Tom's Stories and Memories: The Wonders of a Big City

Tom's Stories and Memories: The Wonders of a Big City: Everything is completely relative. During my early childhood, I grew up in a town that you could literally walk across without the need...

The Wonders of a Big City

Everything is completely relative. During my early childhood, I grew up in a town that you could literally walk across without the need to pack a lunch for the trip. We lived on the east side of the tracks but I could never find anyone who could tell me which one was the wrong side. Virtually all of the neighborhoods were mixed with the rich, the poor, and the middle class. Likewise, there was almost an equal division between those of Hispanic heritage and anglos. In our earlier years, we did not notice the difference between the various people, that would be learned later.

We seemed to have an obsession with two’s in my hometown. We had two stop lights, two movie theaters, two bars, two buildings with elevators, two major highways, and two elementary schools. As time went by some of those would be reduced to one but once a building had established a name, it remained attached to it forever. For example, the Bronco Movie Theatre has had many occupants but they are all in the Bronco building. The significance of this is that when we would travel to what seemed to be the biggest city in the world, Amarillo, Texas, everything was blown out of proportion. Typically upon arrival in Amarillo, we would drop in for a surprise visit with Uncle Clyde and Aunt Bonnie. Since they had created the concept of hoarding, we would only stand in their living room for about 15 minutes before we politely excused ourselves for the next stop. More often than not we would go to the downtown area of Amarillo. Since this was before parking garages had been introduced, we had to be prepared to be back by the car at least every two hours so that we could feed the parking meter. Likewise, there were buildings that were unbelievably tall. In fact, they made the Farmers and Stockmens Bank building look like a single story structure. One of the consequences of combining tall buildings and Texas panhandle winds was a series of embarrassing moments for the women and inexpensive entertainment for the men. Once we hit the downtown, the men (Dad and I) and the women (Mom and Linda) would part company with an agreement to meet back at the Woolworths at noon. The women would window shop and make note of the latest fashions so Mom could sew Linda’s wardrobe. The men would search for the best hat deal for Dad. Since the Herzstein Department Store burned down, Dad was only satisfied with hats from the Amarillo haberdashers. A note worth making. If Linda or I wanted to get anything from Amarillo, it was to be paid for with our money. Our parents consistently gave us an allowance and we worked. Gifts were given on Christmas and on our birthdays. If we wanted anything else, it was our responsibility to find a way to get it.

Perhaps the most interesting aspect of visiting Amarillo was the fact that you could see people who would seem completely foreign in Clayton. First, there was a blind Black man who played the saxophone on the sidewalks around the downtown area. He had a tin cup attached to his sax and Dad would always drop a few coins in his cup.  Likewise, when we would eat lunch at the same location every time, deaf-mutes would come by our table and put a card down on the table with the hand signs for sign language. They would take their cards to each table and then circle back around and accepted any donations. If you didn’t wish to make a donation they would take the card back. To my knowledge, we did not have people who consistently and openly sought donations on the streets in Clayton. I can not classify the people in Amarillo as beggars because they offered something of value in return for your donation. In our area of the country direct and open begging had not been introduced to the landscape.

You could tell that the trip to Amarillo was drawing to a close when we would head out on NW 10th to Wolflin Village. It was Amarillo’s first experiment in mall shopping except it was a series shops with exterior entrances. After Wolflin Village we would go across the street to a hamburger vendor that was the shape of a big cracker barrel. They had, with the exception of my Mother, the best hamburgers on earth. Then the two and half hour trip to small-town America would begin with two kids sound asleep in the back seat.

Ideas

One day I was able to join a wise man on a walk through the woods that surround us. Considering the size of the acreage I hadn’t been able to explore every part of the property. As it turns out we ventured into an area that I hadn’t seen before and as we topped one of the rises in the land what appeared to be a cemetery complete with an entry gate appeared. At the top of the gate was only one word, “Ideas”. My friend didn’t seem surprised with the discovery. In fact, he appeared to be familiar with it. I asked him if he knew what this was and he simply replied, “It is where many of the ideas of man rest.” My curiosity was peaked and I asked him why they were there? He laughed and said, “They were simply talked to death.” A wave of sadness came over me and I asked if they were gone forever? He smiled and said, “Ideas never really die. Sometimes they go into a state of limbo until there are ears that will not only hear them but act upon them.” So the next time you hear what is presented as a new idea, odds are it is simply a resurrected one with a new suit on.

November 22, 1963

November 22, 1963

From Dallas, Texas, the flash apparently official: President Kennedy died at 1 p.m. Central Standard Time, 2:00 Eastern Standard Time, some 38 minutes ago. Vice President Johnson has left the hospital in Dallas, but we do not know to where he has proceeded; presumably, he will be taking the oath of office shortly and become the 36th President of the United States... Walter Cronkite CBS News. It has been almost 55 years ago, yet it seemed like yesterday. I was officially a teenager at 13 and settled into the 8th grade. The day had begun with the usual excitement that is associated with Friday. A football game was scheduled for that night and the tensions were building because the band was becoming a force to deal with and many times the halftime performance was the high point of the game. Traditionally my sister and I would walk home at noon for lunch. Being only a block away it would take only minutes. The moment that I hit the door, I could tell something was wrong. We NEVER watched TV during the day, but it was on that Friday. Before I could say anything my Mother said that the President had been shot in Dallas and she didn’t know his condition. Linda and Dad were right behind me. We proceeded to the dining room but I don’t believe we ate anything. At 12:30, our time, it was reported that The President was dead.

I can count on one hand the number of times that I saw my father cry. This was one of those days. He had a deep love for our country and would react to defend and honor it. I know he had not voted for President Kennedy in 1960 but now his reaction was consistent. In his view as Americans, we are stronger because of our ability to disagree and then embrace each other after the will of the people is expressed. I distinctly remember him saying, “We don’t kill our Presidents”.

Linda and I returned to school and at that time there was an eerie feeling all over the campus. When we returned to class I fully expected it to be basically dismissed but our teacher said that education was very important to The President and that he believed that the highest compliment we could pay him would be to participate in the scheduled math class. Frankly, I think he was in shock and did not know what to do. During the first hour after lunch, the buses for the country kids had been arranged and the schools were closed. Linda and I slowly walked home.

Even though it had been one of the closest elections in our nation’s history, President Kennedy was unusually popular. The torch had been passed. We had won a cold war standoff with the Soviet Union. Our involvement in Vietnam was limited and withdrawal plans were in the works. The economy was good and following the infrastructure boom of the Eisenhower years a challenge had been given to the nation via the space program.

We were at a loss and as we left church services on Sunday word spread through the congregation that the suspected assassin had been killed. Looking back and trying to examine how the country held it together, it really goes back to the Cronkite statement at the beginning. We continue. We get back up. We can not be held down. The King is dead, long live the King.

Practice Makes Perfect

I think every child mentally latches onto a person and elevates them to basically a hero status. Even though you don’t actually know them, the assumption is that whatever they do must be another expression of perfection. My idol in Junior High was an upperclassman from high school who could make a trombone sound like Pavarotti. He had competed in a variety of music competitions and he would hang his medal-laden band uniform in the hallway entrance to the music building. I would glance at his uniform every time we attended band class and the image of my uniform adorned with metals danced in my head. Likewise, he wore glasses with a thick black frame. I bet you have guessed it. I had glasses with a thick black frame.

I believe that we had started in beginner’s band in the fifth grade and my weapon of mass destruction was the tuba. I am sure that if I ever sought counseling on the subject there would be some deep and closely held reason for that choice. My sister had chosen the clarinet and the massive physical difference between the two might have contributed to the choice. The tuba, while being the most obvious instrument in the band, musically it was not intended to be a solo instrument like most of the others. This created a dilemma. To obtain the metals I so desperately needed I had to participate in the band solo competitions that rolled around once a year. When I told Taylor Stephenson the band director what I wanted to do he told me finding anything would be a tall order, but he would try. Consistent with his character he had found a solo piece specifically for a tuba within the week. Rather than take the tuba home to practice and put my family through unbearable pain and suffering I asked Mr. Stephenson if I could practice in the band room after school. Since he didn’t see that as a problem I would show up right after school just as he was leaving. He told me to turn off the lights and he would lock the door so I didn’t need to worry about that. As I had promised myself I would go set up my tuba and the music sheets but the temptation to take a quick look at those medals overtook me. Consequently, I would spend more time in fantasy land in the hallway than practicing on my solo. Before I knew it the time for the contest rolled around and fortunately the judges weren’t like the ones on “America’s Got Talent” where they could hit the buzzer and drive you off the stage. Out of kindness, they gave me a 3.

While I went through a period of major disappointment, the foremost lesson that came out of the Tuba solo competition was that I had become so focused on the prize, I didn’t spend the time needed to win it. In other words, set your goal but execute a logical plan to achieve it.

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When Mama Ain’t Happy…..

In every marriage, there are some rules that even though they aren’t in writing they have the force of the eleventh commandment. In ours, my Mother had made the rule that “Thou shalt not gamble”. Frankly, it was kind of an odd rule considering that they had basically bought their first house after World War II from Dad’s poker winnings from his time in the service. Likewise, Dad would mysteriously come up with the money for her birthday and Christmas gifts, but rules were rules. In our town, the temptation could find you even when you weren’t looking for it. Every year it would rear its evil head when The World Series would come around. One of the favorites was called the Series pool. The number of participants could vary based on the number of slots sold and the size of the bet. Dad’s favorite was a pool that only allowed 10 individuals in and the numbers were from 0-9. The total of the scores from all of the games would be added up and the last number in the total was the winner. In 1963 Dad bought into a $10 pool with the winning amount of $100. His number was 6. The series was between the Dodgers and the Yankees. The Dodgers had won the first three games and the total score number was at 13. The Dodgers pulled off a clean sweep and beat the Yankees in the fourth game with a score of 2 to 1. For the mathematicians in the crowd that brought the total to 16 and that made the number 6 the winner. As Paul Harvey would say, “Now for the rest of the story”.

It was 1963, in the 8^th grade, and even though cable had come to Clayton we did not have a TV. On special occasions, we would go over to Leland Jacob’s home but for the most part, we depended on radio station KLMX, the Amarillo Daily News and the Union County Leader. As I had said in previous blogs my parents were quite frugal and simply would not buy anything unless they could pay cash for it. Since mother was creating Dave Ramsey’s envelope program every penny was properly accounted for except, as you might have guessed, Dad’s gambling stash. Dad wanted to buy a TV and Mom had determined that they couldn’t afford it. Using reverse psychology Dad would openly express his opposition to the purchase of a TV in hopes that Mom would find a way to make it happen. Since it became obvious that this wasn’t going to work he decided to announce that he had violated the eleventh commandment and that HE was $100 richer. Mom immediately demanded that he turn over the money and told him that if he thought that he could afford to gamble, she could afford to buy a TV for the family. That afternoon, still steaming, she went down to Timmon’s Sales, picked out a TV, called the cable company and by the time Dad, with great remorse, came home at 5 we had a new black and white TV operating in the living room. I think Dad learned his lesson. 

Never Look A Gift Santa In The Mouth

It had been the tradition in our family for Mom and Dad to give Linda and me one gift and “Santa” would give us another one. Although it was never said, we knew if we ever expressed a disbelief in that jolly old gentleman from the north, the gravy train would be cut off. Consequently, in my seventh-grade year, Santa gave me a real printing press. It was rather small, and you could only feed 5 ½” x 8 ½” paper through it but the bite of printer’s ink ­­­left a lifetime impression on me. As I am sure you noticed, I had made it out of grade school! Not only did I move up a grade, the walking distance to school was reduced from uphill for a one-half mile to one block. Next, I actually had multiple teachers. It was like going from your General Practice Family Doctor to a Specialist who could operate on just one section of your brain.

Perhaps the one teacher who made the greatest impression on me that year was Charlsie Mae Harding. Known as Miss Harding to her students, she brought the State of New Mexico to life through her phenomenal history class. Born in 1911, she had graduated as Salutatorian from high school at the age of 15, graduated from West Texas Teachers College (now WTSU) in 1931, and taught for the next 50 years apart from one year, in the Clayton system. In 1977 she received the National Teacher of the Year Award and in 1983 she was named to the New Mexico Educators Hall of Fame. Physically a small woman, she was a giant for so many children.

I am sure you are wondering how Miss Harding could be linked to my new printing press. Well, I have a natural tendency to look at almost everything from a business point of view. For example, while a printing press is fun to play with, a printing press that makes money is even better. After I had printed letterheads for my mother and tally pads for my parent’s card club the time had arrived to make some real money. The high school had a newspaper but alas the Jr. High did not have the benefit of a reliable news source. I consulted with Miss Harding about publishing a periodical called “Jr. High News” and since she had been an advisor for the school newspaper she freely provided a wealth of information from the best type of stories to advertising sources and other income. From that point forward all my spare time was consumed interviewing, writing, setting type and then printing the initial FREE issue. The praise sent my ego out of the ballpark. I just knew that I had a winner and went to work the next day on selling subscriptions. If Al Gore had asked me years later about the difficulty of turning a free information source into a money-making proposition, I would have advised him to avoid the word Free! The sad part of this story is that the sale of subscriptions was slower than a crippled turtle. Since everything was prepared to go to press, I did publish a second free issue of the paper, but lessons were learned and filed for later applications.

As a closing note, Miss Harding passed away in 1998 at the age of 86 leaving an unparalleled legacy.