"THE BOOK SHELF"

 

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THE BEST WRITERS AND BOOKS!
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DOUGLAS PRESTON AND LINCOLN CHILD
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"TYRANNOSAURUS  CANYON," by Douglas Preston

This scholar and very able writer writes non-fiction, thriller/mystery-type books, and has articles regularly appearing in a number of leading national magazines. He divides his time between Santa Fe and Maine. In the 1990's he began teaming with another writer, Lincoln Child, in a series of co-authored books about one of the world's most famous detectives, A.X.L. Pendergast. This is an on-going relationship with the two writers, and their next eagerly awaited Pendergast novel will be published in December, 2012.

"Tyrannosaurus Canyon," Preston's book, is a thriller about the search for a complete tyrannosaurus fossil in the wild mountainous country of northern New Mexico, and the murders which take place there. It is light, interesting, and absorbing reading.

Make no mistake, Preston (and his partner) are very talented. Here is a quote from Preston's book: "He leaned back on the rock with a sigh, pulled his robe more tightly about himself, and raised his eyes to the stars. It was almost midnight and a gibbous moon was creeping over the canyon rim. He picked out some of the constellations he knew---Ursa Major, Cassiopeia, and the Pleiades.

The glowing expanse of the Milky Way stretched across the sky; following with his eyes he located the constellation Cygnus, the swan frozen in its flight across the  galactic corner. He had read there was a gigantic hole in the center of the galaxy, called Cygnus X-1, one hundred million suns swallowed up and compressed into a mathematical point--and he wondered at the audacity of human beings to think they could understand anything at all about the true nature of God."

Preston's education and background are impressive. He studied mathematics, biology, physics, anthropology, geology, and astronomy and then settled into English literature. He began a career at the American Museum of Natural History in New York, as editor, writer, and finally manager of publications. He taught fiction writing at Princeton.

In 1986, Preston moved to Santa Fe to write full-time. He made a 1000 mile trip on horseback, with a  pack animal, sleeping along the way under the stars---following Coronado's route for background material on his book "Cities of Gold." In addition to his fiction books, he has also published a number of non-fiction works.

 Lincoln Child began writing early---in the second grade. By high school he was attempting science-fiction stories. After majoring in English at Carleton College, he landed a job at St. Martin's Press, as an assistant editor. By 1984 he was a full editor there. He has edited over a hundred books, from many authors, including James Heriot and M.M. Kaye.

  He has an interest in writing, editing, and collecting ghost stories. He is also an expert in computer programming and systems analysis.  He lives in New Jersey and now writes full time, collaborating with his writing partner, Preston, by mail and email.

  These men are captivating, prolific and "heavy duty" writers, in my estimation! For further info and book lists, Google their website as shown below.

http://www.prestonchild.com

                             Douglas Preston                      Lincoln Child

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   BY MIL

   10/30/12

Sent from my iPad

"WE'LL UNDERSTAND IT BETTER BY AND BY"

by Albin Covington

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READER'S RESPONSE

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Dear Mil, I appreciate your information on hymns. It brings back some memories to me of our time we lived in Mertzon, Texas. Dad worked for the railroad and he had built a house for us there. It was across the street from the school house. It also served as a cafe, which Mother ran. It was called the "Squeeze Inn Cafe." We mostly catered to the school kids.

This was about 1936-1941. We had no gas for cooking; we used wood. We kids would play on the woodpile most of the time.We would make all kinds of things (in our minds) on that woodpile. As we were church-oriented, "church" was one of the things we played there.

I came from a very musical family. My brothers, Ross, Tommy, and my sister Mary, have been very active with church music. When we played church, we would stack wood up just right to make a pulpit and even a piano. They always made me the piano player. (No, I can't even play today!) The other kids would sing and preach while I slapped the "woodpile piano!"

One day I asked why I always had to play the piano. Their reply was: "The piano player doesn't sing." If you ever heard me sing, you would know why they said that. Then in 1941 we moved to Clovis. There was no more woodpile and no more piano playing. but we still did go to church.

So I fixed them! I became a preacher. But I found out---that didn't improve my singing any. I do have one thing I like though, and that is---almost every day I wake up with a song on my mind. The same song: it is an "oldie." I wasn't even sure of the name of the song, but part of it stuck in my mind.

What I remembered was this: "We'll understand it better, by and by." I eventually went on line and found it. That is the name of the song. It was written by a man named Charles A. Tendley (1881-1933). Though I have been a preacher for over 50 years, there are a lot of things about God I do not understand. But as the song says: "We will understand it better by and by." God bless!

Access below:  "We'll Understand it Better By and By", sung by Guy Penrod

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1HS3zPS6_Rk&feature=youtube_gdata_player

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FOR MIL'S PLACE

BY DR. ALBIN COVINGTON,

CHS CLASS OF '51

Response Writer

Sent from my iPad

"THE END IS NOTHING, THE ROAD IS ALL!"

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"..........A JOURNEY  BEST MEASURED IN FRIENDS, RATHER THAN MILES."
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We are indebted to Willa Cather, early twentieth century writer, for the famous quote, "The end is nothing, the road is all." If she is not referring to the hereafter, but maybe old age and the end of activity, she may have been right.

Tim Cahill has said: "Life is a journey, best measured in friends, rather than miles." There, my reader, is one of the most astute thoughts I've read in a long time. Add "loved ones" to Cahill's quote and he's got it! Friends and loved ones. Possessions turn out not to be so important when one gets older.

Part of what Mil's Place is all about, is remembering people---FRIENDS we have met along the road. We have written about and extolled school teachers, college professors, mayors,
scoutmasters, mentors, ministers, writers, poets, musicians, marines/soldiers/airmen, cooks, mothers, athletes, and old schoolmates---many of them gone now.

All these people have been worthy, talented, loyal, and loving people who have helped us and been our friends...along life's road. We have even added a couple of "token" bullies, perhaps symbolic of the vicissitudes of life.

Now and then some young person will say something like: "You old timers like to dwell on the past, don't you?" That really doesn't bother me, for I have thought much about that very thing. I just say: (1) Well, my friend, if you live long enough, you too will have a past. (2) If you have lived honorably and well, your past will be worth remembering. (3) If the yesterdays of your life are not worth remembering, then your tomorrows probably won't be either. (4) So, may I say respectfully, don't knock it!

I hope that your journey has not been too bumpy, and that we all from time to time will remember those who have helped us...along the  road.
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JOURNEY QUOTES:
"The only journey is the one within." Rainier Rilke

"When you at last reach your Destination, you may find that you had never traveled at all! It was a journey from here to Here."  Maher Baba

"Simplicity is making the journey of this life with just baggage enough." Charles Warner

"Time is a companion that goes with us on a journey. Ir reminds us to cherish each moment because it will never come again. What we leave behind us is not as important as how we have lived."  Jean Luc Picard

"The road of life twists and turns and no two directions are ever the same. Yet our lessons come from the journey, not the destination."  Don Williams, Jr.
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BY MIL
10/28/12




Sent from my iPad

"LEAD KINDLY LIGHT, AMID TH' ENCIRCLING GLOOM..."

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"THE NIGHT IS DARK, AND I AM FAR FROM HOME..."
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Wordsworth wrote: "Trailing clouds of glory do we come from heaven...which is our home." We arrive on this planet as blanks, brand new people, "mewling and puking," as Shakespeare said. In living our lives, our purpose should be to become dedicated, godly people, opting for the Creator, hoping to arrive "at home."

At times during John Henry Newman's life, according to H.A. Smith, hymnologist, he became, in his mind and heart, bogged down in his effort to reach "home," his desired destination.

"The night is dark, and I am far from home..." Newman's words in the first stanza of "Lead Kindly Light," may echo the feelings of countless pilgrims on the earth.

Smith says the hymn is a "description of Newman's intense spiritual struggle, the mood of a fervent and humble prayer, a description of trials and hardships, and sublime confidence in the final dawn."

In fact, our hymn writer was considered to be a religious man. He graduated from Oxford at age nineteen and in 1824 he was ordained by the Church of England. Newman became an eloquent preacher and a staunch evangelical.

Over time the evangelical approach faded in his mind and he became convinced that true religious experience could be achieved only through proper, dignified, church forms and rituals.

With questions in his mind, he made a trip to Rome to visit leaders of the Catholic Church. While there, he became seriously ill with a fever. He was finally able to travel and left to return to England by ship across the Mediterranean Sea. This period of his life was one of spiritual, physical, and emotional despair. While at sea, he prayed for "light" in the darkness of his life. He then wrote the words to the hymn which came to be known as "Lead Kindly Light."

His experiences caused him to join the Catholic Church in 1843. He became a Cardinal in 1879. Among his many accomplishments, he is perhaps best known for the hymn he gave the world, "Lead Kindly Light," Many have found comfort in its simple verses. Three presidents were known to have counted it as a favorite hymn---McKinley, Harding, and Eisenhower.

A well-known Anglican clergyman, organist, and composer, John Bacchus Dykes, composed the hymn tune, LUX BENIGNA (Latin: "kindly light"). Dykes composed almost three hundred hymn tunes in his productive life---and the world is richer for it. One of his best-known hymn tunes, "Nicaea," is used with Reginald Heber's hymn "Holy, Holy, Holy."

John Dykes could be considered a prodigy. He became a church organist at age ten. A precentor at Durham Cathedral, he was for fourteen years a Vicar at St. Oswald's, all the while writing the incredible number of hymn tunes attributed to him.

Newman once said that it was not his words that made "Lead Kindly Light" so meaningful but rather, Christians everywhere loved Dykes' tune.

This hymn is considered by most worship leaders to be more appropriate for choral usage in a service rather than congregational singing. That has been my experience too. I didn't find that it was an easy hymn for the people in the pew to sing. Part of that may be that it is not generally used, and thus is not really known in many churches.

The entire hymn text is presented here.

"Lead kindly Light amid th' encircling gloom
Lead Thou me on;
The night is dark and I am far from home;
Lead Thou me on;
Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene,
One step enough for me.

I was not ever thus nor prayed that Thou
Shouldst lead me on;
I loved to choose and see my path but now
Lead Thou me on.
I loved the garish day, and spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will;
Remember not past years.

So long Thy pow'r hath blest me, sure it still
Will lead me on
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone;
And with the morn those angel faces smile,
Which I have loved long since,
And lost awhile."
Amen.

 Access the first choral selection, "SANDON," a beautiful alternate tune for "Lead Kindly Light."  Note the poetic meter, 10.4.10.4.10.10. This is a rare meter and we are fortunate to have this excellent tune. Some might even prefer it to "LUX BENIGNA."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_QSG1ymbEzs&feature=youtube_gdata_player

  Access the second selection to hear the traditional "LUX BENIGNA" arrangement.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O8og_kWv0as&feature=youtube_gdata_player

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  BY MIL

  10/23/12

Sent from my iPad

"STABBED WITH A PENCIL IN THE KERFUFFLE!"

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IT WAS A YELLOW DIXON TICONDEROGA # 2
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Oh yes! We former high school kids have got stories! Lots of them!  Matter of fact, my  "peaceable" friend and classmate, Albin, in telling me of one of his melees, reminded me of this one. (Albin was stabbed with a pencil at dangerous old La Casita!)

Well, it happened like this. Our Spanish 3 class, as well as all the other 4th period classes  let out, and between 4th and 5th period classes that little north/south hallway between the old high school and the newer library, was always full of kids...and noise...and fun...and horseplay! The big draw was the water fountain there on the east wall. Many of us were on the way to study hall in the library, and got in line for a drink.

Hereby hangs a tale. There was a predator lingering there...he was not only one of the brightest guys in our class, but one of the toughest and hardest. He and I were always good friends.The problem was---he was overflowing with aggressiveness and football practice was still an hour or two away. Hmmm....Whom could he hit? Yes! Mil! On the arm----everyday! Make a VEE with the knuckles, POW on the arm muscle, and if done correctly (as those nurses who give "interdermal" allergy shots say...) "you will get a nice bump." Only thing was: this one was a hundred times bigger than the allergy bump! The  predator called them "frogs." (There were other "frogees" besides me!)

 WHO was this predator? It was the great friend of all of us: Engle Southard!

Now, one time I made up my mind that this fun thing would be a two-way deal. One day Mil gets it...and the next day it would be Engle's turn. (Imagine my prestige soaring---seen bopping Engle on the arm in the hallway!) So when FROG/ARM time came that day, we somehow got into a friendly scuffle...a fracas...a minor melee. I had my sharp yellow Dixon Ticonderoga # 2 lead Spanish-Three-"Amalia"- translating-pencil (cost a nickel in those days) sticking up out of my shirt pocket, eraser down--lead up so as not to damage my shirt.

This pencil turned out to be in a bad spot, for it somehow, in the scuffle, stabbed me under the wrist, and a teensy piece of lead broke off into my wrist. I being "injured," the kerfuffle ended, and we parted, to await the next afternoon.

Here's the thing---the little injured place got well, but that black dot stayed under my skin for many years. Very small place, but I never saw it that I didn't remember Engle, and with great fondness. We  had some good laughs in high school days together. We didn't buddy around but were friends.

The years came and went and I never saw him again after high school graduation. We always managed to attend Class of '51 reunions, in different years, thus missing each other.

When he became ill, I wrote him a number of times. I wanted to tell him that my son played football at UNM where he played. My boy was a Lobo field goal kicker for three years. I told him of some favorite hymns of mine, and class news. He couldn't write back, but his wife did. I also told him in a humorous vein that the old "frogs" he had given me had finally all gone away, by the '70's, but I wished I had a couple of new ones from him for old time's sake!

When he passed away, his brother phoned me.

About that time, I noticed that the black spot under my wrist had faded away---the evidence of that long ago kerfuffle in the hall at good old CHS. But you know, and this is the truth, I still sometimes look real closely for it...but no, it is gone.

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BY MIL
10/21/12

Sent from my iPad

"LOVE ONE ANOTHER"

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AND OTHER BOYHOOD TALES
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BY ALBIN COVINGTON,
CHS ClASS OF '51

At dear old CHS we could take shop. The first part of the morning we were in the mechanical drawing room just behind Mr. Marshall's office. The rest of the morning we went across the street to the shop. It seemed one boy, Roscoe---and I, had a little disagreement.

When we started across rhe street, he called me out. We started swinging at each other; neither of us really connected. The main reason was that Mr. Burton came by and put a stop to it and detained us until Mr. Foster came out of the classroom. Mr.Foster took us into a back room in the shop and I was sure we were in real trouble.

Mr.Foster talked to us for a few moments. The gist of what he said was this: "You boys have heard me say that if you have differences, then settle them. But I also said---GET OFF THE SCHOOL GROUNDS to settle them."

So at noon we did. We went over to McCalvie's backyard, which was well off the school grounds. I learned that you may win a fight, but that doesn't often make you friends. But Roscoe and I did become friends later.

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MORE MEMORIES FROM ALBIN...
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I really enjoyed your last article. It took me back to some of the things we did years ago. I was born in San Angelo, Texas, and I began to remember things when I was about 3 or 4. Dad worked on the railroad and we moved all over the West Texas area, even down into the Big Bend country.

  We wound up at a place called Mertzon,Texas. That's where I started to school. (See Mil'S  PLACE: "I REMEMBER MERTZON!") They had only eleven grades at that time.

I was one of those kids that could walk through the sunshine and turn two shades darker. Since I also played outside  all time, I got even darker, so they selected me to play "Little Black Sambo" in the school play and I didn't even need any makeup.

Mom ran a cafe across the street from the school, called the SQUEEZE INN...and that was the  only way you could get service: squeeze in!

Dad would make us rubber guns out of old pieces of scrap lumber and we would tape a clothespin on the handle of the pistol, and cut old tire tubes into strips. Then we would place the tire rube strip over the front of the rubber gun, stretch it back and hook it into the clothespin on the handle. When you mashed on the clothespin, it released the tube strip and it would fly a long way. When you got hit with one of these strips, man it hurt!

Dad also carved us wooden airplanes, attached a propeller to the front by boring a hole in the front of it, and through the prop and putting a nail through the prop into the wood. With five boys and one girl, "Little Sis" watching, we boys  held our planes out the window of our old Buick, and sped down the street, all five planes with propellers spinning furiously! What a sight it must have been!

We played "Kick the Can," Red Rover, Hide 'n Seek, Cowboys and Indians, and ran all over the place! We went swimming in the creek that ran  through Mertzon. We didn't wear shoes except on Sunday.

I was out of school and chosen to play in the NORTH/SOUTH ALLSTAR game in Albuquerque before I ever saw a television set.

Yes sir, you brought back a lot of memories.
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SOME MEMORIES OF CLOVIS DAYS
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And yes, I do remember Alexander's Market on Seventh, over there by La Casita. When we first moved to Clovis, we lived at 1121 Thornton, close to Art Snipes' house. Then we moved to 113 Sheldon and for a couple of years I went to Eugene Field school.

Then we moved to 721 Edwards and I was back in La Casita school. We were only a couple of blocks from Alexander's.



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FOR MIL'S PlACE
BY Dr. Albin Covington, Minister and Teacher, retired
Member of CHS Class of '51
Guest Writer



Sent from my iPad

"AND....NOT AN EYEBROW MOVED"

********************************** BY ROBERT STEBBINS Guest Post Writer **************************************************** "FROM THE HALLS OF MONTEZUMA..." ***************************************************         I had occasion to visit the San Diego airport last Monday evening to pick up my wife, who was returning home.  Her flight to San Diego was diverted to Los Angeles because of fog in San Diego so she was bussed from LAX to SAN, arriving home at about 2:30 A.M. Tuesday morning. But, that is another story.  The real story was that which I witnessed while waiting for her arrival.       Between terminals 1 and 2 there is an entrance to the United Service Organization (USO).  While walking between the two terminals, I noticed two white buses with large USMC emblems on the sides parked in front of the USO entrance.  Only then did I notice about 90 young men hurriedly boarding the buses, counting and shouting their number until reaching number 40 when the bus was full.  Only one drill instructor was present, fit and trim, about 6'2" and skinny as a rail, wearing the traditional Smokey The Bear cover. He was shouting instructions, soon left the group, and walked into the USO.       As I departed from the area to enter terminal 1, I noticed the "overflow" who had to wait for another bus to arrive.  Those remaining recruits were lined up, standing four abreast in  tight formation, faces, bodies, and eyes as if cast in concrete.  They were staring into space and focused directly ahead with not a twitch of a facial muscle nor an eyebrow moving even though the drill instructor was nowhere to be seen.  I think it occurred to them that their moment of truth and reality had just begun.      After I entered terminal 1, I noticed 2 or 3 groups of 5 or 6 young men smiling happily, meandered around the lobby, shoving one another, laughing and joking while carrying identical brown manila envelopes that obviously contained their enlistment records from the recruiting station. Apparently, they had a later reporting time and did not realize it at the moment, but they too were only a few steps from reality.      Anyway, it was fun to observe, and it jogged my memory some 60 years back to February of 1952 when I (at about 5'9" and 119 lbs. wringing wet) and approximately 200 more youngsters arrived at the Santa Fe Depot in San Diego on a Sunday.  After getting off of the train, there was on the train platform an old Navy Chief with gold stripes from his wrist to his shoulder who began shouting for everyone going to the Naval Training Center (NTC) to line up in formation.       After the NTC guys were assembled, they started to march off.  I and Charles Byrd (unknown to me before) shouted at the Chief that the two of us were going to the Marine Corps Recruit Depot.  The Chief said "get out of here" or something to that effect.  So, everyone else marched off and Byrd and I were left standing alone on the train platform.  Imaginatively, we walked over to a pay phone, put in a nickel or dime (I can't remember which) to call the Recruit Depot, and they sent a 3/4 ton pickup to pick us up.  Shortly thereafter, our reality began.       The reason that I recount this is because in this modern age when a lot of our daily lives and world events seem so confusing, last Monday evening was refreshing and enjoyable....at least to me as a bystander.  I had just witnessed a group of young men, all volunteers, who had decided to accept the challenge to become Marines and to serve our country.  I am hopeful that most, if not all, of them will make the grade and graduate as Marines in approximately three months.  I guarantee you that the moment of their graduation from boot camp will be the proudest moment in their lives.           Bob Stebbins, Guest Writer, CHS Class of '51

TRUE CONFESSIONS OF A DRIVE-IN "SNEAKER"

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EVERYONE HAS A DRIVE-IN STORY

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by Bob Snipes, guest writer

Mil, here is a drive-in movie story...............  

 One Saturday evening Betty and I had a date and we were crusing main.   We yelled at  J. B.and Guylinda (like you do on Main Street)----we visited  and decided to get in the car with J. B.     After a bit we said "Lets go to the drive in."    We checked our funds and decided that we did not have enough money.

So we got to thinking---J.  B. and I could get in the trunk and Betty and Guylinda could drive in and pay (we had enough money for that and a coke).   So J. B. and I jumped in the trunk--they slammed the trunk door and here we go.  We got in the movie with no problems---the girls pulled to the back row and let J. B. and I out----WaLa---it was a perfect sinful theft.

Well, after we watched the movie for a bit, J. B. and I decided to go get the cokes and we did.   We came out of the popcorn shop and headed where we thought the car was-----there was no car---we could not find the car! ! ! ! We decided that the girls were playing a trick on us and we just sat down and watched the movie until it was over.     No car, no girls! !

When the lot was almost empty, we spotted the car in the opposite direction from where we were looking. We ran to the car and whoa----did we have some explaining to do.  We tried to convince them that we were telling the truth (don't think they ever believed us).

Undoubtedly J. B. and I were disoriented because we were in the trunk when we went in.  Well,  we did not enjoy the movie--the girls were mad as old wet hens--and we for sure did not get a good night kiss---which all goes to say that crime does not pay and we felt like God taught us a lesson and chastised us.  This is real funny now, but it wasn't funny then.     This is a confession by Bob Snipes, Country Boy Bob

by guest writer, Bob Snipes, CHS class of '53

THE SAD SAGA OF BOB THE BEAR

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Adventures in Northern New Mexico

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      by guest writer, Liz Sieren

     

       

Spring and summer were both hot and dry,

Food for animals was in short supply,

Storm clouds gathered, but no moisture came,

La Nina, claimed the natives, was to blame.

A late frost had put an end to crops of fruit,

No acorns, berries – the situation was acute.

To the bears in the canyon of Sapello,

Nature had dealt a devastating blow.

Searching for food, an ongoing chore,

Led to new areas for bears to explore,

Humming bird feeders, thistle and millet,

Not much, but kept back hunger a little bit.

Lingering hunger led Bob, a big black bear,

To a house where a sweet smell filled the air,

Hanging from porches were jars lined with red,

Surrounded by tiny birds looking well fed.

Using his big paw as a battering ram,

He knocked down the jars with one mighty slam,

Splashed on his fur was a pleasing taste so sweet,

Which he hastily licked off, then made his retreat.

His near empty stomach made him staunchly brave,

To search and find the food he so eagerly craved,

An open window, the screen no problem for Bob,

Squeezed through, then searched, an ever so easy job.

In the sink, over the stove, then up on the top,

The freezer door opened, what luck, a food filled shop,

Ate all he could ‘til Susan sounded an alarm,

Better leave now and escape without harm.

Free to wander ‘til stealthfully he came,

Back to the window for more food to claim,

But, no luck for Bob, things were locked up tight,

Circling and sniffing brought no end to his plight.

Unfortunately for Bob, the Game Warden was called,

By Susan, frightened, not wanting to be mauled,

A white trap on wheels was put into place,

Where it seemed Bob was making his home base.

Using smelly molded produce from Lowe’s,

Hopes were high that this cage would soon enclose

The clever black bear whose hunger was so great,

And which consequently would seal his fate.

Sure enough, the next evening he arrived,

Lured by the scent, his hopes for food revived,

Rushing inside and reaching the tempting food,

Brought the gate crashing down with the bear now subdued.

The food was tasty and filled that empty spot,

But, getting out of this place left Bob quite distraught.

Not much room to maneuver in this limited shell,

Well satisfied by food, and drowsy as well.

Bob relaxed and soon was soundly asleep,

Susan slept through it all and heard not a peep,

What a surprise she found when outside she went,

And discovered poor Bob, now all spent.

A call brought the Game Warden with his truck,

And away went the bear – all out of luck,

What happened to him next, we really don’t know,

Thus ends the tale of Bob and his journey of woe. 

                        Elizabeth Sieren

Liz Sieren is a retired teacher, writer and poet, and wife of CHS 1951 graduate, John Sieren.

THAT LITTLE WHITE CHURCH ON THE CORNER

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"AND NOW YOU KNOW----THE REST OF THE STORY!"
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CLOVIS REMEMBERED
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When you are six years old, your home town is your whole world. It is the only oyster you've got. Back in 1939, 40, 41 and those years, in my world, I walked from my dad's laundry at 313 W. Grand to La  Casita School every day. With my photographic mind, I can still see right now the buildings. I remember that route: west on Grand, by Tom Phelp's "Red and White Store," on west past Jerry Crook's Mom's Beauty Shop (in her home); I turned north on Thornton at Blaylock's Grocery on the corner, and headed toward the school.

We always walked north on the east side of Thornton, due to that haunted house on the west side of the street. A block north of Blaylock's I passed every day---that nicely-painted LITTLE WHITE CHURCH ON THE CORNER at 4th Street and Thornton. I remember it well to this day---it perplexed me because I never, ever saw a person there. In fact it looked kind of cold and lonely just sitting there. Being a little boy of six, I guess it didn't cross my mind that people don't attend church mornings at 8:30!

From 1939-1945, on my way to and from La Casita School, it was the same story, and through the years, the little church sat there on that corner on Thornton, just as it has in the corner of my mind.

It was the year of Bob's "Marble Story," A.D. 2012, that the info came out. It was the last info I was expecting. You wouldn't think Bob's nice little from-the-heart marble story would have attracted so much attention---but it brought out the slumbering, latent boyhood in every man who read it, particularly Bob's friends in the CHS Class of '53.

This included Ned Biddix, retired and living down there in Florida...and therein hangs our tale! He wrote Bob back about the marbles! Somehow or other, he wrote me too! Yes, I met Ned, electronically!

Who is Ned Biddix, you say? Well, he is the son of the man who was pastor of that LITTLE WHITE CHURCH on the corner of Thornton and 4th....for one year---1945-46!

Ned Biddix attended La Casita School that year; the guys his age remember him fondly and with great respect, for even at that early age, Ned was a serious no-nonsense athlete. On those hard-as-rock playgrounds of La Casita and Eugene Field schools, Ned "came to play." And in the days of no-uniforms, he showed up in a WWII tanker's helmet, card board shoulder pads, and his own version of cleats: shingle nails driven through the soles of his street shoes! From all accounts, Ned was a tough player!

Alas, after one year in Clovis, Ned's pastor father was offered a bigger church in Ohio and they moved away. They finally moved to Winter Park, Florida, where Ned graduated high school and made a name for himself in sports that is almost unbelievable.

So, though he graduated somewhere else, he was always in his heart a member of the CHS Class of '53. Firm friendships had been formed. The Clovis guys had largely lost track of Ned, except for Bob, who wrote the marble story. After the story, they all got in contact and began writing emails to each other and getting caught up on the news.

We'll let Biddix rest a moment and get back to the little white church. The new photo we have shows a nicely painted or stucco building, well-maintained though it has to be more than 80 years old.

Ned told me recently, the little white church building housed a Church of the Brethren congregation, a small denomination, spun off from German Baptists, and found mostly in less than a dozen eastern US states. The Clovis church, probably the only CB church in New Mexico, had Sunday School in the basement, regular Sunday morning and evening services, as well as prayer meeting on Wednesday night. Choir practice was also on Wednesday night. There was a pastor's home right behind the church. Ned's father took fifteen hours of study at ENMU during the week, and drove back and forth.

So now we know: that little white "empty" church on the corner--- was actually a warm, people-filled, place of worship. (The building now is under different ownership.)

As for Ned Biddix, he went on to be a highly accomplished athlete, teacher, and coach. All over Florida, to his former players, he is known as "Coach Biddix." Among his many honors he was inducted into the Circle of Distinction for Winter Park High School, his Alma Mater. They say: "His support of our school is legendary."

Here are some of Ned's sports accomplishments:

 * graduated Winter Park High School, Florida with nine sports letters
*twice Orange Belt All Star in basketball
*as a pitcher and first baseman in baseball, he still holds the record for career homeruns, while batting more than .400 during his high school days
*named by the Orlando Sentinel "MOST OUTSTANDING ATHLETE," Central Florida from 50-53 while at Winter Park High School
*the Detroit Tigers offered him a baseball contract, but he opted to go to college
*he lettered in several sports at Florida Southern

He spent a number of years as a high school teacher and coach, as noted, and later, even after going into private business, he attends games, and supports his teams financially. He helped raise $300,000 to upgrade the Bob Masher Track Complex in Florida.

If Ned Biddix had stayed in Clovis, he would have had some very athletic company--- among CHS '53 guys such as A.J. Mason, Alvis Glidewell, Richard Drake, Bobby Snipes, Jim Asimos, and Jerry Lott. Others were Lloyd Norton, Lyle Walker, Walter White, Gerald Clancy, Pascal Wickard, and Phillip Gore.A very talented bunch of guys for any class to boast, and Ned would've fitted in nicely, and maybe helped them take the State Basketball Championship in 1953, which they did!

That about wraps up my tale of La Casita days, the CHS '53 guys, and Ned Biddix, a Clovis kid for awhile-....and particularly THAT LITTLE WHITE CHURCH ON THE CORNER. which so-fascinated a young school boy--- seventy long years ago!

And now you know...the Rest of the Story.

Ned's in the blue and orange shirt

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BY MIL
10/13/12

Sent from my iPad

MIL'S GIFT TO THE WORLD - A "GRITTATA!"

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OFF THE WALL
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It'd be fittin' for you to read this one at breakfast! Here's how it went down...with some
brief introductory remarks.

You see, for an old timer, may I modestly say that I am a fair-to- middlin' cook. My chili and cornbread are awesome (to me, anyway)! I can put out a pretty good roast beef dinner, with gravy, and all the trimmings, veggies, and stuff. It will rival almost anyone's.

No, I didn't learn it in high school Home Ec. I didn't cook at all then, and matter of fact, no self-respecting young lad in my hometown--even if he had been interested in learning to cook---would have dared enroll in Home Ec. No, not in good old CHS! It just wasn't a “boys-in-Home Ec”-type-town.

I learned to cook (?) from my wife, the Cooking Channel, Bobby Flay, Emeril, Paula Deen, and got my chili recipe from a friend at the State Fair! (Don't ever mention me to those three great cooks above.)

Now to the "GRITTATA."

I was late today getting to breakfast, due to my heavy writing schedule. Looking in the fridge I found a heaping cupful of yesterday's grits. They were kind of solid, as you might imagine. So I decided to have a couple of fried eggs---with the grits, and that one left-over Red Lobster biscuit the wife made yesterday. Then I thought...no, I'll just have an omelet!

Then a light came on in my head: I'll just put two eggs in a bowl, dump ("add" as recipes say) the grits in there, mash it all up good, beat it with my big spoon, and add some cheese, and I'll have a "grommet." No, it'll be a "gritomelet"---or a....hmmm..."GRITTATA!" Grittata? Wo! Was I breaking new culinary ground or what?!

The wife, having already eaten, came by to check on me. "You know, what you're doing there looks interesting, kinda good---in fact make me a little sample, I want to try it!"

May I digress here to say, that a married man knows at least two things in this situation,  (even if he has misplaced his "Wife Manual.") (1) Translated: "Make me a sample," here, means "I'll take half of it." (2) And, the Basic Rule of Life"= "A happy wife means a happy husband means a happy world!"

Accordingly, I dumped a third egg into my ad lib recipe, expanding it, added more cheese, cooked it in a skillet with a lid, I then chopped a whole garden ripe tomato from our vines, and sprinkled half of that over her half of my new recipe, and served it to her!

After a few bites, she said: "Wow, this is okay, we'll (we'll?) have to do it again. Next time we'll put more eggs, grits, cheese, and add some Jimmy Dean's sausage, all chopped up, and some green chiles! We'll use a big casserole dish and cook it in the oven!"

There you go! I didn't even have time to register my new discovery with the U.S. Pat Pending Office, and get it, ER..."cook-righted!" And it was gone---appropriated---Mil's gift to the world--- a "GRITTATA!"

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BY MIL
10/08/12




Sent from my iPad

"COME THOU FOUNT OF EVERY BLESSING..."

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TUNE MY HEART TO SING THY GRACE!
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This is one of my favorite hymns. In everyday talk we could say that it is "loaded" with Christian aspirations, concepts, and strivings. It is good poetry.  If one quietly sits down and contemplatively reads each set of phrases, he/she will be greatly moved.

           "Jesus sought me when a stranger, wandering from the fold of God..."

           "Praise the mount, I'm fixed upon it---mount of Thy redeeming love."

           "Streams of mercy, never ceasing, call for songs of loudest praise!"

This hymn reminds us of the story in the Old Testament (1 Samuel 7: 7-12), when a memorial stone--- "EBENEZER" ("Stone of Help"), was erected by Samuel to commemorate  divine assistance in the victory of the Israelites in their battle against the Philistines at Aphek. The hymn writer symbolically compares this stone to our battles of life:

           "Here I raise mine Ebenezer, hither by Thy help I'm come."

"Come Thou fount," a Christian hymn by the 17th century pastor and hymnist Robert Robinson, was written in 1757, when he was age 22. It shows surprising spiritual maturity in such a young man, who perhaps had not yet experienced the vicissitudes of life, to any great extent. When we sing this hymn, we are voicing the thoughts and aspirations of more than 250 years ago.

In the USA, this hymn is usually sung to the American folk tune, known as "Nettleton." It was composed by John Wyeth. This tune, in 3/4 time, with the firm downbeat, makes a strong tune for Sunday morning worship, and I always enjoyed leading it.

In the UK, the hymn is more often sung to the tune "Normandy" by C. Nost.

There have been a number of version-variations of some of the stanzas over the years---some by individuals and some by hymnal committees. Committees will usually select the best three stanzas, and may alter them slightly for poetic or doctrinal reasons.

Here I'm quoting the original text of the hymn by Robinson. Note, even the generally unused or unknown stanzas, seem to have good merit.

1. Come, Thou Fount of every blessing,
Tune my heart  to sing Thy grace;
Streams of mercy, never ceasing
Call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet,
Sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount, I'm fixed upon it,
Mount of Thy redeeming love.

2.Sorrowing I shall be in spirit,
Till released from flesh and sin,
Yet from what I do inherit,
Here Thy praises I'll begin.
Here I raise mine Ebenezer;
Hither by thy help I'm come;
And I hope by Thy good pleasure,
Safely to arrive at home.

3. Jesus sought me when a stranger,
Wandering from the fold of God;
He to rescue me from danger,
Interposed His precious blood.
How His kindness yet pursues me
Mortal tongue can never tell,
Clothed in flesh, till death shall loose me
I cannot proclaim it well.

4. O to grace how great a debtor
Daily I'm constrained to be!
Let thy goodness, like a fetter,
Bind my wandering heart to Thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
Prone to leave the God I love:
Here's my heart, O take and seal it,
Seal it for thy courts above.

5. O that day when freed from sinning,
I shall see Thy lovely face;
Clothed then in blood washed linen
How I'll sing thy sovereign grace;
Come, my Lord, no longer tarry,
Take my ransomed soul away;
Send Thine angels now to carry
Me to realms of endless day.

  I never hear this hymn that I don't remember when I was thirteen and working out in the wheat harvest at our Ranchvale farm, during the middle of that critical time in June, when farmers were helping each other harvest their wheat---a Christian friend of ours had a combine break down. I helped him as he took the broken part off, and having a welder in his garage, we drove several miles over there, and he began welding. 

  While this setback might have made many men angry and uptight, our friend was singing to himself  softly: "O Beulah land, sweet Beulah land..." and then he went into---"O to grace how great a debtor, daily I'm constrained to be..."--- all the while, doing his welding. He is gone now, but what an example to set for a thirteen-year old! 

 "Oh that day when freed from sinning, I shall see Thy lovely face..."  

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

Mormon Tabernacle Choir

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BY MIL

"SMART PEOPLE DON'T TALK MUCH"

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OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES?

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Reader response to "PLAY YOUR CARDS CLOSE TO THE VEST:"

Maybe it is appropriate that this be the shortest post ever, on Mil's!

"My father had a favorite quote: words of mine he said I once spoke, at the ripe old age of six. According to my father, when I was asked why I was not talking, my response was, "Smart people don't talk much." from L.B.

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BY MIL

10/10/12

Sent from my iPad

"HEY, WHEN ARE WE GOING TO GET OUT OF HERE?"

                                                 "Headed Home"
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"AND GO HOME!"
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A good question.

Along about 1974, there were some really nice new brick homes for sale, out Comanche and way past Tramway Rd! The builder was a top-notch, talented, quality individual. We always wanted one of his houses, especially the white slab brick one, but were as poor as Job's turkey.

Across the street from our coveted house, was a four bedroom, reddish brick---a nice one--- and our friend, a gov't. employee bought it!

A great story follows. Simple, but great, to me anyway, for I am a "place oriented" guy. I love familiar surroundings. I love home. Can't help it; that's just the way it is.

So P.J. (we'll call him), one happy Saturday, moved into his fine new red brick home, with his wife, and his little boy, Eddie.

After a long, laborious day (we've all been there), of getting mostly moved in, some stuff put away, and the beds set up, P.J. was tucking little five year old Eddie into bed in his strange new bedroom. After he talked to the little boy a bit, he hugged him, turned on the night lite, and started out the door.

The little boy said: "Hey, Dad, when are we gonna get out of here?" P.J. turned and said "What do you mean?" Eddie replied: "I mean, when are we gonna get out of here...AND GO HOME?"

I felt the same way once, when we moved out of our little "early marriage" home of twenty-four years. The boys had grown up there. When we brought little brand-new, bundled-up Brian home from the hospital, that cold November day, right before Kennedy was shot, little Alan was standing out front, scuffing his toe, waiting to see his new brother. All the growing up through the years and family stuff that went on there. Like the poet Khalil Gibran said, "Too many fragments of the spirit have I scattered..." (in this place). Yes, I did hate to leave there; I knew how little Eddie felt!

People who are "citizens of the world," and love to travel---are to be admired! Me...I'm not a traveler. I relax better, sleep better, eat better, digest better, read better, write better---name it---and I do it better at home!

I once had a job that necessitated that I be away from home weeks at a time. I often sat in five-day-long daylight to bedtime meetings, where people talked. I was in hotel rooms. I, like little Eddie, thought a lot of times: "When am I gonna get out of here...and go home?"

Now I will tell you a funny thing: people have said to me---"Don't you LIKE to travel?" They've got to be kidding me! I say to them, "More power to you if you like to stand in airport lines, sleep in hard hotel beds, in stinky rooms, with strange pillows, and freeze under one blanket!" But me---I figured for years how I could GET HOME---now I'm not about to try to figure out ways to LEAVE!

No, sir. I'm with little Eddie!

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BY MIL
10/08/12




Sent from my iPad