...Pertaining to Easter

      On Easter Sunday in 1938, my father Richard V. Shields, Jr. of Pelahatchie, MS married my mother Erma Belle Paschal in Bessemer, AL.  My family believes that the derivation of the name Shields likely comes from the Scotch-Irish folk who probably were armorers.  We know that the definition of Paschal means pertaining to Easter, which made the choice of the wedding date for the bride most appropriate.

     The couple made their way to Moss Point, MS and became the parents of two sons.  In 1948, they added a daughter to the family and shortly before my sister’s  birth, my mother contracted Bell’s Palsy which effected the nerves on one side of her face. On Easter Sunday of that year, an aunt, my father’s sister, in Mobile, AL visited my mother and the new addition to the family and brought, as a gift, a rose bush.  We always referred to the rose as the Aunt Mary Rose, but years later an attempt to determine the correct name left us reasonably sure that it was a heirloom tea rose, cream in color, named the Paschal rose.  Pretty appropriate, don’t you think?  But, wait, there’s more.  The new daughter was named Lenore Paschal Shields.

     While the rose was not particularly outstanding when open in full bloom, the bud shapes and colors were perfect!  And the bush was prolific in putting out new plants from the root system.  We dug the new volunteer plants and shared them with friends and neighbors throughout the county and far beyond.  At one time, everyone in my neighborhood had one of these roses in their yard.

      But roses are somewhat like people.  Some just get old and die.  Others contract some malady.  And when Hurricane Katrina came in 2005 and covered the vast majority of the bushes with salt water…though only for a short while…it was the death knell for the Aunt Mary/Paschal rose.  We couldn’t find a single survivor.

     A few years ago, neighbors Joe and Sarah May found a small rose bush nestled in high weeds on one of the higher places on the boundary of their property. It should be noted that their property was ones of the most saturated by the storm.  They began to pamper the bush and feed it.  It survived and grew.

      Today is Easter Sunday, 2014…sixty-six years after the introduction of the rose to Moss Point.  As I got ready for church this morning, a visitor came to my door.  Sarah May.  And she had company.  On this Easter Sunday, the rose decided to open its first bloom.  Pertaining to Easter.  How cool is that?  I wore the rose on my lapel to church.

      I suppose that should be a sufficient way to end this story, but I had one more decision to make.  What should I do with the single bloom?  It didn’t take to much effort to make the correct…actually, the only possible decision.  I gave it to my granddaughter. Clare Paschal Baumhauer.

     But Easter is a special day and harbors other special memories.

     As and old friend and I were talking about the events of the Easter rose, I was reminded of yet another Easter Sunday tradition in Moss Point and many other cities and towns across the land.  The Easter sunrise service.

     There used to be two ways in which the communities around us celebrated the resurrection of Christ on Easter Sunday.  Neither of these ways paid homage to the pomp of the Easter parades and the clothing finery that usually accompanies the holiday where families, particularly the ladies, use the date as justification for buying new clothes for each family member and insure that all of the family is at church well before time for sermon and seated in as conspicuous a pew location as possible.  On this Sunday, they don’t mind taking seats much closer to the front of the church than they normally do.  This allows them a longer walk when they exit following the sermon.  Longer walks mean more exposure.  But this practice takes place several hours after sunrise.

     At sunrise, the first opportunity to recognize the celebration of the resurrection was to attend the service hosted by the Lutheran Church that was held at the old drive-in theater.  This was the way that my mother often began the day and her children were often with her.  I don’t remember my father attending this service but as an Elder in the Presbyterian Church, he was certain to be present at the regular eleven o’clock service.  Mama and the kids were not only excused from the need to dress for the occasion and usually attended in outfits that could hardly be considered finery.  They wore their pajamas.  The old station wagon slowly drove down the side street that bounded Jerry Lee’s Grocery and eased past the booth that would have been selling tickets had a movie been playing.  Mama would find one of the less conjested areas for parking  just in case someone  parked nearby actually cared to look and see what others were wearing.  This never seemed to matter much since the attendance was always pretty sparse and the fact that many of the speakers that we would take off of the poles and bring into our car to be hung from the driver’s window didn’t work and we had to move around to find one that functioned.  That done, the service would be held and the cars would leave the dusty parking lot and head home so that the kids could begin preparation for attending the regular morning services for their respective churches and the mothers could put the finishing touched on Easter dinners.

     Moss Point got its name because it is located on the confluence of the Pascagoula River and the Escatawpa River.  Hence, Moss Point adopted the marketing moniker, the River City.  My earliest memories of Easter sunrises were held on the bank of an offshoot of the Escatawpa that was located only a short distance from the City Hall.  There was a small sand bar that was located between stands of marsh grass and weeds that provided an adequate and comfortable location for worshipers to sit in their lawn chairs brought from home or to stand if they preferred.  And its location to the river provided the perfect angle to view a magnificent sunrise. 
For some reason, as the town changed, there were several years when the service was held about a mile and a half away on the banks of the Pascagoula river that towered a good six or eight feet above the river and provided more and better seating possibilities but far worse views of a sunrise to remember the Son rise.



     But my favorite and most vivid memory of Easter Sunrise Services was to be years later when, for some reason that I can’t recall, neither of the two locations were available.  We are talking about the 1960’s.  Canceling a church service was not an option.  Canceling an Easter service would have been a heresy.  But where could it be held?  The football stadium was suggested.  It faced the wrong direction, but no one had a better idea.  A person was selected to approach the school superintendent and get permission so that the location could be made official and communicated throughout the community.  And then the word came back. DENIED!

     Unbelievable!  But a rationale came back with the verdict.  The superintendent posited that if he should grant the request for usage and was later approached with a similar request for different and more controversial purposes, he would have no grounds for denial.  Therefore, he chose the policy that he would grant usage to no one.

     With Easter fast approaching and no viable alternative in sight, word of the denial filtered back to my mother who was in the early stages of her battle with a form of muscular dystrophy.  She never said a word to anyone.  Quietly, she shuffled to the telephone and called the office of the superintendent and asked for an appointment.  When asked the nature of her business, she replied, “it’s personal”.  Her appointment was scheduled for the following Tuesday. at two o’clock.

      The office was located one block from my mother’s house and directly across the street from the football stadium.  At five minute’s until two on a sunny Tuesday afternoon, Erma Shields, dressed in her plastic braces and pants suit, presented herself to the school secretary.  Being tardy was never an option for an old school teacher.  It was an option for the administrator who kept her waiting for almost a half hour before he had his secretary usher her in and offer her a seat.

     “Good afternoon, Mrs. Shields.  What can I do for you today?”

     “Actually, I’m here to do something for you.\

     “I don’t understand.

     “It’s my understanding that you denied a request to use the stadium for the sunrise service.  Is that correct?

     “It is.  I believe that this would open the door to many other requests that we would be unable to manage.

     “So that leads me to believe that you think you are empowered to grant or deny usage to the stadium.

     “As superintendent of the school, I do have that power and responsibility.

     “And that brings me to the purpose of my visit.  Perhaps you are unaware that the land on which the stadium is built was deeded by the Dantzler family, not to the school but  to the children of the city of Moss Point, with the provision that should they ever be denied access or usage, the land would revert back to the donors.  Is that your intention?  Because if it is, I’m certainly willing to help you publicize your intention.”

     In the next few weeks, two things happened.  One was an accelerated effort on the part of several lawyers, working with the heirs of the Dantzler family, to negotiate revisions to the language of the gift that would grant control over the stadium to the school administration.  The second was that on a beautiful Easter morning, the sun rose directly behind several hundred worshipers seated in the bleachers of the stadium named after L. N. Dantzler I.
 
     And my mother smiled and said no more about it.

     And that’s the way I’ll remember it.

The Bucket List

For those who didn’t go to see the well-received film with the same title as this post, a bucket list is simply an itemized set of ambitions that one hopes to achieve before they ‘kick the bucket’ and depart from their earthly life.  This opens the door for some creative and ambitious thinking.

One would think that those of us who have reached an age that presumably allows us to see a light at the end of a tunnel and to consider that light might not be an on-coming train would be those most likely participate in this form of pondering.  So it came as a bit of a surprise when I heard the bucket list ambition coming from a 12-year old. 

“I want to swim with the dolphins.  It’s on my bucket list.”

Actually, the statement brought about two separate reactions from me.  First was the surprise that a 12 year-old would even conceive of having such a list and second, the realization that a 72 year-old had never considered having one. Pretty unambitious, I thought.  Or maybe just too easily satisfied and that was something I’d rarely been accused of!

I’ve spent some time thinking about this.  I have more time to consider these issues as this point in my life when I’m the only resident of the house on Griffin Street.  I reach a lot of conclusions…some have little, if anything, to do with the original premise, many are not altogether logical, and all are subject to change on any pretext or whim I choose to invoke. 

Are there things that I regret not having done?  Is it too late to do them?  Are there valid reasons for doing/not doing them?  Are the reasons really excuses?

Conclusion One: I’ve decided that there is a big difference between changing things that we have done and regretting having done them. Only a fool (I can already hear snickering) would refuse to change something that was obviously wrong.  And I suspect we all could have a long list of these types of things.  But I think that some of my unbelievably foolish decisions probably provided many of the major ‘lessons learned’ in my life and, as a result, likely kept me from making more…and more serious… mistakes.  Should that be the case, how can I regret them entirely?

Conclusion Two:  Like everyone with even a hint of imagination, I harbored ambitions of doing things that have gone undone.  Going to the Calgary Stampede in Canada, seeing the Galapagos Islands, spending time in the Caribbean and the Northwest, becoming qualified to teach at the college level all were on my itinerary at one time or another.  None of them got done. And today, none of them seem very important.  Could I still do some of them?  Probably.  Do I feel the drive to leap into action and rectify these omissions?  Not a bit!

My priorities have changed. I have changed.  Ten years ago I received a typed letter from my favorite (only) brother-in-law that was addressed to my two brothers and me.  It is the most outstanding letter I’ve ever received.  In it, he spoke of the things that he valued as the principles of his life and how he related them to our extended family.  He said. “Don’t ask me why, out of the blue, I would write these things, but you think about things you should say and then they never get said.  Well, that is not going to happen to me, because I’ve said them”.  He said what he wanted us to know and he said it well.  I’ll always treasure his words and his initiative.  I’ve tried to use that lesson in my life to speak to people who are important to me and let them know how I feel about them, just as Joe did to me.

Conclusion Three and Four:  Someday it will be too late to do things.  But none will get done without starting them.  And changing things have consequences.  The results from deeds done fifty years ago may play upon all of our memories and consciences and perhaps we still have the opportunity to clarify them.  But will the result be a better one or should we just let things remain as they are?  Not always an easy decision.  Perhaps the error we made could be worse should we resurrect it and try to correct it. Two wrongs make a wrong-er.

The bottom line is that I have decided that I don’t need a bucket list.  I know that I, like everyone, am bound to accept the responsibility for my decisions and actions.  Or inactions.  Good or bad.  That sounds very noble but the fact it that I have no choice.  I will be ultimately be judged and, gratefully, I will be forgiven.

But if I were going to have a bucket list, there is one item that I’d put on it.  I want to see my grandson swim with the dolphins.  And this spring, I'm going to do it.  I bought the tickets as a Christmas present last year and he’s waiting for warm weather.

Miss Hattie Daniel 1878-1973

Funny thing about our memories. Sometimes we have vivid recollections of events that we didn’t actually participate in but have heard about so often that we truly believe our recollections are based on first hand experience.  I suppose Miss Hattie Daniel was one of those memories for me.

Every one called her Hattie or Miss Hattie.  She lived most of her life alone with the exception of her final years when she moved in with another elderly woman we all called Grandma Breland.  Hattie was considered to be a loner with few friends.  She could be difficult at times, but when you are answerable to no one, it’s a lot easier to be difficult.

Unlike my parents, two recent college graduates with high hopes for the future but empty bank accounts, Miss Hattie owned a house she had inherited and she rented it as the primary source of her income.  My parents lived in that house for approximately a year and a half, leaving it when I was three years old to buy a house three blocks away that would become the Dantzler Street ‘home’ for the Shields family that would eventually grow to six.

Miss Hattie’s house was on Griffin Street - a street that was still unpaved in the early 1940's when we lived there although it had provided the bed foundation for an old streetcar line.   The streetcar had run between Moss Point and the Pascagoula beach during the times prior to the depression when the local sawmill and timber industries led the world in exporting yellow pine lumber.  No one could have remotely suspected that after more than 60 years later, I would have lived at an address across the street from Hattie’s house for almost a half century.  I still do.

But true to the stereotype of the old spinster woman, Hattie’s reputation was that she didn’t like children.  Couldn’t abide them.  Wouldn’t abide them!  But as legend would have it, she made a single exception.  Me.  

According to my mother (and some of her friends) Hattie actually volunteered to baby sit me once during the time my parents were moving their belongings to the new address on Dantzler Street.  I have no idea whether or not I was being difficult (aren’t all three year olds?) but apparently Hattie thought I was and proceeded to admonish or threaten me…depending on whose version of the story you choose to believe.  But, as the tale progresses, she turned her back for a brief period and like a flash, I disappeared.  Could not be found. 

Hattie panicked.  What was she going to tell my mother?  Why had she agreed to do this anyway?  The search party was quickly formed although I suspect that my mother might have considered its ultimate function of the posse to be that of a lynch mob.  An hour passed.  Almost another hour elapsed before I was found.  Safe…sound…and hiding from Miss Hattie.  When asked why I had done it, I told them I was afraid of her.

I have no doubt that Hattie never considered for a minute that a three year old would actually be so fearful of her that they would run and hide.  And when she realized it, it made a huge impression.  Gifts began to come.  A solid wood wardrobe closet that was hand-made by her uncle from heart pine cut in the mill a quarter of a mile down the street. A mahogany bed that was used by one of her ancestors (probably Francis B. Daniel who is buried next to Hattie in Griffin Cemetery) to convalesce when he came home wounded from the Civil War.  And a steamer trunk that was alleged to have belonged to a ship’s Captain on one of the sailing ships that came up the river to the sawmills empty and sailed back loaded with lumber for the Caribbean.  All gifts to Richard from Hattie.  My Mother called them peace offerings. 

I called them great. They were my prized possessions. I slept in that bed for years and still have it in what I now refer to as a guest bedroom.  Still have the wardrobe and trunk as well.  But more importantly, I still have the memories of Miss Hattie  And they’re all good.

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When you're wrong...you're wrong!

A friend of mine was fond of the phrase, “If you want to start an argument, you’re going to have to change the subject”.  I suppose this is a classic way of saying that there is nothing that you can say when you can’t take issue with the obvious. Today, I found myself in that situation.

Several years ago, I set out to document some of the meaningful memories of my life and tried to tell them in a way that others might enjoy and keep at least some significant portions of truth in the telling.  For some reason, I stopped.  I told myself that I wasn’t inspired or that I couldn’t find a subject that I really wanted to write about.  The truth is that I probably just didn’t want to make the effort or that other priorities in my life came before the writing.  It just didn’t seem important.

Today, I had a wonderful experience!  An epiphany, if you will.  On a whim, I called a friend from my childhood to thank her for a kindness that she had honored me with and we proceeded to have a marvelous conversation.  We talked about things in our developmental years.  Our parents and the influence that they had on us. Our church…both past and current and the roles it played in determining what we were to become and who we are today.  We spoke of our children.  And their children.  We probably could have gone on for hours.  I know I could have.

And then the bomb dropped.  She asked why I had stopped writing.  After a couple of lame attempts to justify my actions (in this case, inactions), it dawned on me that every thing that we had been chatting about was actually fertile ground that just needed to be turned and planted.  (place comments regarding organic fertilizer here at your peril).  So I promised her that I would make the attempt without committing to a specific schedule.

There was a line in the movie, Dirty Dancing that said, “When I’m wrong, I say I was wrong”.  And I was.  Thanks, Sherry.

The ErmaFest

ErmaFest! That’s the name my brother Tommy came up with. And it fits.

Several months ago, my sister and favorite brother-in-law sat in my den and we began to tell stories. As always, it didn't take long before the primary object of many of the stories became my mother, Erma Shields. You've heard some people described as “people who make news'? My mother made stories. They seemed to breed wherever she was. She was a story incubator. Sometimes she was the teller, sometimes the subject, but never the spectator. She was always involved.

As the evening went on, we realized that twenty-plus years after her passing, there was an entirely new generation of her ancestry that had never had the opportunity to meet her or know her well, and who had never even heard many of the stories we were enjoying. So we decided to do something about it. And on the day before Mother's Day, we scheduled the ErmaFest. We would have a meal and invite family, friends, neighbors, and associates from her school teaching days. As the price of admission, attendees were asked to either bring a story they were willing to share or to bring a question about a story they had heard. And most did. But those closest to her enthusiastically did the most telling and the new generation was pretty much relegated to the roles of listeners and learners. It was hard to tell who had the best time.

The star of the day had to be Wayne Parker. Wayne was a young teacher when he began his association with my mother. She never became Erma to any of her workmates. She was always Mrs. (pronounced Miz in true Southern tradition) Shields. Wayne was always her strong right arm when she was at school. I’m not sure that she viewed him more as a friend or as a son, but I was always glad that she never had to make a choice between keeping Wayne or me. I could have been in trouble. With people like Wayne and Virginia Williams, I was privileged to hear a few stories that I had never heard before.

Wayne told of the time that an assistant superintendent of the school system sent out a directive to all of the teachers regarding professionalism. Unfortunately, the letter must not have been proof read and went to the distribution of more than 100 teachers with an undiscovered spelling mistake. Most people would not embarrass one of their bosses with something so trivial. Most people were not my mother. Wayne said, “out came the red pencil. She circled the error, assigned a ten-point deduction for the mistake, signed her name to the paper, and returned it to his office. We waited for the explosion. We never heard a word”.

Memories like this usually stir other memories of a related nature. My sister quickly followed with another story of a time when a friend had sent a note of some sort to my mother…likely a ‘thank you’ note…that also involved a spelling inaccuracy. Erma did not play favorites - not even to polite college graduates. Out came the red pencil. The paper was graded and returned. The offender was amazed that anyone took spelling so seriously. Erma was a teacher 24 – 7. Another lesson taught. Another lesson learned.

But the thing I enjoyed the most about the day was when one of my nephews, now 28 years old and who had known my mother only briefly, told his parents how functions like this had led him to understand how important family and heritage is and how he had come to appreciate it. That was my definition of success for the ErmaFest.

And that’s how I will remember it.

Transition Points

Transition points are times in your life that are defining moments...times that are highlights in your development...times that have major impacts in determining who you are and who you will become.

Research has shown that transition points are also the times that people past the age of forty - and I more than qualify on that count - remember most vividly. The beginning of the college experience is usually one of the graphic memories that people retain. I suppose that I would have made a good research subject, because this is one of the experiences that seems to have stayed with me. And, for some reason, I revisit it on a regular basis.

The year is 1959. A seventeen year-old finishes in the top ten in his high school graduating class of 156 without having to bother to develop any particularly strong study habits. He has a younger sister and two younger brothers. He has no particular strengths or weaknesses. He may feel a bit better than average were it not for his lack of confidence in himself and a lack of experience with some social skills peculiar to teenage boys.

His parents have spent most of their working lives as school teachers. His family has never missed a meal. In fact, they've never missed out on anything that they truly needed. But the prospect of financing college expenses for four children was an obvious and significant enough issue that even a seventeen year-old understood that the task could become daunting. He needed to find a way to help.

The local shipyard was the largest private employer in the state and they were beginning a co-operative education program. Two high school graduates would be selected. They will alternate attending school for a semester and working a semester and if their school work is satisfactory, they will be guaranteed a job each alternate semester until their senior year when they will attend school full time.

I was that seventeen year-old. I applied and was scheduled for an interview where I learned that all students must be engineering majors (whatever that meant, I had no clue). I would be required to attend either Mississippi State University or Auburn University. With Auburn being located in a foreign country (Alabama) that would require out-of-state tuition )that would come out of my pocket) the decision came easily. Mississippi State. Hands down!

My father was an excellent communicator. He had taken the time to teach me two of the basic facts of life. Fact One: High school graduation is not the end of anything. It is the beginning of something; either college or full-time employment...immediately. Fact Two: See Fact One.

In 1959, social security numbers were not issued until you were eighteen and you were required to have one to work in a defense installation. And, so, it came to pass that I graduated from Moss Point High School on a Friday night, slept late on Saturday morning, and packed my earthly belongings on Saturday afternoon. They all fit in one suitcase and an old footlocker.

On a Sunday morning in May 1959, my entire family, along with all of my stowage, fit into a Ford station wagon and began the trip North to a location where none of us had ever been for even a visit. Starkville, Mississippi.

I had no idea that this would turn out to be one of the longest-running memories of my life. So far, it has continued for a half-century. There is more to be written on this subject, but this is the way it began. And this is the way I remember it.

Little League Comes to to Moss Point

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.