"ECHOES FROM THE BURNING BUSH"

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   THE CHUCK WAGON GANG---"AMERICA'S QUARTET"

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When I was a boy, back in the late thirties and forties, and visiting my granddaddy's farm ("POP'S PLACE") down in Dawson County, I was tuned into the quaintness and "ruralness" of it all---especially the sounds. You could hear a tractor or a truck---any motor--- at night---a long way off, if you were outside. And then there were the sounds...on his radio...

One thing I've never forgotten is Pop's old trusty upright Philco, that stood over in the corner of his bedroom  (his de facto den.) Sometimes, late at night I'd listen to him and my dad talk, sitting there in their rocking chairs, and Pop would have his radio softly playing some religious music---sounded like a quartet...and the total sound was so lonesome...and rural...and it took you somewhere...so awesome that  you could barely stand it.
I almost know that I heard the words, there on Pop's radio---" The Chuck Wagon Gang."

It could have been, for the "Gang" was founded in 1936, in Lubbock, Texas, by D.D. "Dad" Carter, his son, Jim, and daughters, Rose and Anna. Since the day of the group's founding, it has sung all these years with only one or two brief breaks. Due to the passage of time, generations of singers have come and gone and there have been something like thirty-four members in the "Gang" over the years. 

The Chuck Wagon Gang, called a "grass roots"---"Southern Gospel," group is a long-time American favorite and I think we can say that it is practically an American institution. During its seventy-seven year existence, it has recorded over eight hundred songs and sold over forty million records, part of them on the earlier Columbia label, and now on Sony. Many songs recorded in the thirties are still being sung by today's quartet.

The present group, (which in my judgment may be the most talented of all), is made up of four singers and a guitarist. They are: Shaye Smith, alto, manager/owner, (this lady is a joy to watch and hear; she has two music degrees, and an impressive range); Julie Hudson, soprano; Stan Hill, tenor; Jeremy Stephens, bass/guitarist/emcee; and Joe Rotten, guitarist.

They sing their Southern Gospel music, if you listen closely, with great skill and finesse. They begin each stanza together, they sing the words with perfect precision; they have a good blend (so important in an ensemble), and we hear the perfection of their final closing chords.  In "I'll Meet You in the Morning", the alto takes the lead, and this is done with an elegance of diction and style.

My editor/wife and I got  out our ipads out the other morning over coffee, and decided we'd check into and "bone up" on this complicated business of where all the various kinds of American music came from and how it all shakes out together.

We checked "Bluegrass," Appalachian, Negro spirituals, camp meeting, shaped-note singing, Southern Gospel, Country Gospel, Western, English folk songs, Irish folk songs, Scottish folk songs, the "quartet movement," (circa 1910), and the "singing convention" movement of the early Twentieth Century---we spent several hours and I took pages of notes...a lot of which don't apply to the Chuck Wagon Gang---directly, but it was interesting!

The Chuck Wagon Gang sings plain old down-to-earth, gospel-type songs, which touch the heart. They have something going for them that appeals to the American people. The Chuck Wagon Gang has sung at Carnegie Hall, the Hollywood Bowl, and The Grand Ole Opry.

The group has been selected for the Gospel Music's Hall of Fame, and the Smithsonian Institution's "Classic American Recordings."

We have selected several numbers below for you to access. Then you can choose further selections by checking You Tube's right margin.

I’ll Meet You in the Morning

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AyDBa7Xo0Ac&feature=youtube_gdata_player

Echoes From the Burning Bush

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qk0vTu8H868&feature=youtube_gdata_player

O Come, Angel Band

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mnvLQQq9820&feature=youtube_gdata_player

He Wrote My Name

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4YspsE4d1Gs&feature=youtube_gdata_player

Looking for a City

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ngHus9NBjg&feature=youtube_gdata_player

My Dream Home in Glory

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

I’ll Fly Away

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E-hwYP2O1fs&feature=youtube_gdata_player

Jesus, Hold My Hand

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

  

(This is the original Chuckwagon Gang)

When the Saints Go Marching In

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bApnhrU2Zp8&feature=youtube_gdata_player

********30******
BY MIL
2/25/13

"I WILL MEET YOU IN THE MORNING"

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A LOVING TRIBUTE TO ESSIE MARSHALL MOORE
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He was one of the greatest men ever...
He was my uncle.

He had a tender heart.
What a thing to say about someone.

He was born in 1915, in hard times
Out there twenty miles north of Lamesa
On a cotton farm near Punkin' Center.
It was an old house, with gray boards
For outside walls, and no insulation.
The parents and six kids lived there.

His heart had been forever touched by God
When he was a boy.
If ever a man loved God, it was he.
God had come into his soul one day
And forgave him, and lived there from then on.

And God put a song in his heart
That never went away.

Coming from an Irish family, the O' Moores,
Who landed in Virginia in the 1800's,
He was blessed with the Irish talent
And love for singing.
His own dad wrote songs, led singing schools,
And church revivals, all over West Texas.

The big thing is that he was given a clear,
Sweet, beautiful  first tenor voice---
The kind so scarce and in demand
For male quartets.

One time, about 1919, during the Great Flu Epidemic,
His whole family was down with it,

Including my own father;

Out there on that lonely farm,
A long way from anywhere...
And neighbors brought soup and food
And left it on the front porch.

He married in 1936, and though I was only
Two and a half, I was there when they
Came back from their honeymoon.
I can remember that big old black car.

He lived in Lamesa a number of those
Depression years, and he was in  a male quartet
At the First Baptist Church, which sang for
Dozens and dozens of funeral there
And around the area.

He came to Clovis in 1939 to be
The laundry delivery man for the
Magic Steam Laundry, run by my dad.
I often tagged along with him in the
Laundry's old white panel truck,
Delivering clean laundry to motels,
Cafes, barber shops, the hospital, and wherever
We needed to.

A freehearted and most generous man...
He loved kids and always tried to have
A sackful of little one cent candy bars,
Like Baby Ruths, O Henrys, Hersheys,
Jaw breakers, suckers, and some Double Bubble,
When kids were around.

That was partly why I liked to help him deliver.
He made it his business to always have candy
For little me.

While working in Clovis, he was in a male quartet.
They met every day  at noon at the Fox Drug
At Fourth and Main; a piano had been placed by the front door
And they sang there or out on the sidewalk
For fifteen minutes each day at 12:45 p.m.
On KICA Radio.

On December 6, 1941, we closed the laundry early---

Essie's family and our family

All went home to Lamesa. I don't remember why.
We went in one car and it was crowded.
On returning to Clovis, on Sunday afternoon,
December 7, 1941, we stopped at an old filling station

 in Lubbock to get gas.

There was 14 cent gas, and an old cold drink case, out front.
Essie went into the station to get some candy
For the kids, and came back with his face pale,
And said to Dad, who was wiping the windshield:
"The Japs have bombed Pearl Harbor,
and the U.S. is expecting fighting in the Phillippines."
I remember that...like yesterday. I remember thinking...
What are the Phillippines?

He later returned to his "home" at Lamesa
And resumed singing with his old quartet.
In 1948, we had a new Chevrolet.
Sitting in it on Sunday afternoons,
With the radio on and the antenna up,
I picked up his quartet broadcast each week,
Listening to Lamesa Radio... 150 crow miles away.

When I went off to college in 1951, and was
In the Hardin-Simmons University A Cappella Choir
And was taking private voice lessons from our
Esteemed director, Dr. Euell Porter, a tenor,
My Uncle Essie drove down from Lamesa to Abilene.
And also took private lessons for a semester.
Dr. Porter knew of the Lamesa quartet, which was
Known all over that area.

He took a hungry college boy out to eat a number
Of times, and I had my first banana split, and
First shrimp dinner.
One day he pressed some bills into my hand
And said: this is for high school graduation.

It was twenty-five dollars!

I had no radio and didn't want to squander the money,
So I went to Ward's and bought a radio, which I still have.

One time, much later, when my dad was in the hospital
In Lubbock, after heart  by-passes, and my mother had
Big motel expenses, Essie came to visit, and on leaving
Pressed a rolled up bill into Mother's hand.
It was a hundred dollar bill.

When he and and I talked on the phone,
He always wanted to harmonize,
Over the phone and I did too!

He died of cancer when he was 78, after he made
One final trip to his home of many years---Lamesa.
Before passing on, he said: "It has been a good life...
and I am ready to go."

 One of the most tender-hearted and free-hearted people

 who ever lived. A man who was a credit to the earth.

There is one particular quintessential quartet number
That will always remind me of Essie...
It's hard to keep a dry eye and hear it...
The first-tenor part was made for him...

"I will meet you in the morning by the bright riverside..."
*******************************************

I Will Meet You in the Morning

I will meet you in the morning on the bright riverside,
When all sorrows have drifted away.
I'll be standing at the portal with the gates open wide
At the close of life's long, dreary day.

Cho: I'll meet you in the morning with a "How do you do?"
     And we'll sit down by the river, and with rapture, old acquaintance renew.
     You'll know me in the morning by the smile that I wear.
     When I meet you in the morning in that city that is built foursquare.

I will meet you in the morning in the sweet by and by,
And exchange the old cross for a crown.
There will be no disappointments and no body shall die
In that land where life's sun goeth down.

I will meet you in the morning at the end of the way
On the streets of that city of gold,
Where we all can be together and be happy for aye
As the years of eternity roll.

Bill Gaither Vocal Band:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ycV_XGwegoY&sns=em

     BY MIL
*****30*****
Sent from my iPad

"HEY, I WAS WATCHING THAT!"

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CHANNEL SURFING AND TELEVISION IN GENERAL
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One of the millions of TV channel surfers in the U.S. recently said to me (exact quote): "You can find some pretty nifty stuff by channel surfing!"

Not. Everyone to his own. I, myself, NEVER channel surf! (If that matters anywhere in the great cosmic  scheme of things) I hate it---when others do it---when guests come to my house---it makes me nervous. When I turn that thing on, I know what program I want. After all, there's a TV printed section in the daily paper, as well as a menu on my control.

(A little aside here: I also, being a hearing-aid wearer, must have my own control. Muting loud commercials is a must, as well as finding a livable volume.)

Interesting remarks from the wives of channel surfers:

(1) "One hundred-fifty channels and you can't find one worth watching?" (2) "I think my husband is searching for the thirteen o'clock news from Mars!" (3) "I know you hate commercials, but must you surf for them just so you can hate them?!" (4)Without his remote control, Billy Bob is helpless!

              

A surfer says: "I want enough channels so that by the time I'm done surfing, a whole new half hour of programs I don't want to watch, will begin.

Clearly we have opened a can of worms here. We are into preferences, and as they said in old Rome: "De gustibus non est disputandum!"

My dad and the wife's dad were notorious channel "hoppers." They'd take that remote and go up and down the menu of programs ad infinitum, not giving your brain a chance to adjust to the variations in mood, scenes, subjects, or volume. It was brutal! You'd get snippets of soccer, old Olympics, skiing, senate hearings, politicians, CNN, Fox, C-Span, MSNBC, Weather, Ma and Pa Kettle, I Love Lucy, Mexican soaps, Days of Our Lives, game shows, talk shows, cooking shows, Judge Judys,  wrestling, and sometimes land on one I was interested in, like women's weight lifting, or "shooting rattle snakes from the hip with a .45," and then---see this was the problem---they'd move right on, while I was just settling in to watch that last one.

My beloved father-in-law would nine times out of ten---stop on a golf tournament. At least it was not loud and raucous. The announcer would be saying, very mutedly under his breath--- (as if announcing a tragedy) something like..."He's getting his seven iron from the caddy now... it looks like a ninety-yard mere chip shot for Arnold..."

Sometimes Dad would stop on an old Gene Autry movie, and I'd get settled in, and just before Gene sang "South of the Border," Dad would move on.

You see why I don't like surfing. It's not a search, really. It's the trip surfers like. As Willa Cather said..."The end is nothing, the journey is all." TV watching for surfers---is THE SURFING! Don't laugh, my friends, we have  stumbled onto a gigantic truth: SURFING IS AN END IN ITSELF! Think back with me, outside of golf tournaments, have you ever known of a surfer to FIND a program? I rest my case!

My son is also a surfer. He works hard at his job and when it is time to relax, he doesn't want to watch a documentary like "Genghis Khan Invades Mongolia." He wants to watch a good football or baseball game, and will surf for something funny like "Everybody Loves Raymond," "King of Queens," "MASH," or "Seinfeld." In fact, he got us hooked on "Seinfeld."

Let's leave surfing and talk about television in general. The strange thing about TV these days is everybody's strange tastes. (If your tastes are different from mine, they may be "strange.") Well, personally I don't care for 90% of the shows.

The medical shows, of which there seem to be many, I can't abide. Why would a person over 70 want to watch surgeries, transfusions, amputations, injections, lobotomies, and dopplers? Not much there to interest me! And I don't want to think of my surgeon and his nurse making out in the scrub room, for crying out loud! I'll skip the med shows!

"Amazing Race" is a favorite show of some of my friends, but a bit frantic for me...and maybe a little contrived. What was it with those cheeses as big a spare tires rolling down that hill...?

Then there's "Scandal," "666," "Nashville," and "Las Vegas"....they move too fast, and their plots are convoluted. "Revenge"---is it healthy to watch episode after episode about revenge...when it ought to be a show titled: "Forgiveness?!"

I have read all of Craig Johnson's western books about the Wyoming sheriff, and last summer they had a short series on the tube titled "Longmire." I liked the sheriiff, though not his prissy deputy. It's a show which I hope returns next year!

"Ice Road Truckers" is one of my favorite shows. It is on The History Channel. A year or two ago they took the truckers to India to drive the high mountain roads with the hairpin curves and then the next year to Peru. These roads, in both countries, proved to be so dangerous that several seasoned truckers went home whimpering. Hope to get my Ice Road Trucker tee shirt this year for Christmas! You see, I was once a 

 trucker myself!

Well, I'd like to hear your five or ten favorite TV shows of all time, and tell you mine, but guess that should wait until later...and a whole new future post.

Until then, my "channel surfer" friends out there...as they say: "Keep surfin'..."

But I  think I'll pass.

********30********
BY MIL
12/08/12

A WWII FISHING TRIP DOWN ON THE PECOS

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          A BASS LURE MADE A LITTLE BOY'S HEART BEAT FASTER!

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In the 1940's during World War II, a fishing trip to the Pecos River started in what would seem to you a strange place. There in Clovis, a block or two south of first street, at the end of Axtell or Wallace, there was an old caliche gravel road running parallel to the railroad tracks, and not much north of them. Now the thing was, something leaked water in that area and in the ditch alongside the road was a block-long  damp, wet, grassy area.

Where the water leaked from---I'll never know---but my dad, a West Texas farm boy, used to fishing in old lakes and creeks for catfish---with worms---had spotted this area and recognized it as a great worm-producing spot... great big, fat, juicy worms at that!

Going over there after work, and taking a couple of old gallon cans or buckets, in a little while
we had enough worms to fish ourselves to the mouth of the Pecos River! Those big old worms
in our cans (in the dirt) would curl up together in a big ball, as if for warmth, or who knows what, and you had to disentangle them carefully to find your candidate---a tempting morsel for some old "bottom-feeding-scum sucker.!"

Let me digress here just a moment to explain the times in which we lived. It was WWII and we were barely out of the depression. My dad ran the Magic Steam Laundry down on West Grand there in Clovis, single-handedly---that is, he had no assistant. With the Air Base personnel needing laundry done constantly, we took in enough clothes by noon on Monday, for the whole week. The laundry turned out a beautifully laundered, starched, pressed, folded dress shirt for fifteen cents, as well as everything else.

Up at five a.m. every day, lighting the steam boiler, wearing rubber boots and khakis, washing
clothes all morning, (he put on dry khakis at noon), six days a week and no vacations---he'd take every holiday he could to slip away on a fishing trip! Alamogordo Lake was about twenty miles north of Ft. Sumner, and that's where we went, and then five miles farther on up the west side of the Pecos River to our favorite fishing spot.

Affluent folks of today, with their Airstreams, Motor Homes, or older pickup campers, might have little concept of what times were like then. We had no such transport. Like most people, we "had what we had" on December 7, 1941. Our car was a 1941 Chevrolet Two-Door Master Deluxe dark blue sedan. It was a rather small car for a family of five and all the food, bedding, and supplies necessary for a weekend fishing trip!

Mother would get all the food ready and Dad would get a pretty good-sized galvanized wash tub, fill it with a 50 lb. chunk of ice. Into that tub would go the bacon, milk, eggs, hamburger meat, a case of fruit sodas---orange, grape, cherry, lemon, lime, punch, and a couple of colas. You see, farm boys of my dad's generation had a strong preference for flavored drinks.

The full tub, two cots, the grub box, Dad's fishing box, an old tarpaulin, plus quilts, pillows,
emergency clothes, a suitcase, and the fishing poles would all go into the trunk or backseat
of the car. One side of the backseat was, of necessity, devoted to a pile of quilts.

The "grub box" was a nicely-built plywood and dark-stained box filled with skillet, pans, plates, knives, forks, spoons; it had salt, pepper, coffee, sugar, flour, and a jar of corn meal for frying catfish. (I built one just like it for myself many years later---as a fond memory---and it contains all our old cast-off early-marriage kitchen stuff. It is a beauty. I took shop from Mr. Elms!)

Dad's "fishing box" was a small box with an old scavenged wooden cheese box inside which he made a nice divider. He made that box himself, using pieces of an old belt for hinges; then he stained it very nicely! Let me tell you, that was am interesting box. It had bass lures in their boxes which never had been used. Those lures would makes a boy's heart beat faster!

We were finally fully loaded, down at he rear of the car, and ready to go; we headed out to Ft. Summer. Keyed up like a bunch of kids just before recess, we were the inventors of the expression: "Are we there yet?"

Going into the town of Ft. Sumner, there was a two mile stretch of highway that had a number of old-timey filling stations with Coca-Cola, John Ruskin Cigars, and Spark Plug Chewing Tobacco signs all over the outside. Complimenting these were homemade hand-lettered signs advertising "MINNOWS---50 cents a dozen;" "WORMS," "SHRIMP." We always bought three or four dozen minnows for Dad's old minnow bucket, and a couple of pounds of the stinkiest shrimp you can imagine; catfish loved shrimp.

And the fish ate it before I did. I never knew shrimp was for people until I was a freshman in college. All I ever remembered before then was that stinky fishing shrimp! (I am now a voracious shrimp eater!)

We drove north of Ft. Sumner to the dam at Alamogordo Lake, where we were stopped by military police who had guard-houses on each side of the dam. They were getting our license number, and generally checking us out, and after their taking away our .22 rifle until we returned, we crossed the dam and drove the five miles upriver to our fishing place. This required our negotiating some rough, steep, sandy little ravines, where if we'd got stuck, we wouldn't have been found 'til spring.

We finally reached this plateau area and crossed it down to the river. There was a lot of water
in the state in those days, and it had backed up to where the river was over two hundred yards wide at our regular fishing place. It looked like a lake and not a river! There was a wall of rocks immediately across from us...a big cliff.

We kids fished, got tired of that; then we ran and explored and got tired of that. We found a safe, shallow place and soaked our feet and waded. Then we threw rocks! Oh, the simple joy
of rock-throwing! That area where we fished was about cleaned out of throwable rocks!

Dad was a serious no-nonsense fisherman; he had a lot of recreation to pack into a few precious hours. He set trot lines, he helped us fish. We always pretty near caught our limit.
Once he yelled out: "I got a channel catfish!" (A channel cat was a beautiful light blue fish---
more of the Cadillacs of catfish, I guess. Its head was more streamlined and not so ugly.)

The sleeping arrangement was kind of interesting. One kid slept in the back seat, one in the front, and my little baby sister was short enough to take the floor and miss the hump. The parents had the two cots there by the car, and covered themselves over with the waterproof tarp.

Before our trip was over, Mother had fried up a "big mess" of catfish for us there at our campfire.

All good things finally come to an end, as they say, and it was time for us to head for home.
So we tidied up the camp, picking up trash, pop bottles, and made sure the fire was out. I poured water over it. Dad cleaned all the hooks off the poles and we stowed them. We loaded the car, putting our limit-in-possession of cleaned catfish on the rapidly diminishing block of ice remaining in the tub and covering it with an old bedspread. If we needed to, we could pick up 20 pounds of ice in Ft. Sumner. Alas, it was time to head for home.

Pulling into the driveway, at 1100 Reid, after an eighty-five mile drive, was a tired, dirty, and happy bunch of little kids, though not as happy as when LEAVING on the trip.

Adults are always happy to be getting home---from anywhere.

So ended a simple, inexpensive, and wonderful old-fashioned fishing trip...in the forties.

Channel Catfish

1941 Chevrolet

******30******

BY MIL
2/17/13





Sent from my iPad

FRIDAY NIGHT LIGHTS - "OUT"

Friday Night Lights – “Out”

 by Richard Drake, guest writer

In the 1950’s, growing up in Clovis was a lot of fun.  With no I-phones, Twitter, Facebook, computer games and television, we had no trouble entertaining ourselves.  We played tricks on friends and pulled pranks.  I don’t remember anyone doing anything mean or causing any damage.

  One of the most popular things for the girls was to have a “slumber” party.  They were usually were held on a Friday night because everyone went to church on Sundays.  Parents did want to have a group of sleep deprived young females in their house while dressing for the service.

Boys did not like those slumber parties.  Since most of us were dating one of the girls at the party, we were on our own.  We would drive by the location of the party and sometimes honk just to let them know that we “cared”. 

One night someone came up with the idea to turn the lights off at the party house.  So that became the game.  One of the guys in the group would creep into the backyard to the home’s electric box and throw the main switch.  To establish an alibi, we would drive as fast as we could to Main Street and start dragging and waving at every car. The girls would squeal in mock panic until the father of the house got his flashlight and went out and restored the power.  The girls thought it was cute but the father did not. 

 The hard part for the boys was on the next day when confronted by the girls.  They had to keep a straight face while denying any knowledge of the “terrible” event.  Of course at some point one of the boys would sing like a canary under the relentless pressure from his girlfriend.  In most instances, he would admit his part but did not tell on his friends.  In Clovis, everyone knew who ran together. So in no time, all of the culprits were identified. Fortunately the girls never told their fathers in fear that the guy would be put on the “DO NOT DATE” list.

The pranks went on for the better part of the summer until one of the fathers got smart.  The home’s electric box was located on the back of the garage separated from the alley by a six foot high concrete block fence. During the week of his daughter’s next slumber party, he kept the lawn sprinkler running for two or three days in the area between the garage and the fence. It turned that spot into a quagmire of the type that became infamous in Vietnam.

After the party got going, a group of guys drove slowly with lights out down the alley behind the house.  One of them stood in the back of the pickup and jumped over the concrete block wall right into the middle of the “swamp”.  He went into the mud up to the top of his ankles.  It was almost impossible to extract him.

 A friend of the group was dating the girl.  He dropped by to visit the next day and her father took great pride in showing him the aftermath of the incident. In the light of day it looked like an army had run through the mud.  The father was very proud of his handy work and was busy telling all of the parents of his solution to the lights out problem.

That did not put an end to the prank.  Some people had the electric boxes in their garages which had concrete floors.  Remember no one locked their doors in Clovis in the early 1950’s so it required a “brave one” to sneak into the garage to do the “deed”.  Before the summer was out all of the teenage girls lived in homes with a pad lock on the electric panel box at their home.  The game was over.

Sadly, “Friday Night Lights” never went out again in Clovis.

"MY" PRIVACY POLICY!

*****************************************
"DON'T TELL NOBODY NUTHIN' "
*****************************************

I keep getting these thick white envelopes with notices from banks, credit cards, and  others with whom I have to deal---"people from my portfolio," we'll call them. These notices are about THEIR "privacy policy"--- re me and my money (however little it may be.)

Have you ever thought it strange---that the banks, retail stores, gasoline companies, and others  with whom we do business, and are profiting  and exist simply because of us---those that are making money off our money or our purchases and our good will---have this habit of sending us THEIR privacy policy regarding US. Aren't they "all heart," as the saying goes? Don't they have it backward?

Even a lawyer with slack time would charge a lot just to read and translate these things. I have tried to read them and my eyes glass over!  They are definitely not good bedtime reading.

Wait a minute---have I got this right? I trade with them, I bank with them, I burn their gasoline, I use their services---they make money off me. Now then, why should I care a whit about THEIR privacy policy? I can leave them and go somewhere else, if they fool with me. Know what I mean?

It kind of reminds me of that favorite old Bogart movie "The Treasure of the Sierra Madre," when Bogart said to the lovable old Mexican bandit posing as a sheriff: "Let's see your badge." The Mexican bandit hemmed and hawed and  replied: "Badges, badges, I don't  need no stinkin' badges!"

I don't need no stinkin' privacy policy.

The next thing coming will probably be privacy notices from our lawyers, doctors, ministers, and shrinks. Don't have a shrink? If this keeps up, we'll all need one.

The irritating thing about these notices, if you'll just read one, is that they set forth in 1,2,3,4 etc. things you can change and things you can't change. If it is my money, I can change what ever I want to. Even banks!

The Golden Rule applies: "He who has the gold, makes the rules."

Here is my privacy policy in two parts:

"DON'T TELL NOBODY NUTHIN.' " or
"ADIOS MUCHACHOS!"

*******30*******
BY MIL
2/09/13


Sent from my iPad

WHEN ALL THE WORLD WAS GREEN!

1100 Reid St, Mil's House (the white one)

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REMEMBERING OUR OLD NEIGHBORHOOD
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It's no longer green anymore---that neighborhood where I grew up. (Maybe it's sort of a metaphor for our lives---we kids who grew up there. Most  of us don't feel green anymore either.)

When it was new, and the houses just built, around 1940, every house had a nice green lawn, shrubs, and trees. The trees were mostly elms, the great shade tree of that period. My guess is that most of the elms were gone by the 70's, due to the elm disease which swept our country. Losing the big shade trees just about ruined the neighborhood.

We moved into our brand new two-bedroom home in late September of 1940. I was pretty small, and in the second grade. We had visited the house while it was under construction. It had plaster walls inside, not taped-and-bedded sheet rock as is the general custom today. It had the finest hard wood floors you can imagine, and I suspect after 73 years, they still look good today. It had a big floor furnace in the living room which kept the house nice and toasty.

I can still remember the first night  when we moved in---the brand new varnish/plaster smell!

Early on, Dad planted elm trees out past the sidewalk toward the street; he planted shrubs and bushes, and some roses in the flower bed. And the biggie is that he wanted a clover lawn, so he planted what turned out to be about a 50/50 grass and clover lawn. Ir was a superb lawn for little kids to grow up with. It was soft but tough; it was fun to get it wet and slide on it. It smelled good. There was a "sink place" right at the corner of the house which we filled with water and played "Jap Zeros--Down In Flames," as we crashed there in summer--- WWII times, wearing our swimming trunks, of course.

With the record rainfall in the autumn of 1941, everything in Clovis was saturated. Water backed up from the old dry lake bed at the end of 14th Street---nearly all the way to the new Clovis Memorial Hospital. Some vacant lots were covered with water several inches deep. This moisture gave a tremendous boost to the new lawns and trees around the new neighborhood.

If that little house of ours could only talk...or maybe sing---the song might be "Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen," for you see, my dear, loving, and dedicated mother raised three little kids in that house, nursing them through colds, tummy naus, measles, mumps, and chicken pox. How she did it all, I don't know. She was also one of the best cooks in the world, and that house often was saturated with buttery country kitchen-cooking smells! There is a special place in heaven for mothers, I believe.

When I stayed home from school---"sick"---if I weren't too sick, I'd get out my Lincoln Logs, Tinkertoys, and trucks, and dump them all in the living room floor on that marvelous varnished hardwood, and  build all manner of things, and listen to KICA RADIO and Jack Bailey---at 1 p.m.---saying, "Would You Like To Be Queen For A Day?!"  Mother would go and buy a carton of those great grape soda pops---Delaware Punches---good for sick kids because they had no fizz.

We had a one-car detached garage and a gravel driveway. As was the manner of many people in those days, we had a cow barn, cow lot, and a cow---even a horse for awhile. We had a chicken house, chicken pen, and rabbit hutches---all in the backyard---and all painted white. Dad milked the cow everyday and my job was to churn butter.

We had a Victory Garden every year--- a good one. My dad was a farm boy and he knew how to grow things. I was the official hoer and waterer of the garden. Also the pea picker.

We, and most of the residents of our neighborhood, did not have phones. Mrs. Purselly
did. (See the third house to the right in the photo; that's the Purselly house.) Mother would send me down to Mrs. Purselly's to borrow the phone and call my dad down at our laundry on West Grand. I was scared to death of it all. I was little. I'd say, when the operator said "number please?" "Er, 397." Then I'd say, "Dad, Mother says get a loaf of bread on the way home. Bye." People always put their phones in the hall in those days, and Mrs. Purselly's hall was very dark.

There were some interesting and handy vacant lots around the neighborhood. One was right north of Art and Bob's house at 1020 Thornton. (I met Art in the first grade at La Casita, then we moved near to them in 1940 and he and Bob became life-long friends with me and my brother, Bill.) We dug foxholes and fought WWII on that lot.

Another one was a block south on Reid from my house. As we got to early teen-age, we built a nice backstop for baseball on that lot...and they came! Heavy duty baseball players from all over town came, and practically took over our venue. after facing Cameron McTavish's curve balls, I nearly gave up baseball. Strangely, it never occurred to us that someone owned that lot. We didn't get permission---we just built our backstop with some "liberated" chicken wire!

We had a really special treat there in our old neighborhood. Priscilla Lane, a famous and beautiful movie star was married to a captain stationed at The Clovis Air Base, and they rented a house about halfway down the block from us. They were there a year or more. I used to see her coming and going  down our street...and tried to show off on my roller skates.

Readers will know many of the kids who lived on our block on Reid. There was Donald Frederick, the Simms boys, the Barella boys, the Eubank sisters, Charles Rutledge, and down the street south lived Pat Lesperance. On the next street over lived Donald Mardis and Doug Ridley. The Ingall kids lived another street west. And of course, already mentioned, Art and Bobby Joe Snipes who lived one block east of us.

In a number of previous posts, I have already told you of our great fun and adventures in growing up. In this post I wanted to mention the old neighborhood...and please be kind to it in your judgements. It would look pretty good if people would just do a bit of landscaping!

My old home at 1100 Reid looks pretty well taken care of with a new stucco job and a new roof. I've been gone since '48.

If I could afford to buy the house today, and had ready cash, I would totally landscape it with trees all around, shrubs and roses, a paved driveway, a nice clover lawn, and gravel in front of the sidewalk next to the curb. Then I'd put a nice white picket fence all the way around it---to the alley. It is clearly--- a picket-fence-house. Such a faithful, marvelous, OLD FRIEND, deserves no less.

Maybe I'd even  have an open house and invite old friends from around the neighborhood.
Mrs. Purselly is gone, as is Priscilla Lane. Donald Mardis passed away.The Timmons kids are both gone, and Pat Lesperance lives a way off in the east somewhere. Some of the others I don't know about. But "Country Boy Bob" will help me rustle up a crowd!

Before I invite anyone,  I must go out to the fertile soil of our old backyard... and plant a garden!



1100 Reid, Backyard

Neighbor Houses Across the Street

L.:  Eubank House

R. Barella House

All the above photos by Bobby Snipes



*******30*******
BY MIL
2/10/13








Sent from my iPad

THOSE DAYS LAST FOREVER

Mil and Bill's House, white house

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In his book, "Chasing Darkness," Robert Crais has a memorable eye-catching dedication. It reads: "for S.R., because rope ladders and Christmas tree forts last forever." This intrigues me---I believe he has something there.

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 LITTLE BOYS IN THE MAGICAL FORTIES
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There's a saying...
Every little boy should have
A happy boyhood, for
He gets only one.

One day, he realizes
He is a being...in this strange
And exciting world.
Yes! He is a person,
Albeit, a little one!

The neighborhood, tho' likely small,
(Mom has set boundaries)
Is his turf---his crucible for developing
Into a "growed" person.
He doesn't think about this, for
He is way too busy...living!

And miracle of all miracles...
He meets other little creature boys,
Just like himself!
What luck!
And they become friends...

Just like Crais' rope ladder
And Christmas tree forts---these boys'
Good times, also, will last forever.

Never to be forgotten...
The kites, marbles, and comic books....
Walking on stilts, spinning tops,
Red Rover at school, transler hunting.
Helping with the Victory Garden!

Vacant lots, old dry lake beds, and
Alleys were their oysters, and they
Were big-time searchers
And scavengers... for valuable "stuff."
Making rubber guns, and nailing things

With their ever-handy hammers.

  

Playing all kinds of ball---
Football, baseball, and basketball
At that goal on the alley...
Even volleyball and croquet.

Building forts, digging foxholes,
Helping our soldiers fight WWII.
Building models of U.S. airplanes
Reading Joe Palooka funnies; he was
In France, behind enemy lines.

Going to the Lyceum on Saturdays,
Having a Coney Island hot dog later,
Going swimming, playing with water
On the lawn... making a snowman when
It snowed in winter.

Little boys are growing up---
They get a Red Ryder BB gun---
They get their first bicycle.
They ride to junior high.
They fall for that cute girl across the aisle.
In class.

Before long they'll have

Their first date.
They are getting taller and bigger
And will soon be in high school.

No longer little boys,
Yet they are still boys.
It is said that every man
Still contains a little boy.

Things are kind of
Speeding up in their lives...

It is too early now,
And will be for awhile
But one of these days
They will look back,
Like Robert Crais in his dedication,

And say: Those magical days
Of the forties...

Will last forever.

Art and Bob's House

******30******
BY MIL
2/09/12



Sent from my iPad

"THE STRIPE DOWN A SKUNK'S BACK"

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AND OTHER READER RESPONSES
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From BOB SNIPES---- (On the "REYNOLDS ROCKET" story)  I won one of those rocket ball pens from KICA! They had a program that the panel had to guess a certain object or thing or something. I don't remember the name of the show. Listeners would send in different subjects and if you stumped the panel, you got the pen. I sent in "the stripe down a skunk's back." I stumped them----I got the pen!

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From JUDY HUGHES---- (On "I AM A POOR WAYFARING STRANGER") Thank you. I love the lyrics of this old spiritual. Such a powerful message.

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From WYLIE D. ---- (On "THE WINDMILL AT THE 'OLD HOME PLACE' IS GONE") Amen, Mil. I always loved our windmills. No sweeter water in the world than the old cypress tank sitting on top of our well house---pumped water to the two houses for many years. Sweet memories.

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From LISA J.---- (On "I AM A POOR WAYFARING STRANGER") I just got done from catching up on posts, and I really enjoyed them all, especially Wayfaring Stranger! That has always been one of the most haunting and poignant spirituals in my estimation and I enjoyed your quotes from various sources on the theme. Your clips by Burl Ives and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir were top-notch.

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From LEVI B.---- (On "I LOVE OLD PICKUP TRUCKS") I've had a pickup my whole life since I first got one that day in 1959---a tough little Studebaker. I couldn't ever see being without one!

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From ROBERT S..----(On Drake's "1953 STATE BASKETBALL CHAMPIONS") The recap of the 1953 Championship was great!  Richard should have been a coach or sports broadcaster---with the knowledge he has about basketball tactics!

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From WYLIE D.----(On MIL'S PLACE, and RICHARD DRAKE'S stories) Outstanding Mil! I especially enjoyed Richard's two stories and his memories of the '63 State Champs! Yes, the whole class was proud. We just didn't know the fine points he relates so well.

Last Sunday, the wife and I were eating in a restaurant near our home, and as I was paying the check, a tall man walked up and said, "Did you pay my check?" I said, "No, but I will if you'll give it to me!"

It was one of our great '53 State Champs---my old classmate---P.W.

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   From L.J.---- (On "THE WINDMILL AT THE 'OLD HOME PLACE" IS GONE"  and the "CLOVIS QUINTET" of stories...) We  have found your poetry extremely well-written. We both enjoy being "carried back to early Clovis days and visions." That period of our lives would be enjoyed by anyone, if we could make it live again.

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 From ROBERT STEBBINS----(On THE "BIG IRON BEAST" OF WARBIRDS, and related WWII memories...) I remember getting into the movies for free in the early 1940's if you just brought an aluminum pan to the theater to contribute to the war drive. 

 My dad and his cousin owned the Snow White Bakery in the 300 block of West Seventh. Because of gasoline and automobile tire rationing, they abandoned the automobile for deliveries. They constructed a wooden box, mounted on automobile axles and tires, and  in this they delivered their bread, donuts, etc. A horse was hitched up in front and provided the locomotion. This slow transport was easier on the tire wear, nut it took a lot longer tomake deliveries.

This didn't last long as my dad joined the army in April, 1942, and his cousin/partner joined the navy shortly thereafter. So, I lost out on a lot of jelly-filled rolls and donuts! Oh well, everyone sacrificed.

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    From MIL-----(On THE  CLOVIS MAIN STREET AND HOTEL stories, five of them.)  They have been read far and wide, by a lot of old Clovisites, as well as others. There were  46 hits in one day alone. I want to thank those CHS '51 and '53 "kids" who wrote, long or short, for these stories: Albin Covington, John Sieren, Wylie Dougherty, Robert Stebbins,  Art Snipes and Richard Drake.

    They say---a "blog" should be the beginning of a conversation. One CHS '53 reader tells me that "dragging main" is on the wane, and being supplanted by parking somewhere and texting, tweeting, twittering....or whatever it is that they do.

     The editor's favorite this month was "THE WINDMILL AT THE 'OLD HOME PLACE' IS GONE." Hugs and thanks to the editor---it was a busy month with a lot of photos.

      

      *******30******

     BY MIL

     2/04/13

Sent from my iPad