MY GREAT- UNCLE WAS CLOVIS MAYOR

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BIRD HUNTING WITH A MAYOR
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There are probably not too many people around  who remember my great uncle, E.A.Key, mayor of Clovis circa 1930. A number of histories I have read have his initials wrong.

He was known by all as one of the world's finest gentlemen. He had "gravitas" long before the word was ever heard! To me, a little boy, when I heard him weigh in on a question or opinion, he was the wisest-sounding man I had ever heard.

Early A. Key (B. 1890 ?) and my Aunt Hettie (Moore) Key (B. 1892), homesteaded in the early years of the century, in the Tatum, N.M. area. I do wish I had more facts at hand. They moved to Clovis, probably in the mid-twenties, and bought a home at about 708 Calhoun St. Around the corner on 7th Street, half a block east on the north side, they opened a little "Mom/Pop" grocery store. The building may still be there.

Soon after my family came to Clovis in the spring of 1938 to operate the Magic Steam Laundry, Uncle Early and Aunt Hettie  kind of retired---they bought a small farm west of Muleshoe, Texas a few miles, and began raising and feeding cattle. After WWII they moved to a little place outside Portales and grew vegetables for awhile. Then about 1947, it was back to the city and a nice house on Gidding street, close to 21st Street.

Have you ever gone bird hunting with a mayor? I have! Here's a story for you...but first keep in mind that throughout the history of the young U.S.A. and up into the latter years of the Twentieth Century, hunting was a common, honorable, historic, and noble sport. It still is with many  people.

So continuing, In 1949, "Uncle Early" and a neighbor invited my dad to go with them prairie chicken hunting, on a very large ranch in the sandhills south of Dora. This was a rare hunt to be sure, but it was determined by experts that the population of this wild game bird needed to be thinned somewhat.

Can you imagine, my reader, what an unlikely, surprising thing happened!? To this day, I do not understand it---I, a skinny fifteen year old high school kid with my trusty old 16 gauge Stevens double-barrel shotgun was invited to go along with those three men! Miracle!

So by 8:00 on that appointed morning, with coffee thermoses, a jug of ice water, (there were no water bottles then), and lunches in the trunk, we were driving along a sandy road with incredibly taut and heavy-duty barbed wire fences along each side of the road. Uncle Early was driving the four door sedan with the neighbor in the front seat; I was behind him and Dad was on my right. Those three men were enjoying themselves, discussing the news of the day.

Unfortunately, as will be seen, all their hunting accoutrements and their encased shotguns were in the trunk with the lunches...except for mine..."I came to hunt," and my  double-barrel 16 Gauge Stevens shotgun was resting between my knees, broken open, muzzle down to the floor, and was empty...but my jacket was loaded with shells and you can't believe how fast I could load  it.

We drove along at a moderate speed and suddenly I spied twelve or fifteen prairie chickens to Dad's right, sitting out there in the brushy mesquite pasture, about 60 yards off the road, I yelled "STOP! BIRDS!" As the men piled out of the car, they yelled "WHERE? WHERE?" If you've ever been hunting you can imagine the excitement: they were grabbing encased shotguns, searching for shells, and getting oriented. The birds ( and I, too)  were getting antsy;  I crawled under the barbed wire fence!

My  hunting buddies were slow. Thus I started a slow crawl toward the chickens, who were getting more restless. They were out of range so I'd crawl a little and look back at my pards, crawl and look back. Of course, this all happened faster than I can tell about it!

Suddenly the lookout bird flew, and I knew it was then or never. I jumped up and ran full throttle right at those birds. The whole flock came up! POW, got one and kept going, POW, got the second one...and they were gone...and my men still getting ready. But they weren't mad at me! What else could I have done? (Be prepared!)

All hunters got a bird or two that day south of Dora in the sandhills. I got four---the limit!

Hunting is a lot about being outdoors...and in the wild. It is fulfilling if you don't even see any game! It's  about sunny fall days, about sitting in the sand, leaning back against the front tire---eating your sandwich and drinking your coffee-- -it's about God's Great Ourdoors...and good comaraderie and conversation. On that day it was extra special because I got to hunt with A MAYOR OF CLOVIS, an important man...and MY UNCLE!

(Today, in my bank safety box, I have Uncle Early's 1916 Hamilton Railroad pocket watch, which my Aunt Hettie gave to me in 1981. It was a gift to E.A.Key from her father, my great-grandfather. On giving it to Early, he said: "You mean as much to me as any of my sons!"  That was our Clovis mayor, circa 1930.

 In later years Hettie Key lived on Thornton Street. She became an avid sports fan and won contests predicting winners of sports events and tournaments. She was written-up in the Clovis News-Journal a couple of times. She loved watching wrestling on TV.)

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BY MIL
7/24/12







Sent from my iPad

MEMORABLE PROFESSORS: DR. WILLIAM CARNACE "PROF" RIBBLE

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"NICE TRY!"
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("MIL'S PLACE" has been devoted partly to remembering and extolling worthy  teachers, mentors, and people who have influenced our lives in a very positive way. Continuing this effort, this post is about one of my all-time favorite people---Dr. W.C. "Prof" Ribble.)

Avuncular...yes, definitely avuncular.  That word describes him "to a tee!" Dr. Ribble, always to all his students and friends, known simply as "Prof," was born November 8, 1898. I do not know the place of his birth. He attended Hardin-Simmons University, Abilene, Texas, and completed his graduate work at the University of Texas, Austin. He became a professor at Hardin-Simmons in the early twenties.

Having relatives and roots in New Mexico, he through the years attended various New Mexico Baptist meetings and conventions, as a kind of good-will ambassador for HSU.  Every summer found Prof at Inlow Youth Camp, a church camp located up in the Manzano Mountains just west of Tajique; there he soon, with his friendly, open, down-to-earth way, became loved by all the "kids." I met him there in 1947. One morning I sneaked a photo of him shaving outdoors in front of his very rustic cabin, mirror hanging on the log wall. Facilities were scarce there then.

Prof had a job at the camp; he gave  a synopsis of the news or other daily world events---at the evening campfire. Thus when the N. Koreans invaded S. Korea, we were at a Young People's Camp and were lucky to have Prof keeping us posted!

He once met with several of us in Clovis at a meeting of some kind and helped us get set to enroll in Hardin-Simmons in the fall of 1951. I was in several of his Economics classes, having a minor in that subject. He was a friendly, informal, and droll, lecturer, loved by all.

But make no mistake: his exams were tough. They were serious exams, designed to find out if you'd learned your subject! No "true-false" questions, where if you knew a bunch of them, you could "50%" the rest and make it, etc. No, he'd give you FIVE essay-type questions, and you had to know the answers. You either did or you didn't---as I set out to disprove one exam
day.

You see, he'd ask on an exam, maybe: “Give a thorough discussion of the life of Malthus and the Malthusian Theory of Population.” That was several pages, right there. With five of his questions you could fill an exam Blue Book, or two.

I did okay with Malthus but in one of the big exams, question number five was a total loss-- I drew an absolute blank! Being a somewhat clever (??) young man, I threw the mental dice and reasoned: "He probably has a grader who'd like to get on with the grading, and when the grader sees questions one, two, three, and four are correct---wanting to get on with it--- he'll see my answer to question five and simply say to himself---"this guy is a clear cut A--next paper!" So, rather than leave a blank spot for question number five, and get a sure RED X, I  wrote several pages of something unrelated that we'd studied and hoped the grader wouldn't read it thoroughly.

ALAS! I WAS WRONG! Drat the luck!! PROF HIMSELF was the GRADER! And he read every answer!  He read my several pages of "something," and put a big RED X beside the answer, and wrote "NICE TRY!" I got a "C," and still have the Blue Book to back up my story!

Dr. Ribble left the classroom in the late 50's and  accepted a position with the New Mexico Baptist Foundation. In 1961 I accepted a position with the Baptist Convention of New Mexico, directing the Church Music Department. We worked for many years together, Prof and I, attending meetings, making trips together, and coffee breaks there in our fellowship room. When his parents passed away in the sixties, I sang for one or both their services.

Prof continued to visit and help at Inlow Youth Camp---I saw to that, for when we started the annual Youth Music at Inlow in 1962, I invited him to attend every year! When he passed away on April 26, 1988, his wife gave back to me for a keepsake---a little inscribed New Testament we had given Prof one year in the sixties as a token of appreciation for his camp work.

Of all the people I've ever known, PROF RIBBLE was one of the dearest...and one of my FAVORITES. How many people would agree! I wish he were still around to say to me:  "NICE TRY!"

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BY MIL
7/27/12



Sent from my iPad

"TO A LAWNMOWER"

Don't look at me like that!
You know our problem is nothing personal.
It's just that you have some quirks.
Oh, I know you're not perfect---
No lawn mower is, but don't give me that look!

 It's got to where owning you
Is almost like having to walk a dog.
You're always wanting to mow;
I've learned that there are more things
To life...than just work.

I bought you, only because
That beautiful red, SELF-PROPELLED mower,
I had before....Best in the world,
Was always pulling me off down the street,
So the neighbors would see me, struggling,
And I was embarrassed, hanging on to it...
Trying to control it, keep up with it,  slow it down,
Or stop it! Anything.

 Shouldn't have tied it "ON." Live and learn.

(My son has it now...)

Look at you! Sleek and trim and skinny---
Proud with your purring noise...
But what about your borderline anorexia, huh?
Why I've seen you spit out all the grass you've taken in!
Admit it!

And that awful umbilical cord---
You won't move an inch without it,
Think I haven't noticed?
It gets in my way and I trip over it.
Just look at at the black bandaged spots:
Where I ran over it!
Okay, I've already said: "I'm sorry!"

Don't look at me like that.
Old fellows just make mistakes when mowing.
And don't worry, don't pout,
You'll mow again, be sure of that...

Even if it is
When the son drops by...
Or when the wife's knee gets better.

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BY MIL
6/26/12






Sent from my iPad

A TRIBUTE TO CORN-ON-THE-COB!

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AN AMERICAN JOY!
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Roasting Ears! Roasting Ears! Roasting ears!
Butter! Butter, Butter!
You French, with your CULINARY SMUGNESS---
Listen and learn from us!

Not only do we have fried chicken, deviled eggs,
Watermelon, apple pie, and dumplings---
(Yes, and Mother, Home, and the Flag!)
We've got ROASTING EARS...and BUTTER!

Okay, so we've got "only one sauce"---but
Just as Aces take Deuces
Our Butter takes all your Sauces!
Case closed!
Haven't you ever heard of...Paula Deen?

Corn on the cob: Boiled, Baked, Grilled, Nuked;
Shucked or Un-shucked...
It's hard to mess up corn-on-the-cob.
But have you ever seen a cook slice off the kernels?
I know: "What a travesty!" Breaks your heart!
Ruining and wasting corn-on-the-cob!

A GREAT JOY IN LIFE:
Introducing your two-year-old Grandson
To his First Roasting Ear!
After the first bite:
See the Wonder of Discovery in His Face,
As he becomes smeared and DRIPPING with
Butter, salt, and pepper...
He's hooked for life. (Along with us!)

However you cook it, there's
ONLY ONE WAY TO SERVE IT---
A long narrow dish, or even a plate...
With butter standing in the bottom---
After each bite, roll it around in the butter,
One more time!
(Buttered only once, it'll be dry.)
My, oh my, you French Friends,
Eat your heart out
While we eat our dripping, buttery corn!

If you listen to us, you'll learn to cook!

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BY MIL
7/28/12






Sent from my iPad

LEON WILLIAMS WAS OUR SCOUTMASTER!

Mil and Art

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CLOVIS REMEMBERED: BOY SCOUT TROOP #14
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In the years 1946, 1947, and 1948 the boys of Clovis Boy Scout Troop # 14 met each Tuesday night, 7:00 p.m. at the Central  Baptist Church, then located at 6th and Mitchell. Art Snipes, a good friend of mine and I lived out near the Clovis Memorial Hospital and we rode our bikes down 8th street to Mitchell and went south to the church.

We met in the "Junior" Sunday School Department, located in the basement. We usually cleared away the chairs to make room for any physical game or activity. The classrooms all around the main room were used for study groups---boys who were working on knot-tying practice, or more serious things, such as attaining the next rank.

There were usually twenty-five or thirty boys there, and the room could get quite busy and a bit noisy. Most of us had uniforms, or partial ones anyway. As Scouts, in addition to learning in order to advance in ranks, I'm sure we had some benevolent functions,though they escape my memory now.

A friend and I did the famous required fourteen mile hike to the Ranchvale area and back.
Might have become an Eagle Scout eventually, except for the fact that I couldn't swim well enough to pass the "life-saving" water rescue required for first class rank.

Our Clovis Troop # 14 did an overnight camp out one spring---west of Grady. Other Troops from Eastern New Mexico joined us. We traveled there in trucks and slept in pup tents.

In the past few weeks, several people (including the preacher on Sunday), have commented that we need to remember and pay tribute to teachers, leaders, and others who have been so helpful to us along life's way. So I want to tell you:

Our Scoutmaster was Leon Williams! A stadium is named for him there in Clovis. He was a tall, gentle, pleasant, soft-spoken, congenial person; a guileless salt-of-the-earth Christian gentleman who obviously loved us boys! He came down to "scouts" in his khaki work clothes and fitted right in.  He became one of the boys! He was an important example for us!

Here's the Boy Scout salute to you Mr. Williams. Thank you for working with us boys and know that: WE REMEMBER YOU WITH DEEP APPRECIATION!

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BY MIL
7/23/12




Sent from my iPad

"BLESSED JESUS, HOLD MY HAND!"

If I had the space and the memory to list here the four year repertoire of the Hardin-Simmons University A Cappella Choir during the years 51-55, you might be amazed. It included classic choral numbers such as "Let Their Celestial Concerts All Unite," "Blessing, Glory, Wisdom," "Praise Be to Thee, O Heavenly Father"--Palestrina, "The Creation," "O Thou In Whose Presence," "Holy, Radiant Light," "Beautiful Saviour" arr. by Christiansen, (our traditional closing number), and many others.

Those are samples above of the kind of music we did, and add to them hymn and gospel song arrangements, Negro spirituals, Southern gospel, Sacred Harp, and secular, and we had quite a repertoire. Hearing that HSU choir practice on the campus in Behrens Chapel, if you were a hundred yards away, you might have thought you were listening in on Heaven!

Now why did I tell you all that? Well, today I want to tell you about a song that some might not class as scholarly church music, not exactly like those above. It is a kind of Southern gospel piece; done in a certain way, it could sound almost Appalachian.

I have picked it, because though I had heard it for many years, one day about five years ago, while rummaging through some music, I ran across it and got to humming it and reading the words and was touched by what it said. I mean---really touched. I thought: "This song has a real message in it--one of prayer and supplication for God to help us everyday as we walk through the journey of life." The tune moves along smoothly and nicely, though some swing it quite a bit.

I can visualize walking out in front of a choir of about thirty-six voices, getting the pitch, and directing this choir singing a cappella, very full sound, very smooth legato; sung very reverently, prayerfully, and sincerely. My, my, what a nice rendition that would be. The text is simple poetry, but read it through--it gets the job done. It is pretty good!

Words and music written by Albert E. Brumley, and copyrighted originally in Gems of Gladness, Hartford Music Co., 1933. I am sharing the text with you here. This is not a "high church hymn," but it is a good one that deals with our daily walk.

"JESUS, HOLD MY HAND!"

As I travel through this pilgrim land
There is a Friend who walks with me,
Leads me safely thru the sinking sand,
It is the Christ of Calvary.
This would be my pray'r, dear Lord, each day
To help me do the best I can,
For I need Thy light to guide me day and might
Blessed Jesus, hold my hand.

Chorus:
Blessed Jesus, hold my hand,
Yes, I need Thee every hour;
Thru this land, this pilgrim land
Protect me by Thy saving pow'r.
Hear my plea, my feeble plea,
Lord, dear Lord, look down on me,
When I kneel in prayer, I hope to meet You there,
Blessed Jesus, hold my hand.

Let me travel in the light divine
That I may see the blessed way;
Keep me that I may be wholly whine
And sing redemption's song each day;
I would be a soldier brave and true
And ever firmly take a stand,
As I onward go and daily meet the foe,
Blessed Jesus, hold my hand.

When I wander thru the valley dim
Toward the setting of he sun;
Lead me safely to a land of rest
If I a crown of life have won;
I have put my faith in Thee, dear Lord,
That I may reach the  golden strand,
There's no other Friend on whom I can depend,
Blessed Jesus, hold my hand.

Access Cynthia Clausen. This one is a bit swingy. I prefer The Chuck Wagon Gang; their lady singer has a nice touch of warmth in her voice. There are no choral arrangements that I could find.

Clawson:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZJXJm_PzwJ0&feature=youtube_gdata_player

Chuckwagon Gang:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IyOWhHf7Rpo&feature=youtube_gdata_player

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BY MIL
7/15/12


Sent from my iPad

THE WORLD'S BEST COBBLER COOK

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TO MY MOTHER
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My Mother was undoubtedly the best cobbler-maker the world has ever known! Everyone said so. Blackberry, blueberry, cherry, apple, and peach---they were all AWESOME.

Most cobbler cooks will have to shift gears to wrap their minds around her concept of what a cobbler was. The big difference in my mother's WORLD CLASS COBBLER was:  it was not dry. It was full of rich, luscious, buttery, thick, berry-filled juice---with a lot of ice-berg-like chewy dumplings floating in it, all hidden under that golden brown, butter-swathed crust. The dumplings were done too.

Besides the rare and unusual filling came her next secret: THE DOUGH! This miraculous dough was actually an adaptation of her famous old-time farm homemade biscuit dough. This dough recipe was used both for the dumplings and the top crust. The top crust was thick!

The juice: how she made it, I don't know, and don't have the recipe at hand. She had a lot of this in her head I think. If using canned berries, she may have used two cans. The thickening may have been corn starch. When it came to the apple cobbler and the cherry cobbler, she had to have had a method for making the sugary, syrupy juice, for these fruits were grown on trees in the backyard every year, and didn't come out of cans.

There is an old saying which comes to us from the French, which goes: "The English have a thousand religions...but only one sauce." My Mother, being a West Texas farm girl, in a way had only one sauce---and it was BUTTER. (Remember Paula Deen!) The berry juice in the cobbler was floating with butter, as noted above.

Mother didn't care about all kinds of new and modern pans. She used the same beat-up aluminum cobbler pan for 61 years. (I Inherited it!) After all, in the hands of a Master Cook---that pan was enough!

From time to time, you'll find a restaurant that is known for its cobblers. Occasionally, you will find one that's pretty good. But not like Mother's! After eating hers, they are all dry and crusty. No dumplings, either.

Do we have her cobbler recipe? Yes!  Does ours taste like hers? No!

My Mother was definitely one of HEAVEN'S COOKS, lent to Earth for a time!

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BY MIL

BOB'S LOVE OF MARBLES

                                                        Bob's Marbles

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MEMORIES OF A MARBLE COLLECTOR IN THE 40'S
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Edging toward ninety posts since  the inception of MIL'S PLACE, March 29, 2011, we (my editor and I) have attempted  to write a wide variety of posts, weighted heavily toward things American; and historical posts about little kids growing up in the 30's, 40's, and 50's in our hometown of Clovis, N.M.

We have nostalgically remembered the WWII days. We have talked of eating watermelons, Coney Island hot dogs...of sitting on front lawns at night in the summertime, talking and viewing the star-filled heavens. We have talked about the old Saturday movie matinees at the Lyceum Theater, about working on the farm, driving wheat trucks, shocking feed; and about beloved teachers, shop class and Spanish class, being arrested after the school play...and on and on...

In the post "CLOVIS: THOSE LAZY, HAZY DAYS OF SUMMER--1943," we mentioned sitting in the shade of the elms in front of the house and playing marbles! No book about boys seems proper without a marble game or two. Such books, like Mark Twain's, are replete with marble-shooting competitions! I've wanted a good marble story for Mil's Place.

Then I found it several days ago in my files---a story about MARBLES,  written by "Country Boy Bob," December 19, 2008, long before I thought of writing posts. Bob, a dear friend (of seventy-two years and a childhood playmate), loves the U.S.A., loves Clovis, loves history, loves the "old gang," and has a good memory of things past! Not only that, he is a good off-the-cuff writer. His stories just spill out, seemingly effortlessly. An avid collector, he is the most knowledgeable person I know---when it comes to marbles.

I am proud to present his story here. Sit back and just marvel. (Used with his permission.)

BOB'S STORY: "Mil, I decided to give my son and grandson a pint of my marbles. Some of them were special and I thought you might enjoy reading what I wrote to my son. I am sure there are some mistakes in my explanation but it is the way I remember it."

To his son: Hope that you enjoy a few of the marbles from my childhood collection. The marbles in the bag came from a grade school "fair," which was some kind of a fund-raiser. Each room had a booth of some sort and my Mother, being a homeroom mother had to go early to work on my room's booth. Since we were there early and no one else was in the gym, I had the opportunity to look at the other booths as well as their prizes.

Well, one booth was simply prizes, each tied to strings and the strings were pulled over a
kind of tall board, and you would pay only ten cents to pull a string and you would get the prize on the other end! Well, voila! There were two bags of marbles I spied under the covered booth! After much thought, I quickly decided: If I would follow that string out over the board and tie an ever-so-small-knot on the end of that string, I could have those marbles! So I did! I asked Mother for two dimes to spend at the fair and after all... it was for a good cause!

Well, the marbles in your bag are some of the marbles from that grade school fair. They were big bags! This happened in '44 or '45, toward the end of the war.

There are two "Beningtons." When I was a boy we called them "crock" marbles. My Dad said that was the kind of marbles that he played with. They say that true Beningtons must have eyes or round spots on them, which was caused by lying on or against another marble when it was being fired. Most of them were made in Benington, Vermont.

I put a couple of my shooters in---we called them "TAWS." You can tell which ones they were because they are broken or chipped---caused by hitting other marbles. In some games like "Chase,"which is what we called it, you would not use your good taws, because if your opponent hits your marble, he gets to keep it. You never want to lose your good taw!

There are also a couple of "steelies," ( bearing-balls from some auto or truck bearing) You always needed a steely for certain situations. As I remember it---if you were playing "Bull Ring" and you shot and your taw stuck in the ring---you had to leave it in the ring---unless you hollered out "changes." If you hollered first, you got to change your taw with another marble. and that is where your steely came in. No one could knock your steely  out of the ring! I don't remember what ended the game under those circumstances...probably a FIGHT!

Another marble is my Agate! Agates were made from semi-precious stones. Looking at the agate you will notice either moons or half moons. This occurs every time you hit another marble.. As a boy, I learned that if you would soak the agate in lard or grease, those moons would go away! (What I would do is go into the kitchen when Mother wasn't looking and drop my marble right into her bacon grease container and push it to the bottom so she couldn't see it.) After it had sat in that bacon grease container overnight, I'd recover it, and polish it! What a beautiful marble! I imagine that bacon grease was a little tainted from my marble...but it didn't make us sick!

That big white marble is an Agate. Nanny had it made for me around 1985-90. She had the rock that came from her dad's farm at May, Texas, where she was raised. The marble is "Milky Quartz."

  

The next item is a brass "steelie" (I guess that is what you would call it). It was a bottom check from Pappy's ranch's windmill. He told us that they made them out of brass because brass wouldn't rust from being constantly immersed in water. They used them in he bottom of  the cylinder and on the upstroke of the windmill the ball would come up, allowing water in the cylinder, and on the downstroke the ball would settle to the seat and not allow water back into the ground. Extra precaution was taken to cover the top of the casing around the sucker rod to prevent birds from dropping twigs into the casing. If something got under the bottom check---you had to pull 300 feet of sicker rod and even possibly the whole casing (pipe).

There are three clay marbles. I am not sure where they came from, but I believe they  were produced before 1900.

 The rest of the marbles were just old marbles that I accumulated when I was a boy. I should say that 98% of my marble collection came from the 1940's! And I am sure that the whole mess is worth about $20.00, but it demonstrates the dreams of a small boy who was raised in the midst of a World War, and in a family of meager means, who knew how to work hard and love and trust God.

  I ended up with around 2,200 marbles. Many I purchased when I was a boy, and many I  won by playing "KEEPS!"

*******30********
By Mil,

    & Bob Snipes

7/17/12

(Note, in the photo below, Mil is the tallest and Bob is on the viewer's right.)

WHY DO WE NEED "ALLEN" WRENCHES, ANYWAY?

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OFF THE WALL.....
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Hmmmm...Allen wrenches? The world might have been better off without Mr. Allen's invention. When using them, or just looking for them in among your tools---don't you sometimes just feel....hexed?

The ones you find are always your small set when you need your big set---or vice versa! They are usually too short for any kind of leverage or "torque." If your set is a "standard" gauge, what you'll really need is a "metric" gauge. If you find the correct set, the right wrench will be missing.

At my house, I thought we were "Allen wrench poor," but when we need them, we can't find them. Maybe they're hiding somewhere!

I have a story for you--- so get yourself a diet Pepsi and some nachos, and settle down for a few minutes if you have time! A few months ago, my cool and comfortable mesh office chair with the springy supportive back--the one I sit in to write--broke. Something POPPED while I was leaning back and pondering. After much effort I managed to contact the warranty department of Acme Office Supply (we'll call them.) It took four months, but the big, heavy, under-the-seat repair part eventually arrived here with instructions.

Looking at the instructions (and being severely "mechanically-challenged,") I realized that it was beyond me. Thus after consulting my neighbor, who is a highly skilled plumber; my yard man, who is very talented in everything; my two sons, who are both skilled carpenters (hobby), my youngest son said: "I don't know, but maybe if I had a heavy-duty Allen wrench, I could try to fix this."

TA-DUM! It hit me like a blow in the gut! This meant I had to go into the hot 105˚ garage and do the dreaded thing: look for Allen wrenches. It was the Fourth of July. I wanted ice cream! But I went up one side the garage and down the other; went through tool boxes A, B, and C, looked everywhere, and  just as I figured. Those Allens that I bought and put in a special place---well, I forgot the place! I was wrung out and hot.

My dear wife, who wanted that chair fixed and out of the way, decided to help. She, not having the slightest idea of what an Allen wrench looked like, even after a description, headed out into the hot garage to find the elusive wrench. I was eating ice cream and cooling off, and she came in and said: (holding up a Crescent wrench) "Is this an Allen wrench?" "No," I said. Back she came five minutes later (holding up Channel-Lok pliers) "Is this one?" Then, of all things (and don't you just love women!? I do.), she came in and held up a miniature socket set, and said proudly: "I know I've got one now!!!

Realizing that if this didn't stop, I would have a half day's work putting up the wrong tools tomorrow (women don't "put up" tools, you know), if she didn't quit. I said sweetly: "It's okay Honey, you'll never find the Allens. Let it go! Have some ice cream! Cool off."

Finally, I just phoned our office supply where we bought the chair (and also a duplicate chair), and said to the manager: "The part came from your warehouse in Alabama and how 'bout if I just drop it off over at your store and let your "chair assembler specialist" slap it on for me?" Now you have to know that the good old USA custom of doing anything for a customer is just about gone, and I feared he would say: "I'll have to call India or Pakistan first," but instead he said, "ER, OK,  drop it off over here, I guess."

We left the chair there and a couple of days later I received a call from a man named "Eddie" (we'll call him.) Eddie was an unhappy "chair fixer." "Your chair is ready, but who over here accepted this chair for repair anyway? I don't FIX chairs---I just assemble them. This repair part was heavy and I had to get a partner here to hold on while we twisted and turned ...and it took over an hour!"

And he went on: "It was made in China and they must have used a heavy-duty impact wrench and it took a big Allen wrench which we just happened to have---and the thing was so tight, you should see the palm of my right hand---it is bruised and blue.  The torque was terrible!"

Eddie helped load the chair into the car, all the while showing us his bruised and blue hand, caused by that OLD ALLEN WRENCH! Hey, I know, Eddie, I hate those things too!

So, you see what I mean. Allen wrenches just cause trouble!

Oh, I know, we'll go buy some more.

And lose them too.

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BY MIL
7-12-12










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DORA M. RUSSELL, BELOVED SPANISH TEACHER

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REMEMBERING CLOVIS HIGH SCHOOL, 1950--51
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Have you ever been told: "Shut up!"---and you kind of liked it?  When Ms. Russell said that to one of us in her Spanish Three class, it was almost an honor! Probably every member of the class was told, at one time or another, (lovingly and benevolently) by our teacher: "Callate, Pedro!"...."Callate, Diego!"... and so on. She said it with a mischievous twinkle in her eye and in a mock angry tone, and she really meant: "The horseplay and fun is over; now let's get down to business and learn some Spanish!"

Most of the kids in Spanish Three at Clovis High School in 1950--51, had taken Spanish One in Junior High (and were in a Spanish musical at the junior high gym), Spanish Two from Ms. Russell, and now Spanish Three. She had warned us, at enrollment: "Now we are going to be translating a whole Spanish novel, 'Amalia'---are you ready for that?" I still have my 51-year- old copy of "Amalia." The pencil marks on the pages are fading.

That didn't deter the group of roughly twenty-four students from enrolling in her class; a select group that would in the future give to the world: farmers, teachers, doctors, lawyers, dentists, statesmen, home builders, veterinarians, chemists, engineers, geologists, ministers, and housewives.

Señorita Russell, as we liked to call her, suggested that we each select a Spanish given name for ourselves. Time has caused my memory to fade some, but there were Diego, Andres, Sancho, Alonso, Carlos, Felicia, Pedro, Pancho, Pepe, Rafael, Felicia, Teresita, and others.

Corresponding with Jim W., 51 years later (and we used a lot of Spanish), I referred to him as "Sancho." He wrote: "My Spanish name was Jaime, not Sancho!"  I wrote back and said: "Pardon me, but it was SANCHO!" There we let it rest until one day about four months later, when I received an email from Jim,  saying: "You were right, it IS SANCHO! I was reading an old annual and all over it people were writing, 'Good luck in life, Sancho,' and 'Good ball-playing, Sancho' "

The secret to being able to talk Spanish somewhat fluently involves a lot of usage and practice. A number of the class became quite proficient and were called on to translate in their businesses, and even at garage sales! Several of the class went on to take Spanish Four in college. One wrote a nine page short story titled "LA BRUJA."

Many members of that class will tell you today that it was a highlight in their lives and one of the best courses they ever had. After reading the recent post about "Mr. Elms," a class member suggested memorials to a number of our other "excellent but underpaid" Clovis teachers. He is right---they deserve it! Clovis Public Schools had a way of hiring the absolute best!

So, I'm proud today to make this tribute to Ms. Dora Russell---a woman with no guile in her soul---but a lot of joy and love for her students and her subject, Spanish! She was enough kid-at-heart  to go along with our fun and shenanigans in order to make learning fun. She kept control because of our great admiration and respect for her. She knew when it was time to say: "Callate!" Our Ms. Russell, we do remember you and appreciate you ...with the UTMOST AFFECTION AND FONDNESS!

(If the Spanish Three class were to sit again tomorrow, there would be at least four empty desks. Gone are these members: Andres Roberts, Sancho Whatley, Alonso Mardis, and Engle Southard. We miss them...a lot.)

                                                       Dora M. Russell

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BY MIL
7/09/12






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MUSINGS FROM A FRONT LAWN ON A SUMMER'S EVENING

        

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        "TRAILING CLOUDS OF GLORY DO WE COME...."

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There are a lot of us still around who remember, before the days when TV dominated everything, what it was like on a summer's evening, to go out and sit on the grass, as dusk was falling. The moon was just coming up in the east, the grass, recently mowed, had that cut-grass smell and seemed to be doing its job of emitting oxygen and cool air. The stars were beginning to show a little bit. Supper (it was supper in those days) was just over.

Usually this lawn-sitting occurred when important company was visiting---uncles, aunts, brother, sisters, cousins! Little boys knew that to have a serious and decent fun family gathering, you needed a couple of uncles. It was just a fact. Supper was probably fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy with biscuits; buttered roasting ears, fried okra, green beans, and sliced cantaloupe, topped off with blackberry cobbler and vanilla ice cream! 

The host would grab an old blanket or bed spread and the men and boys would head out to the lawn and spread it, sitting on and around it. Everyone was still getting caught up on family news and the latest on every subject. Keep in mind that those were the days before texting,  twittering, tweeting, and emailing; and not everyone had a phone then. So the warm family conversations began in earnest out on the grass, punctuated often by big laughter!

As always in small towns in the summer time, the neighborhood kids would be out long after sundown, running around the street, roller skating, playing hide-and-seek, laughing, yelling, and you'd hear a football thud now and then as it hit the street---even in the twilight. Those were sounds, that money couldn't buy....

After a while the women would file out the door, some with their aprons or dresses wet in front, from washing and drying the dishes; (just as James Agee, the great novelist described women in his American classic, "A Death In the Family," referring to old times in Tennessee.) They'd just sit up there on that big front porch in the rocking chairs, thank you, and make "women-talk." No lawn-sitting for them!

After the men had been sitting there and talking for maybe an hour, the inevitable would come up---from one of the uncles---just as if it had been scripted! Young as I was, it didn't surprise me. Uncle B. said: "Reckon we should just play a bit of Mumblety-Peg, what do you think?" Several men would reach into their right-hand pant's pockets and come out with a pocket knife! (This was a good thing, don't you see; red-blooded American men could carry a pocket knife then, with no problem from the "politically correct" bunch!)

Mumblety-Peg, which actually has six or seven spellings, was a nebulous knife game, in which knives are thrown from several positions, including over one's back, and stuck in the ground. Some rules allegedly included accurately throwing it into the ground between another's fingers or toes. At any rate, I'd been through this before, and it soon deteriorated into random tosses of the knives and finally everyone tiring of it

The men would continue talking, maybe about Roosevelt or Truman. I'd stretch out on the lawn, smelling that cool grass, and as it  got really dark, gazing up at the sky which was filled with stars! Seems like there was less light pollution in those days.  I've since read and heard about others' feelings about the stars when they were children. Maybe a lot like mine...At age 8 or 9, it seemed like I felt some kind of affinity, some kinship with those stars up there, that maybe I never felt as much later. Maybe my mind was less cluttered then...Maybe it was because I hadn't been gone from those realms very long: "Trailing clouds of glory do we come from God, who is our home; heaven lies about us in our infancy." (Wordsworth)

It'd be nice to say that there were many of those family lawn gatherings in my life, but I can remember no  more than four or five. The advent of TV and the loss of the big front porches, plus air conditioning, carried us indoors.

But there was a TIME IN THE OLD USA when we sat out on our front lawns on summer's evenings,  talked, listened to the kids play, lay on our backs...and mused about the stars and the heavens!

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BY MIL
7/01/12

(Writer's note: Google this question directly: "Did you ever look up at the stars at night

 and feel a sense of nostalgia?" Scroll down, Thought-provoking replies.)

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CRACKING OPEN A COLD WATERMELON IN THE FIELD!

LET'S TALK WATERMELONS!

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There are some joys, not often experienced, but nonetheless marvelous, that make life so worthwhile. One is: while laboring in the field on a fall day when dirty, hot, tired, and thirsty, you come across the old watermelon patch, still there from the summer, drop a cold melon, and eat the heart out of it---a dripping, juicy chunk, in your bare hand!

But let's go back in time a ways...and talk about watermelons. When thinking about the good old USA, don't they rate a place right alongside mom, home, the flag, fried chicken, and apple pie?! Discussing melons will bring back childhood memories to all my readers! Remember those melons at granddad's every summer.......

Late 30's and early 40's, we left Clovis bound for Pop's Place, outside Lamesa which was south of Lubbock. After three and a half hours, and 165 miles of "are-we-there-yets?"--- we turned into Pop's, and drove right through his open rock-fence gate to his "car house."

On the way down the driveway, my keen eight year old eyes spotted three big green watermelons lying under the shady elm tree, on the cool lawn, right under the kitchen window. Pop always provided them out of his sandy watermelon patch, right across the fence in his cotton field.

Soon, after getting out of the car, hailing and hugging, the men wound up over there by the melons (where the kids already were). The uncles were there and that was important. As if they were "watermelon doctors," about to give a diagnosis, each one of the men thumped each melon and gave their opinion. I, at age eight, was a notorious thumper in my own right. I proceeded to thump each one, and I fear my diagnoses merely echoed theirs.

We leave Pop's and go forward to the late 40's. Dad had a nice section of land out near Ranchvale. On the north side of this section, he often grew maize in the summer, to be cut in the early fall. He had a big garden and watermelon patch out in the middle of this tall maize, where it could theoretically not be spotted by mischievous and thieving teen-agers.

Dad favored the big long green-striped yellow-meat watermelons, thinking they were sweeter and juicier. Many summers he'd pick and haul to town 10 or 12 of those nice melons for a summer church picnic. It goes without saying----we had all we wanted to eat at home every summer.

Along about 1949 or 1950 he rented a piece of land just a couple of miles north of Cannon Air Force Base. Dad planted maize on part of that land so that he would have feed for his winter-grazing cattle. As harvested, it is a five foot tall stalk with dried leaves and a nice head of grain. These are tied into bundles and dropped by the machine as it cuts through the field. Workers come along and lean 15 or 20 of these into tepee-like shocks, to allow them to dry and better shed rain.

We were out to the Cannon farm one cool early October morning, loading these shocks onto trucks to move them to permanent winter stacks on our other farm. There perhaps may have already been a light frost but anyway the mornings were cold.

As the cool morning became warmer and we became itchier, dirtier, dustier, hotter...then we came upon last summer's watermelon patch!! Out there in the middle of the field! There were still melons all around. We dropped several melons, they split open, and we were all sitting around with chunks of cold, juicy, thirst-quenching melon hearts in our hands, the juice dripping onto our work clothes...but we didn't care! It was like having your own DELI, right there in the field!! LIFE WAS GOOD!!  Yes, and we did load several to take to town! The only drawback to the whole thing was that our hands were so sticky we had to wash them!

My Clovis classmate since the first grade, Art, was telling me about how he and his family would go see his grandad down in Brown County, Texas. Like my Pop, he grew watermelons in sandy soil...and like my dad, he grew yellow-meat melons. He gave Art and his brother, Bob, permission to go to the melon patch and drop several melons, early in the mornings when they were cold.

Now, his grandad's pigs were wont to run loose about the place, supplementing their diets on anything and everything while roaming. Using their “watermelon radar”, the pigs somehow knew when the kids had broken up the melons.  They came running to join the feast!  Soon they were snorting, rooting, slurping nose-first into those melons. It was kinda like: every little pig on the place was there eating cold watermelons! LOL!

Yes, watermelons are truly a miracle and a gift from the Creator that gladden the hearts of everyone, particularly children. In a previous post on "Tumbleweeds," we learned that it takes 45 gallons of water to grow a thistle. Think how much water it might take to grow a watermelon!

There was an old joke going around among the farmers back in the 40's and 50's, about the farmer who put up a sign in hopes of deterring mischievous and thieving teen-agers from stealing melons from his hidden patch. The sign, in big letters, said: "ONE OF THESE WATERMELONS IS POISONED!" Several days later, on checking his patch, he saw a second sign beside his.  The new one said: “TWO OF THESE WATERMELONS ARE POISONED!”

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BY MIL

7/05/12

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"GOD BLESS AMERICA, LAND THAT I LOVE!"

The first time I ever sang "God Bless America" was in the third grade at beloved (and long-departed) Clovis La Casita School.   Miss Dodie, our part-time music teacher taught it to us, even though the range was nearly too much for our little voices!

Unlike some of our other patriotic songs, this one was a late-comer, having been first written during WWI, shelved, and brought out and revised in 1938 by its author Irving Berlin. He, seeing what was happening in the world across Europe, decided to publish it as a "peace song."

The song was introduced to the nation on an Armistice Day radio broadcast November 1938, and sung by Kate Smith. Her presentation was so well-liked that over the years her name became synonymous with the song and became her claim to fame.

Berlin's words take the form of a prayer---the stanza says: "as we raise our voices, in a solemn prayer..." for God's blessings and peace for the nation. Then---"stand beside us, and guide us through the night..."

It is often sung as just a "chorus," but printed here is the entire text, including the stanza:

"While the storm clouds gather, far across the sea,

Letus swear allegiance to a land that's free;

Let us all be grateful for a land so fair,

As we raise our voices in a solemn prayer.

God bless America, land that I love,

Stand beside her, and guide her

Through the night with a light from above;

From the mountains, to the prairies,

To the ocean white with foam,

God bless America, my home, sweet home,

God bless America, my home, sweet home!"

My best wishes to you, my readers, on this Fourth of July, 2012.

Listen to Kate Smith sing it (below) and see the beautiful pictures.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=koR5SYrOgIU&feature=youtube_gdata_player

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BY MIL

7/04/12

Sent from my iPad