"THE LAST ALARM CLOCK"

THE QUIETEST PLACE IN THE WORLD,
SUNDAY MORNING AT FIVE A.M.?

A BOYS' COLLEGE  DORM

I know, because an awful alarm clock awoke me

there in my Hardin-Simmons University dorm

room---a brand new dorm on the south side of

the campus---every Sunday morning at five a.m.

Struggling to wake up, get a cold shower, dress

and head off to FBC, Ozona , a hundred-fifty

miles southwest, to lead the music in church 

services there---I looked longingly at my cozy

bed---still warm---and I thought: "I'll see you 

again after nineteen hours!"

Those were the days! After following this regimen

through the fall of '54 and the spring of '55 and

graduating in May from HSU, I said "Never again

in my life will I ever use an alarm clock!" 

I may have looked like Scarlett in GWTW, if I

raised my fist to heaven (as she did when she 

swore not to  starve.) 

But it is true, one can get along without them, and

I cannot ever remember using one since. "The Last

Alarm Clock," for me, anyway. 

There were a few times I didn't want to go. After

all, driving a hundred-fifty miles on Sunday morning 

with no breakfast was not a great plan in my

twenty-one year old sleepy mind. Not to even

mention that my great Saturday nights were...only

memories.

The first leg of that journey was ninety miles to

the SW on Highway X (Note, some guys rattle off

highway numbers "to beat sixty;" not me---I just

want to be on the right road, whatever its number.)

to San Angelo.

Luckily there was a blinking caution light fifty miles

down the road at (Greater) Bronte, and a good truck

stop cafe, usually with several truckers sitting at the

counter.

If I was running a bit ahead of schedule, I'd get out

and go in and sit a jaw a bit with those guys---after

all, I had been a wild and wooly wheat trucker at age

fifteen back in '49, and I could see their envy of me

and respect, when I told them.

Usually though I was running late and just grabbed

a danish and coffee in a paper cup and was outta

there and back on the road in three minutes, with

just a nod to my ilk.

 I always just breezed through SanAngelo. You can
 lose a lot of time going through big towns. But for
some reason I had a kind of fondness for Mertzon,
a little town 35 miles west.

(Have you ever noticed (and this is true) anytime

anyone  mentions Mertzon, they always say:

"Mertzon, do you know where it is?")

I always bought gasoline there...enough to finish

the whole trip. My trusty beloved 1948 Chevrolet

got good gas mileage and my driving speed was 

usually about sixty.

Another 30 miles west to Barnhart, and I turned

left and south another 25 miles to Ozona and 

paralleled the big arroyo that severely flooded 

everything in that area in '54 and was still a tender 

subject with the people. Sixteen people were killed

and "half the homes in town damaged."

There is a square in town with a magnificent 

Crockett County courthouse, a Crockett County

Museum, and a statue of Davy Crockett.

Crockett County is one of the nation's leading

producers of wool and mohair. Hunters flock

to the area in season for deer, javelina, and 

game birds. The 2010 census  listed Ozona's 

population at 3,225.

I tried to arrive by 9:30 a.m. and get everything 

checked out...music ready  and choir warmed-up

...and find a cup of coffee in the church kitchen. 

After church it was always the happy time of going

to a member's home for fried chicken or a good

pot roast, a nap in their spare bedroom,

or on a church pew.

Then it was a burger at the little cafe on the highway,

heading west out of town...choir practice...evening

service... youth fellowship and by nine p.m. I was

headed north for Barnhart.

When I hit San Angelo around ten-thirty I always

bought a 32 ounce coke, or whatever, so there'd

be  enough ice to eat and keep me awake that last

ninety miles back to HSU.

Arriving back at the school, all the boys who had

churches congregated in Ken's room and had 

laughs, told stories, and blew off steam...a hard 

day over...

They paid $50.00 a week, which was pretty good 

pay for the time, a lot of cash for a college boy!

Several of us always met down at Mack Eplen's 

Cafeteria for a nice lunch on Mondays at noon.

In those happy times one could get chicken fried

steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans,

friend okra, a slice of corn bread, and pecan pie

for about $1.90. That's what we did. Almost ev'ry

Monday!

But I must level with you...one of my worst memories

of life...is having that alarm clock go off in my ear

every Sunday morning...signaling nineteen hours

of hard work. I was only human...

So no more alarm clocks ever for me, if I can 

help it...yes...The Last Alarm Clock.

(I loved the people, was glad to sing the

gospel, and was grateful for a job.)

***********

BY MIL

HSU '55

11-6-16