I've always claimed that the best form of youth baseball possible was one that eliminated all form of parental participation. I stand by that position when the object of the game is to have fun.
But I would be less than truthful if I failed to admit that organized youth baseball did come with some significant benefits…and some of them are experienced by the kids.
You got to play with better equipment and you got better instruction. And, most importantly, you met kids from outside your neighborhood. I was eleven years old. Little League baseball came to Moss Point.
It seems like yesterday when I set foot on the property that housed the first real baseball field that I’d ever seen. In fact, it WAS yesterday. The property is now a restaurant. And the one small original Little League field long ago moved to a property where an entire complex of baseball fields could co-exist, each feeding the needs of specific age groups. A good friend and I had eaten lunch and were talking about our children and grandchildren and the subject of baseball had come up.
Unbelievable! Standing there leaning against my truck, not fifty feet from where the old home plate was. Looking at cars parked where the small set of bleachers sat along the first base line. Seeing the small rise in the earth where the right field fence had terminated and remembering that if someone, usually batting left-handed, really crushed one, that little hill was what usually stopped the ball. At least I can use being right-handed as my excuse for never introducing a baseball to that hill or the old service station that was at its apex.
It all began with four teams in Moss Point and four more in the neighboring community of Pascagoula. The regularly scheduled games would be within your city but there would be an all-star game at the completion of the season between the best the two cities had to offer.
There were two primary assets to be chosen to one of the teams. Today, Little League teams (or equivalent programs) are basically regulated on the basis of the participant’s age. Eleven and twelve year olds were Little Leaguers and when they became teenagers, they moved on to Babe Ruth League. But in the fifties, there was another criteria. Talent. There weren’t enough kids in Moss Point (that played baseball) to fill the rosters of four teams that first year. So tryouts were held for kids younger than eleven and if they played at an acceptable level, they made a roster. It’s pretty humbling to be one of the wizened age-eligible players and to be on the same team as your eight year-old brother. And you immediately become concerned at the possible scenarios of all-star selection.
Fortunately, my experience in the neighborhood pickup games stood me in good stead. I had learned that if you were willing to play catcher, you were likely to play. And in this league, there was protective equipment! Our coach was Leon Hammond and he knew everything there was to know about baseball. And he shared it all with us. It never occurred to us that his age wasn’t a lot older than ours. He was a adult that we owed our attention and respect. And we had parents that insured that he got it.
Wilkerson Freight Lines, EMBA, Monroe-Woods, and PMP Bank were the team sponsors and team members immediately developed an affinity for their benefactors. Member of opposing teams become your enemies….at least on game night.
I don’t remember the outcome of the regular season that first year, but it must not have been too good for Monroe-Woods or I probably would have complete recall. And no one named Shields made any all-star teams. But we learned one of the most important things that any baseball player can learn; how to say, “Wait until next year!”.
In those days, you actually played baseball during the summer instead of the current practice of insuring that baseball is over by the close of school so that it doesn’t interfere with summer vacations or the plans of parents. What a contradiction! Kid’s activities scheduled to be convenient to their parents! Things have changed.
But year-two arrived quickly. The twelve year olds from the previous year were gone. The new twelve-year olds, including me, now were the senior members with set positions and the respect that the uniform insured. The word had gotten out that Little League baseball was a good thing. And kids from outside the corporate limits were trying to catch on with teams. This year, there would be no problem with filling rosters. This year, competition would be fierce!
Tryouts for teams would be a formal process wherein applicants would announce their preference of positions and show their talents that would qualify them for the limited openings. And those trying out for pitcher positions required a catcher to show their skills.
Us veterans would actually have an influence in selecting pitchers. Our importance to the teams was being recognized. Coach Hammond took me and the other Monroe-Woods catcher (an inexperienced eleven year old whose name escapes me) to the tryout area and assigned me a prospect to test.
My heart sank! A short, chubby, nonathletic looking twelve-year old from Wade. How could he even consider doing this to me? Where was some stylish southpaw like Lefty Posey? What about some tall fireballer like Jimmy Davis? I recognized that all of the kids couldn’t be legends in their own time, but this was surely beneath my dignity.
He said that his name was Joey. He was pretty quiet and we just tossed a few balls back and forth as he loosed up. “You ready?”, he asked. “Sure”. And he started throwing. Each pitch seemed to be harder than the one before. It didn’t take me long to figure out that this kid was throwing harder than anyone I’d ever seen or caught. And he was hitting my mitt wherever I put it. Until he unleashed a wild pitch that was far to my left. As I moved to make the catch, a miracle happened. The ball made a sweeping arc and I was barely able to knock it down on the RIGHT side of the plate.
Curve ball! I’d never seen one before. At least not one like that!
“Can you do that again?”. “Every time”. “And control it?” “Put your mitt where you want it”.
And he could. And he did.
Suddenly I found myself looking around to see if anyone was watching. Hoping that no one was. I quietly walked beside my new best friend and said, “Let’s find the coach”. I knew who I wanted for my pitcher. I’ve made a few good decisions in my life. This was one of the better ones. Joey was an instant All-Star. And he made an all-star out of me. No one else wanted to catch that curve ball. And the best part about it was that I didn’t have to bat against him. Until Babe Ruth League…but that’s another story.
More than a half-century later, I realize that not batting against Joey wasn’t really the best part. The best part was learning at age twelve that judging people by their appearance is dangerous and usually wrong. And that people should be respected for their accomplishments and not for their neighborhood. And that it’s often the case that when you try to do something for someone else, you are the one that gains the most!
Thanks, Joey.
That’s the way I remember it.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Cars
We’ve come a long way in a short time. In less than three generations, we’ve seen automobiles invented and viewed as temporary fads. They became fashionable but out of reach for the masses. They were virtually unavailable because of a nationwide war effort only to rapidly emerge as a viable transportation alternative in a post-war economy. And now it is not uncommon that they often outnumber the number of licensed drivers in a household.
I entered this progression about in the middle as the car was coming into its own after the war. In hindsight, that was probably the most fun.
In the late 1940’s and early 50’s, cars were rapidly becoming commonplace. So common, in fact, that programs were being developed in high schools to teach students to drive correctly Enter my Dad.
In those days, high school football coaches did not just coach. They taught mathematics and physics. They coached track when football was not in season. And, for an additional stipend, they taught driver’s education. When you reflect on it, it seems a little comical. The people teaching students how to drive cars were the ones who were least likely to be able to afford them.
There was usually a car parked in our yard starting in 1949. But it wasn’t ours. It was the Pontiac furnished by W. H. Nelson Motors to the high school. A brand-new Pontiac with an additional clutch and brake installed on the passenger side where the instructor rode. Rather than leave the car unattended on the campus at night, they preferred that the teacher bring it home and assure its safety. They couldn’t have picked a better protector than my Dad.
The idea of using it for personal business would never have occurred to him. It wasn’t our car. And it wouldn’t be the right thing to do. Even when we made the infrequent trips to see my father’s parents in Pelehatchie, MS, we went in a borrowed car and the driver's ed car stayed home in the yard.
There was a single exception, however. My mother, also a teacher, had a hard and fast rule that she would never teach in a school that had one of her children as a student. And when her school aged children occupied all of the schools in which she could have taught in Moss Point, she took a job in Ocean Springs, a distance of about 20 miles from our home. There were two other teachers from Moss Point and Pascagoula who taught in Ocean Springs and she was able to arrange transportation to and from work except for Thursday afternoons. So on Thursdays, the Shields kids had a great adventure. The high school approved the use of the driver’s education car and my dad would drive us all the way to Ocean Springs to pick up Mama. It seemed like a million miles away.
Across the toll bridge in Pascagoula, into Gautier (then not much more than a wide place in the road whose main industry was a truck stop and café with a few small detached cabins in the back called Earl’s Place. I was always fascinated by the fact that Earl’s Place actually openly advertised that it sold beer. No other place that I can think of was so brazen. I can assure you that my father never stopped.). Continuing on Highway 90, it wasn’t far before we came to the train trestle that crossed over the road. It was only about 13 feet in clearance. It’s still there, so I can verify the height. We had our ritual that when passing under the tracks, we must blow the car horn and hear the sound reverberate. Going and coming. Past the turnoff to the Fontainebleau Beach on onto Government Street to the Ocean Springs School. Pick up Mama and reverse the route. No side trips. It wasn’t our car!
The 1950’s brought change. The biggest one was my father leaving the teaching and coaching profession for health reasons and returning to the shipyard. While this was a decision made of necessity and not preference, it was also a decision that provided greater income to the family. And then, in 1952-53, it happened. A family car was purchased. And in 1955 a new one replaced it. We had arrived. And life was changed forever.
Today, children often have their own cars before finishing high school. They get new ones as graduation presents. They know of no other way of living life. They have my pity. I believe that there is no way anyone can appreciate what they have without fully knowing what it is like to not have it. Where is the fun in that? Perhaps that was the reason that I was so enthusiastic when I got my first car. I knew!
That’s the way I remember it.
I entered this progression about in the middle as the car was coming into its own after the war. In hindsight, that was probably the most fun.
In the late 1940’s and early 50’s, cars were rapidly becoming commonplace. So common, in fact, that programs were being developed in high schools to teach students to drive correctly Enter my Dad.
In those days, high school football coaches did not just coach. They taught mathematics and physics. They coached track when football was not in season. And, for an additional stipend, they taught driver’s education. When you reflect on it, it seems a little comical. The people teaching students how to drive cars were the ones who were least likely to be able to afford them.
There was usually a car parked in our yard starting in 1949. But it wasn’t ours. It was the Pontiac furnished by W. H. Nelson Motors to the high school. A brand-new Pontiac with an additional clutch and brake installed on the passenger side where the instructor rode. Rather than leave the car unattended on the campus at night, they preferred that the teacher bring it home and assure its safety. They couldn’t have picked a better protector than my Dad.
The idea of using it for personal business would never have occurred to him. It wasn’t our car. And it wouldn’t be the right thing to do. Even when we made the infrequent trips to see my father’s parents in Pelehatchie, MS, we went in a borrowed car and the driver's ed car stayed home in the yard.
There was a single exception, however. My mother, also a teacher, had a hard and fast rule that she would never teach in a school that had one of her children as a student. And when her school aged children occupied all of the schools in which she could have taught in Moss Point, she took a job in Ocean Springs, a distance of about 20 miles from our home. There were two other teachers from Moss Point and Pascagoula who taught in Ocean Springs and she was able to arrange transportation to and from work except for Thursday afternoons. So on Thursdays, the Shields kids had a great adventure. The high school approved the use of the driver’s education car and my dad would drive us all the way to Ocean Springs to pick up Mama. It seemed like a million miles away.
Across the toll bridge in Pascagoula, into Gautier (then not much more than a wide place in the road whose main industry was a truck stop and café with a few small detached cabins in the back called Earl’s Place. I was always fascinated by the fact that Earl’s Place actually openly advertised that it sold beer. No other place that I can think of was so brazen. I can assure you that my father never stopped.). Continuing on Highway 90, it wasn’t far before we came to the train trestle that crossed over the road. It was only about 13 feet in clearance. It’s still there, so I can verify the height. We had our ritual that when passing under the tracks, we must blow the car horn and hear the sound reverberate. Going and coming. Past the turnoff to the Fontainebleau Beach on onto Government Street to the Ocean Springs School. Pick up Mama and reverse the route. No side trips. It wasn’t our car!
The 1950’s brought change. The biggest one was my father leaving the teaching and coaching profession for health reasons and returning to the shipyard. While this was a decision made of necessity and not preference, it was also a decision that provided greater income to the family. And then, in 1952-53, it happened. A family car was purchased. And in 1955 a new one replaced it. We had arrived. And life was changed forever.
Today, children often have their own cars before finishing high school. They get new ones as graduation presents. They know of no other way of living life. They have my pity. I believe that there is no way anyone can appreciate what they have without fully knowing what it is like to not have it. Where is the fun in that? Perhaps that was the reason that I was so enthusiastic when I got my first car. I knew!
That’s the way I remember it.
Monday, August 20, 2007
The First Bicycle and the Western Flyer
It all came back to me yesterday when I saw my grandson show me his newly acquired skills riding a two-wheeled bicycle in his driveway. No training wheels required. Even today, this remains a major stepping stone on the rite of passage to manhood.
Will's bike is a new shiny Christmas present that has been waiting for him to have an appropriate place to learn to ride it. Hurricane Katrina took care of the old driveway and the rebuilding process has only now allowed the new drive to be available.
Will's six. The same age as I was when I got my first two wheeler. Mine was a bit different. The war was just over and bicycles were not readily available. In fact, there were none available in Moss Point or Pascagoula. Maybe there were just none my parents could afford, but that would never stop them. There was always a sign that needed painting and my father would take on whatever sideline of work necessary to provide us with things we really needed. Like bicycles.
So the nets were cast far and wide and a bike was found in Mobile. Uncle Pete and Aunt Mary negotiated the deal and delivered it on their regular Sunday trip. This was going to be the big (only) birthday present and presents didn't come any bigger than a new bike. Well, it wasn't quite new. But a Dad who was a wizard with paint could make it look that way and it would be the newest one in the neighborhood. But when it was unloaded from Pete's 1941 Ford, faces fell and hearts were broken. Not mine! Daddy's! It was a GIRL's bicycle! And in no way was that going to be acceptable!
All other activities stopped. The search was on. Within a couple of hours a piece of steel tubing or pipe was located that was approximately the size of the bicycle's frame. A welding machine was found. A welder was enlisted. (It is appropriate to remind the reader once again that this is a Sunday afternoon in November. No stores are open. People are spending their time with their families. Work is the last thing on their minds).
Tubing is cut and shaped. Welds are made and cleaned. Then ground smooth. Primer is applied. Painting is done to match the color of the fenders. Pin stripes and accents are done freehand by the resident artist. And all of this was still well underway when I went to bed that night. But the next morning, the paint was dry and the birthday present was ready. A new bicycle. A BOY's bike! And I was one happy kid. And my Dad was happier.
And that bike served me well until I made enough money to buy my next one, the Cadillac of all bicycles, the Western Flyer.
A lot of people think that Walmart is a recent innovation in marketing that has made our lives more convenient. How absurd!
Harold Monroe did the same thing for Moss Point more than a half century earlier (without the groceries - Albert Graham took care of that! And Mr. Graham delivered to the house!). There was NOTHING you could not get at the Western Auto store. Hardware, appliances, radios and later televisions, lawnmowers, knives, guns, and bicycles. Not just any bicycle. The coveted Western Flyer. With a bike like that, a boy could run his paper route in half the time, expand his route, increase his market, make more money, and be the envy of all his friends at the same time. There was no down side to this deal. It didn't get any better than this.
I remember the day as though it was yesterday. I finally had the money! The school day ended and I walked to the Western Auto without a thought because it was a one way hike. I'd be riding in style on the return trip. There was a small hiccup when we had to unpackage the bike and assemble it. And inflate the tires. And that put my paper route about an hour or so late. But it was a weekly paper. What would it hurt to wait another hour for week old news?
It was almost dark when I finally started my deliveries. In no time, I was riding under the street lights (on the streets that had them). For the other streets, I had a brand new light on the front fender. Another proof that I had made a wise investment. But for some reason, the longer I rode and delivered, the more difficult the ride became. And by the time I got home, I couldn't understand why my legs were so tired. It couldn't be the bicycle.
The last part of my paper route was through a new development called Griffin Heights. And the method of paving roads in those days was to lay down a coat of wet tar on the street and then pour loose gravel on top of the tar. And while I had been taking delivery of the Western Flyer, the city had been paving Griffin Heights. The more I rode on those dark, freshly tarred streets, the more tar affixed itself to my tires. Eventually, the tires and wheels were so caked with tar that it was scraping against the wheel supports. Remember me saying how happy my Father was with my first bicycle? He was equally unhappy with me that night!
I was telling my parents the truth about the streets. In the dark I never saw the tar. And in the light of my house, I could not only see it on my new prized possession, I could see it on my shoes and the bottom of my pant legs. I had that bicycle for years. It was the last bicycle I ever had as a child. And I loved it. But I NEVER got all the tar off of it!
That's the way I remember it.
Will's bike is a new shiny Christmas present that has been waiting for him to have an appropriate place to learn to ride it. Hurricane Katrina took care of the old driveway and the rebuilding process has only now allowed the new drive to be available.
Will's six. The same age as I was when I got my first two wheeler. Mine was a bit different. The war was just over and bicycles were not readily available. In fact, there were none available in Moss Point or Pascagoula. Maybe there were just none my parents could afford, but that would never stop them. There was always a sign that needed painting and my father would take on whatever sideline of work necessary to provide us with things we really needed. Like bicycles.
So the nets were cast far and wide and a bike was found in Mobile. Uncle Pete and Aunt Mary negotiated the deal and delivered it on their regular Sunday trip. This was going to be the big (only) birthday present and presents didn't come any bigger than a new bike. Well, it wasn't quite new. But a Dad who was a wizard with paint could make it look that way and it would be the newest one in the neighborhood. But when it was unloaded from Pete's 1941 Ford, faces fell and hearts were broken. Not mine! Daddy's! It was a GIRL's bicycle! And in no way was that going to be acceptable!
All other activities stopped. The search was on. Within a couple of hours a piece of steel tubing or pipe was located that was approximately the size of the bicycle's frame. A welding machine was found. A welder was enlisted. (It is appropriate to remind the reader once again that this is a Sunday afternoon in November. No stores are open. People are spending their time with their families. Work is the last thing on their minds).
Tubing is cut and shaped. Welds are made and cleaned. Then ground smooth. Primer is applied. Painting is done to match the color of the fenders. Pin stripes and accents are done freehand by the resident artist. And all of this was still well underway when I went to bed that night. But the next morning, the paint was dry and the birthday present was ready. A new bicycle. A BOY's bike! And I was one happy kid. And my Dad was happier.
And that bike served me well until I made enough money to buy my next one, the Cadillac of all bicycles, the Western Flyer.
A lot of people think that Walmart is a recent innovation in marketing that has made our lives more convenient. How absurd!
Harold Monroe did the same thing for Moss Point more than a half century earlier (without the groceries - Albert Graham took care of that! And Mr. Graham delivered to the house!). There was NOTHING you could not get at the Western Auto store. Hardware, appliances, radios and later televisions, lawnmowers, knives, guns, and bicycles. Not just any bicycle. The coveted Western Flyer. With a bike like that, a boy could run his paper route in half the time, expand his route, increase his market, make more money, and be the envy of all his friends at the same time. There was no down side to this deal. It didn't get any better than this.
I remember the day as though it was yesterday. I finally had the money! The school day ended and I walked to the Western Auto without a thought because it was a one way hike. I'd be riding in style on the return trip. There was a small hiccup when we had to unpackage the bike and assemble it. And inflate the tires. And that put my paper route about an hour or so late. But it was a weekly paper. What would it hurt to wait another hour for week old news?
It was almost dark when I finally started my deliveries. In no time, I was riding under the street lights (on the streets that had them). For the other streets, I had a brand new light on the front fender. Another proof that I had made a wise investment. But for some reason, the longer I rode and delivered, the more difficult the ride became. And by the time I got home, I couldn't understand why my legs were so tired. It couldn't be the bicycle.
The last part of my paper route was through a new development called Griffin Heights. And the method of paving roads in those days was to lay down a coat of wet tar on the street and then pour loose gravel on top of the tar. And while I had been taking delivery of the Western Flyer, the city had been paving Griffin Heights. The more I rode on those dark, freshly tarred streets, the more tar affixed itself to my tires. Eventually, the tires and wheels were so caked with tar that it was scraping against the wheel supports. Remember me saying how happy my Father was with my first bicycle? He was equally unhappy with me that night!
I was telling my parents the truth about the streets. In the dark I never saw the tar. And in the light of my house, I could not only see it on my new prized possession, I could see it on my shoes and the bottom of my pant legs. I had that bicycle for years. It was the last bicycle I ever had as a child. And I loved it. But I NEVER got all the tar off of it!
That's the way I remember it.
Monday, August 13, 2007
The Way That Mama Made It....
The comment that has probably wounded more feelings and hurt more marriages than any other is some unthinking husband blurting out, "It's OK, but it's not the way that Mama made it". Once those words escape your lips, there is no way to redeem yourself. You've made your bed but you dare not sleep in it. That would require closing your eyes and you realize that it will never be safe to do that again.
When the truth is told, all Mamas may not have been the grand champion of cooking. In my case, mine was probably a little better than average. But for some reason, the things that our Mamas did excel in are the things we remember so vividly. And those that they may not have been so good at have become totally unimportant. My memories are cornbread and biscuits. Neither had a recipe written down. Had it been, I would be wealthy if I had no more customers than my siblings! And there is a probability that neither of these recipes may have been as totally delicious as I recall them. But I can think about them and salivate!
Most people would describe the majority of our food as plain Southern cooking. Most people don't know that this is one of the highest compliments that can be paid a cook.
Plain Southern cooking means taking what is available (or what you can afford) and make it feed however many people show up at the table and to do it in a tasty (usually) way. The exception to that rule was when the menu was determined by a request from my father who happened to love some foods that some of us were less than enamored with. I've heard stories of cooks who could make calf's liver appeal to anyone's palate. My mother was not one of those cooks.
But, like all forms of adolescent influence, democracy was not present at the Shields' dinner table. If we didn't like something, we got to complain. Once. After that, we were allowed to sit there until we decided we did like it. We may not have eaten all of it when we left the table (after receiving permission) but we knew we had eaten the last bite that we would see before the next meal time.
I remember most meals during the week as being pretty ordinary. Breakfast was breakfast. Cereal, oatmeal, occasional eggs and bacon, pancakes, sometimes waffles (my personal favorite) on the weekends. Lunch was normally a hurriedly concocted sandwich except on Sunday. And the evening meal, referred to in our house as supper, was the time when the cooking was done unless there was a ball game or some event that required the presence of children, parents, or both. Then things got complicated. But the special times for me were Saturday night and Sunday after church.
Saturday night was hamburger night. With French fries and iced tea. And the special part about it was that it was the night when you could have all you wanted. Patties fried in a black cast iron skillet. Two, three, even four hamburgers. Not the size that we see today. In fact, looking back on them, they were pretty puny. But we thought they were great! And the French fries cut from fresh potatoes could fill an entire plate!
The one o'clock meal on Sunday followed church and was called Sunday dinner...not lunch. It was a sit down affair and often included my Aunt and Uncle from Mobile who would time their arrival to occur a few minutes before the food was served. Either fried chicken, pot roast or 'steak' with all the 'fixin's' are the meals I remember most. The fixin's were fresh vegetables, rice or mashed potatoes and gravy, dried lima beans or blackeyed peas, and on special occasions, stuffed eggs. I still prefer dried beans to fresh ones.
The steak in question was no more than a quarter of an inch thick and had a round bone somewhere in it. Yes, I know what round steak is...but back then I thought it was the only kind of steak in the world. It easily fit into a nine inch skillet and was floured and browned on both sides. Finally it was cut into the same number of pieces as there were eaters. But not necessarily the same sized pieces. Big is big and small is small. There was a relationship between the size of the eater and the size of the serving. And the chicken was 'a' chicken. Singular. One. Uno. Unlike today, chicken backs were cooked and served. I can't remember a time in the last twenty years that I've seen a chicken back cooked. My father got served first so that limited the chances for white meat being available by the time the platter reached the last few people at the table.
And maybe, just maybe, there could be dessert. Lemon icebox pie and egg custard were standouts.
As time passed, Mama did less and less of the cooking for the family gatherings and the acknowledged culinary champion of Moss Point Shieldses became a title held by my wife.
You learn a lot by listening at the dinner table. And one of the most important lessons men can learn is that it's smart to compliment and thank the cook. Cooks like that. My wife always treasured the times when my Dad would eat with us and pronounce her meals as fittin'.
Fittin' is not a word that gets used much any more. But any cook worth her salt knows a compliment when she hears one! And fittin' was the highest form of praise!
And that's the way I remember it.
When the truth is told, all Mamas may not have been the grand champion of cooking. In my case, mine was probably a little better than average. But for some reason, the things that our Mamas did excel in are the things we remember so vividly. And those that they may not have been so good at have become totally unimportant. My memories are cornbread and biscuits. Neither had a recipe written down. Had it been, I would be wealthy if I had no more customers than my siblings! And there is a probability that neither of these recipes may have been as totally delicious as I recall them. But I can think about them and salivate!
Most people would describe the majority of our food as plain Southern cooking. Most people don't know that this is one of the highest compliments that can be paid a cook.
Plain Southern cooking means taking what is available (or what you can afford) and make it feed however many people show up at the table and to do it in a tasty (usually) way. The exception to that rule was when the menu was determined by a request from my father who happened to love some foods that some of us were less than enamored with. I've heard stories of cooks who could make calf's liver appeal to anyone's palate. My mother was not one of those cooks.
But, like all forms of adolescent influence, democracy was not present at the Shields' dinner table. If we didn't like something, we got to complain. Once. After that, we were allowed to sit there until we decided we did like it. We may not have eaten all of it when we left the table (after receiving permission) but we knew we had eaten the last bite that we would see before the next meal time.
I remember most meals during the week as being pretty ordinary. Breakfast was breakfast. Cereal, oatmeal, occasional eggs and bacon, pancakes, sometimes waffles (my personal favorite) on the weekends. Lunch was normally a hurriedly concocted sandwich except on Sunday. And the evening meal, referred to in our house as supper, was the time when the cooking was done unless there was a ball game or some event that required the presence of children, parents, or both. Then things got complicated. But the special times for me were Saturday night and Sunday after church.
Saturday night was hamburger night. With French fries and iced tea. And the special part about it was that it was the night when you could have all you wanted. Patties fried in a black cast iron skillet. Two, three, even four hamburgers. Not the size that we see today. In fact, looking back on them, they were pretty puny. But we thought they were great! And the French fries cut from fresh potatoes could fill an entire plate!
The one o'clock meal on Sunday followed church and was called Sunday dinner...not lunch. It was a sit down affair and often included my Aunt and Uncle from Mobile who would time their arrival to occur a few minutes before the food was served. Either fried chicken, pot roast or 'steak' with all the 'fixin's' are the meals I remember most. The fixin's were fresh vegetables, rice or mashed potatoes and gravy, dried lima beans or blackeyed peas, and on special occasions, stuffed eggs. I still prefer dried beans to fresh ones.
The steak in question was no more than a quarter of an inch thick and had a round bone somewhere in it. Yes, I know what round steak is...but back then I thought it was the only kind of steak in the world. It easily fit into a nine inch skillet and was floured and browned on both sides. Finally it was cut into the same number of pieces as there were eaters. But not necessarily the same sized pieces. Big is big and small is small. There was a relationship between the size of the eater and the size of the serving. And the chicken was 'a' chicken. Singular. One. Uno. Unlike today, chicken backs were cooked and served. I can't remember a time in the last twenty years that I've seen a chicken back cooked. My father got served first so that limited the chances for white meat being available by the time the platter reached the last few people at the table.
And maybe, just maybe, there could be dessert. Lemon icebox pie and egg custard were standouts.
As time passed, Mama did less and less of the cooking for the family gatherings and the acknowledged culinary champion of Moss Point Shieldses became a title held by my wife.
You learn a lot by listening at the dinner table. And one of the most important lessons men can learn is that it's smart to compliment and thank the cook. Cooks like that. My wife always treasured the times when my Dad would eat with us and pronounce her meals as fittin'.
Fittin' is not a word that gets used much any more. But any cook worth her salt knows a compliment when she hears one! And fittin' was the highest form of praise!
And that's the way I remember it.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
The Young Men and the River
Living in close proximity to bodies of both fresh and salt water led all of us to a familiarity with most forms of aqua-fun. Swimming, fishing, water skiing were everyday parts of our lives and were immediately taken for granted as something that everyone did. And that made it even more special when the opportunity came to do something totally different. Unique. An adventure!
Moss Point is located within five miles of the Gulf of Mexico and is situated on both the Escatawpa River and the Pascagoula River. Today, the Pascagoula River is recognized as the very last free-flowing, unobstructed river in the United States. During the 1950's, it seemed even more primative to pre-teen aged boys who were members of Boy Scout Troop 220.
Boy Scouting was a central part of the youth of almost every boy in my neighborhood. Parents approved of scouting and they approved of the scoutmaster, Sam Wilkes. Sam was about the same age as most of our Dads and, at the time, had no kids. He later rectified that. But the time he spent with us was time we treasured. We met weekly in what we called the Scout Hut, a small shell of a building with a fire place and a few chairs and a table. We did the usual things done in scouting. Games, skills, merit badges. Some of us (make that some of them) even advanced to the rank of Eagle Scout. Our patrol excelled in the Camporees held in the Lyons Lake area. We were always as good as our competition in the areas of camp site preparation, fire building, knot tying, and the like. But when it came to the morse code competion, we had no peer. Samuel B. would have been proud.
But the Fall approached and Mr. Wilkes broke the news. There would be a canoe trip. Canoes would be rented and transported to the bridge over the Chickasawhay River north of Lucedale. By road, this was probably a fifty mile trip. By water and its meandering method of path selection, it was a bit farther.
The day came. Carson, John Lundy, Mike, George, Neal Luther, Bill, Butch and a few more whose names don't come immediately to mind, clamoring out of cars and racing down the embankment from the bridge to the river. Half carrying the canoes and half dodging them as they slid down the damp clay path toward the point of shoving off. Sam Wilkes was no one's fool. He knew that all canoeists were not created equally, so he paired strong paddlers with less skilled ones. And he know that anything that had to be treated respectfully (bedding and food headed that list) went into the boat he was in.
Then came three days of racing, swimming, forcing the other canoes onto logs in the river and trying to overturn them, choosing the fork in the river to take without even considering that our scoutmaster wasn't about to let the wrong one be chosen , climbing the sheer clay 'bluffs' that hindsight would likely measure as no more than forty feet in height, sleeping on sandbars, fighting mosquitoes, blistered hands so raw that the blisters broke and then paddling on, and contracting some of the most severe cases of sunburn ever. And we thought every minute of it was fun.
We were greeted at Lundy Williams fishing camp in Escatawpa that first year. We had paddled through Little River into the East Pascagoula and there were the parents on the bank, waiting as though we had been gone for years. Photographers were there. We were featured in the newspaper. We had conquered the wildness. We had mastered the rivers. We were MEN!
Every so often, someone still drags out a picture of those boys. Tired and smiling. I look at those pictures and I think of every minute of the trip. But what I remember most isn't in the pictures.
Its the break of day when light first showed through the tops of the cypress and pines. The sun light played on the top of the warm late Summer water on a cooler morning and a fine mist rose not unlike fog. And the mist sparkled as though there were tiny silent explosions taking place. I was thirteen years old and I thought it was the prettiest thing I had ever seen. I still do. I hope I get to see it again.
But if I don't, that's the way I remember it.
Moss Point is located within five miles of the Gulf of Mexico and is situated on both the Escatawpa River and the Pascagoula River. Today, the Pascagoula River is recognized as the very last free-flowing, unobstructed river in the United States. During the 1950's, it seemed even more primative to pre-teen aged boys who were members of Boy Scout Troop 220.
Boy Scouting was a central part of the youth of almost every boy in my neighborhood. Parents approved of scouting and they approved of the scoutmaster, Sam Wilkes. Sam was about the same age as most of our Dads and, at the time, had no kids. He later rectified that. But the time he spent with us was time we treasured. We met weekly in what we called the Scout Hut, a small shell of a building with a fire place and a few chairs and a table. We did the usual things done in scouting. Games, skills, merit badges. Some of us (make that some of them) even advanced to the rank of Eagle Scout. Our patrol excelled in the Camporees held in the Lyons Lake area. We were always as good as our competition in the areas of camp site preparation, fire building, knot tying, and the like. But when it came to the morse code competion, we had no peer. Samuel B. would have been proud.
But the Fall approached and Mr. Wilkes broke the news. There would be a canoe trip. Canoes would be rented and transported to the bridge over the Chickasawhay River north of Lucedale. By road, this was probably a fifty mile trip. By water and its meandering method of path selection, it was a bit farther.
The day came. Carson, John Lundy, Mike, George, Neal Luther, Bill, Butch and a few more whose names don't come immediately to mind, clamoring out of cars and racing down the embankment from the bridge to the river. Half carrying the canoes and half dodging them as they slid down the damp clay path toward the point of shoving off. Sam Wilkes was no one's fool. He knew that all canoeists were not created equally, so he paired strong paddlers with less skilled ones. And he know that anything that had to be treated respectfully (bedding and food headed that list) went into the boat he was in.
Then came three days of racing, swimming, forcing the other canoes onto logs in the river and trying to overturn them, choosing the fork in the river to take without even considering that our scoutmaster wasn't about to let the wrong one be chosen , climbing the sheer clay 'bluffs' that hindsight would likely measure as no more than forty feet in height, sleeping on sandbars, fighting mosquitoes, blistered hands so raw that the blisters broke and then paddling on, and contracting some of the most severe cases of sunburn ever. And we thought every minute of it was fun.
We were greeted at Lundy Williams fishing camp in Escatawpa that first year. We had paddled through Little River into the East Pascagoula and there were the parents on the bank, waiting as though we had been gone for years. Photographers were there. We were featured in the newspaper. We had conquered the wildness. We had mastered the rivers. We were MEN!
Every so often, someone still drags out a picture of those boys. Tired and smiling. I look at those pictures and I think of every minute of the trip. But what I remember most isn't in the pictures.
Its the break of day when light first showed through the tops of the cypress and pines. The sun light played on the top of the warm late Summer water on a cooler morning and a fine mist rose not unlike fog. And the mist sparkled as though there were tiny silent explosions taking place. I was thirteen years old and I thought it was the prettiest thing I had ever seen. I still do. I hope I get to see it again.
But if I don't, that's the way I remember it.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Is Life a Spectator Sport?
Good evening.
My name is Richard and I'm a sportaholic.
Always have been. My family will verify that it's been true since childhood. My wife and daughter will attest to it. Even my grandchildren have figured it out. I watch sports. I study sports. I play sports (less each year, but I continue to try).
I watch the standard fares. Football, baseball, basketball. I watch golf. I watch gymnastics. Even the kind with ribbons and rings and knives. I watch wrestling.But not the kind on late night television with 600 pound men making obscene gestures at Donald Trump. I watch card games on television. I've even been known to watch bicycling.
I boycott watching very few sports. I crave seeing people do things extraordinarily well. I love the Olympics; winter and summer. What on earth would someone who has spent their life in the sweltering climate of the Gulf Coast know...or care...about the winter Olympics? But with a little effort and a little study, you can become well enough informed to make many of your contemporaries believe that you actually have some idea of what you are talking about.
How did I become hooked? Very simple. It's genetic. I got it from my father and cultivated it into an art form. He was a first generation addict and he couldn't break the habit. Sadly, he probably got so hooked on his first experience that he had no chance of even wanting to try. For him, there was no rehab.
He was a player. But he was a better spectator.
His two youngest boys were always in some form of competition. And when they were, he was there. Little League, Babe Ruth League, Junior High, Senior High, Junior College, Senior College, regular season, All-Star games. Always there. Watching. And never saying a word. Not a screaming parent berating coaches or umpires or referees. Just watching. Studying.
Oh, you might hear an opinion or suggestion after the game, but it was always constructive and never in opposition to anything a coach might have instructed.
He made sure that his only girl got equal treatment. Baseball as a kid, golf programs and tournaments, she even got her own shotgun with a red stock. His daughter...the brightest of the lights of his life...even turned participation in the band into a sport for him. The truth was that he may have hated the band. But he loved his daughter. And if she was going to be a part of a performance, he was going to be there to see her lead it without a word of complaint.
But following these children was an easy thing. I was the challenge.
When you are a sportaholic, you want to be there for the action. What do you do when there is none? Perhaps it's a little thing to many, but a single event stands out in my memory that really defines a lot of what I always saw in my father.
I was a senior in high school and on the basketball team. I was not a starter. In fact, I played behind an all-conference center who was taller and more athletic than I was. He led the team in scoring and rebounding. He was going to go to college on a scholarship. He was the star and rightfully so! I was on the second team. I was thankful that there were only two teams.
We advanced to the playoffs after a fairly successful season and reached the semi-finals. The game would be played in McComb, almost 200 miles away. And it was expected to be close.
My Dad worked in the shipyard where I would later spend most of my career. He worked as a loftsman. And when he didn't go to work, he didn't get paid. With a wife and four kids, he needed to get paid.
It was an afternoon game and, as expected, it was close. I don't remember the score but there are three things I do remember.
1. We won.
2. I did not get in the game. I didn't expect to unless the game became one-sided and that probably wasn't going to happen.
3. Just as the game was about to start, I saw my Dad come in. Alone. Quietly, as always. He sat by himself and watched. Studying. He was going to be there just in case I got to play. And he had known when he left work that wasn't going to happen!
Like I said, he was a player. But a better spectator! In his eyes, my life was the spectator sport and he wasn't going to miss any of it. He didn't have time for rehab. The next game was going to be in Jackson and he would be there.
And that's the way I'll remember it.
My name is Richard and I'm a sportaholic.
Always have been. My family will verify that it's been true since childhood. My wife and daughter will attest to it. Even my grandchildren have figured it out. I watch sports. I study sports. I play sports (less each year, but I continue to try).
I watch the standard fares. Football, baseball, basketball. I watch golf. I watch gymnastics. Even the kind with ribbons and rings and knives. I watch wrestling.But not the kind on late night television with 600 pound men making obscene gestures at Donald Trump. I watch card games on television. I've even been known to watch bicycling.
I boycott watching very few sports. I crave seeing people do things extraordinarily well. I love the Olympics; winter and summer. What on earth would someone who has spent their life in the sweltering climate of the Gulf Coast know...or care...about the winter Olympics? But with a little effort and a little study, you can become well enough informed to make many of your contemporaries believe that you actually have some idea of what you are talking about.
How did I become hooked? Very simple. It's genetic. I got it from my father and cultivated it into an art form. He was a first generation addict and he couldn't break the habit. Sadly, he probably got so hooked on his first experience that he had no chance of even wanting to try. For him, there was no rehab.
He was a player. But he was a better spectator.
His two youngest boys were always in some form of competition. And when they were, he was there. Little League, Babe Ruth League, Junior High, Senior High, Junior College, Senior College, regular season, All-Star games. Always there. Watching. And never saying a word. Not a screaming parent berating coaches or umpires or referees. Just watching. Studying.
Oh, you might hear an opinion or suggestion after the game, but it was always constructive and never in opposition to anything a coach might have instructed.
He made sure that his only girl got equal treatment. Baseball as a kid, golf programs and tournaments, she even got her own shotgun with a red stock. His daughter...the brightest of the lights of his life...even turned participation in the band into a sport for him. The truth was that he may have hated the band. But he loved his daughter. And if she was going to be a part of a performance, he was going to be there to see her lead it without a word of complaint.
But following these children was an easy thing. I was the challenge.
When you are a sportaholic, you want to be there for the action. What do you do when there is none? Perhaps it's a little thing to many, but a single event stands out in my memory that really defines a lot of what I always saw in my father.
I was a senior in high school and on the basketball team. I was not a starter. In fact, I played behind an all-conference center who was taller and more athletic than I was. He led the team in scoring and rebounding. He was going to go to college on a scholarship. He was the star and rightfully so! I was on the second team. I was thankful that there were only two teams.
We advanced to the playoffs after a fairly successful season and reached the semi-finals. The game would be played in McComb, almost 200 miles away. And it was expected to be close.
My Dad worked in the shipyard where I would later spend most of my career. He worked as a loftsman. And when he didn't go to work, he didn't get paid. With a wife and four kids, he needed to get paid.
It was an afternoon game and, as expected, it was close. I don't remember the score but there are three things I do remember.
1. We won.
2. I did not get in the game. I didn't expect to unless the game became one-sided and that probably wasn't going to happen.
3. Just as the game was about to start, I saw my Dad come in. Alone. Quietly, as always. He sat by himself and watched. Studying. He was going to be there just in case I got to play. And he had known when he left work that wasn't going to happen!
Like I said, he was a player. But a better spectator! In his eyes, my life was the spectator sport and he wasn't going to miss any of it. He didn't have time for rehab. The next game was going to be in Jackson and he would be there.
And that's the way I'll remember it.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
The Curse of the Shieldses
Sometimes we reflect on our youth in ways that aren't entirely accurate reflections of the truth. These distortions may not be the result of fading and fallible memories. They may be more due to the fact that we never really understood the truth to begin with. Why? It was our parents. They never told us the complete story of anything. It was not to their benefit. They wanted an edge.
This would be a scandalous accusation if it could not be proven. But alas, I can. In more than a few instances.
It began for me with a simple admonition from my parents. From as early as I can remember, I was told, "Be careful what you do, because we WILL find out!". At first, I considered this an idle threat...a rule that could not possibly be enforced. How naive I was! Then I slowly realized that living in a small town where everyone knew everyone, the length of time it took for word to get back to parents was only a millisecond longer than the time it took the viewer to get to a telephone.
I was seven years old and riding my bicycle home about a half hour before dark. I carelessly veered too far toward the other lane without looking. A car with a driver who, thankfully, was looking, saw me just in time and had to brake hard enough for anyone close by to hear the screech of his tires. I was glad no one was around. He chided me, as all grownups would do to children in that time, to be more careful. I told him I would and began the last quarter mile home, being thankful that my father would not be there in case there was a phone call. He was teaching night school to veterans returning home after the war.
After putting up the bike I entered the door to the sound of the telephone ringing. A blessing was about to be had. I would be the one to answer the phone if it was someone ratting me out. And no one would know.
Hello?
Bad news! The caller was my father. Seems the driver was one of his students and before I could ride the bicycle for less than five minutes, he had parked at the school, found my father, related my transgression, my father had left the class, found a telephone, and had a verbal instruction waiting for me. That ended riding the bicycle for a while.
And that's the way life went. Nothing was private. There were no secrets. There was just this giant conspiracy that pitted a world of adults against me. Terrible odds! And it never got better.
Even when I was a senior in college living in a dormitory 250 miles away, I wasn't safe. It had become a curse! I was helpless. The best example of this inequity was the time when I had been to Columbus on a weekend night on a blind date. This is an important nuance. I went to go out with a girl I had never met. No big deal. Introductions. Movie. Returned my date to her dorm. Back to Starkville at midnight and into bed.
At that time there were no phones in every room. Only a single pay phone in the middle of each floor to be shared by more than 100 students. Seven-thirty in the morning comes with a knock on my door. I have a call. Stumbling down the hallway, I reach the booth and answer. It's my mother who not only knew that I had been to Columbus, she knew who I had been out with by name and knew where she was from. Did you have a good time? That's not why she called. She just wanted me to know that she was still connected. That she knew. And she always would. For the next twenty five years of her life, she never told me how she found out. It would not have been to her benefit!
So what did I learn? I learned that this is a ploy with potential. Imagine the personal satisfaction of hearing your daughter return from her first year at college and harping that life isn't fair. She can't go anywhere without being asked if she is Richard's daughter, or if she is related to Lenore. She even was assigned the daughter of one of her uncle's college football teammates as a roommate as a freshman. "Daddy. I can't go anywhere without this happening. It even happened on my trip to Washington, D. C. in the Senate chambers!". You have to love it!
What did I tell her? Why, it's the curse of the Shields'. And now there is an entire generation out there in Jackson, and Pascagoula, and Washington, and San Antonio,and Starkville. Looking over their shoulder and knowing that they are never safe from being accountable for their actions and their lives. They will be found out.
Life is good! And that's the way I'm going to remember it.
This would be a scandalous accusation if it could not be proven. But alas, I can. In more than a few instances.
It began for me with a simple admonition from my parents. From as early as I can remember, I was told, "Be careful what you do, because we WILL find out!". At first, I considered this an idle threat...a rule that could not possibly be enforced. How naive I was! Then I slowly realized that living in a small town where everyone knew everyone, the length of time it took for word to get back to parents was only a millisecond longer than the time it took the viewer to get to a telephone.
I was seven years old and riding my bicycle home about a half hour before dark. I carelessly veered too far toward the other lane without looking. A car with a driver who, thankfully, was looking, saw me just in time and had to brake hard enough for anyone close by to hear the screech of his tires. I was glad no one was around. He chided me, as all grownups would do to children in that time, to be more careful. I told him I would and began the last quarter mile home, being thankful that my father would not be there in case there was a phone call. He was teaching night school to veterans returning home after the war.
After putting up the bike I entered the door to the sound of the telephone ringing. A blessing was about to be had. I would be the one to answer the phone if it was someone ratting me out. And no one would know.
Hello?
Bad news! The caller was my father. Seems the driver was one of his students and before I could ride the bicycle for less than five minutes, he had parked at the school, found my father, related my transgression, my father had left the class, found a telephone, and had a verbal instruction waiting for me. That ended riding the bicycle for a while.
And that's the way life went. Nothing was private. There were no secrets. There was just this giant conspiracy that pitted a world of adults against me. Terrible odds! And it never got better.
Even when I was a senior in college living in a dormitory 250 miles away, I wasn't safe. It had become a curse! I was helpless. The best example of this inequity was the time when I had been to Columbus on a weekend night on a blind date. This is an important nuance. I went to go out with a girl I had never met. No big deal. Introductions. Movie. Returned my date to her dorm. Back to Starkville at midnight and into bed.
At that time there were no phones in every room. Only a single pay phone in the middle of each floor to be shared by more than 100 students. Seven-thirty in the morning comes with a knock on my door. I have a call. Stumbling down the hallway, I reach the booth and answer. It's my mother who not only knew that I had been to Columbus, she knew who I had been out with by name and knew where she was from. Did you have a good time? That's not why she called. She just wanted me to know that she was still connected. That she knew. And she always would. For the next twenty five years of her life, she never told me how she found out. It would not have been to her benefit!
So what did I learn? I learned that this is a ploy with potential. Imagine the personal satisfaction of hearing your daughter return from her first year at college and harping that life isn't fair. She can't go anywhere without being asked if she is Richard's daughter, or if she is related to Lenore. She even was assigned the daughter of one of her uncle's college football teammates as a roommate as a freshman. "Daddy. I can't go anywhere without this happening. It even happened on my trip to Washington, D. C. in the Senate chambers!". You have to love it!
What did I tell her? Why, it's the curse of the Shields'. And now there is an entire generation out there in Jackson, and Pascagoula, and Washington, and San Antonio,and Starkville. Looking over their shoulder and knowing that they are never safe from being accountable for their actions and their lives. They will be found out.
Life is good! And that's the way I'm going to remember it.
Friday, July 27, 2007
The Swimming Pool
Today is a tough day to be outside in Moss Point, Mississippi. It’s past four o’clock in the afternoon and the temperature is still ninety degrees and the humidity is high. What should I expect? It’s still July!
But how were these unbearable conditions dealt with before the days of air conditioning?
Generally, life went on without any recognition of the weather’s severity for the very good reason that we had no alternatives. But in the years immediately following World War II, a group of citizens got together and found a way to finance construction of a city owned swimming pool.
Big deal! Hundreds, maybe thousands of cities and towns have done that. But Moss Point had two things that, over time, set their swimming pool apart from the others.
The first was the water. There were actually two pools; the big pool and the wading pool for non-swimmers that quickly became known as the ‘baby’ pool. But while these two pools were separated by only a few feet of concrete, the water was as different as night and day. The big pool was fed by a deep well that not only produced a strain of naturally blue salt water, but salt water that had a temperature that must have been in the fifty degree range. There was no problem asking swimmers to shower before entering the pool because if you didn’t get a cold shower and went directly from ambient summer temperature to swimming in the pool, the shock to your body was traumatic! You searched for warmth. Fast. And where was the closest source of heat? The baby pool. For some reason, it was fed by a well that produced water (with a discomforting brown tint) that must have be about eighty-five degrees. It was great! It warmed and relaxed you and got the blood flowing again that only moments before had become frozen. Except that all those kids that had proven they could swim were disqualified from entering the baby pool. The lifeguards led a difficult life enforcing that rule.
And the other thing that set Moss Point’s pool apart from any other was the head lifeguard, ticket taker, swimming instructor, stunt diver, swim suit model, and all-around ham; my brother Jimmy.
Jimmy was always the best athlete in the family, but where he excelled was in the water. In it, on top of it, under it…..made no difference. He loved the water and the water reciprocated. His idea of enforcing discipline was to challenge anyone who wanted to break the rules of the pool to come into the water and discuss it. The offender quickly concluded that it was better to give a little and follow the rules than to become a victim of what a coroner would call an accidental drowning. Accidental. Right!
I still periodically run into people about my age that grew up spending their summers at the pool. And invariably, the subject comes to Jimmy. Particularly if the person doing the remembering is a girl, because the lifeguard she remembered had the ideal body for swimming. Tall and lean, big shoulders and thighs, bronzed from being outside and hair streaked blond by the sun or orange by improper use of peroxide.
And he knew it! And loved it. His favorite trick was to slowly climb the high diving board and then walk even slower to the end and look down into the water. He made sure that he had properly inhaled to make his chest appear even bigger and his waist smaller. Cars would stop and watch. Literally! Really! Then he would take a couple of test bounces off the end of the board without jumping out into the pool just to show how high he would be when he actually took flight. He had set the audience up right where he wanted them.
Now it was time. He would retreat to the anchored end of the board, take the customary three-step approach and explode off the end of the board into the sky. One bounce. Two bounces. And on the third bounce a miracle would happen. When his feet hit the board, the jump would terminate. And the inflated chest would drop a full foot into Jimmy’s secret talent…the ability to inflate his stomach into something that looked like he had inhaled a whole watermelon. He would look down at the bulging stomach with a puzzled look as if he had no idea what had happened and then, using his index finger, he would press in on the inflated area and simultaneously spew out water from his mouth that he had been holding the entire time of the performance.
To conclude the con job, he would make one of the most UN-graceful dives imaginable into the water, knowing full well that no one that had not seen the act before could have imagined how it would end. And those who knew would never tell. It was always fun to see.
And that’s the way I remember it.
But how were these unbearable conditions dealt with before the days of air conditioning?
Generally, life went on without any recognition of the weather’s severity for the very good reason that we had no alternatives. But in the years immediately following World War II, a group of citizens got together and found a way to finance construction of a city owned swimming pool.
Big deal! Hundreds, maybe thousands of cities and towns have done that. But Moss Point had two things that, over time, set their swimming pool apart from the others.
The first was the water. There were actually two pools; the big pool and the wading pool for non-swimmers that quickly became known as the ‘baby’ pool. But while these two pools were separated by only a few feet of concrete, the water was as different as night and day. The big pool was fed by a deep well that not only produced a strain of naturally blue salt water, but salt water that had a temperature that must have been in the fifty degree range. There was no problem asking swimmers to shower before entering the pool because if you didn’t get a cold shower and went directly from ambient summer temperature to swimming in the pool, the shock to your body was traumatic! You searched for warmth. Fast. And where was the closest source of heat? The baby pool. For some reason, it was fed by a well that produced water (with a discomforting brown tint) that must have be about eighty-five degrees. It was great! It warmed and relaxed you and got the blood flowing again that only moments before had become frozen. Except that all those kids that had proven they could swim were disqualified from entering the baby pool. The lifeguards led a difficult life enforcing that rule.
And the other thing that set Moss Point’s pool apart from any other was the head lifeguard, ticket taker, swimming instructor, stunt diver, swim suit model, and all-around ham; my brother Jimmy.
Jimmy was always the best athlete in the family, but where he excelled was in the water. In it, on top of it, under it…..made no difference. He loved the water and the water reciprocated. His idea of enforcing discipline was to challenge anyone who wanted to break the rules of the pool to come into the water and discuss it. The offender quickly concluded that it was better to give a little and follow the rules than to become a victim of what a coroner would call an accidental drowning. Accidental. Right!
I still periodically run into people about my age that grew up spending their summers at the pool. And invariably, the subject comes to Jimmy. Particularly if the person doing the remembering is a girl, because the lifeguard she remembered had the ideal body for swimming. Tall and lean, big shoulders and thighs, bronzed from being outside and hair streaked blond by the sun or orange by improper use of peroxide.
And he knew it! And loved it. His favorite trick was to slowly climb the high diving board and then walk even slower to the end and look down into the water. He made sure that he had properly inhaled to make his chest appear even bigger and his waist smaller. Cars would stop and watch. Literally! Really! Then he would take a couple of test bounces off the end of the board without jumping out into the pool just to show how high he would be when he actually took flight. He had set the audience up right where he wanted them.
Now it was time. He would retreat to the anchored end of the board, take the customary three-step approach and explode off the end of the board into the sky. One bounce. Two bounces. And on the third bounce a miracle would happen. When his feet hit the board, the jump would terminate. And the inflated chest would drop a full foot into Jimmy’s secret talent…the ability to inflate his stomach into something that looked like he had inhaled a whole watermelon. He would look down at the bulging stomach with a puzzled look as if he had no idea what had happened and then, using his index finger, he would press in on the inflated area and simultaneously spew out water from his mouth that he had been holding the entire time of the performance.
To conclude the con job, he would make one of the most UN-graceful dives imaginable into the water, knowing full well that no one that had not seen the act before could have imagined how it would end. And those who knew would never tell. It was always fun to see.
And that’s the way I remember it.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Beardslee Lake and Memories
The weeds along the dirt path led from our house North through the field that was later to become the high school football stadium. It skirted a line of pine and live oak trees and fell slightly downhill to the landing where my father always kept a fishing skiff. I always looked with a bit of fear and apprehension each time I placed my foot along the path with the expectation of seeing a water moccasin lying in wait. I knew it had happened before. I'd heard many times the story of Peg Leg Joe, an old black man who lived behind the house of Mr. Walter Barber in a small building along the lane. Joe had once killed a moccasin as big thick as a large man's arm and I was certain it could happen again.
The giant live oaks were also our place to set homemade traps for flying squirrels. The next morning would always start early with a mad dash to inspect the traps before going to school. The traps were usually tripped by some of the more numerous gray squirrels which, because of their larger size, often knocked the traps from the trees or chewed their way out of them before I could get there. Either way; empty traps...no squirrels.
My most vivid, and often told memory of the Lake was going with the boy from the house behind mine to find an alligator alleged to have been shot and sunk in a place known precisely by my neighbor. This knowledge was attributed to the fact that the shooter was his uncle with a reputation for defending himself from alligators in the event they even looked like they were even interested in him. I suspect he judged them all to be interested.
At any rate, the boy had come to my house late in the afternoon and had to successfully convince my father that we two boys would be perfectly safe in retreiving this completely docile (most dead alligators are) creature who would be returned to his uncle who would skin and sell the hide. The money, though some would have thought it to be ill-gotten since killing alligators was illegal, would be divided three ways with the two of us boys each getting some fantastic sum. Possibly as much as $7 to $15 dollars each.
My father was a conservative, careful, and thoughtful man and, likely, the most honest man that ever lived. He was certainly the most honest that I ever knew. The idea of taking foolish chances on the water combined with the upfront admission that this adventure would involve the illegal act of selling an alligator would never pass muster with him! My friend had no chance. So, of course, my Dad let us go! I never figured out what happened.
We boys, actually small children with a combined body weight that scarcely exceeded 100 pounds, paddled North across Beardslee Lake in boat we referred to as a 'double ender'. More people today familiar with the boats made famous in South Louisiana would call it a pirogue. It was no more than 10 long and had less than six inches of free board (the distance from the water to the top of the boat's sides). We paddled around the point on which the Cunningham house stood and entered the smaller part of the lake with the sun setting at our backs. As our course changed from North to East, we noticed the lights of parked cars along the causeway from Moss Point to Escatawpa that gave evidence of some major event. And since the alligator was not far away from the cars and very little out of our way, we decided to investigate the lights before claiming our prize. Dead alligators would wait.
We will always owe a debt to Harold Rabby. It seems that Harold, a full-fledged adult with a son almost my age, had heard of the alligator's untimely demise and its location. and recognizing the value of the hide, had decided to raise it from its watery grave, skin it, sell the pelt, and share the money with no one. Except after gaffing and securing the gator to his boat that was infinitely more substantial than ours, it seems that a miracle occurred! The alligator was not dead. In fact , it remained lively enough to tow Harold more than two miles before tiring enough to be subdued, brought to land at the causeway, and inspected by the occupants of at least twelve or fifteen cars. At this time in Moss Point, Mississippi, this would classify as a world class traffic jam. In spite of our ages, it didn't take either of us boys too long to imagine our fate had the alligator (that was a full ten...or twelve...or twenty feet long) come back to life with us rather than Harold on the other end of the rope.
I remember the small islands that separated the lake from the river and spending nights camping out with friends. Our only worry was whether or not the fishing boats returning from the Gulf of Mexico to the menhaden plants would cause such a wake that the water would roll over our camp. It never did, of course, but since the highest part of the island was probably no more than four feet higher than the river's high tide mark, we probably had some right to be concerned.
I remember fishing the lake with my father and catching my first fish on a fly rod. And on another day, I remember my Dad catching a large bass on the South end of the lake by casting over a log, hooking the fish and having to work the fish over the log without losing him. And for some reason that I don't understand, I remember going with him on a bright Saturday morning in the Spring and catching a fine number of bream beside a uniquely shaped cypress tree. For years, I have often drifted past that same spot and have never seen the water more than a foot deep. While I don't believe that we possibly could have caught our fish in such shallow water, neither do I believe for a second that I remember the wrong tree.
Because that's definitely the way I remember it.
The giant live oaks were also our place to set homemade traps for flying squirrels. The next morning would always start early with a mad dash to inspect the traps before going to school. The traps were usually tripped by some of the more numerous gray squirrels which, because of their larger size, often knocked the traps from the trees or chewed their way out of them before I could get there. Either way; empty traps...no squirrels.
My most vivid, and often told memory of the Lake was going with the boy from the house behind mine to find an alligator alleged to have been shot and sunk in a place known precisely by my neighbor. This knowledge was attributed to the fact that the shooter was his uncle with a reputation for defending himself from alligators in the event they even looked like they were even interested in him. I suspect he judged them all to be interested.
At any rate, the boy had come to my house late in the afternoon and had to successfully convince my father that we two boys would be perfectly safe in retreiving this completely docile (most dead alligators are) creature who would be returned to his uncle who would skin and sell the hide. The money, though some would have thought it to be ill-gotten since killing alligators was illegal, would be divided three ways with the two of us boys each getting some fantastic sum. Possibly as much as $7 to $15 dollars each.
My father was a conservative, careful, and thoughtful man and, likely, the most honest man that ever lived. He was certainly the most honest that I ever knew. The idea of taking foolish chances on the water combined with the upfront admission that this adventure would involve the illegal act of selling an alligator would never pass muster with him! My friend had no chance. So, of course, my Dad let us go! I never figured out what happened.
We boys, actually small children with a combined body weight that scarcely exceeded 100 pounds, paddled North across Beardslee Lake in boat we referred to as a 'double ender'. More people today familiar with the boats made famous in South Louisiana would call it a pirogue. It was no more than 10 long and had less than six inches of free board (the distance from the water to the top of the boat's sides). We paddled around the point on which the Cunningham house stood and entered the smaller part of the lake with the sun setting at our backs. As our course changed from North to East, we noticed the lights of parked cars along the causeway from Moss Point to Escatawpa that gave evidence of some major event. And since the alligator was not far away from the cars and very little out of our way, we decided to investigate the lights before claiming our prize. Dead alligators would wait.
We will always owe a debt to Harold Rabby. It seems that Harold, a full-fledged adult with a son almost my age, had heard of the alligator's untimely demise and its location. and recognizing the value of the hide, had decided to raise it from its watery grave, skin it, sell the pelt, and share the money with no one. Except after gaffing and securing the gator to his boat that was infinitely more substantial than ours, it seems that a miracle occurred! The alligator was not dead. In fact , it remained lively enough to tow Harold more than two miles before tiring enough to be subdued, brought to land at the causeway, and inspected by the occupants of at least twelve or fifteen cars. At this time in Moss Point, Mississippi, this would classify as a world class traffic jam. In spite of our ages, it didn't take either of us boys too long to imagine our fate had the alligator (that was a full ten...or twelve...or twenty feet long) come back to life with us rather than Harold on the other end of the rope.
I remember the small islands that separated the lake from the river and spending nights camping out with friends. Our only worry was whether or not the fishing boats returning from the Gulf of Mexico to the menhaden plants would cause such a wake that the water would roll over our camp. It never did, of course, but since the highest part of the island was probably no more than four feet higher than the river's high tide mark, we probably had some right to be concerned.
I remember fishing the lake with my father and catching my first fish on a fly rod. And on another day, I remember my Dad catching a large bass on the South end of the lake by casting over a log, hooking the fish and having to work the fish over the log without losing him. And for some reason that I don't understand, I remember going with him on a bright Saturday morning in the Spring and catching a fine number of bream beside a uniquely shaped cypress tree. For years, I have often drifted past that same spot and have never seen the water more than a foot deep. While I don't believe that we possibly could have caught our fish in such shallow water, neither do I believe for a second that I remember the wrong tree.
Because that's definitely the way I remember it.
Friday, July 20, 2007
The Original Boys of Summer - Before Steroids
In 1987, Roger Kahn wrote a novel entitled The Boys of Summer. Kahn's was a baseball book centered on the Brooklyn Dodgers and their exploits of the early 1950's.
My memories of the boys of summer that I grew up with in the late 40's and early 50's featured a different cast of characters, different environments, and most assuredly different rules.
Kahn's characters were professional athletes. Robinson, Snider, Campanella, Lockman, Reese, Furillo, Preacher Roe, and others. Their playing ground was Ebbetts Field. All of the Dodgers were heroes to many and hated rivals to others. They set standards for performance that were admired by most and achieved by few.
But my boys......
Summer mornings began with heavy dew and muggy heat. But by eight o’clock every boy for a half mile in every direction congregated on the vacant space next to the high school football field. Fortunately, it was across the street from my house. No grown-ups present…they all had things to do. They had their kid’s word for where they would be. And that was good enough.
Paper bags served as bases and were located as close to the dimensions of a baseball field as possible. Three boys would bring the best baseballs they owned (all of them are old and ragged) and two or three wooden bats would appear. Most were discards from the high school team. The bats had a common trait. They’d all been broken, pinned together by small wire nails, and then taped with friction tape to reinforce the repair work. The idea of having a new bat was ludicrous. The ones we had worked fine. Most of the kids had some sort of baseball gloves. Often, the better players were the ones that didn’t.
The two kids that were considered by the majority to be the best players were named captains/coach/manager. Often, one of them would claim that they really weren’t one of the two best. The motivation here was neither modesty nor honesty. It’s an attempt to end up on the team with the other best player. It never worked. They chose their teammates by alternately calling out the names from all of those attending. Everyone was chosen. If there was an odd number, it really didn’t matter. Having the weakest player as an extra was never considered to be an advantage. In fact, when he had to bat it became a disadvantage. And being recognized as the weakest player was not an intended insult. No matter where they were picked, the kids knew who was the best and who was the weakest player. It was just a recognized fact that we all knew would end with another year’s growth and experience.
The captains would then assign positions. This wasn’t very tough because before too much time had passed, the fastest kids had become considered by everyone to be outfielders, the slower ones first basemen, those that threw the best were named pitchers and shortstops, and finally, if there was one willing to do it, the catcher position was filled. The catcher also served as the umpire calling balls and strikes. If you were willing to catch, you always got chosen before that last name was called. I played catcher.
Semi-regular rules of baseball were used with a few exceptions; no nine-inning rule and the number of players was determined by how many showed up. The game continued until mothers began calling their sons home for lunch. That usually took about an hour and a half. There was the process of cleaning up, doing a few small chores that had been discovered during the time the morning game was played, eating, and following that sage advice that every Southern mother fervently believed in, “You can’t go and get hot until your lunch settles”.
And as soon as all of the mothers were satisfied that we wouldn’t get heat stroke or worse, the game resumed. All games were ended by darkness or rain. Every day. Six days a week.
Things began to change in 1952. Little League baseball was introduced to Moss Point. With uniforms and regulation fields and new bats and balls. And real umpires and scorekeepers. And, worst of all, parents. Not all parents. Just some. Helping.
There is a tragedy here for those of us who know the difference. There are no longer vacant lots or fields that kids can safely play on unsupervised. They can’t ride their bicycles a half mile through traffic going 60 miles per hour so that they can meet. And there are no longer parents that truly believe that their children are capable of organizing and conducting and even teaching games without adult help. And we worry that if my child is chosen last he will be damaged psychologically and scarred for life instead of realizing that next year he will be a year older and will likely be the choosing captain as a rite of passage into the second or third grade. Or he may find out that he doesn't like baseball. And that's not all bad.
While many thought that The Boys of Summer was the best baseball book ever written, one reviewer said that it really was not even a book about baseball. He said it was a book about courage, love, hate, determination, gratitude, loss, rebirth, frustration, jubilation, acceptance, and family. At its core, he said, it's a book about life.
And if he had added responsibility, teamwork, sharing, leadership, maturation, and an unbelievable amount of good fortune, he could have been talking about my Boys of Summer as well.
At least that's the way I remember it.....
My memories of the boys of summer that I grew up with in the late 40's and early 50's featured a different cast of characters, different environments, and most assuredly different rules.
Kahn's characters were professional athletes. Robinson, Snider, Campanella, Lockman, Reese, Furillo, Preacher Roe, and others. Their playing ground was Ebbetts Field. All of the Dodgers were heroes to many and hated rivals to others. They set standards for performance that were admired by most and achieved by few.
But my boys......
Summer mornings began with heavy dew and muggy heat. But by eight o’clock every boy for a half mile in every direction congregated on the vacant space next to the high school football field. Fortunately, it was across the street from my house. No grown-ups present…they all had things to do. They had their kid’s word for where they would be. And that was good enough.
Paper bags served as bases and were located as close to the dimensions of a baseball field as possible. Three boys would bring the best baseballs they owned (all of them are old and ragged) and two or three wooden bats would appear. Most were discards from the high school team. The bats had a common trait. They’d all been broken, pinned together by small wire nails, and then taped with friction tape to reinforce the repair work. The idea of having a new bat was ludicrous. The ones we had worked fine. Most of the kids had some sort of baseball gloves. Often, the better players were the ones that didn’t.
The two kids that were considered by the majority to be the best players were named captains/coach/manager. Often, one of them would claim that they really weren’t one of the two best. The motivation here was neither modesty nor honesty. It’s an attempt to end up on the team with the other best player. It never worked. They chose their teammates by alternately calling out the names from all of those attending. Everyone was chosen. If there was an odd number, it really didn’t matter. Having the weakest player as an extra was never considered to be an advantage. In fact, when he had to bat it became a disadvantage. And being recognized as the weakest player was not an intended insult. No matter where they were picked, the kids knew who was the best and who was the weakest player. It was just a recognized fact that we all knew would end with another year’s growth and experience.
The captains would then assign positions. This wasn’t very tough because before too much time had passed, the fastest kids had become considered by everyone to be outfielders, the slower ones first basemen, those that threw the best were named pitchers and shortstops, and finally, if there was one willing to do it, the catcher position was filled. The catcher also served as the umpire calling balls and strikes. If you were willing to catch, you always got chosen before that last name was called. I played catcher.
Semi-regular rules of baseball were used with a few exceptions; no nine-inning rule and the number of players was determined by how many showed up. The game continued until mothers began calling their sons home for lunch. That usually took about an hour and a half. There was the process of cleaning up, doing a few small chores that had been discovered during the time the morning game was played, eating, and following that sage advice that every Southern mother fervently believed in, “You can’t go and get hot until your lunch settles”.
And as soon as all of the mothers were satisfied that we wouldn’t get heat stroke or worse, the game resumed. All games were ended by darkness or rain. Every day. Six days a week.
Things began to change in 1952. Little League baseball was introduced to Moss Point. With uniforms and regulation fields and new bats and balls. And real umpires and scorekeepers. And, worst of all, parents. Not all parents. Just some. Helping.
There is a tragedy here for those of us who know the difference. There are no longer vacant lots or fields that kids can safely play on unsupervised. They can’t ride their bicycles a half mile through traffic going 60 miles per hour so that they can meet. And there are no longer parents that truly believe that their children are capable of organizing and conducting and even teaching games without adult help. And we worry that if my child is chosen last he will be damaged psychologically and scarred for life instead of realizing that next year he will be a year older and will likely be the choosing captain as a rite of passage into the second or third grade. Or he may find out that he doesn't like baseball. And that's not all bad.
While many thought that The Boys of Summer was the best baseball book ever written, one reviewer said that it really was not even a book about baseball. He said it was a book about courage, love, hate, determination, gratitude, loss, rebirth, frustration, jubilation, acceptance, and family. At its core, he said, it's a book about life.
And if he had added responsibility, teamwork, sharing, leadership, maturation, and an unbelievable amount of good fortune, he could have been talking about my Boys of Summer as well.
At least that's the way I remember it.....
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
For Sale - Self Pity
There was a temptation to write this piece first. I was also tempted to save it for much later. I was NEVER tempted not to write it; only concerned that I would not do it justice. I truly consider this one of the defining moments of my life. I hope I treat it as such.
I doubt there are many days in our lives when we don't have the opportunity to learn important lessons. I was always fascinated that in spite of working for the same company for nearly 40 years, I not only found something new on a regular basis...I learned something basic. How can you do related things for that long and still not grasp the fundamentals? I guess it's because there is so much to learn about anything. And especially about life and how to live it.
One of the psychological games that was played in the workplace during my working years was attempting to corner the market on sympathy. There was a big market for sympathy but it was a hard sell.
In passing a co-worker in the hallway, the usual greeting was, "How's it going?" It wasn't really a greeting. It was a way to begin a competition. And the two competitors, previously referred to as co-workers, would launch into the exchange of vivid stories about how badly their day was going, who was ruining it, what the pains being experienced were, and how it was totally impossible that anyone could be having a day that even approached the agony they were unjustly experiencing. Without fear of boasting, let me be very clear. I was GOOD at it. I could bring tears to your eyes even when your plan was to have no sympathy for anyone other than yourself. And the scary part was that, for the most part, I believed it.
That was twenty-three years ago.
My daily practice at that time was to pass by my Mother's house on the drive home from work. She lived only three blocks from me and was living alone since the death of my father about a year earlier. At my insistence, she usually kept the front door locked because her mobility kept her from rapidly answering visitor knocks and I didn't want people to have the option of just letting themselves in and surprising her.
It had been a tough day. One of the toughest I could remember. My mind kept racing as I drove about the events of the day and how difficult it had been. I reached my mother's door and let myself in with my key. She was standing across the room.
She trembled a little as she stood there using a wheelchair as a walker. What little hair she had after all of the chemotheraphy treatments from her two bouts with lymphomia were covered by a babushka. Her complexion was more golden than pink because of jaundicing. Her plastic cosmetic braces on both of her lower legs were visible and made walking, while difficult, possible despite her bouts with a form of muscular dystrophy called Charcot-Marie-Tooth disease. And this was the way she led everyday. Confined inside a small house with movement between rooms constituting a major project. Constantly having to deal with the effect of medications. And still missing her husband and my father.
I looked and her and asked, "How are you today?", and she returned the look with a smile.
"Very well, thank you".
What a jerk! Here I was with a life filled with blessings and recognizing none of them. And here she was with more challenges in her day than I had experienced in my life (added together) and being defeated by NONE OF THEM! A man standing six feet six inches never felt so small.
I never competed in that hallway game again. Instead, when posed with the "How's it going?" question, I would respond, "Very well, thank you" or "Darn near perfect". Thanks, Mom. You got it right again!
And that's how I'll always remember it.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Respecting One's Elders Did Have A Few Exceptions
One thing that seems to have endured more in the South than in other parts of the country is how many adults doggedly cling to the requirement for developing youth to properly address their elders in a respectful manner. As a rule, this meant using names like Mr. Smith, Mrs. Jones, or Miss Lee (assuming she was over 18 years of age). And when asked a question, the reply was not yes or no (yeah or naw would result in a death sentence for the offender), it was Yes, Sir or No, Ma'am. These rules were generally firm, fixed, and inflexible. But there were exceptions.
There were probably more exceptions than quickly come to mind, but the one that I always think of is Miss Bessie. I was probably in my teens before I really knew that her full name was Bessie Cowan, but it certainly didn't matter. Everyone in town, regardless of their age, knew her as Miss Bessie. No one would have recognized the name Miss Cowan.
Miss Bessie likely holds a special place in the hearts of lots of kids that grew up in Moss Point's Presbyterian Church. She does in mine. My memories of her picture a very small woman with snow white hair that was always done in tight curls. Although Southerners sometimes take liberties and apply the title "Miss" to women who are or have been married, marriage was never a part of Miss Bessie's life. Maybe that's why she loved every child in the church as she did; we were her kids. She taught every beginners class (which began when you entered the first grade) for years and was absolutely tireless in preparing and participating in Vacation Bible School (VBS) each summer.
My memories of Miss Bessie include three small events. Small, that is, if you look at them in terms of their time and effort. But each of them had a profound impact on my life.
The first was during a VBS session when she challenged each of us to actively ask our friends to come the next day. "Don't ask just one, ask them all". And I asked a few. And a couple came. Miss Bessie would smile and ask if those were the only friends I had. So I asked more. And so did others. And by the end of the week, we had, by far, the largest group ever assembled for a VBS. And on the last day, Miss Bessie told us about being 'Fishers of Men'. She even passed out fishing lures to the boys. We didn't know what words like witnessing or evangelizing meant. But Miss Bessie sure did.
Miss Bessie was the person who taught us the Ten Commandments. We each were assigned one and not only learned it but stood before an audience and told them what it meant. I was given 'Honor thy Father and Mother....". And I did.
And there is no way to tell how many children received their first Bible from Miss Bessie. I seem to remember that a small white New Testament was given to every Sunday School student who had perfect attendance for a year. But somehow, I suspect that Miss Bessie made sure that every child got one regardless of whether or not they met the attendance standard.
I don't think that anyone can put a value on being mentored by people like Miss Bessie Cowan. There was a popular book that came out a few years ago entitled, "Everything I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten". Miss Bessie beat that author by fifty years in Sunday School.
There were probably more exceptions than quickly come to mind, but the one that I always think of is Miss Bessie. I was probably in my teens before I really knew that her full name was Bessie Cowan, but it certainly didn't matter. Everyone in town, regardless of their age, knew her as Miss Bessie. No one would have recognized the name Miss Cowan.
Miss Bessie likely holds a special place in the hearts of lots of kids that grew up in Moss Point's Presbyterian Church. She does in mine. My memories of her picture a very small woman with snow white hair that was always done in tight curls. Although Southerners sometimes take liberties and apply the title "Miss" to women who are or have been married, marriage was never a part of Miss Bessie's life. Maybe that's why she loved every child in the church as she did; we were her kids. She taught every beginners class (which began when you entered the first grade) for years and was absolutely tireless in preparing and participating in Vacation Bible School (VBS) each summer.
My memories of Miss Bessie include three small events. Small, that is, if you look at them in terms of their time and effort. But each of them had a profound impact on my life.
The first was during a VBS session when she challenged each of us to actively ask our friends to come the next day. "Don't ask just one, ask them all". And I asked a few. And a couple came. Miss Bessie would smile and ask if those were the only friends I had. So I asked more. And so did others. And by the end of the week, we had, by far, the largest group ever assembled for a VBS. And on the last day, Miss Bessie told us about being 'Fishers of Men'. She even passed out fishing lures to the boys. We didn't know what words like witnessing or evangelizing meant. But Miss Bessie sure did.
Miss Bessie was the person who taught us the Ten Commandments. We each were assigned one and not only learned it but stood before an audience and told them what it meant. I was given 'Honor thy Father and Mother....". And I did.
And there is no way to tell how many children received their first Bible from Miss Bessie. I seem to remember that a small white New Testament was given to every Sunday School student who had perfect attendance for a year. But somehow, I suspect that Miss Bessie made sure that every child got one regardless of whether or not they met the attendance standard.
I don't think that anyone can put a value on being mentored by people like Miss Bessie Cowan. There was a popular book that came out a few years ago entitled, "Everything I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten". Miss Bessie beat that author by fifty years in Sunday School.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Piano Lessons - Cruel and Unusual Punishment?
There is a constitutional ban on cruel and unusual punishment. It's been on the books for years. But for some unexplained reason, only the courts consider the issue of whether or not punishment is unconstitutional, and that means it is not usually applied to young people of elementary school age when they believe they have been wronged. Good thing, too! Otherwise, our court system would have broken down years ago under the weight of kids dragging well- meaning, but basically clueless, parents before hizzoner and suing.
Judge: "Well, Richard, what have they done this time"?
Richard: "This one takes the cake, your Honor Lordship, Sir". They've enrolled me in Mrs. Brock's piano lessons during the period following the fifth grade lunch time".
Judge: "Is that bad"?
Richard: "Your Kingship, my father is the high school football coach. I'm the fifth grade quarterback. I deserve respect. I require respect. And I'm the only boy taking piano lessons".
Judge: "FIENDS"!
Obviously, this conversation did not take place. But if fifth graders could have filed suits, I would have! Democracy was not in place when the decision was made that I would learn to play the piano. There was no vote. No discussion. No chance to express opposition. Things were a bit different in those days. "Because I said so" was all the reason necessary to finalize any parental action. It was a done deal. I WOULD take piano lessons.
In those days, piano lessons were part of the school curriculum. On Thursdays, immediately following lunch, a sweet young lady name Anise Brock would come to the door of Mrs. Hassell's fifth grade classroom, tap lightly, and announce that it was time for Richard to come to his piano lesson. I can still hear the snickering! Boys and girls, but mainly boys, in that somewhat melodic sing-song lilt that every grade-schooler knows how to do instinctively, 'Richard. It time for your pee-ann-oh lesson'. And I would have to stand, exit the room before all of the gleefully staring eyes and follow Mrs. Brock to the piano room. And hour later, I would have to return and face the most forgetful people on earth. They must have been because each of them would ask where I had been.
As the only male member of this group of tortured children, I was sure that my life was over. It could not possibly get worse. But it did.
I found out that at the completion of the year, there would be a recital. Mandatory. Non-elective. You had to wear a tie and not only did I not own one, I had never even put one on. Begging to quit did no good. My father was not big on quitting anything you started. The best deal I could make was that if I didn't want to continue after the year was over, I could become a sixth grade piano dropout.
I couldn't wait!
The first twenty minutes of each lesson was spent in instruction learning notes, new scales, and exercises. The last forty minutes was spent practicing those exercises. I rarely used this time as it was intended. Instead, I was determined that if I had to play in the recital, I would NOT embarrass myself any more than my involuntary presence would shame me. So, after careful research and selection, Mrs. Brock and I agreed on a wonderfully complex (sarcasm intended) piece of music for first year students and I learned to play "The Campbells Are Coming" as competently as Van Cliburn could have played it. Unfortunately, I learned to play NOTHING else. But I can play that piece this very day.
The recital was anticlimactic. No one cared. No friends came...thankfully. I raced through 'the Campbells' at a speed far faster than the composer ever imagined possible. And at the end of the year, it was over.
There is no way to estimate how many times through the years that I've spoken of these experiences and had friends tell me how they regret dropping out of music lessons and asking if I don't have the same regret. I always give the honest answer. Not for a single minute! Would I like some musical training? Yes. Would I enjoy playing some instrument? Certainly. But not at the same time as being a fifth grade quarterback!
Sinatra sang, ‘Regrets, I’ve had a few”. And so do I. And one of my biggest ones was that neither of my younger brothers had to endure the same cruel and unusual experience. Sooner or later, we learn that life isn’t fair!
At least, that's the way I remember it.
Judge: "Well, Richard, what have they done this time"?
Richard: "This one takes the cake, your Honor Lordship, Sir". They've enrolled me in Mrs. Brock's piano lessons during the period following the fifth grade lunch time".
Judge: "Is that bad"?
Richard: "Your Kingship, my father is the high school football coach. I'm the fifth grade quarterback. I deserve respect. I require respect. And I'm the only boy taking piano lessons".
Judge: "FIENDS"!
Obviously, this conversation did not take place. But if fifth graders could have filed suits, I would have! Democracy was not in place when the decision was made that I would learn to play the piano. There was no vote. No discussion. No chance to express opposition. Things were a bit different in those days. "Because I said so" was all the reason necessary to finalize any parental action. It was a done deal. I WOULD take piano lessons.
In those days, piano lessons were part of the school curriculum. On Thursdays, immediately following lunch, a sweet young lady name Anise Brock would come to the door of Mrs. Hassell's fifth grade classroom, tap lightly, and announce that it was time for Richard to come to his piano lesson. I can still hear the snickering! Boys and girls, but mainly boys, in that somewhat melodic sing-song lilt that every grade-schooler knows how to do instinctively, 'Richard. It time for your pee-ann-oh lesson'. And I would have to stand, exit the room before all of the gleefully staring eyes and follow Mrs. Brock to the piano room. And hour later, I would have to return and face the most forgetful people on earth. They must have been because each of them would ask where I had been.
As the only male member of this group of tortured children, I was sure that my life was over. It could not possibly get worse. But it did.
I found out that at the completion of the year, there would be a recital. Mandatory. Non-elective. You had to wear a tie and not only did I not own one, I had never even put one on. Begging to quit did no good. My father was not big on quitting anything you started. The best deal I could make was that if I didn't want to continue after the year was over, I could become a sixth grade piano dropout.
I couldn't wait!
The first twenty minutes of each lesson was spent in instruction learning notes, new scales, and exercises. The last forty minutes was spent practicing those exercises. I rarely used this time as it was intended. Instead, I was determined that if I had to play in the recital, I would NOT embarrass myself any more than my involuntary presence would shame me. So, after careful research and selection, Mrs. Brock and I agreed on a wonderfully complex (sarcasm intended) piece of music for first year students and I learned to play "The Campbells Are Coming" as competently as Van Cliburn could have played it. Unfortunately, I learned to play NOTHING else. But I can play that piece this very day.
The recital was anticlimactic. No one cared. No friends came...thankfully. I raced through 'the Campbells' at a speed far faster than the composer ever imagined possible. And at the end of the year, it was over.
There is no way to estimate how many times through the years that I've spoken of these experiences and had friends tell me how they regret dropping out of music lessons and asking if I don't have the same regret. I always give the honest answer. Not for a single minute! Would I like some musical training? Yes. Would I enjoy playing some instrument? Certainly. But not at the same time as being a fifth grade quarterback!
Sinatra sang, ‘Regrets, I’ve had a few”. And so do I. And one of my biggest ones was that neither of my younger brothers had to endure the same cruel and unusual experience. Sooner or later, we learn that life isn’t fair!
At least, that's the way I remember it.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
The Theory on the Downfall of Neighborhoods....
Today it is hard to find a person that knows everyone that lives within a tenth of a mile in all directions. In cities, this would mean with a city block. But I grew up in a time when we knew EVERYBODY. We knew what they did for a living, where they went to church, who had visited them within the last month, and what the names of their pets were. We knew what clubs they belonged to and their children's grades in school. We knew everything we needed to know and most of the things we probably shouldn't have known.
What happened? A friend of mine in California told me while I was visiting him that he had yet to meet one of his next door neighbors but he had been busy and he had only lived in his current residence for about two years. After I stopped laughing at the idea of not even knowing who was around him, I began thinking if I was any better. Did I know my neighbors? And, if not, why?
And after diligent research and investigation I was able to develop the infallible (but not widely accepted) theory for the downfall of neighborhoods and social interaction within communities. The fault should be placed squarely on the shoulders of Air Conditioning.
I must begin by pleading guilty to hypocrisy in that I'm as addicted to being cool and comfortable as anyone. But I clearly remember walking a bit over a mile to the small business district of my hometown as a child no more than six or seven years old ALONE - without a worry on either my part or the part of my parents. Any parent allowing a child to do this today would be arrested for neglect and rightfully so. But why did it work then? Every house had a porch in front that faced the street. The swings that hung from chains and the rocking chairs were there to provide comfort, but even if the family was not on the porch the windows were wide open and everything happening outside could be seen or heard. I was looked over by the occupants of every house I passed. A couple of phone calls to friends would either result in, "he passed by here five minutes ago" or "I haven't seen him yet, wait, here he comes now".
And then came A/C.
Doors were shut. Windows were closed.
Families retreated behind blinds that minimized the amount of sunlight that penetrated into the cooled spaces. Noises were shut out. From the standpoint of neighbors, we may as well have moved into a steel cocoon.
Within a very few years, we went from knowing everything to knowing NOTHING! Not even their names. And with this change came another. Door locks! Children today cannot imagine leaving their house without locking everything up tight. I can truthfully say that most of the years when I was growing up, we didn't even know where the key to the door was! I clearly recall leaving for several days and returning home to find a note on the table in the kitchen expressing regret that visitors had missed finding us at home.
They had helped themselves to a pot of coffee, cleaned up after themselves, and even put away the only luxury I ever remember my mother having...her silverware. No thought was ever given to the fact that they had entered the house unescorted...or that they had used and consumed coffee and whatever was available in the refrigerator...or that they had even used the "good silver". My parents only regretted that they had missed seeing their friends.
As I flew home from my visit to California, I vowed to do something about my own shortcoming in the neighbor department. After discussing it with wife Martha, we decided we would host a 'block party' sort of gathering and invite as many neighbors as we could adequately handle logistically. Obviously, many of them would not or could not come, but we would give a chance for others to meet and greet. The number invited turned out to be 56. We set up tables on the front lawn in October and asked each guest family to bring a dish if they chose, but to come under any circumstance. We furnished the fried fish and the drinks. And of the 56, 53 came. So we waited for a couple of years and did it again, this time inviting almost 120 people. More than 100 came. And we had great times! I suppose neighbors still want to be neighborly.
Wouldn't it be great if I could say that this changed things and everyone became close friends that met and shared and greeted and visited just as we did during my childhood? It would be. But it didn't happen. Damn Air Conditioning!
At least that's the way I remember it.
What happened? A friend of mine in California told me while I was visiting him that he had yet to meet one of his next door neighbors but he had been busy and he had only lived in his current residence for about two years. After I stopped laughing at the idea of not even knowing who was around him, I began thinking if I was any better. Did I know my neighbors? And, if not, why?
And after diligent research and investigation I was able to develop the infallible (but not widely accepted) theory for the downfall of neighborhoods and social interaction within communities. The fault should be placed squarely on the shoulders of Air Conditioning.
I must begin by pleading guilty to hypocrisy in that I'm as addicted to being cool and comfortable as anyone. But I clearly remember walking a bit over a mile to the small business district of my hometown as a child no more than six or seven years old ALONE - without a worry on either my part or the part of my parents. Any parent allowing a child to do this today would be arrested for neglect and rightfully so. But why did it work then? Every house had a porch in front that faced the street. The swings that hung from chains and the rocking chairs were there to provide comfort, but even if the family was not on the porch the windows were wide open and everything happening outside could be seen or heard. I was looked over by the occupants of every house I passed. A couple of phone calls to friends would either result in, "he passed by here five minutes ago" or "I haven't seen him yet, wait, here he comes now".
And then came A/C.
Doors were shut. Windows were closed.
Families retreated behind blinds that minimized the amount of sunlight that penetrated into the cooled spaces. Noises were shut out. From the standpoint of neighbors, we may as well have moved into a steel cocoon.
Within a very few years, we went from knowing everything to knowing NOTHING! Not even their names. And with this change came another. Door locks! Children today cannot imagine leaving their house without locking everything up tight. I can truthfully say that most of the years when I was growing up, we didn't even know where the key to the door was! I clearly recall leaving for several days and returning home to find a note on the table in the kitchen expressing regret that visitors had missed finding us at home.
They had helped themselves to a pot of coffee, cleaned up after themselves, and even put away the only luxury I ever remember my mother having...her silverware. No thought was ever given to the fact that they had entered the house unescorted...or that they had used and consumed coffee and whatever was available in the refrigerator...or that they had even used the "good silver". My parents only regretted that they had missed seeing their friends.
As I flew home from my visit to California, I vowed to do something about my own shortcoming in the neighbor department. After discussing it with wife Martha, we decided we would host a 'block party' sort of gathering and invite as many neighbors as we could adequately handle logistically. Obviously, many of them would not or could not come, but we would give a chance for others to meet and greet. The number invited turned out to be 56. We set up tables on the front lawn in October and asked each guest family to bring a dish if they chose, but to come under any circumstance. We furnished the fried fish and the drinks. And of the 56, 53 came. So we waited for a couple of years and did it again, this time inviting almost 120 people. More than 100 came. And we had great times! I suppose neighbors still want to be neighborly.
Wouldn't it be great if I could say that this changed things and everyone became close friends that met and shared and greeted and visited just as we did during my childhood? It would be. But it didn't happen. Damn Air Conditioning!
At least that's the way I remember it.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
The way I remember it.....
My mother's Aunt Rosa was a woman of letters and opinions. She loved Blue Mountain College and Baptists and avidly supported both. She had high standards for life and high expectations...both for herself and any other member of her family. She loved most of the rituals of life with the favorites being the beginnings and endings of adulthood. Her son, Price, made it a point to personally visit each person at the cemetery when his mother was buried and invite them to his house for coffee and cake. Price said that was the way she would have wanted it because, "there was nothing that Mother loved more than a good wedding or a good funeral".
But the tenet that Aunt Rosa held that always stayed with me was that "everyone, at some point in their life, should write a book". I found that amazing! I still do! How could she possibly believe that? After all, as far as I knew Aunt Rosa herself had not written a book. Little did I know.
It turned out that despite advancing years, she completed a book of the Paschal family history. Essentially a geneology, no one was particularly eager to publish her book. Did I mention that Aunt Rosa had high standards and expectations? Well, she also had a few dollars. And not easily dissuaded, she paid for the publishing and gave the books as presents to family and friends. I truly regret that I've never been able to have one of these proofs of her talent and determination.
And what's the point of this story? Life has changed from the times that my mother's aunt took up writing. The tools of creation and publication now include the computer and the internet. No longer do we require a publisher to be able to share written anecdotes with others. So as I find myself also classified as a member of advancing age, I'm going to periodically take up a challenge from current friends and relatives and from a long departed great aunt and try to document short memories before they become shorter.
All will have elements of facts and truth to the best of my ability. At least I'll be able to end them all with..."that's the way I remember it".
But the tenet that Aunt Rosa held that always stayed with me was that "everyone, at some point in their life, should write a book". I found that amazing! I still do! How could she possibly believe that? After all, as far as I knew Aunt Rosa herself had not written a book. Little did I know.
It turned out that despite advancing years, she completed a book of the Paschal family history. Essentially a geneology, no one was particularly eager to publish her book. Did I mention that Aunt Rosa had high standards and expectations? Well, she also had a few dollars. And not easily dissuaded, she paid for the publishing and gave the books as presents to family and friends. I truly regret that I've never been able to have one of these proofs of her talent and determination.
And what's the point of this story? Life has changed from the times that my mother's aunt took up writing. The tools of creation and publication now include the computer and the internet. No longer do we require a publisher to be able to share written anecdotes with others. So as I find myself also classified as a member of advancing age, I'm going to periodically take up a challenge from current friends and relatives and from a long departed great aunt and try to document short memories before they become shorter.
All will have elements of facts and truth to the best of my ability. At least I'll be able to end them all with..."that's the way I remember it".
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