Economics 101

The backyard taught me the principle of barter economics. I was introduced to this concept when I was around six years old. Dad did not like to fish but he loved to eat them. At the same time, he knew fishermen who loved to go out to Clayton Lake and spend the day catching their limit, but they didn’t like to clean nor eat their catch. To these fishermen the belief was that the best bait was earthworms and unless you had a worm source, they were a pain to get. That is, of course, where the Sharp Worm Farm came into play. Dad built a box complete with a retractable lid. He filled it halfway with very fertile loose soil and some seed worms. My job was to take the coffee grounds out there each morning to help the composting process along. As it turns out, worms are better than rabbits when it comes to reproduction. Since there are no male or female worms they can mate with just any worm who happens to be crawling by. It didn’t take long for the word to spread that we had worms that we would trade for fish. Consequently, our freezer was full of trout and catfish and our worms had a happy home for at least awhile. Fortunately for me, Dad cleaned all the fish. Soon the production of the worms exceeded the trading volume, so I would put worms in pint paper containers and take them to Isaacs Hardware Store that would sell them on consignment. This put some extra change in the pocket and sparked my love of the world of business.

By the time I was ten I felt a tremendous need to expand my business interests. Since the high school was only a block away from our home, all of the school owned ground around the high school was within walking distance of our house. To keep the growth down, the school would hire someone to come in a few times in the summer to basically mow the vacant lots with a tractor pulled mower. Frankly, it didn’t look much better after the mowing simply because of the method used. Seeing the need for a better way, I finally convinced my father to get me an appointment with the Superintendent of the schools, so I could offer my services. In early May of 1960 at the age of ten I met with Don R. Wood and we reached an agreement that I would mow the high school vacant lots twice a month during the summer months in exchange for $70 per month. In today’s dollars that would amount to over $550 per month. I went down to Isaacs Hardware and they agreed to finance a lawn mower to be paid for over the summer. This arrangement with the school continued until I was old enough to get a driver’s license. Since the school work took approximately one week to complete, I was able to mow several little old lady’s lawns during the off weeks. Did all work and no play make Tommy a dull boy? I think not!

Moving on up to the North Building for more Life Lessons

Fourth grade: “I am free at last!” My sister has moved on to Junior High so I can walk uphill to school without her feeling obligated to tell me how to do it! Likewise, I will have to be completely responsible for my coat, gloves and galoshes. For my friends in the latest generation, galoshes were rubber boats that you put over your shoes so that you could walk through blizzard like weather conditions and we liked it. Of course, the lessons of life continued to unfold. One lesson is that you can make anything scary if you give your mind enough freedom. After leaving the house in the morning I would cut over to Oak street so that I could avoid walking through the high school grounds. About four blocks from my house was what we referred to as the Peyton mansion. While the style of the home was unique within itself, the original owners had molded concrete into what appeared to be petrified wood that was intertwined around the property. On the top floor of the property one could see what looked like a look out post. Stories would swirl and magnify themselves about the mansion. My pace would always quicken when I passed the property. Once I made it to the school grounds spirits were usually high and in the fourth grade the deeper matters of world affairs were left to the outside word. We were very honored to have a member of our class who was without a doubt the fastest runner in the world. I will save her the embarrassment, but she could run faster than a BB. I know for a fact that she did allow herself to slow down because years later she permitted a boy with a fast Mustang to catch her and I double dated with them on one of my rare dates in high school. For the most part as 4^th graders we had moved away from the big slide and merry go round but on occasion we would lose ourselves on the swings as we soared to greater heights and then bailing out to return to earth. The big event that still weighs on my mind from that period of time was the fact that I made a B in spelling. I really thought I had it down. You know, i before e except after c and the other rules that had been formulated over the centuries of literary composition. To others my grade would be a blessing but, in my mind, it created a lifetime of doubt and the need for auto correct.

Fifth grade: “All Politics is Local”. These were confusing times for a ten-year-old. Earlier in 1960, a U2 spy plane had been shot down over Russia and tensions between the two great powers grew each day. As kids we would hear estimates of how many times the world could be destroyed during an attack by the Soviet Union. While it was impossible to imagine the devastation of that type of war, awareness of the danger was brought to small town America. Dad was the Civil Defense Director for Clayton and he conducted surveys of buildings in the area to try to determine the best possible shelters for the community. Strangely enough our house, due to the two-foot-thick adobe walls and it’s lead roof, was deemed one of the safest places in the area. Since the likelihood of a direct attack was remote, the presence of the weather station at the airport gave Dad a way to calculate time windows for potential fallout. Yes, we did talk about things like this and my imagination contributed to my concern.  

In other ways 1960 was a pivotal year for me. This was the first Presidential election that I really remember. Vice President Nixon was running as the Republican nominee and Senator Kennedy represented the Democrats. Politics had always been a part of our family life. We were Democrats and it was not unusual to attend a party pot luck supper at the airport. The candidates from all across the state would descend on Clayton and rub elbows with the locals. Dad always told us that he had only voted a straight party ticket one time in his life and that was in 1932. Otherwise, he tried to vote for the candidate rather than the party. Just as in the nation the Presidential race was extremely close in New Mexico. While Union and Bernalillo (Albuquerque) Counties went to Nixon, the state was won by Kennedy. I learned several valuable political lessons that year. First, if you want to know how the parents feel about a candidate, ask their children. The children will parrot almost word for word what they heard at home. Second, political opinions are rarely based on real issues but rather on emotions. To demonstrate this point, I remember several fights broke out on the playground over who would win the election. Third, a stump speech from one candidate sounds a lot like a stump speech from another. Fourth, in a primary you can say just about anything you want about the opposition but when the primary is over you become the best of friends. For example, one day I could accuse you of being a cannibal but at the end of the week and after I had won, we would both agree that you were really just eating your hat.

Sixth grade: “Words are more powerful than swords”. In the sixth grade I actually had a teacher who was not a woman. That certainly thru charm and flattery out the window. After being one step behind the Soviet Union in the space race the United States successfully sent Alan Shephard into space. This just fueled my infatuation with rockets. Initially I sent compressed air missiles into the sky followed by solid fuel Estes rockets and then I built my own using vinegar and baking soda to create the thrust necessary to leave the confines of this earthly plane. Meanwhile back in school I was presented with a tremendous learning lesson. It was the policy in our classroom, that if you made less than a 60 on any exam you were punished with a pop from a ruler for every point less than the minimum acceptable grade. God had blessed me with the ability to stay above that mark but we had one kid in our class who just couldn’t make it. Consequently, after every exam you knew what was going to happen next. This really bothered me to the point that I felt a need to take a stand against what I considered an injustice. For several days I worked on a speech that outlined my position. I did not tell the teacher the reason nor the subject, but I asked if I could make a speech to the class. He said that I could have the floor that afternoon. Needless to say, I was a bundle of nerves by the time the afternoon rolled around. It was a rather short speech, but I stated that I felt that any punishment for a bad grade was simply wrong and that should never be used as a measure of a persons worth. I acknowledged that it certainly wasn’t my decision whether the practice continued but that if the teacher felt a need to pop someone for a bad grade that I would offer my posterior as a substitute. The speech was over, and you could have heard a pin drop. After what seemed like an eternity the class resumed. At the end of the day the teacher asked me to stay. I really didn’t know what was going to happen, but he was quick and to the point. He said that he had really thought about what I had said and that he believed that I was right. The practice stopped, and I believe it marked a turning point in my life. I learned that the power of words can be astronomical, and that admitting fault can end up being a virtue. My respect for my 6^th grade teacher continues today.

Life Lessons from Lower Grade School

Perhaps the first but not the most important lesson that I learned in grade school was that each teacher had one of three first names: Mr., Mrs., or Miss. Mr. was easy enough but the other two could be a little confusing. The most important lesson was that my sister was going to be a hard act to follow. To provide a sense of order in this epistle, I will break the lessons down by the grade at Central Ward School.

First Grade: “Never day dream when you are taking a test”. Early on in the year our teacher gave us a test that contained two parts. The test was easy enough and I quickly went through the first section. Suddenly my mind took me outside to get on the worlds tallest slide and begin the exciting ride down as you could hear the metal in the slide moan and groan as you traveled with increasing speed towards earth. Needless to say, the time for the test was up before I finished my own recess. Since we lived in a small town where everybody knew everybody my teacher called my mother and said that this was performance was so unlike Tommy’s usual work but since she felt so bad about giving me a F perhaps I could retake the test during the next recess. That seemed more than reasonable to me so the next day I stayed in during the recess period ready to take the exam. This time to ensure that I completed the test, I started with the second part first. Unfortunately, our classroom had big windows that looked out on the playground and I could see all of my friends having a wonderful time. Again, my mind played tricks on me and as soon as the recess was over the teacher collected my test before I had a chance to finish. This time she called my Dad at the power plant where he was the City Engineer. The recess retake was again offered but she said that she hoped that Dad would find some way for Tommy to keep his mind focused. Since Dad always felt a need to explain why he was going to spank me, the speech was rather short this time when he told me to never day dream when taking a test. Contrary to a popular myth, I do believe that it hurt me more than it hurt him. The good news is that it worked and I was able to move on to the second grade.

Second grade: “When you start something, you finish it”. Grade school can become such a drag. This is especially true when you have big plans and the drudgery of day to day work on things like the alphabet, addition, subtraction and who know what else gets in the way. The day came in March that I had taken all that I could, so I told all of my friends that I would be going home at noon for lunch and that I wouldn’t be back. Good luck, so long, farewell and some foreign phase that never made much sense. Lunch at our house was a production. My mother would prepare a three-course All-American meal that included meat, potatoes and a vegetable of some kind. Likewise, she would have prepared a dessert. Dad would drive home for lunch and Linda and I would walk home from school. I can count on both hands the number of times that I ate at the school cafeteria. Strangely enough I looked at that as a treat but my classmates who dined there everyday would disagree. Back to the story. Halfway through the meal I announced that today was my final day at school. My mother promptly said that it wasn’t. This went back and forth a few times until Dad failed to see the humor and simply announced that we didn’t quit things, we finished them. Swallowing hard I could see that I was defeated but now I had to figure out something to say to my classmates when I got back to school. Of course, telling the truth would have been the correct course but it is so much easier to create a believable but unconfirmable lie. So by the time we went back to class, everybody in my circle of friends felt really sorry for my poor mother who had broken down in tears over the possibility that my life would go down the drain like an uncle who had not finished the second grade.

Third grade: “When you know something it may be best not to be a public-address system”. This was the final year of the lower section of grade school. We were the lords of our section of the playground and sacks of marbles measured our wealth. Once in awhile we would have homework but generally everything was accomplished within the regular school day. We had an arithmetic workbook and one day we were told to take the workbook home and complete an assignment for the next day. After supper that evening I felt rather grown up because I had homework just like my 6^th grader sister. After I finished the task I started looking at the workbook in greater detail only to discover that in the back of the book were sample tests that the students could take. There were two problems with that discovery. First, in addition to the tests there was an answer section and second, when I examined the sample tests they looked exactly like the tests we had been given in class. Looking back, I know that the correct thing to do would have included going to the teacher and pointing out my accidental discovery. However, I am a sinner and if you aren’t, cast the first stone. I couldn’t wait to get to school to share my wonderful discovery with EVERYONE in the entire class. Needless to say, the chicken came home to roost. On the next arithmetic test almost every person scored a 100. You could tell something was wrong when we came into the classroom the next morning. The teacher looked so ticked off. The first thing she wanted to know was how could all of her students could do so well on a test? I could have answered that, but I opted to keep my mouth shut. However, one of my classmates was quick to point out that Tommy had shown her the answers in the back of the workbook and that she felt really bad about it. My, my how the tide can turn. Just 24 hours ago she had told me that I was a hero. Well the wrath of the teacher soon followed. She went by every desk in the room and tore out the sample tests and answer sheets. She threw out the results of the test from the previous day and made us take another test. Since it was handwritten I can only assume that the hand of an angered woman wrote it. Even though things remained tense for a period, it did smooth out as we worked to move on to the 4^th grade. I think the incident helped me formulate my opinion about entrapment. 

Dad – The Early Years

My Dad, Frank Sharp, was not an ordinary man in fact I know that I am safe to describe him as a man for all seasons. He was born almost 110 years ago in Independence, Kansas to a couple who would be known as Grandpa and Grandma Sharp. He had three brothers John, Victor and Vernon. Vernon passed at an early age due to an enlarged spleen. Listening to Dad talk about the loss of his brother, I know this influenced some of his life decisions. After Vernon’s passing the family moved from Independence to a home site in Apache Valley just north of Clayton, New Mexico and on the south side of the Rabbit Ear Mountains. Initially the family lived in a dug out, but actual structures were soon constructed. Decades later Dad would stand at the crest of the mesa on the Clayton Lake road and look at the valley and mountains. Lost in his own world, he could have been riding the pure white horses through the tall grass or watching in wonder as his father negotiated the path to the house in their Model T. Grandpa Sharp or Ralph C. Sharp never mastered the braking system on the Model T so they had put a log in the barn, so the car could coast in and let Mother Nature stop it. He supported the family with his real estate business that extended from New Mexico down into Texas. Vowing “Good Dirt, Dirt Cheap”, I remember Dad pointing out various properties that his father had been involved in when we would travel from Clayton to Amarillo, Texas.

He loved to play tennis. Through years of practice, he developed a serve that was almost impossible to return. Likewise, his defense strategy concentrated on control of the ball. Everything was a lesson for him to convey. When I would play him, he would emphasize that if you could control the ball, you could control the game. It could have been a lecture in Machiavellian political philosophy. He would never let me win but in the few times that I did, the praise lasted a lifetime.     

He was ethical to a fault. I think he had an inner gauge of right and wrong. He would sacrifice for both what he believed was the right thing to do and to correct the littlest wrong. His word was his bond. The greatest example that I can think of was the fact that his mother was completely anti-alcohol and she pleaded with each of her three sons to sign a temperance pledge in the family Bible. Two signed and my father refused simply because he didn’t feel that he could absolutely honor that pledge. As it turned out, my two uncles did have problems with alcohol, my Dad did not.

He graduated from Clayton High School and headed to Norman, Oklahoma where he enrolled in the School of Medicine and joined the OU football team. The future seemed bright, but the forces of nature would re-chart the best laid plans. Due to the depression and the Dust Bowl, the money promised for tuition dried up and Dad was forced to return home. One day the pure white horses died in a dust storm and their blackened carcasses were buried near the home site. Soon the family moved into a house in Clayton that was furnished with projects that Dad built in high school. Grandpa Sharp’s real estate business continued, and Dad found work through the WPA that included sidewalks and the Clayton High School complex.

In the late thirties two major events occurred. Dad leased a gas station on Main Street and met a charming waitress at the NuWay Café. Ada Bell had moved into Clayton at the age of 16 from Sofia, NM. She worked at the café to support herself while she pursued her high school diploma. Upon graduation she continued working there as a waitress. I can only assume that his charm and wit impressed her because they were married on November 11^th of 1939 when he was 31 and she was 22. They worked together in their business until the day that changed the world forever, December 7, 1941.