MEMORIAL DAY 2019 CHS, CLASS OF '51

MONDAY, MAY 27, 2019

MEMORIAL DAY 2019...CLASS OF '51

"THOSE MATCHLESS DAYS"

  CLOVIS HIGH SCHOOL  CLASS of 1951

Once a year it is fitting to remember our friends from

"THOSE MATCHLESS DAYS," as our friend Donald

Todd has so aptly characterized them.

"EVERY ONE OF THEM WAS DEAR TO 

    MY HEART!".....JIMMY BLAIR

*****************************************

"SO MANY FRAGMENTS OF THE SPIRIT 

   HAVE I SCATTERED IN THESE STREETS..."

      .......K.G.

*****************************************

"BREAK, BREAK, BREAK,

    ON THY COLD GREY STONES, O SEA!

AND I WOULD THAT MY TONGUE COULD  UTTER

   THE THOUGHTS THAT ARISE IN ME.

BREAK,  BREAK, BREAK,

    AT THE FOOT OF THY CRAGS, O SEA!

BUT THE TENDER GRACE OF A DAY THAT IS DEAD

   WILL NEVER COME BACK TO ME."

-----ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON, 1835

       (Elegy written in memory of a dear friend,

             A.H.)

*****************************

IN MEMORY OF:

Jimmy Abernethy

Jimmy Blair

Don Campbell

Zeno Crosswhite

Bruce Davis

Geraldine Edwards

Billy Harwell

Billy Hasty

Thomasina Ingram Murrell

Charlotte Kelly

Marlene Lancaster

Donald Mardis

Robert Roberts

Jerry Robert

R.G. Snipes

Pat Thompson

James Timmons

Jimmy Whatley

Bobby Wilhite

Jo Ann Williams

Sherman Williams

Noel Douherty

Vera Lou Priddy

Engle Southard

Dorothy Trigg

Dixie Sanderson

Jerry Crook

Wanda King Snipes

John Thorn Marshall

Rita Gayle Delaney

Charles Mason

Marcia Stebbins
Earl Riley
Jackie Pearce
Gene Walker
Albin Covington
Dave Collins
Teddy Blair
Bobby Griffith
Johnny Jacobs
Gene Clemens
Glen Barfield
Coyt Calder
Carol Melton
Donald Lee
E. Levi Brake
Nell Summers
Donald Thompkins
(Mary Lou Powell, '45)

**************************

SOME CHS TEACHERS:

Ms. Tennyson, Ms. Bledsoe, Ms. Ballou,  Dr. Gaddis

     Ms. Holloway, Ms. Broiles, Mr. McDougal, 

Ms. Jenkins, Mr. Elms, Ms. Macfarland, Mrs.. Martin

Ms. Buchanan, Ms. Atchley, Mr. Stockton, 

    Mr. Norman, Ms. Barton, Ms. Clarke, Mr. Norman

Mrs. Putnam, Dewey Miller, Coach Brock, Mr. Moser

Mr. Barton, Beloved Senorite Dora Russell, 

    Dave St. Clair, Ms. Bayless, Coach Harmon...

Mr. Hudson....

*********************

"I returned and saw under the sun, that

the race is not to the swift, nor the battle

to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise,

nor yet riches to men of understanding,

nor yet favor to men of skill, but time and 

chance happeneth to them all.

ECCLESIASTES 9:11

***************************

BY MIL

MEMORIAL DAY, 2019

SPRINGTIME ON THE CAPROCK

Springtime on the Caprock

A poem by Billy Gilbreath

No flower or prairie dogs to tell us

Often the days or hot and next cold

I see that the cotton rows are beginning

Wondering, how those rows are so perfect?

Knowing that spring is near, soon summer

Yes, at last and the last one to sprout

Those tough and some say useless, Mesquite.

Perhaps those in this modern millennia age, 

Will remember those from years past

No more frost, freeze as they are out.

Remembering in the fall and migration

Wondering if those on that long trip

Would have a pleasant winter and return

Looking above the front entrance, gladly

They are there, she on that mud-built nest

In and out he flies in and out with food

Nightly perched on the ledge, protecting,

Like an anxious father, I wait the hatching.

Are these the same who migrated earlier?

 This day and with sadness, I remember those

Friends, who migrated to their new home,

No Mesquite to remind them of spring,

Me thinks:  It is always spring- time there.

Now on the Caprock, and spring has arrived,

So thankful to be able to see and enjoy,

Spring is here says ”The Useless Mesquite.” 

......................................................

FOR MIL'S PLACE

By:  Guest Writer, Billy Gilbreath,  May 12, 2019

A VISIT TO NORMANDY - 2019

By Kindell Brinay Buchanan



"I took this picture at Normandy last
month at the American Cemetery and
Memorial.

It was an amazing place to visit and 
reflect on the sacrifice these men made
and the monumental difference they
made in world history." 
     .....KMB, 29 May 2019

(The D-Day IINVASION occurred some
forty-three years before K. was born.
    ...Mil

I'M PROUD OF THESE FRIENDS

"....those matchless days in Clovis...."
(...Donald Todd)


ART AND BOB SNIPES, 2019


     JAMES, ART, MIL, BILL AND BOB


              ART AND MIL, 1940


                           MIL AND ART, 1947

I'm proud of these friends. I'm proud
to have walked the Trails of Life with
them for eighty years. Our ways have
not always been in the same direction
but have crossed over and over.

When you think about it, there are not
many people in our lives that we have 
known for eight decades.

Art and I met at Clovis La Casita School,
Seventh and Thornton, in the first grade,
September of 1939. Bobby Joe and I 
first met a year later, October 1940,
when we moved to 1100 Reid Street--
one block west of their house at 1020
Thornton. It was a nice new 
neighborhood, just south of the brand 
new Clovis Memorial Hospital, in the 
1200 block of Thornton.

From our big many-paned living room
window, looking east down unpaved
Eleventh Street, you could see their
house and backyard clearly. If they
"came outside to play," we were down
to their house immediately! Anytime.

During the WWII years, Jake, their dad
built little white buildings in their 
backyard and they had a horse, cow,
and chickens--as was the custom of the 
times--and we had the same...plus
rabbits.

Being normal energetic kids, we played
hard all over the area. We played 
"America" football, baseball, croquet,
Tarzan, Gene Autry, Batman, marbles,
tops, built mud houses in the shade of
the elms, and nailed everything in sight
(that needed nailing) with our little
claw hammers.

We played "Jap Zeros Down In Flames"
with the garden hose and puddles of
water in our rich green clover lawn...
in the hot summertimes...and heard
the B-24's and later B-29's from
the Clovis ASFB droning constantly
around the edge of town.

We played "army" and fought the 
ever-present war in that vacant lot
across from Art's house, complete 
with foxholes.  

In the summer of 1941 the rains came
in record amounts, never since 
surpassed, and the water came up
out of the old lake bed almost to the
hospital. People had boats out on the
prairies...houses were under in spots.

About that time the city was putting
in new sewer piping and blocks of 
Reid and uncurbed, unpaved
Eleventh Street had eight foot deep,
ten foot long trenches--half filled with
water. 

My little brother Bill, age five, picked 
one rainy afternoon during this time,
to wander off down Reid to visit an
uncle...and my mama just about 
panicked, and the fire department 
came to pole the ditches...when he 
came wandering nonchalantly home.
Safe.

All the neighborhood kids were out 
searching. Probably Art and Bob too!
The stories about kids growing up--
would fill a book.

We shot many a basketball goal at
Bob's "alley goal post," Ruined several
nice balls out there. It seems that 
Clovis' alleys were all cluttered with
rusty nails, screws, broken glass, 
rocks, gravel, "stickers",  and these 
things chewed up basketballs...

Our Magic Steam Laundry was at
417 West Grand and Art and Bob's
dad Jake owned the popular O.K.
Rubber Welding business at about
301 Weat Grand. When walking to 
town from the laundry, I used to stop
off at OKRW and watch those boys
change tires and do recapping. They
were hustlers...and efficient.

So the years went on, and we moved
to Axtell in 1948. We all graduated 
from CHS, Art and I in '51 and Bob in
'53. Bob once came down to HSU
spent  the night on my dorm room
floor. 

Art married right out of high school 
but I always stopped by his business
to see him, when I was in Clovis. Then
he moved to Albuquerque in 1988 and
eventually lived only three blocks down
the street from us! A nice surprise.

And I sang at Bob and Betty Rae's 
wedding in 1954. When I began writing
MIL's PLACE in 2011, Bob, who loves
and knows Clovis history, became my
valued right-hand-man and helper.

Our old neighborhood is still there,
and the houses after over a half
century seem to have been maintained
pretty well. But strangely the GREEN
seems to be gone-- (remember the elm
disease) and the lawns are no more.

It is not a custom any longer for towns
to allow livestock or chickens within
the city limits. In those earlier simple 
times, folks were still basically rural
at heart, and fresh off farms.

A lot of water has "gone under the 
bridge" since that long-ago time
when I met these special friends--
the old sun still seems to shine just
as brightly...

...our story of growing up couldn't
very well be told without all the 
stuff we did...we were shaped by the
times...as people always are...

...and our neighborhood is still some-
what sacred to me--because 
     Something important happened
      there..in TIME..something that
      can never be lost...Friendships,
        fine, warm, meaningful. 
          priceless...that will endure.
--------
MIL
13 May 2019

THEY CARRIED POCKET KNIVES....DOWN ON THE FARM

MIL'S FAVORITES...for everyday use



GRANDDAD'S....100 YEARS AGO

A BIGGIE---FOR THE YUKON

Whar I come from, down in the cotton

fields of old West Texas--down  there

south of Lubbock ("Look away..Look

away.."), every "toxic masculine" man

trying to eke out a living---carried a

pocket knife. 

It was okay for true Americans, living

in blessed freedom, and making their 

own way in this world...to have a knife,

and they had one everywhere they 

went...

They for one thing, were their own 

fixers, food-producers, and had dozens

of uses for an immediate tool.

Many "town guys" in those times, fresh

off being raised on farms, also carried

folders in their "dress pants."

It would take pages and much 

remembering for us to make a list of

all the uses these farmers had for their 

knives. They kept them sharp, often

sharp enough to shave with, and many

were worn down from the ever-honing

and the scales were sometimes  

beat-up and broken.

Some also had special "cane knives,"

and "fruit knives," which languished open

in tool boxes in barns or along the sides of 

their garages...

Most of these early rural people dressed

up in pressed khakis, dress shoes, and

about all had Stetsons and went down

to the town's square or main street every

Saturday afternoon where they visited 

the barber shop for a shave, shine, or

haircut....and their women shopped for

groceries....cornmeal, flour, sugar, coffee.

For this grand weekly social outing, they

oft carried their smaller, lighter, gift-knives

from some previous Christmas, which 

didn't bulge their pockets. (Somehow

wood pieces turned up and much 

whittling occurred on shady town

sidewalks, the men sitting on parked 

cars on the coolest side of the street.)

Anyone visiting small towns across

Oklahoma, Arkansas, Kansas, or Texas

during the 20's, 30's, and 40's have

seen these sights. Packed sidewalks...

This pocket knife devotion and use 

seems to date all the way back to 

old Rome. Relics of these old-time

folders exist and it is suggested that

many were so sharp, they were used

for shaving.

My granddad gifted me two of his old

pocket knives (likely made a hundred 

years ago) when I was but five. They

are pictured, dulled, and points filed

off. They were his "Spark Plug tabacca

chaw knives." He kept his newer one...

Thus I became an early appreciator

of folders, even before I drove tractors

and wheat trucks in the forties and fifties.--

i.e. becoming a "farmer."

Using bigger folders and sheath knives

for hunting or surviving, say in the Yukon,

is a "whole nother" subject to be tackled 

later.

Today's farm folk descendants, who live

in towns--most still have their pocket

knives handy and ready to go...it is a part

of their genes.

Smaller knives of a dozen varieties are favs

among these boys. Barlow's, with one and 

two blades (of Tom Sawyer fame), are 

abundant, popular, and well-made.

The "Canoe" knife I much favor, because

of its big main blade and ease of opening.

One of the best choices for about any

use is the oft-underrated "Swiss Army

Knife." They sharpen easily and one 

should last a fellow his whole life. I prefer

the thinner ones, with fewer "tools."

Wrapping it up for this time, you need

to remember that even today, on a 

pleasant summer's evening, after

supper, the men of the family will be out

on the cool green lawn, as dusk is

falling, sitting on an old quilt and just

talking. 

Inevitably, after a time somebody will

say....(usually an uncle): "How 'bout a

game of mumblety peg?" 

My friend, ya don't want to embarrass

yourself by having to go somewhere ...

to borrow a folder.

-----------

MIL

25 APRIL 2019

THE PINK SATIN SHEETS

A lot depends
   upon
the pink satin
  sheets 
sent from Amazon
   which arrived in
two days, prime
         and
the question 
   is
will it be easier
   now
for the old timer
   to
turn over in
   bed   or
will he simply 
   slide 
right off onto  the
   floor
and bop his 
   noggin,
and will he sleep
   there?
----------
BY MIL
9 MAY 2019
(a poem in the
    style
 of WCW)

INSPIRED BY THE "DAPPLED LIGHT" OF SPRING

  8 MAY 2019

If you chanced to
          wake up early.  
   one beautiful spring morning
in May....in the sweet,
    cool fresh mountain air
of the Rio Grande Valley,
    just west of the Watermelons,
       What would you
write about...     ?

...with the rare spring angle
       of the sun's rays  coming in
through the "writing window, "
     and falling in a fascinating,
almost mysterious
                  "dappled light."
and...when the hanging-bird-grain just
   outside in the waxy bush
has been constantly covered with
    wrens, chickadees, and old-timey
run-of-the-mill sparrows...
    all having some breakfast  in
quick, flitting pecks...

A big beautiful white wing dove
    hangs back on a bush branch,
as if overseeing the whole
    scene...and he too slips in
for a quick bite   now and then...

Heartwarming is the tiny gray
   little round brand-new-bird with
no real feathers yet, and
    still with fuzzy fur    and he
sits alone on the window bar
    right at my end of the window...
staring at me  like he needs a
    friend    or maybe he has never
seen a real writer before...he watches,
    and watches...

The whole morning is capped by
   a brilliant blue sky, ah..but
with a few summery white clouds
   beginning to float by   promising
many more to come in the
    later heat of the day

A few laughing kids walk by
   out front on their way to school--
Somewhere a ways off in the
    neighborhood, a distant
lawnmower is echoing its rather
    homey, peaceable sounds...

Our two (married?) resident
   blue jays are at it again--
quarreling in the top of our
   pine tree I think--she--
is winning

May Day and Cinco de Mayo
    are already o'er  and
Mother's Day coming.." and
    as they say: "Can the Fourth
be far off?"

So I sit here, thinking how beautiful
     and nice our world is...and
wondering what it would be like...
    without humans?

The "dappled light" continues to
   fascinate me...
       and I must write...
but    am waiting for the
    mockingbird to sing.
----------
MIL
8 MAY 2019

PECK-PECK, PECK-PECK. "LET ME IN!"

While this very morning
  I was writing
my "dappled light" poem
   not five feet to
my left I kept on hearing
   a distracting noise
on the window glass...

PECK-PECK! PECK-PECK!   
        PECK-PECK!
.. tiny but a bit disturbing...
     maybe twenty-five times...
Looking, all I saw were
     two birds eating,
on the grain.  not much noise
   there
and I continued to write
   and then  the continued little
PECK-PECKS bothered me...

and I  looked just to my left
    and there was my little round
fuzzy brand new gray bird
     with few feathers yet,
slipping and sliding on the bar
    and pecking his heart out,
as if trying to get in
    to be with me   and he'd
peck awhile and then flit over
   to a bush; the branch turned
over with him, almost dumping
   him and he seemed scared
and pitiful and panicking...
   then came the tiny peck-pecks
again, always in pairs.
    "PECK-PECK' And then,
he was gone.

And I hope he is okay.

Maybe he just needs a friend.
-------
MIL
8 May 2019

"MY GARDEN PLANTS...ARE LAUGHING WITH JOY---JUST TO BE ALIVE!"

MIL'S 'MATERS 2016

MIL'S 'MATERS, 2018


PLANTING DAY 22 MAY, 2018



      WALLY'S MATERS, late April, 2019

 "MY GARDEN PLANTS...ARE DANCING WITH JOY---JUST TO BE ALIVE!"
Mil's Dad, 1975

My daddy, a West Texas cotton-

farming boy from early 20th 

Century days could grow things

in his garden, better'n just about 

anybody I ever knew....(until I met

those Southern Boys, Bubba and

Wally, and that's a whole 'nother

story...)

Why Dad could graft a green apple

branch onto a red apple tree and 

it would grow apples...I've forgotten

what color...yes, he done it more'

once't. He knew when to spray his 

apple trees and cherry trees against

worms and how many times to do it

and he and mama had dozens of

bushels of apples for ever body and

a front closet full of canned cherry

preserves, in handy pint Mason jars.

They canned many jars of green

beans and black-eye peas, and the

whole family could not wait for their

annual gift jar of "chow-chow," a

forgotten or unheard of thing by

modern folks, who never heard of

red beans and cornbread either.

You could always find MY short-

lived yellow squash plants by the

gray-moving -cover (squash bugs)

ever present 'til my plants died...

but those hardy bugs kep away

from Dad's squash...he kilt 'em

quick-like... as if "some can grow

stuff...and some can't..." an' they

et plenty o' squashes...Mama liked

to mix 'em up with copious butter,

her main Dawson County sauce. 

Over on Reid Street in Olde Great

Clovis during WWII, we had a

Victory Garden every year and guess

whose job it was to weed and tend

it...and pick beans and water maters...

But Dad hisself liked fooling with the 

maters and picking them and giving 

me advice, but as said, I was the 

hoer. 

When it came to gardening you 

could never beat Dad...he had a long

head start... except in later life I think

I out-done him on tomato growin' and

he got downright jealous, and he

copied my fertilizer, I'm pretty sure.

Well, what else could I grow at my 

"new" place (1985) here on the Mesa

in the shade of the Watermelon Mtns.--

our place was covered with grass, 

cement, and gravel...except my Earth

Boxes! Almost no plain old empty dirt...

One morning, maybe about 1975 and

over there in my hometown of Clovis,

in Dad's cool, green, trees-plants-

grassy-backyard ...he was settin' there

in his old rusted steel lawn chair against

the house with my little son, Brian...in 

the other old chair..and he was musing 

out loud about things, and he said: (and

my boy never forgot it):

       "I love to sit out here early in

         the morning, when the air is 

         fresh and cool and there is 

         dew over everything...and

         watch my little plants, laughing

         for joy...just to be alive."

Early Americans knew what it was to

struggle...for all things...just to survive...

-------

EARLY FATHER'S DAY TRIBUTE

29 APRIL 2019

BY MIL

( a piece written in the  new

   "block-poem" style...)

(edited by Mil)