. I pushed my chair back, rose to my feet and headed up the stairs to Mr. Fields' office that was located on the floor above the cafeteria.
Casually walking into the office I found no one there. The secretary was gone and from the open door to the principal's office, I could see that no one was there either. There was a radio tuned to a news station on the secretary's desk. As I sat waiting for someone to return, I heard on the radio that President Kennedy had been shot in Dallas and was being rushed to the hospital. I decided this was headline news and I was going to be the Paul Revere who announced it to the cafeteria crowd.
Running down the stairs taking two or three steps at a time, I came into the Cafeteria and shouted that President Kennedy had been shot in Dallas. No one believed me until Mr. Fields came on the intercom system and confirmed the truth about what I had said. My excitement of being the first to announce this news was short lived. The principal instructed us to return to our classrooms where we would be given the details of this tragedy. A hush fell over the students and a somber mood prevailed throughout the entire school. We were shocked and saddened that such an event had occurred and we were collectively embarrassed that it had taken place in our native state of Texas.
That afternoon in my study hall class I was busy playing tic-tac-toe with Ronnie Brown. Ronnie and I had previous history together. I still carry a scar on my lip from when he smacked me in the mouth, cutting my lip on my own teeth. The fight had occurred the previous year when we were on our way to band practice. He was trying to pick a fight with my brother Bill who chose to turn and walk away from him. Furious that he couldn't agitate Bill into a fight Ronnie picked up a broken brick and hit Bill in the back. Seeing what had taken place I thought that if Ronnie wanted a piece of a Grubbs I would give him one. I plowed into him with fists flailing. If Ronnie had any lasting scars from the fight I would point them out to boast of my prowess. I later figured out that Bill had no need to fight with Ronnie. Ronnie wanted to date my brother's girlfriend Patsy Walker and Bill had no need to fight for what he already had. But the day President Kennedy was shot, Ronnie and I were passing the time playing tic-tac-toe. That's how guys are; they can be mortal enemies one day and sit together and play a game on another day.
Ronnie and I were busy with our game in study hall when my old girlfriend Karen Young started walking toward our table. "Here comes trouble," Ronnie said. I looked up and saw Karen looking at me and heading straight for our table. She and I used to sit together in study hall but we had been separated for talking too much. That was long before she decided I was too boring to go steady with. She said it was like we had become an old married couple; same disagreements, same reconciliations, same weekend dates and so on and so on plus I was always working when she wanted to do something. That is why I referred to her as my old girlfriend although she was eight days older than me. I still cared about her but a two thousand pound bull sitting on my chest wouldn't be able to get me to admit it. She and I hadn't spoken in months. She was busy parading around in Glenn Cobb's football jacket that was six sizes too big for her. The tips of her fingers barely protruded out of the coat sleeves. Besides, it wasn't even cold enough to wear a coat yet. I was a senior and Glenn was a junior. It was humiliating that a junior had stolen my girlfriend. Isn't it interesting how some of us blame others for our problems. Glenn didn't steal Karen. She just changed trains.
But now Karen was walking straight toward our table. At first I thought she was just passing by but that didn't make sense. She had avoided me completely since the last time she tried to make light conversation with me and I told her to drop dead. I wish I could say that those words popped out of my mouth before I had time to think, sort of like being startled by a mouse in your lunch sack. But that wasn't the case. My mother taught me to guard another person's feelings as I would my own and to never intentionally hurt someone using the lame excuse that I was just getting even. Getting even when it is meant to hurt someone else only exposes how small you are. I was a small person that day, I knew it and Karen suffered because of how immature I acted. You don't treat someone you really care about that way. In spite of my previous behavior and to my surprise, Karen stopped right by my chair. I thought she must be going to make a comment about the death of President Kennedy. See, by now we had been informed that it wasn't just an assassination attempt; the president had died at the hospital.
Standing next to my chair, Karen simply said, "Would you like to go to a Cowboys football game with me in Dallas next weekend?" I hadn't been that close to her in months much less looked into those sky-blue eyes. During that time I had been very careful to not let our eyes meet in case she could read what was in my heart. At least she wasn't wearing Glenn Cobb's jacket when she came to visit. My heart raced as I thought about the implications of her question. Before my brain was fully engaged and I could think of something hurtful or sarcastic to say, my tongue revealed my heart and I said, "Sure I would like to see a Cowboys' game." "But do you want to go with me?" she asked. I hesitated. Before I could answer, Ronnie Brown said, "If he doesn't want to go, I will." I wanted to punch his lights out right there in study hall but from previous experience I knew he was a scrapper and I remembered the scar on my lip from his knuckle sandwich last year. The last thing I needed at that moment was a fist fight in study hall.
I could tell that Karen was nervous. She wetted her lips with the tip of her tongue and her eyelids blinked irregular. She was waiting for my answer. A part of me wanted to stand up and give her a hug but my pride wouldn't allow me to go down that easy. I knew it took a lot of courage for her to talk to me, especially after that last time she tried to have a conversation and I told her to drop dead. How do you tell someone with your lips that you will have to think about it but your eyes are saying, "Yes, yes, yes"? I resolved to say nothing that would wound this special person in my life. She never looked away, never took her eyes off me from the time she started speaking to me. She reminded me of an innocent lamb waiting to either be pardoned or executed. I have never forgotten that tender look on her face that day.
There is an old Indian saying that within each of us lives two wolves, a vicious one and a kind one. The one that prevails within us is the one we feed. I had tried feeding the vicious wolf and it only brought me pain. Today I would feed the kind wolf. Trying to appear calm on the outside while erupting with excitement on the inside, I couldn't afford to get too excited about the prospects of spending the weekend in Dallas with Karen. I was still grounded at home for the same reason I had been called to Principal Fields' office for an adjustment. I was grounded from everything except school, work and church. I suggested that mom ground me from church also but she just stood there with that stern look of disappointment. I knew that look and it meant "not in your wildest dreams, buckwheat."
The bell rang and study hall was over. I had been saved by the bell so I thought. The bad wolf part of me wanted to keep Karen in suspense for a while but I was honest with her. I told her that I was grounded and couldn't give her an answer until I spoke to my mother. When I explained my situation to Karen she suggested that we leave that problem up to her mom. "Answer my question. Do you want to be with me?" she asked. My eyes told her yes and I left it at that as I gathered my books and moved toward the door.
School was over and it was time for me to head to the restaurant at the Holiday Inn Motel were I worked as a dishwasher and busboy from four until midnight. The talk at every table that evening was about the assassination of the president. As I walked home after work that night, I thought of the events of the day and wondered if my world would ever be the same again. Few days are burned into my memory as vividly as the snapshot of that day when the shutter clicked; a picture was taken and stored in my mind over forty years ago. Where were you and what where you doing on November 22, 1963 when a president died in Texas?
If you are too young to remember the death of President Kennedy, you can share a remembrance of 9-11 or another snapshot of your life. My mother said that April 12, 1945 created a snapshot in her life. It was the day President Roosevelt died in Warm Springs, Georgia.
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.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
In the Blink of an Eye
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
His name is Richard Day but we called him Dick. He came into my life as my brother's best friend. At least Bill and Dick were best friends until Patsy; a well proportioned cheerleader performed a few cart wheels in front of my brother. She was a real looker but so was my brother and somehow he snagged her on his fishing line. If you have ever fished, you know the thrill that comes when you feel the tug on your line. All your attention is focused on getting that big one in the boat. As my brother was struggling to get Patsy in his boat, there was time for me to slip into Dick's life. What a blessing that was for me.
Dick's father died when he was young but a loving mother made sure that he was plowing a straight course. Actually, I think Dick had an inborn tendency to do the right thing regardless of whether anyone was watching. He never spoke ill of anyone. He found no humor in hearing or sharing off-color jokes. Dick loved trains and photography. He once enticed me to be a two-day hobo. We hopped a freight train to Saint Louis, Missouri. Before jumping on the train I removed the heel of my shoe and hid $40 inside. The money did little good. You can't buy anything to eat on a freight train. We didn't even take a water bottle. My Saint Louis experience consisted of washing up in a dirty bathroom of a gas station located near the train tracks. I rinsed out an empty whiskey bottle I found along the tracks and filled it with water for the return trip home.
We had quite an adventure: dirt, flies, meeting real hobos, hopping the wrong train home and having to bale off when it took an unexpected turn North, sunburn, windburn, and hunger. But in the blink of an eye I can open that memory and the joy of being with Dick cascades across my mind and a smile forms on my lips. That says it all. I took his companionship for granted when I was young but I always knew the value of his friendship. It is a friendship that remains in my heart to this day although I haven't seen him in years.
Dick's other passion was photography. He carried a camera most of the time and he captured much of my life in print. Dick created a book of my high school years. Under each picture was a personalized caption with his unique comments and humor. After high school graduation he gave the book to my girl friend, Karen Young. When I asked him why she got the book, Dick said, "If I gave it to you, you would look at it once and forget where it was. This way, you will always know where it is." Well, Dicks comment was prophetic. I know where the book is but I can't look at it, hold it, share it or even misplace it. It just never occurred to Dick that Karen and I would go separate ways.
Although I don't have access to the high school photo album, I can access the memories of my experiences. I am continually grateful for the ability to remember the past, reflect on the present and look forward to the future. I am thankful for the good friend Richard Byron Day was to me. He encouraged me to be my better self; not by his words but by his example. In the blink of an eye I am drawn back in time to a place where I can see his contented smile, relive our shared experiences and express gratitude for his friendship.
Richard has contributed two articles to the Point to Ponder section of our family website.
"Journey to Life"
http://www.grubbsfamily.org/ponder/item?item_id=20227
"What the Railroad Taught Me"
http://www.grubbsfamily.org/ponder/item?item_id=18755
His name is Richard Day but we called him Dick. He came into my life as my brother's best friend. At least Bill and Dick were best friends until Patsy; a well proportioned cheerleader performed a few cart wheels in front of my brother. She was a real looker but so was my brother and somehow he snagged her on his fishing line. If you have ever fished, you know the thrill that comes when you feel the tug on your line. All your attention is focused on getting that big one in the boat. As my brother was struggling to get Patsy in his boat, there was time for me to slip into Dick's life. What a blessing that was for me.
Dick's father died when he was young but a loving mother made sure that he was plowing a straight course. Actually, I think Dick had an inborn tendency to do the right thing regardless of whether anyone was watching. He never spoke ill of anyone. He found no humor in hearing or sharing off-color jokes. Dick loved trains and photography. He once enticed me to be a two-day hobo. We hopped a freight train to Saint Louis, Missouri. Before jumping on the train I removed the heel of my shoe and hid $40 inside. The money did little good. You can't buy anything to eat on a freight train. We didn't even take a water bottle. My Saint Louis experience consisted of washing up in a dirty bathroom of a gas station located near the train tracks. I rinsed out an empty whiskey bottle I found along the tracks and filled it with water for the return trip home.
We had quite an adventure: dirt, flies, meeting real hobos, hopping the wrong train home and having to bale off when it took an unexpected turn North, sunburn, windburn, and hunger. But in the blink of an eye I can open that memory and the joy of being with Dick cascades across my mind and a smile forms on my lips. That says it all. I took his companionship for granted when I was young but I always knew the value of his friendship. It is a friendship that remains in my heart to this day although I haven't seen him in years.
Dick's other passion was photography. He carried a camera most of the time and he captured much of my life in print. Dick created a book of my high school years. Under each picture was a personalized caption with his unique comments and humor. After high school graduation he gave the book to my girl friend, Karen Young. When I asked him why she got the book, Dick said, "If I gave it to you, you would look at it once and forget where it was. This way, you will always know where it is." Well, Dicks comment was prophetic. I know where the book is but I can't look at it, hold it, share it or even misplace it. It just never occurred to Dick that Karen and I would go separate ways.
Although I don't have access to the high school photo album, I can access the memories of my experiences. I am continually grateful for the ability to remember the past, reflect on the present and look forward to the future. I am thankful for the good friend Richard Byron Day was to me. He encouraged me to be my better self; not by his words but by his example. In the blink of an eye I am drawn back in time to a place where I can see his contented smile, relive our shared experiences and express gratitude for his friendship.
Richard has contributed two articles to the Point to Ponder section of our family website.
"Journey to Life"
http://www.grubbsfamily.org/ponder/item?item_id=20227
"What the Railroad Taught Me"
http://www.grubbsfamily.org/ponder/item?item_id=18755
Tuesday, October 3, 2006
Coming Up, Going Down
By Jerry Mack GrubbsMy heart sank when the nurse entered my room with the prep tray. She didn’t look old enough to be a nurse. I wondered if she was a hospital volunteer instead. “Hi Mister Grubbs,” she said as she set the tray on the edge of the bed and turned to leave. With a sigh of relief I realized she was just getting things set up for the real nurse. From the moment I was informed that my private area would have to be shaved for surgery I had begged unsuccessfully to do it myself. My request was denied with no explanation given. The tray she left on my bed contained a safety razor, spare blades, and a can of shaving cream. As I stared at the tray, dreading the upcoming experience I was about to undergo, the door to my room opened once more and in walked the same nurse. “I’m Nancy and you and I are about to get well acquainted,” she said. It was apparent that Nancy was going to get more acquainted with me than I was with her. This was going to be what I would call a one sided relationship. I didn’t want Nancy looking at my private parts but that was just the beginning of my concerns. Once she pulled the sheet back and raised my hospital gown she had breached that private barrier and I just wanted to disappear. I tried to focus on her name tag to keep my mind off the procedure taking place.
The shaving cream felt cool as Nancy prepared me to be shaved. I couldn’t think of a more humiliating experience when suddenly I realized things could get worse. The process of touching, pulling, tugging, pressing and scraping was beginning to bring me to life. I was so embarrassed. I quit focusing on Nancy’s name tag. I became concerned that she might think I was focusing on the darts in her uniform instead of the name badge pinned to her pocket. I prayed for a miracle. I tried to visualize my favorite food, anything to curb the rising beginning to take place.
Nancy must have understood my humiliation. “Don’t worry; it is just a natural reaction that should be expected.” Easy for her to say, she wasn’t lying flat on her back with her pointer signaling “I’m number one.” The more I tried to focus my mind elsewhere the less success I had. I prayed for relief but it did not come. I looked up at Nancy. She was focused on her task of finding and removing every sprig of hair on that part of my body. She must have sensed my despair. Looking at my facial expression, without the least hint of warning, she took a pencil from her pocket and said, “Down boy,” as she whacked the defiant head. It immediately went limp. The crisis was over. With the stroke of her pencil, Nancy had answered my prayer. I breathed a weak sigh of relief.
With my mind somewhat relaxed I became aware of two distinct sounds: the scraping of the razor against my skin and laughter coming from outside my hospital door. A group of my friends had come to the hospital to visit me just prior to Nurse Nancy entering the room to prep me for surgery. That is why she had temporarily left the room before getting started. She had explained to my friends in the hallway that she would be just a few minutes then they could come in and visit.
“Is the door locked?” I asked. “No but they won’t come in until we are finished,” she said. “How do you know?” I asked. “Because I told them before we started that you were being prepped for surgery and they would need to remain outside until I finished.” Oh great. It wasn’t bad enough to experience this “get acquainted” session with Nancy. Now my friends were right outside the door. They could probably hear everything that was going on. I was sliding from one humiliation to another. Nancy completed her task and washed me off with a warm cloth. I didn’t wait for her; I quickly lowered my hospital gown and pulled the sheet up to my waist. I wanted to cover up the evidence of what had just taken place.
Gathering up her instruments of humiliation, Nancy said, “You did very well Mister Grubbs. Don’t worry; you’ll remember this experience much longer than I will. I have three more surgery preps tonight. Within a few hours I won’t remember what your ‘you –know-what’ looks like.” It has been forty-five years and I still remember her face, her hair and hands. But most of all I remember the nametag pinned to the pocket of her uniform. It was black with white letters spelling out the words NANCY, RN. Even at fifteen, I knew that “RN” stood for Registered Nurse but that night I thought a better definition would be “Razor Nazi.” As Nancy prepared me for hernia surgery I said to myself, “Registered nurse, razor Nazi, registered nurse, razor Nazi, over and over trying to send my mind anywhere besides where it naturally wanted to go. But now that part was over.
Nancy opened the door and invited my friends into the room. As they crowded in and asked how things went, the last act Nancy performed on my behalf was to give my friends the “thumbs up” sign. Some of them roared with laughter while others were trying to figure out what was so funny. I was content to leave them wondering. For the most part they were kind. Only Lonny Posey asked what the nurse meant when she said, “Down boy.” Those were the only words the group had overheard from the hallway as they waited just outside the door.
I was saved by my girlfriend’s mother walking into the room. With her entrance the group quieted and gradually said their well-wishes and goodbyes. She and I were left alone. It felt so good being with her after what I had just been through. Her presence, coupled with her smile, had an immediate calming effect on me. As she stood by my bed she began to stroke my arm. After a few moments my girlfriend Karen came through the door carrying a strawberry shake and a lucky rabbit’s foot. Although strawberry was my favorite flavor of shake until I discovered raspberry, I couldn’t drink it because of the early morning surgery. And as far as I was concerned, the rabbit’s foot arrived too late to be of any use. Regardless of whether I believed in such lucky charms or not, I was happy to be with Karen and her mom.
With Karen on one side of the bed and her mother on the other side, I felt surrounded by what I understood love to be.
Karen wore my ring on a chain around her neck signifying that we were attached. Turning to her mother and looking into her eyes, I knew that she and I were attached and it didn’t take a ring on a chain to remind me. We talked frequently but she often said more with her eyes than she ever conveyed by the spoken word. I had been taught how to listen with my eyes years earlier by a girl who visited me in my dreams. As Karen’s mother prepared to leave, she leaned over and kissed me on the forehead and said, “You’ve already experienced the worst because you won’t remember the rest.”The surgery went well the following morning. My father was the first person my eyes focused on as I was coming out of the ether-induced coma. In my delirium I kept trying to get out of bed. Each time I rose up my dad would push me back down and say, “Down boy.” Gradually I became aware of my surroundings. Meeting Nancy the razor Nazi, the pencil coupled with the “down boy” episode and my friends all laughing when Nancy gave them the “thumbs up” sign were just a memory. But it is a memory that will remain with me for the rest of my life.
Sunday, October 1, 2006
The Color Fades
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
"Whites Only" was posted just above the drinking fountain. Next to that cold water dispenser was a small porcelain bowl hung on the wall. Above the bowl was printed "Colored." I grew up with those signs and generally thought little of it. Most likely that was because I wasn't colored and could always find myself on the better side of those barriers. I didn't agree with segregated drinking fountains nor did I think I would catch some dreaded disease from drinking after a black man. But I didn't see it as my responsibility to try to change the world's perception. Anyway, what could one boy do?
I no longer believe that the influence of one person can't make a difference. I have lived long enough to realize that to change one attitude, one person, to improve the circumstances of a situation even if only for a few moments, makes a difference.
The summer of my sophomore year in high school I took a job working for Evans Corner Market. The market sold groceries and feed products. I earned forty cents an hour and was happy to be employed. Two other young men worked in my same capacity with Evans Market. One was white and the other black. Marvin, the white boy made the same wage as I did while Jesse, the black boy, earned only thirty cents an hour for the same work. Marvin and Jesse were both already working at the market when I started my employment. I'm not sure that I was needed at the store but the mother of my girlfriend persuaded Mr. Evans that I would be a good employee. She always had a higher opinion of me that I held of myself.
We sacked groceries, stocked shelves, delivered sacks of feed and bales of hay. The summer was hot and I didn't look forward to the feed deliveries. I preferred to stay inside the store where the ceiling fans stirred the air and cooled the sweat on my back. The old ladies who needed help with getting their groceries to the car were pleasant and I enjoyed teasing them. As much as I wanted the tips they offered, I knew that most of them needed the money more than I did. I took pleasure in closing their fingers back around the coins that they offered. It didn't take them long to learn my name and I became friends with many of them. It is amazing what the refusal of a tip consisting of a couple of nickels can buy. Those smiles of appreciation were worth far more to me than what their tips could have ever purchase.
I received quite an education in the short time I worked at Evans Corner Market. Although Jesse had a driver's license, he was not allowed to drive the delivery truck because he was black. Either Marvin or I had to go on those deliveries with him. Jesse never complained that when Marvin drove he had to do all the unloading while Marvin just sat in the cab of the truck and listened to the radio. Marvin loved to make the deliveries because it was easy duty for him. I preferred to stay in the store so it appeared that everyone was happy.
One day I saw Marvin steal two comic books from the magazine rack and stick them under his shirt just as he was leaving for the day. When I asked him why he took them his response puzzled me. "Old man Evans isn't paying me enough for the work I do around here so I steal once in a while to get even," he said. I had never bumped up against that concept before. I said, "If you aren't happy working here why don't you find a job somewhere else?" With a sneer on his face, Marvin said, "Get real, idiot." I asked Jesse if he knew that Marvin was stealing from the store. Jesse acknowledged that he did know of Marvin's stealing but had never mentioned it to anyone.
The following morning I asked Marvin if he was aware that Jesse also knew that he was a thief. "I'm not worried, that nigger ant tellin' nobody. If he does he knows I'll get him fired," responded Marvin. "My daddy owns the vacant lot next door that old man Evans rents for additional parking so I have a job here as long as I want it," he said. "What does a nigger lover like you care anyway? I learned a valuable lesson at that moment: calling a black man a nigger has much more serious degrading connotations than I had ever supposed. I had called my brother and friends the "N" word before but I had never addressed a black man with such words. Turning to Marvin, I said, "I'd rather be a nigger lover than a thief."
The color of Jesse's skin faded from my view that day. He had become my first black friend. I was fifteen years old. I lived in a town that was thirty-five percent black yet I had never even carried on a meaningful conversation with a black before I met Jesse. He worked harder than either Marvin or me. He made twenty-five percent less an hour for the same work. He never complained about his situation.
Not all blacks are like Jesse and not all whites are like Marvin but they each taught me valuable lessons in the summer of 1962. I have often wondered what became of Jesse. I even miss Marvin and contemplate where he might be today. I often quote an old saying, "If I had to go to war who would I want defending my back side?" I never had to fight in the jungles of Vietnam, a war that waged in the remote land of Southeast Asia and tore the heart of America apart when I was a young man. But if I had found myself in that war or any other hazardous situation, I think you could figure out which of those two men I would want standing by my side, black or white. When we allow people to become human, accepting their failings and shortcomings along with their strengths, the color fades.
"Whites Only" was posted just above the drinking fountain. Next to that cold water dispenser was a small porcelain bowl hung on the wall. Above the bowl was printed "Colored." I grew up with those signs and generally thought little of it. Most likely that was because I wasn't colored and could always find myself on the better side of those barriers. I didn't agree with segregated drinking fountains nor did I think I would catch some dreaded disease from drinking after a black man. But I didn't see it as my responsibility to try to change the world's perception. Anyway, what could one boy do?
I no longer believe that the influence of one person can't make a difference. I have lived long enough to realize that to change one attitude, one person, to improve the circumstances of a situation even if only for a few moments, makes a difference.
The summer of my sophomore year in high school I took a job working for Evans Corner Market. The market sold groceries and feed products. I earned forty cents an hour and was happy to be employed. Two other young men worked in my same capacity with Evans Market. One was white and the other black. Marvin, the white boy made the same wage as I did while Jesse, the black boy, earned only thirty cents an hour for the same work. Marvin and Jesse were both already working at the market when I started my employment. I'm not sure that I was needed at the store but the mother of my girlfriend persuaded Mr. Evans that I would be a good employee. She always had a higher opinion of me that I held of myself.
We sacked groceries, stocked shelves, delivered sacks of feed and bales of hay. The summer was hot and I didn't look forward to the feed deliveries. I preferred to stay inside the store where the ceiling fans stirred the air and cooled the sweat on my back. The old ladies who needed help with getting their groceries to the car were pleasant and I enjoyed teasing them. As much as I wanted the tips they offered, I knew that most of them needed the money more than I did. I took pleasure in closing their fingers back around the coins that they offered. It didn't take them long to learn my name and I became friends with many of them. It is amazing what the refusal of a tip consisting of a couple of nickels can buy. Those smiles of appreciation were worth far more to me than what their tips could have ever purchase.
I received quite an education in the short time I worked at Evans Corner Market. Although Jesse had a driver's license, he was not allowed to drive the delivery truck because he was black. Either Marvin or I had to go on those deliveries with him. Jesse never complained that when Marvin drove he had to do all the unloading while Marvin just sat in the cab of the truck and listened to the radio. Marvin loved to make the deliveries because it was easy duty for him. I preferred to stay in the store so it appeared that everyone was happy.
One day I saw Marvin steal two comic books from the magazine rack and stick them under his shirt just as he was leaving for the day. When I asked him why he took them his response puzzled me. "Old man Evans isn't paying me enough for the work I do around here so I steal once in a while to get even," he said. I had never bumped up against that concept before. I said, "If you aren't happy working here why don't you find a job somewhere else?" With a sneer on his face, Marvin said, "Get real, idiot." I asked Jesse if he knew that Marvin was stealing from the store. Jesse acknowledged that he did know of Marvin's stealing but had never mentioned it to anyone.
The following morning I asked Marvin if he was aware that Jesse also knew that he was a thief. "I'm not worried, that nigger ant tellin' nobody. If he does he knows I'll get him fired," responded Marvin. "My daddy owns the vacant lot next door that old man Evans rents for additional parking so I have a job here as long as I want it," he said. "What does a nigger lover like you care anyway? I learned a valuable lesson at that moment: calling a black man a nigger has much more serious degrading connotations than I had ever supposed. I had called my brother and friends the "N" word before but I had never addressed a black man with such words. Turning to Marvin, I said, "I'd rather be a nigger lover than a thief."
The color of Jesse's skin faded from my view that day. He had become my first black friend. I was fifteen years old. I lived in a town that was thirty-five percent black yet I had never even carried on a meaningful conversation with a black before I met Jesse. He worked harder than either Marvin or me. He made twenty-five percent less an hour for the same work. He never complained about his situation.
Not all blacks are like Jesse and not all whites are like Marvin but they each taught me valuable lessons in the summer of 1962. I have often wondered what became of Jesse. I even miss Marvin and contemplate where he might be today. I often quote an old saying, "If I had to go to war who would I want defending my back side?" I never had to fight in the jungles of Vietnam, a war that waged in the remote land of Southeast Asia and tore the heart of America apart when I was a young man. But if I had found myself in that war or any other hazardous situation, I think you could figure out which of those two men I would want standing by my side, black or white. When we allow people to become human, accepting their failings and shortcomings along with their strengths, the color fades.
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