Thursday, November 29, 2012

A CHRISTMAS REMEMBERED



by Richard Drake, Guest Writer

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DON'T JUDGE A BOOK BY IT'S COVER!
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When our kids were very small,  we delayed putting up the family tree until just before Christmas day.  Once the tree up fully decorated the kids would become more excited each year.  To preserve Marcia’s sanity a delay in the process was appreciated.
One Saturday afternoon a couple days before Christmas it came time to go buy a tree.  We lived on top of Lookout Mountain outside of Denver and that year none of the trees on our property would do the job.  I was taking care of the kids that day so I decided to drive into Denver and pick out a tree.  As I remember the kids were seven, five and two years old.  I had been cutting logs that morning and did not want to clean up before the trip.  I looked like a mountain man in my very dirty work clothes and scuffed up work boots, the kids had been out playing in the snow and mud so they did not have on their Sunday finery.  Bret, our youngest had on coveralls handed down from his sisters.  The snaps in the legs and crotch no longer would stay fastened for more than a few minutes.  The legs would flair out so it looked like he was wearing a skirt.
I got them into my pickup for the drive off of the mountain.  The truck was a 1951 red Ford with rusted fenders and corroded bumpers.  The kids had named it the “Red Mariah” but I don’t recall why that name.  So off we went to get a tree in that old beat up truck with a cracked windshield and everyone with their dirty clothes full of holes.
At the tree lot I left the kids in the truck, eagerly watching the process.  Bret, the smallest with his runny nose pressed against the side window to get a better view.  After several minutes, I found what appeared be the perfect tree.  I dragged it close to the truck to give the little ones a better view and seeking their approval.  It was after all a family affair.  Now that made the kids even more excited.
 I asked what the price was for the tree and was told it was four dollars.  Since it was nearing Christmas day, prices were being discounted.  I had brought our check book intending to pay in that manner since I only had two dollars in cash on me.  I jokingly said I’ll give you two dollars cash or I will have to write you a check. The salesman took a long look at the rag muffin looking children, my clothes, and the red truck and he got this funny look on his face.  Another look at Bret’s smiling face pressed to the window and you could see the man wilt.  He quickly said there was no charge and Merry Christmas.  I quickly realized that he had made an incorrect judgment about my ability to pay.  I tried to get him to let me pay but to no avail.  
So off we went to take the tree to Mother, Marcia, with a good story to tell.


Merry Christmas

----30----
For Mil's Place
by Richard Drake
CHS Class '53

FELIZ NAVIDAD EN TAJIQUE


        Painting by Pauline Nelson, 1993

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"NO, NO, ES LEÑA, ES LEÑA!"
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"NOCHE DE PAZ, NOCHE DE AMOR, TODO DUERME EN DERREDOR"
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For many years I had a little Spanish gentleman from Tajique, south of Albuquerque in the Manzano Mountains, as my "firewood man." Juan came by the house early every fall, and then later, usually in December, close to Christmas time. His plan, on arriving in town obviously was to see his regular customers first, sell his wood pronto, buy himself a good ten cent cigar, and head for home. It finally got to where it didn't work with me, for I had a backyard full of wood I had bought from him, and still do. I couldn't keep on buying. I even bought a load for my son. Okay, yes, I did like Juan and he talked good Spanish!

I haven't seen him in a couple of years, and I do hope he is okay; he had a bad knee which was always giving him trouble and he had to have his grandson with him to stack the wood he sold. He was past 75 so maybe he has totally retired.

One time when he came I had a couple of packages of venison left over from a deer hunt. (I had eaten a lot of venison in my life, mostly ground into hamburger or chili meat.) However, women just aren't real fond of wild meat; they don't enjoy cooking it, nor do they enjoy eating it.

So, operating under the old dictum "A happy wife means a happy husband," I said that day to my wood man: "Juan, do you ever eat venison down there at Tajique?" (I probably asked the question in Spanish, as we usually talked Spanish.) "Oh yes," he said, "Anytime I can bag a deer, we make tamales, chili, and roasts out of it," So Juan went away that day with a Christmas present from me--- two packages of frozen venison, wrapped in newspapers, riding snugly in the front seat of his pickup!

He'd drive up in front of my house, with that fully loaded pickup, with sideboards, hobble up to the house, ring the bell, and I'd answer the door. I'd say: "¡Oh, buenas dias...Juan! ¡Me gusto verle! Que pasa? Tienes madera para vender?" ("Do you have wood for sale?") I haven't checked my Spanish dictionary lately, but I think "madera" is not the word for firewood. He'd say: "¡No, no, es leña, es leña!" ("It's FIREwood.")

He often would tell me of the troubles he had with his pickup and also with his knee. The truck wouldn't run---thus how could he sell wood to buy groceries?  His leg hurt and he had to keep it elevated and couldn't work. He told me about his little adobe house that stayed cozy and warm in the winter with his woodstove.

When I took an advanced Spanish course at Bear Canyon Senior Center in 1999, I remembered my little woodman and all his problems. I wrote a short story in Spanish about him. Now I can't find it. But it went something like this and was partly fictitious.

There was a Spanish man who lived in a cozy little adobe home down just outside Tajique. He cut and hauled wood, stacking it down by his barn for resale each fall. But one year when it came time to sell his wood, his pickup broke down. While underneath it, trying to replace a part, he twisted his bum knee. He couldn't drive and sell his wood. Christmas was not many weeks away, and it looked like a bleak Christmas, with no money for food or presents.

Somehow, in those weeks, remaining before Christmas, his sons secretly fixed his pickup but used their own trucks to haul wood to town and sell it. His wife knew about it and distracted him from what was going on. They sold all his wood except what he needed for his own home!

On Christmas eve, late afternoon, Juan was sitting by his woodstove, half-dozing. It was cold outside. He heard voices singing, seemingly from afar off, but getting closer. They were singing:

"Noche de Paz, noche de amor,

Todo duerme en derredor;
Entre los astros que esparcen su luz,
Bella anunciando al ninito Jesus,
Brilla la estrella de paz,
Brilla la estrella de paz."


Suddenly the door burst open and the house seemed to be packed all at once with his grown-up kids and grandkids, all singing Christmas songs! They were carrying plates and trays of tamales, enchiladas, a pot of posole, and all manner of Christmas presents, in bright holiday wrappings....and, of all things---a freshly-cut Christmas tree, right out of the forest!

There was a feast that night at Juan's house, with the opening of presents...and much singing...laughter...and happiness!

Juan exclaimed, with tears in his eyes, "¡Esta es la mejor Navidad que he tenido en mi vida! ¡Gracias a Dios!"

And keeping his little mountain home warm, along with all the love that was there---was his woodstove and plenty of...LEÑA!


********30********
BY MIL
11/26/12




Sent from my iPad

Monday, November 26, 2012

"A STRANGER COMES; THE HEROINE TAKES A TRIP!"



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"TRUTH IS STRANGER THAN FICTION!"
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In two different writing courses I have run across an identical statement or premise: "All plots are based on two standard stories: a stranger comes to town...or, the hero (heroine) takes a trip." The people who believe these propositions can make a case for them.

Not sure in my own mind (as yet) that I am fully convinced that the above covers ALL PLOTS, nonetheless I can say that I've known of BOTH happening in the same story! And it is a true story!

A dear friend of ours was a faithful church attender. Now it so happened that as avid a "church lover" as she was, she was also a "mouse-hater" to an equal extent! In fact we might say, she was a mouse-hater of the First Magnitude. I have never known such a fierce mouse hater as she!

I could tell you a number of stories, but maybe one will suffice. There is a restaurant with an outdoor patio which is a nice relaxing place to go and sit and eat and drink iced tea. We went there often but she would not go because she heard that a mouse had been seen doing its jogging around that patio during meal times.

Well, anyway, one Sunday she was sitting in church right along the aisle, in a nice relatively new auditorium. She was sitting there in her pew singing away and the one-in-a-billion thing happened! A rare thing to happen, and still rarer that it happened to her---a mouse hater!

Yes, a mouse all at once appeared from somewhere and stopped right near her feet and at  the edge of the aisle---and instead of discreetly moving on---which would have been bad enough, he took it upon himself to stop and eyeball our friend. Who knows? Perhaps he was mesmerized by her singing!

Isn't there some saying about not eyeballing grizzlies, pit bulls, and other questionable creatures. Well, this mouse hadn't heard it, because he eyeballed our friend, his enemy, and she returned his stare---but only for a quick moment---time enough for the unbelievable to register in her mind! A MOUSE!!!!!

My friends, I must tell you that there was suddenly an unhappy worshipper in that church, a departing-immediately-never-to-return-to-that-church-worshipper! She was GONE!

Maybe the writing experts are correct about the plots. It was borne out that day---both plots at once:

"A stranger comes to town; the heroine takes a trip!"


*********30********
BY MIL
11/25/12







Sent from my iPad

SORRY CHOICE FOR THE SOIREE



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"YES, PLEASE, I'LL HAVE SECONDS!"
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This post will likely get me in trouble with the many lady readers who are among the social cognoscenti---and possibly with some editors I know.

Nonetheless, we men must speak out! I'm carrying the ball here, guys for you today! Some things must be said!

First, let me set the stage for my remarks. Many of us have been in our lives---hard-working, growing, hungry guys. Maybe you have had a hard day at the office, you get home tired, and the wife reminds you that you have a soiree to attend. You hurriedly get your shower, don your party togs and---time to go!

It is a nice occasion with lots of interesting and important people there. It is usually in a residence, perhaps, and if it is in wintertime, there is no spilling of the crowd into the backyard or patio. Thus sometimes there are wall-to-wall people; if someone died, you might not know it 'til the party was over. You've been to several of those. But I digress....

You get to the party in your fresh duds and after the proper greetings, you, with your big appetite head for the TABLE...THE SPREAD! Over numerous shoulders you espy the table with a giant platter with half slices of ham and some hard rolls next to it. There is a platter of pepper jack, provolone, and American cheeses. There is a crock pot at one end of the table with cute little meat balls in sauce, and on the other end a crock pot of little cocktail wieners in sauce.

Over there is a big platter of celery sticks, radishes, cherry tomatoes, carrot sticks, and cauliflower pieces---all surrounding a delicious creamy-looking dip! There are olives of several kinds, including my favorite pimento olives. There are pickles! For fruit lovers there is a spread of grapes, pineapple chinks, mandarin orange slices, apple slices, mangos, and cheese squares!

Right in the middle of the table, sits a big bowl (over a candle) of chile con queso---that ever-wonderful MUST for any party. Around it are bowls of blue nacho chips, regular nacho chips, and potato chips! There are bowls of mayo, mustard, and horse radish scattered around!

Okay, you've got the picture. So, I finally get to the edge of the table of food and there I see my old friend, Ed. "Hey, Ed, how ya' doing? This is a great spread, huh? Er, where are the plates?"

"There," Ed says. "Where?" I say. He points to a stack of little bitty flimsy paper saucers. "No, I mean---THE MAIN PLATES, where are they?" "That's them," Ed says, careless with his English, and continuing: "What you see is what you get---that's all the plates!"

You know the story, guys. You get your roll and ham, and there goes two-thirds of your saucer space. You fill in around the edges with whatever food you can, regretting the loss of what you can't. The queso runs under it all and you wind up with cheesy grapes, cauliflower, apple slices. et.al. Then you realize you need some chips for your spread-out queso, but alas there is no room---they fall off the top of your little saggy paper saucer. Who dreamed-up this plan anyway?

You jam a few back-up nachos into the pocket of your favorite jacket and begin to wend your way through the crowd, holding your incriminating, overflowing saucer high up, out of harm's way, but, alas, unfortunately where everyone can see it!

You finally make it to a quiet miraculously empty seat in a corner, lamenting the fact that you didn't have any room for those wonderful little meat balls down  at the other end of the table, and you forgot to get a beverage. Not to worry, if I survive the crowd, I'll go back for seconds and maybe try to make out a meal here.

When the party's over, the hostesses will be cleaning up and analyzing. "The food was a great hit with everybody, don't you think, Myrtle!" "Oh yes, and did you notice Ed's friend--he went back for seconds!"

So, ladies, from the guys: accept our kudos for good parties and great food! But please get rid of those horrendous, saggy, little paper saucers----

And get us some "MAN PLATES!"

*********30*********
BY MIL
11/22/12
Sent from my iPad

"BATHING SADDLES"---THAT WINDMILL TANK!


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READER'S COMMENT BY ALBIN COVINGTON
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When I was a student at La Casita School, back in the 1940's, I would often go to Dimmitt,Texas where I had two uncles and several cousins. They were farmers. I just loved the farm!

When I first started spending some of my summers there, I stayed with my uncle who lived in
an old house; this was not an unusual thing in the 40's. There were many old houses. They had an old windmill that one of my cousins, Bryce, and I liked to play around. We climbed the
old wooden ladder.

One very warm day, we had been riding an old horse near that old windmill. Bryce was taking his turn on the horse and rode up to the water tank at the windmill so the horse could get a drink. He was about to get off the horse when the horse decided that it was "bath time" for him. It was time to cool off a bit! Thus Bryce, the horse, saddle, and all went into that stock tank and had a bath!

I don't know if that had anything to do with it, but I have always loved windmills. I have been known to stop along the road to take a picture of an interesting mill I had  just spotted.

In the late 50's I went to work on that farm! My uncle had built a new house far from where
the old windmill was. It had a nice new well, with a pump on it. You know, the whir of that
pump didn't do for me what the pumping of the windmill did!

And I still stop once in a while to get a picture of a windmill!

********30*******
FOR MIL'S PLACE
BY DR. ALBIN COVINGTON,
Guest Writer
Sent from my iPad

Monday, November 19, 2012

OVER THE RIVER AND THROUGH THE WOODS....TO POP'S PLACE



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THANKSGIVING PRAYER: "LONG MAY OUR LAND BE BRIGHT WITH FREEDOM'S HOLY LIGHT!"
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"Over the river and through the woods
To grandmother's house we go...
The horse knows the way
To carry the sleigh
Through the white and drifted snow..."

This song, sung in grade school, always reminded me of going to Pop's Place every Thanksgiving. He had a great farm down in Dawson County, Texas. You have read about it on Mil's Place. The only difference from the nostalgic song and real life was that there was no river, no woods, no horse and sleigh, and no white and drifted snow. Oh well, it didn't matter to an eight year old boy, though all that stuff would have been cool. We did have our trusty dark blue '41 Chevrolet Master Deluxe 2 Door sedan, which served us thought WWII!

The main thing was the family circle, and the great food. My grandmother, my mother, and my aunt were all "farm girls," were butter-cooks like Paula Deen, and could cook like you wouldn't believe. I won't describe here all the recipes we had; they were your usual delicious Thanksgiving dishes. I will note two things. The first is that no big holiday meal ever took place there without a big FRUIT SALAD of cut up apples, oranges, bananas, grapes, coconut, walnuts, and whipped cream! It was simply a tradition!

The second, and most important thing is "POP'S DEEP SOUTH CORNBREAD DRESSING!" That it be done correctly and to exact specifications was as important to him as his blue-bib overalls and his pocket knife That the women in the family had long ago committed the dressing recipe to memory---did not matter or occur to him. He was right there, under foot, sneaking a little extra sage into the recipe, if the ladies weren't alert. They finally, to protect against the sage problem affecting everyone, allowed Pop to make his own little recipe in a pan, adding of course, plenty of sage!

As a Thanksgiving gift to my readers, I am giving you here his  time-tested cornbread dressing recipe.  You may already have it, or you may be an oyster-dressing person. This was not a stuffing---it was nice fully-cooked brown crispy dressing, baked separately in the oven.
                                      
                                          POP'S CORNBREAD DRESSING


2 recipes of plain cornbread
1 can of regular non-flaky biscuits
Crumble these.
2 cups celery, finely diced, sautéed in butter or microwave in water, one minute
2 cups onion finely diced, cook with celery
4 eggs, slightly beaten
Salt and pepper carefully, to taste
Poultry seasoning to taste; try 1 TBS, (or sage, carefully)
4 or 5 cups of turkey broth, fat skimmed off (boil bones if possible)
Note: Canned chicken  broth may be substituted; but has less flavor.
Mix to proper baking consistency by adding broth...
Bake 30-45 minutes in two long Pyrex bowls, until very brown.

On a humorous note, I will tell you a little story. We had a dear friend from back East, who lived here and was a very fine cook. In that area of the country, the oyster dressing was the accepted stuffing. She once tasted our corn bread dressing, made by my wife, and every year after that, since her family here couldn't be converted, she asked my wife to make her a little special extra pan of cornbread dressing! She came by and picked it up!

Various Thanksgiving observations date back to the pilgrims, the early colonies, George Washington, and the states. The first official Thanksgiving Day was established during the presidency of Abraham Lincoln in Civil War times, 1863, and has continued ever since, being made a permanent holiday by congress in 1941.

This year, in addition to being thankful for all our blessings, let us offer a prayer for our republic; many feel that the country is facing serious times...the most serious since the Civil War.

May God bless you and our country, and I hope you have a nice Thanksgiving.

"America", Mormon Tabernacle Choir

"America the Beautiful", Mormon Tabernacle Choir

*********30*********
BY MIL
11/17/12




Sent from my iPad

WHAT IS A WINDMILL TO YOU?

"Windmill at Ranchvale"
by Mil, 1969

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A WINDMILL IS OUR  BEST FRIEND!
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What is a windmill to you?
Have you ever really thought about it?
Get a picture of one...look at it!
Why, you say, it's nothing but a tall tower
Made of heavy weather-beaten wood,
Kind of gray-looking, old, and cracked.

And it has that big propeller/fan
Way up there high, with gears and all...
Right atop that skinny little platform.
How'd they get it up there, anyway?


The windmill does have several hundred feet
Of pipe below the ground, what for?
It holds the sucker rod that lifts the water,
Reaching way down deep into the earth
To find it and bring it up.

So then, what is a windmill?
It is...possibilities for the future...
It is...life, hope, success...
It is...a home...a place to live.
It is...forever, a cold drink of water...
It is...a symbol of life...and growth...
It is.. poetry...and has it's own rustic beauty...
It is...our best friend!

You are looking at the miraculous thing
That opened the West,
A century and a half ago!
That enabled small farmers to make a living
On small pieces of land.
It enabled ranches to grow to many sections
Of land, with up to forty or more windmills each,
Providing water for the cattle.
So many mills that "windmill men" were
Employed to keep them going!

WATER! Water is the key word.
No water, no people, no livestock...
No farms or ranches.

On a more personal level
A windmill is like an oasis.
On a hot summer's day, riding a tractor
All day long---
A nearby windmill provides a fresh bag full
Of cold water!
It provides a dripping, leaking straw hat full
Of wonderful water to dump over the
Plower's face, head, and shoulders
And help him cool off...
It provides memories of previous dunkings!

Out walking on a quail hunt.
What better than a cold drink
At some remote windmill in a lonely pasture?

Think how a cow or horse feels,
Eating that dry dusty grass all day long.
And espying that distant mill that they
Can almost hear turning, a mile away---
It's saying to them, as it creaks and turns and
Gently clangs...
"Cold water....cold water."

I never saw anyone erect one,
But looking at that little tiny platform
and at the heavy fan and gears,
I has to be a chore!
I have helped "pull" several
And that IS a chore!

There is poetry galore in windmills,
No, not steel ones.
They may pump water just fine,
But somehow, they just have no poetry,
At least not for me.
It's that wood in the windmill---
Wood that has withstood many
Hot windy summers
And many cold freezing winters,
That gives windmills personality....
And character.

Maybe a decades-old tried and true
weathered-wooden-windmill,
Is a metaphor for the farmer who owns it...
And for that matter---
For all of us, perhaps beaten and weathered a bit
By life.

What is a windmill to you? To me?
It is more than just a machine.
It is an oasis--- for somebody.
It is a best friend--- for somebody.
Somebody out there on a remote farm,
Or a big cattle ranch.

Creaking, turning, gently clanging---
That lonesome sound,
Windmills.... keeping people good company
While they keep on bringing up that
Cool, clear, water.

                               "Windmill at Bernardo", by Mil, 1970


"Leaning Windmill and Painted Sky", by Mil, 1969

"Windmill", painting by Pauline Nelson, 1975  (mother of the editor)


"Windmill", by Pauline Nelson, 1973
*********30*********
BY MIL
11/18/12
Sent from my iPad


Wednesday, November 14, 2012

THE CLOVIS WILDCATS- 1951 STATE BASKETBALL CHAMPS

by Richard Drake, Guest Writer
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UNACCLAIMED HEROES: THE TEAM MANAGERS

Unacclaimed  Heroes of the 1951 Clovis Basketball State Championship
Everyone who has ever gone to Clovis High School remembers the 1951 State Champions.  The team was very good but I don’t remember early on that anyone expected them to go all of the way.  This group of boys just came together as a team at the end of the season.  My friends and I were sophomores but we felt strongly about the team.  We were used as cannon fodder in practice and were convinced that the team center perfected his very tough defensive skills and hard rebounding technique by beating us up each day in practice.  All of the seniors really did work us over and I believe the result toughen us for our own run to the title two years later. In 1951, only one of our age group had developed the skills to be selected for the twelve members to go to the tournament. 
            No names are used in this story to protect the guilty.
One of the team managers and I were good friends.  I wanted to go to Albuquerque along with everyone else in high school.  So he and I developed a plan for me to help load all of the team equipment onto the Wildcat bus and would hide on the back seat with the gear.  I had told my Mother that the coach wanted me to go as extra depth on the bench in case it was needed. Compared with my desire to go to the tournament, I reasoned a small white lie was justified.
 A minor problem arose just before the bus pulled out.  I looked out of a window and was face to face with the Clovis News Journal sports writer.  He stared at me with a quizzical look. I feared that he would write in the newspaper that I had been hiding on the bus. Mother would find out that I had not been honest with her.  At that time there was no greater fear in a young man than that of his Mother’s anger when she learned of a “lie”.
            The hero story began in Albuquerque when a group of the team members and fans decided to go ice skating.  Remember, in 1951 few people in eastern New Mexico had ever been on ice skates and that included most of the starting five.  Again, I will not include names to protect the guilty, but one of the best players turned his ankle while attempting to learn to skate.  It was feared that, if and when, the coach found out he would probable kill at least one of us. The team managers took charge and got the injured player back to the hotel where they kept ice on the ankle all night. Before the game they applied heat and then taped the ankle so tight that there was some worry that maybe the circulation would be cut off.  The treatment worked and while the ankle was very sore, he had an all star night.
            At the same time, another one of the starters came down with a very sore throat and could hardly talk.  He was in pain. The coach told the managers to go to a drug store and find some medication for the throat problem.  With everything going on, time ran out and there was no medicine.  Remember during the fifties, the team had only two set of uniforms for three back to back to back games.  They had to do laundry, go to the cleaners, take care of minor injuries, and tape up ankles and other numerous other duties. Our managers, always thinking, decided that “Tough Skin” would be the perfect solution to the problem. We all used it on our ankles to help the tape to stick when they were wrapped before each game.
 The managers read the label and decided that since it was had a high alcohol content, it would not hurt anything and probably be good for the sore throat.  They diluted some with water and gave it to the ailing player.  When he gargled with it, you could hear him yell several doors away.  Fortunately, coach was not around.  After the initial pain eased, the throat was cured and never did bother him anymore.  Again, he was one of our best players and played like the All Star that he was.  Clovis won the game and we were the state champions for the first time since 1929. That is why I believe the team managers were the unknown and unrecognized heroes of that team.
For me, everything was great but I still had to face my mother.  I did not enjoy the celebration on the ride back to Clovis.  Since we lived on Calhoun Street, only a block off of Seventh Street, the driver let me off at the corner and I walked the “very long” block home.  I practiced my story at least a dozen times but nothing was going to work.  I walked in the house expecting my Mother to meet me with a very stern look but she was very happy.  The reporter had assumed the coach had included me on the roster as insurance and wrote it in his article. The 1951 Clovis Wildcat victory had a happy ending for everyone, even me.
Heroes are often found in the background, making things work and leaving the glory to others.

-------30-------
For Mil's Place
By Richard Drake
CHS Class of '53


Tuesday, November 13, 2012

MARVELOUS, MIRACULOUS MILK!



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IS THAT MILK ON YOUR LIP?
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Good milk is one of the most important resources a nation has. Stay with me and I'll tell you what I mean.

                              MILK DELIVERED TO YOUR FRONT PORCH!


When you really think about milk...and how we get it, at first you wonder about it a bit. But we grew up with it! In Clovis, in the 1940's, before we got a cow, we had it delivered to our front porch every few days---six quarts of it. Our milkman was Hubert. You had to be alert and not forget it---in the summertime it could spoil in an hour or  two. Ours was Collins Dairy milk, in glass bottles with a yellow logo. (Campbell's Dairy was either a red or green logo.) Any container other than a quart glass bottle, was unheard of in those days. Cardboard containers were thirty years away.)

Looking back, and considering the subject of milk, the USA was at one time, probably a three-fourths rural society. People lived on farms, and had their chickens, pigs, and cows for a big portion of their food.

                                         CORNBREAD AND MILK

As recent as my parent's generation, many families were large, with a lot of mouths to feed. They were many miles often times from a cafe or restaurant of any kind  and didn't have the cash from the egg money to go and get a sack of burgers anyway. They did have big sacks of flour, corn meal, and lard from hog killing. They'd make a big batch of cornbread for supper and have "crumble-in," that is---crumble a piece of corn bread into a glass full of good fresh "sweet milk," maybe with a little salt and pepper added. My wife's father preferred buttermilk. You'd eat this supper with a big spoon.

We had a cow in our back yard in Clovis, in the later forties, and my parents liked this "corn bread and milk" thing, but I myself could not get excited about it though I tried it a number of times. I liked burgers better.

Going all the way back to Civil War times, when Lee surrendered to Grant at Appomattox, in 1865, the Southerners were allowed to surrender their arms, and leave for home---on foot. All over the south, ragged, tired, defeated Rebs headed for home in small groups. It was common practice for them to stop at farms at might  and ask for a glass of cornbread and buttermilk, and permission to sleep in the barn.

                                           I LEARNED TO MILK (?)

When I was a boy visiting POP'S PLACE, down in Dawson County, Texas, I used to get up early to "help" him milk. He had several cows. Eight-year-olds, you know, have to try everything, it seems. I finally convinced my grandad, Pop, that I was a viable milker, so I  got on the little stool, got sort of under the cow, grabbed a couple of those things on the cow, called teats, and they felt weird. I don't know which one of us was the most nervous---the cow---or I! I squeezed and squeezed--the cow got nervous--- she  shifted her feet, and  swished her tail. I got no milk--repeat none...and that was my final try at milking! I've never attempted it since. Better left to others, with more deft hands. (It looked real easy when others did it!)


Talking about milking, guest writer and farm boy, Wylie Dougherty tells the funny story of  how his family, with nine children, lived on a ranch north of Clovis. During the time of wheat harvest when all the men in the family were harvesting early-to-late, it fell to the girls in the family to do the milking. For a few days they had a nervous, edgy bunch of cows on their hands. The girls had sharp fingernails!

                                         I LEARNED TO CHURN!

When we had the cow in town, I never milked, but Mother found out that I could turn one of those gallon churns....the ones with big glass jars, and a paddle inside which you cranked. You'd turn and turn and finally, when your arm was worn out, pieces of butter started to form. When the jar was thick with butter, you'd scoop it into a bowl and round it on top. You had some nice butter.

                                    MASON QUART JAR OF ICED MILK!

Yes, milk was big in those days. When you came home from plowing all day on the farm, there was a great meal of veggies, corn bread and a big glass of milk with ice cubes in it. If your food was brought to the farm, at lunch time, there would be a quart Mason jar for you, full of milk and ice  cubes.

                                    HALLELUJAH, BISCUITS AND GRAVY!

We depend on the old cows so much! Try baking or cooking without milk. What would life be like without ever having tasted---biscuits and gravy!

                                          THE BIGGIE----ICE CREAM!

The biggie with Americans and milk is: ICE CREAM! There must be hundreds of flavors of ice cream. Ice cream means milkshakes, malts, frosted cokes, sundaes, on and on! Recent statistics show that Americans eat 1.6 billion gallons of ice cream per year; that averages about 23.2 quarts a year per person. Another source suggests 5.63 gallons per person in the U.S., more than any other country. Are you ready for this: kids between 2 and 12 eat more than 50% of all the U.S. ice cream production. If we're talking averages here, that means that kids are eating more than their share! America spends an estimated 20-24 billion dollars a year on Ice cream and related products! (Yes, cows are important to us!)

Other interesting ice cream facts: Ninety-four per cent of American households consume ice cream. Vanilla is the number one flavor.  A number of the early presidents favored ice cream; several had "ice houses" on their property, storing lake and river ice or for later freezing cream. The first crank freezer was patented in 1843.

The subject of this post is "milk," and it should be noted that frozen "dairy"  products date back centuries. Desserts were made from the milk of the horse, buffalo, yak, camel, cow, and goat --- dating all the way back to the T'ang  dynasty in China. (618--907 A.D.)
  
And: read almost any military book and the soldiers are looking forward to getting back to the "states," or "the world," so they can order some big chocolate shakes and cheeseburgers.


                           THE IMPORTANCE OF MILK TO THE FARMER

It would be hard to overestimate the importance of milk to the farm folks, in the first 150 years of the republic. Aside from all the kitchen uses we have discussed and many more, there is the very important thing to consider----the pigs' diets. Pigs were an important and necessary food to the farmer, with the bacon, sausage, hams, shoulders, roasts, chops---most of which could  be "sugar-cured" and preserved for months. All unused, soured, surplus milk was dumped into five gallon cans, along with any kitchen leftovers and served to the pigs as "slop." To a pig, it was good! It later made a good pig for eating!

To emphasize the importance that rural folks placed on their cows...and milk...I'm going to quote for you three paragraphs from my prose poem "POP," written back in the spring, and is on MIL'S PLACE.

"Times were hard in the thirties---
People worked for a dollar a day,
And were glad to get it!
I was very small then, and Dad
Needed a job.
Found one in a laundry
Down at Wink, Texas.
The nice employer gave us the use
Of a little house behind the laundry.

One day, about 1936, my grandad "Pop"
Loaded up an old cotton trailer
With a surprise for us---a gift.
He pulled that trailer all the way
From Lamesa to Wink
Behind his old tan Dodge sedan.

Drove up to our little house, got out,
Went around to the back of the trailer,
And came back around,
Leading something for us...
It was a......
cow."


 

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BY MIL
11/12/12






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Monday, November 12, 2012

REMEMBERING THEM....VETERANS' DAY, 2012

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THE COST OF LIBERTY
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USS GEORGE WASHINGTON


ETERNAL FATHER, STRONG TO SAVE


 
                                     BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC

                                              

Saturday, November 10, 2012

GROWING UP IN CLOVIS


by Richard Drake
Guest Writer

            Looking back on growing up in Clovis, I continue to marvel about how much simpler things were in the late forties and fifties.  The memories of the lessons learned from friends, teachers and, most importantly, those from our parents are never forgotten.  I am reminded of learning respect for other religions from my Mother.
            Summers were the most fun because we got to roam the neighborhood.  We were not to go too far and we always had to be within calling distance.  As we grew older our range increased a little every year. My brother and I were always seeing how far we could push the limits.  Seventh Street was a magnet because it was busier than our other streets especially on Saturday evenings.
            There was a church not too far from our house and each Saturday evening we could hear singing.  We were drawn to it like a moth to a flame.  The church was in a former store and had two large windows in the front that enabled us to see inside. We watched from across the street and could see people going around and around the pews.  They were singing and sort of dancing, more like shuffling along.  After a while we crossed the street, a forbidden thing, and looked through the windows and the open door.  It was fascinating to watch and listen.  Around and around the people went and occasionally one would fall to the floor.  They were talking but we could not understand any of their words. It was as if they were speaking a foreign language.
            I was so busy looking that I did not realize that my brother was no longer with me.  I thought that he might have started back home but I could not see him.  Looking back into the church, I saw him.  He was in line, singing and shuffling right along with everyone.  He looked at me from across the church with his big grin.  As he went past the door where I was standing outside, he laughed out loud and waved.  As soon as he was on the other side of the church, I could not resist and joined the congregation.  Around and round we went, singing and shuffling.  My brother and I waved at each other every time we went around because we were having fun. 
            All of a sudden, he was nowhere to be seen. He had just disappeared. I looked to see if he had joined the group on the floor but he was not there. As I passed by the front door, “this arm” came out of nowhere and yanked me out of the church.  It was our Mother.  My brother was standing beside her in a state of “fright”.
            She had this long switch she had obtained from one the Elm trees along Seventh and she applied it to our naked calves.  We tried to out run her but she was a lot faster than we had imagined.  She used that switch all of the way home.  It was only about three blocks away but it seemed like forever.  Once we were at home and our tears had stopped we got a lecture on respecting our people’s religions. Our Dad just listened and tried not to smile.  He always supported my Mother when it came to discipline.  When he said “your Mother is right” we believed it.
            Today when I read or hear of someone being disrespectful about someone else’s religion, I can still feel that switch.  Some lessons are never forgotten especially those from growing up in Clovis.
Richard Drake
CHS Class of '53


FIREWORKS ON JULY FOURTH

By Richard Drake,
Guest Writer


(MIL'S NOTE: The trees are turning red and yellow, the northers are starting to come, the nights are colder, and now that the old hot summer is gone---we're already missing it--- and tee shirts and shorts, baseball in the park, fried chicken and deviled egg picnics, and all the great summer stuff! We even hanker again a little bit for 4th of July times. Thanks to Richard for these funny stories about "the Fourth" and fireworks!)


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"HEY, BOB....IS THAT A ROCKET IN YOUR POCKET?!"
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FIREWORKS ON JULY FOURTH

My favorite memory of the Fourth of July in Clovis was one year with my friend, Bob Snipes.   As I remember it, Clovis City Management had curtailed the use of sky rockets in the downtown area.  That offered a challenge to two seventeen year old boys.  Somehow Bob had learned how to make delayed burning fuses by soaking knitting yarn in salt peter. After it dried the yarn would burn at a fixed rate.  By cutting off the right length, we could set the time of launch for our Roman candle rockets.  After much strategic planning, the rockets were placed at different spots up and down Main Street in placed in the alleys and beside the stores.  It was easy to light fuses of the rockets and drive to our viewing place in front of the State Theater.  It was great fun to watch the police race to the site of each launching and find no one there and, immediately, another rocket would explode at the other end of Main. This continued for several minutes.  Of course, we knew nothing when we were approached by the officers asking if we had seen anyone.  We had been standing there throughout the time and they were our witnesses.
            The evening ended on the Eugene Field outdoor basketball court.  Bob and I engaged each other in a duel with hand held 10 ball roman candles rockets.  It was not dangerous because the balls of fire were easily evaded. The basketball court was a perfect place since we did not have to worry about a grass fire.  As we were ending our play duel, Bob aimed his last shot at the backboard.  It bounced back toward him and he did not move fast enough.  The fire ball landed in the pocket of his shirt and set off a package of lady finger fire crackers that he was carrying in the pocket. Of course the package was open and ready to light. I have never seen anyone rip a shirt off as fast as Bob.  He did have a hole in his brand new shirt and a ripped pocket as well as two or three missing buttons. Thankfully he was not burned but his mother had just made the shirt for him. The tough part was he had to tell his Mother.
Everyone has many their memories of fireworks on the fourth of July.  During the time that we lived in Massachusetts we were able to see the gigantic display put on in Boston out over the harbor each year.   We went early so we could  have a large meal of Italian food at a good restaurant in Boston’s North End and still have time to get an excellent vantage point right on the water’s edge.  The fireworks were ignited from a barge out in the water about a hundred yards away.  They appeared to explode right over our heads.  The sounds from the blasts reverberated off of the tall glass buildings just behind us.  They were so loud that it actually hurt our stomachs but it was great entertainment.  We could faintly see the personnel running around on the deck of the barge setting off the rockets.  Afterwards, we had to race to the train station to catch the last ride home.  We barely made it. Probably the heavy Italian food added to our exhaustion.
            Another year our girls and grandsons came for a visit on the fourth.  That year we decided to forgo the train ride into Boston and stay in our local town to watch the highly touted fireworks show.  We received good advice from some of our “old timer” neighbors and positioned ourselves with picnic baskets on a hill side that overlooked the football stadium.  The fireworks were launched from an area just behind the building and they rose high overhead.  We had a perfect viewing point.  What made it so unforgettable was a lightning storm came into view and formed a dramatic backdrop.  It was amazing to see the fireworks explode while surrounded by bolts of lightning.  It went on for almost an hour and we had no rain. After the show it was a very short drive home to get the boys to bed.
*********30*********
FOR MIL'S
By Richard Drake,
CHS Class of '53

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Thursday, November 8, 2012

"JESUS, ROSE OF SHARON, BLOOM WITHIN MY HEART"



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"BEAUTIES OF THY TRUTH AND HOLINESS IMPART...."
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If you've been a church music director, studying and directing hymns for a good part of your life, what do you say when someone asks: "Well, what is your favorite hymn?"

The answer is-- it's kind of like having a big room full of children--you love them all. There are several dozen that I particularly like. At the top is "Eternal Father, Strong To Save," (The "Navy Hymn'), "Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah," (CWM RHONDDA), and "O God Our Help In Ages Past." Read this stanza of that hymn: "A thousand ages in Thy sight, are like an evening gone..." Then there is the little used or known "O Day of Rest and Gladness," as sung to the "MENDEBRAS" tune. Read the text to that one, and  listen to the smooth flowing tune.

We have not even discussed "gospel songs." While "hymns" are usually stately, good poetic quality, God-ward directed, praiseful, and having strong tunes, our "gospel songs" are about our personal spiritual experiences and "what God has done for us." Gospel songs tend to be simpler poetically, livelier, singable tunes, with usually a chorus or refrain.

The music of this post, "Jesus, Rose of Sharon," should be sung worshipfully and legato---to the point that it seems almost to fall between the two categories of hymns--gospel songs.

From the day I first heard JRS in the fall of 1951, it has been a favorite and touches me deeply. That September day, I, a seventeen year old freshman was sitting in my third floor dorm room, studying, with the window open, for it was hot down there at HSU, in Abilene,Texas, that time of year.

The HSU A Cappella Choir male  quartet just happened to be practicing up in a fourth floor room right over mine. I heard the most beautiful sound, as only a really talented male quartet could sing:

"Jesus rose of Sharon bloom within my heart,
Beauties of thy truth and holiness impart...."

The clincher was the first tenor. The words and the tune are so well-wedded, that the last line of the chorus just explodes onomatopoeically (though roses bloom silently.) The chorus ending with the first tenor soaring is: "BLOO-OOM  in radiance and in love within my heart." You could almost sense the rose blooming.

Ever since that day, Jesus Rose of Sharon has had a place in my heart. Sung mostly by male quartets or ensembles, the song is not often heard.  It appears in gospel song books, rather than church hymnals. Good You Tube renditions are hard to find. I'd love to hear it sung by the Tabernacle Choir!

This  beautiful poem was written by Ida D. Guirey, about whom no information can be found. It is thought that "Guirey" is perhaps a pseudonym.

The tune writer, Charles H. Gabriel, (1856-1932) was born in rural Iowa. He learned music from his father, who conducted singing schools. He wrote between 7000 and 8000 hymn tunes and hymn texts. He wrote under several pseudonymns. Why, is unclear. JRS was published in 1922 by Rodeheaver.

We can truly be grateful to Gabriel, for when we scan the composer index in our hymnal, we find many of his tunes. The hymnal I am holding has twelve Gabriel tunes.

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"BE THY GLORY SEEN ON EARTH FROM SHORE TO SHORE...."
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Using the term "Rose of Sharon" to refer to Jesus has been traditional and is based on the verse in Song of Solomon 2:1---"I am the rose of Sharon and the lily of the valleys." Google the subject to read more about the theological background.

The rose of Sharon is not truly a rose. It is a member of the Hibiscus family. For this post, the flower above is a true rose of Sharon.

The song is quoted here:

"Jesus, Rose of Sharon, bloom within my heart,
Beauties of thy truth and holiness impart;
That where'er I go my life may shed abroad
Fragrance of the knowledge of the love of God.

Jesus, Rose of Sharon, sweeter far to me
Than the fairest flow'rs of earth could ever be;
Fill my life completely, adding more each day
Of Thy grace divine and purity I pray.

Jesus, Rose of Sharon, balm for ev'ry ill,
May Thy render mercies healing po'wr distill;
For afflicted souls of weary burdened men,
Giving needy mortals health and hope again.

Jesus, Rose of Sharon, bloom forevermore,
Be Thy glory seen on earth from shore to shore;
'Til the nations own Thy sov'reignty complete,
Lay their honors down and worship at Thy feet.

Refrain:
Jesus, blessed Jesus, Rose of Sharon,
Bloom in radiance and in love within my heart."

Can you think of a better prayer, with which to start the day?
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For your listening, please access below the talented girls' instrumental ensemble.

Second then, the black male group to give you an idea of the choral sound. I would interpret this rendition differently, with legato, fewer breaks in the melodic line, and with voices not so open.





                                                         
                                                  Charles H. Gabriel
*********30*********
BY MIL
10/08/12
(SPECIAL DEDICATION...FOR ROSALEA...MY DEAR FRIEND.)

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