206 Hafer St. 1949-54

     The R.L.Downing family moved from  James Street to 206 Hafer, Baytown, Texas, sometime in 1948. Here was a place where we kids could grow…a 100 x 100 lot, two real bedrooms and even a garage.  In time Dad would add another bedroom, a larger garage, and even a full sized, walk-in playhouse in the back yard.  Across the back yard fence was the most beautiful dog I had ever seen, a collie named Dolly.  She was a dead ringer for Lassie and must have loved kids, because when I went outside to play she would come to the fence and howl until I came over to pet her.   Across and down the street from us lived the T.E. Downings with my cousins Carletta, Linda, and Ronnie, and next to them lived Dad’s nephew and family, the Echolses.  A few blocks away lived Garland and Lillian Railsback (Dad's niece) and their two sons, Fred and Ted, and daughter Connie.  Next to us lived my new best friend or worst enemy, depending on the day of the week, Richard Cheney, and his bigger brother George.  Richard was a year older than I and early on picked on me unmercifully.  One day, however, he went too far, and I sort of snapped.  All I remember is Dad pulling me off of him, and I was screaming.  He never bothered me after that, and we became good friends.

    Although Mom and Dad continued to visit the Williams family from James Street occasionally, I lost track of my good friend Vernon, but made many new friends in our new neighborhood. Where James Street was a busy street with small homes and crowded lots,  Hafer Street was quiet, the yards much larger, and the kids could roam around without too much concern for traffic. I soon learned that the place was crawling with kids, and since we were only three blocks from Alamo Elementary, I was soon introduced to a whole army of little people who migrated from yard to yard in the course of play like antelope on the high plains. This was back in the days when neighbors actually talked to each other, and it wasn’t long before my parents knew all the neighbors in a 3-4 block radius of home and I knew all the kids. This was in the pre-television, pre-air conditioning (!) era, so people had their windows and doors open, and there was a lot of outside activity. You could tell what was going on in the house three lots away, and if you wanted to get involved, you just walked over and joined in. Neighbors welcomed neighbors. When Mom and Dad moved into 206 Hafer Street, they were given a “house warming,” which was a sort of party where neighbors and friends came by to visit and offer congratulations on the new home. Visitors would bring some sort of small gift or goodie to eat, and a happy time was had by all.

     Dad’s family was a pretty close-knit family. By this time he had several brothers and nephews who had migrated from Oklahoma to the Baytown area.  Many worked at one time or another at Downing Roofing Company, Dad’s business, until they decided roofing was not for them (boiling hot asphalt and hot summer days do not mix well), and they were able to land other jobs.  The company prospered, and Dad was generous with his relatives.  Many of them owe their early successes to being able to come to Baytown, get a job with Downing Roofing Company, and start a financial base on which to build later.
    My sisters don’t remember this, but the Downings lived life pretty hard in those early years. The Downing brothers and wives would come to our house and play cards and dominoes all night. The smoke would be so thick you couldn’t see across the room, and the beer flowed freely.  I had an aunt who was a really serious domino player, and, since I was just a kid doing the noisy things kids do while she tried to play dominoes, she would sneak me a coffee cup full of beer to try to get me to settle down. I don’t think it worked. (I told Mom this story years later, and she nearly fainted!)  I still remember some of the old country and western songs that would be blaring out from the phonograph as everyone laid down their dominoes.  But all that changed one Sunday morning.

     Dad’s brother, Orville, and his wife, Reba, had begun attending a Pentecostal church in early 1949 (which stopped their smoking and drinking) and began to pester Dad and Mom about attending.  It took a year or so, but after dozens of “not this week,” for some reason Dad and Mom said yes and went to church.  It was a defining moment in their lives. Within a matter of weeks they had received the Holy Spirit and changed their lifestyle.  Their lives became centered around the church, and it changed the way we children were raised.  Our home became a foundation on which we could build our lives as we learned principles of honesty, integrity, Christian living, and parental guidance.  Dad was the head of the house, but he treated Mom with love and respect, and we were all considered when a household decision had to be made.  We kids grew up knowing that Mom and Dad would be there when we needed them for support.

     Dad’s business success allowed him to become what today’s vernacular would probably call a “techno-geek." He loved electronics, although such hardware was in its embryonic state of development. We were the first family in our neighborhood to have a television, a voice recorder, and an air conditioner.  I used to tell this story to my students at school and they would stare at me like I was a real living dinosaur, but it’s true…when we got our television there was ONE station in the Houston area…KLEE-TV, Channel 2.  The television was an RCA Victor, round tube model (black and white, of course) in a sort of cabinet console which allowed the TV to fold back out of sight when not in use.  It became a phonograph player when the TV was not on.  We're talking cutting edge technology in 1948.  Once we got the television, we had neighbors and relatives from far and near who "just happened to be in the neighborhood” around 7:00 p.m. when the Lone Ranger came on.  The Downing clan, especially, came by on Friday night for Friday Night Wrestling.  We kept the television until about 1951 after Dad and Mom had started attending church on a regular basis and gotten away from some of their vices…including televison. During all the years we kids were at home, my parents never owned another television.

     The voice recorder was another electronic marvel my dad enjoyed.  In those days music was played on disks (records) which spun at 78 RPM (revolutions per minute).  An arm with a needle rested on the grooves of the disk and sensed the variations of the grooves which produced sound.  Record players worked due to the simple scientific correlation between vibration and sound.  The needle would vibrate and the player would electronically magnify this sound…voila!...music!  Each disk played only one song and was very fragile…easily broken or scratched.  The voice recorder allowed the owner to make his own records.  Sound was picked up by a microphone and magnified, which caused a needle to vibrate, which in turn scraped some grooves into a disk.  Once completed, you had your own home-produced phonograph record, and people listened and marveled, “How can that thing do that?" On Christmas Eve, 1948, Dad had a bunch of his family over for a party, and he broke out the voice recorder and recorded family singing, joke telling, and Christmas greetings.  I still have that recording to this day; however, I have put those voices and memories on a CD for long term safe keeping.  It is a memory frozen on a disk….of 64 years ago.  I feel old even thinking about it.  Actually, I think the only reason Dad bought the voice recorder was to record the Grand Old Opry. Every Saturday night over some Houston radio station, the Grand Old Opry would come into our home, and everyone stopped to listen.  Dad would place the recorder’s microphone in front of the radio speaker and record the whole program, and then they would listen to it again a couple of times before the next week’s broadcast. Even though I am now highly educated and sophisticated (choke), I still feel a twinge when I hear an old Hank Williams (“I’m Walkin’ The Floor Over You”) or Red Foley (“She Ain’t So Bad To Look At If You Can’t See Her Face!”) song.  Somehow it connects me with my early childhood memories.  I mean, those songs are classics!
     When I was about nine years old, I experienced two trips to the hospital.  My first experience is described in my blog "Alamo Elementary," but the second revolved around the fact that we neighborhood boys loved to play cowboys and Indians.  Every self-respecting boy had a set of cowboy six-shooters at home with a cowboy hat and also a few feathers in case he was called on to be an Indian.  For some reason, the bows and arrows were usually created on the spot when the need arose.  There were trees in the neighborhood called chinaberry trees which had nice, neat, straight limbs which were easily cut off and made into arrows and, using a little string, could be pulled into a very useful bow.  On this particular day, being chosen to be an Indian, I had dutifully made my bow and a quiver of arrows.  We played our game for awhile and then both cowboys and Indians sat down for a little breather.  While sitting there, I decided to see how far I could shoot an arrow.  I notched the arrow on the bow and pulled it back as far as I could.  Unfortunately, I did not notice that I had pulled the arrow backward past the face of the bow to the point that the arrow was aimed at my right thumb holding the bow.  I let fly, and the arrow entered my thumb just above the thumbnail, sinking in until it was poking the skin of the thumb on the other side…and then the point broke off, and the whole tip slipped under my nail.  You could see it through the nail.
     To say I yelled would be an understatement.  Compared to my first hospital visit, this time Mom really DID think I was dying.  She looked at my bleeding thumb and rushed me to the car. The emergency personnel took me into some kind of surgical room, covered my eyes, and using a local anesthetic removed the offending arrow point.  Because it was underneath the nail, they had to cut an incision underneath the thumb and remove the point that way.  I came home with a big bandage and a mildly irritated mother, but, boy, did I have a story to tell at school the next day!
     A third event happened about this time that probably qualified Mom and Dad for some sort of emergency room discount.  My sister, Judy, fell on (as best as I can remember) a broken fruit jar and cut a gash in her cheek.  Another mad dash to the hospital, and she came home with several stitches under her eye.  There was a lot of concern about a possible scar, and for a few years there was a slight trace, but in time the evidence disappeared.

     In the late forties and early fifties, there was one threat which struck fear into every parent’s heart…the disease of polio.  Polio characteristically struck children, and its cause was not known, but the idea floated around in the south that heat, humidity, and over-exertion could possibly cause polio.  Polio crippled the muscles in a body to the point that the patient would be forced to live in an “iron lung,” a massive metal tube in which the patient was placed, exposing only the head.  The “iron lung” used vacuum to compress and expand the patient’s chest and breathe for him/her.  It was an awful existence, and thousands of children suffered.  In the summer, it was not uncommon to see a neighborhood appear practically deserted as parents kept children inside during the heat of the day.  Dad and Mom considered their next electronic marvel… a window air conditioner...to be the solution to this prevailing health threat, and so we were the first in the neighborhood with air conditioning.

     In the summer, the air conditioner attracted neighbors and relatives almost as much as the television, and visitors would walk into the living room and act like they had just landed on the moon as they marveled at the refrigerator-like climate.  There was only one way to run the AC…as high and as cold as it would get.  We could have hung meat in our living room.  In fact, in a few months Mom and Dad began to complain that it was getting harder and harder to get up any desire to go outside and, once outside, the heat seemed to adversely affect you even more than before.  The event that spelled the death knell for our air conditioner, however, was the announcement that Doctor Jonas Salk had perfected a polio vaccine that would immunize anyone from the dreaded disease.  Cities and towns across the nation handed out the vaccine to millions of people, beginning with children, and practically overnight, the fear of polio disappeared.  We kids could run outside in the heat of summer and get stinky sweaty without fear, and with that concern gone, Mom and Dad sold the air conditioner, and we went back to a ceiling fan used at night to draw in air through the windows.  We never missed the air conditioning.  Nothing else was air conditioned, anyway…none of the cars and none of the stores.  Most of us would not survive today without air conditioning.

     During most of the productive years of his life, my dad was a “Mercury man."  That meant he drove Mercury automobiles.  I think that’s where I developed my love for cars, and to this day, I am partial to Mercurys.  There was a lot of product loyalty in those days, and the first car I can remember my parents owning was a 1948 Mercury and then a 1949 model.  Two years later, Dad bought a 1951 Mercury, and it was exactly like the Mercury lead sled that actor James Dean drove at the time of his death.  It was a black two door with no air conditioning.  Dad bought it because it was the first Mercury with an automatic transmission, and some of my more educated relatives would look inside the car down by the brake pedal and say, “Man, that thang ain’t got no clutch!"  Cutting edge technology again.

     It may have been cutting edge technology, but the car was a slug when it came to performance.  The automatic transmission was a two-speed automatic, and you could outrun it on a bicycle off the line.  Our family took a trip in it to California in July, 1951, and it was so hot we blistered our skin while sitting inside the car as we traveled.  Mom said, “Never again!"  Dad was unhappy enough with the car that when the all-new 1952 Mercurys came out, Dad was first in line.  He went back to a manual transmission.  Air conditioning was still in the distant future.  It's funny how you remember some details, but what I remember most about the '52 Merc was the window crank.  The car was a two door hardtop, and my place to travel was in the back seat behind Dad as he drove.  To roll down my back window took 20 complete cranks of the handle.  I never could figure out why it took so long to lower the window.  The car was gray on the bottom with a black top, but Dad didn’t like the black top, so he had it painted a navy blue.  After a few months, he decided he didn’t like that either, so he had it painted bright red.  Here's another strange memory…I rode with Dad as he brought the car home from the body shop where it had just been painted red.  As Dad pulled in the driveway, our neighbor across the street saw the red roof and yelled, “Hey! R.L., your car’s on fire!"  Dad laughed.   A few months later he went back to a black roof.  It was in this car that I learned to drive.  Well, sort of.  We would come home from church on Sunday or Wednesday night, and, once we got to within about two blocks of the house, Dad would let me sit on his lap and “drive” the car the last two blocks and into the drive way.  I could not wait for church to get over in the evening so we could head home, although there was one detour we all enjoyed. On South Main in Baytown was a place called the San Jacinto Creamery, where they prepared milk and dairy products.  But they also had ice cream and the best malts on Earth.  On a hot summer evening, those malts really hit the spot.

     On one hot summer evening, we had all retired for the night, and midnight had long since come and gone. The telephone rang, Dad answered it, and the neighbor across the street whispered excitedly, “R.L.! There’s someone trying to break into your front door!"  Dad hung up the phone and slipped to the closet and got his hunting rifle and eased to a front window.  The house had a front porch with a kitchen window on one end so that a person inside the home could see the entire porch.  The window was open, of course, (hot summer night) and as Dad looked outside, sure enough, there was a tall, slim person seemingly attempting to open to door handle.  As Dad watched, the man straightened up and appeared to be looking at the top of the door.  Dad laid his rifle on the window sill and quietly lifted the bolt and pulled it back to put a shell in the breech.  As he did, the rifle made a distinctive clicking sound…and the person on the porch hollered, “Uncle R.L.! Don’t shoot!”

     Dad jumped up from his spot, and, carrying the rifle, ran to the front door and flung it open.  There stood Jimmy Sutherland, one of Dad’s nephews from California.  He was in his Army dress uniform and had come by to visit.  He said he had sent Dad a letter saying he was coming, but Dad hadn’t gotten it, and the reason he appeared to be looking at the top of the door was he was trying to read the house number.  Just as all this transpired, up rolled the police, who saw Dad with a rifle and politely asked him to drop it.  The neighbor, after calling Dad, had called the cops.  After a quick explanation, the cops left and Jimmy came inside.  Jimmy came back for several visits after that, but for the rest of his life Dad told the story of how he had nearly shot his nephew.  I videoed Dad a few weeks before his death telling this story for the umpteenth time to my uncle Leroy Wilson.  I wish I had videoed more of his stories.

Praise....or Worship?

     In the realm of religion, Pentecostals as a group tend to be a fairly demonstrative lot, and that trait is reflected in their church services. Quick to sing, quick to praise, quick to raise hands, Pentecostals sometimes have to dodge arrows from those traditionalists who contend that there is far too much unleashed emotion and far too little dignified restraint during the evolution of a Pentecostal service. Perhaps this enthusiastic participation in a church service is because Pentecostals feel they have embraced the entire concept of salvation as presented in the New Testament, and each individual has been able to develop a personal relationship with his/her Creator. Pentecostals contend that the Church Age as we know it began in the second chapter of The Acts of the Apostles. If you view that chapter you will read the sermon preached by Peter the Apostle to the citizens of Jerusalem on the Jewish Day of Pentecost. The citizens had been observing a group of approximately 120 people stumbling out of a building acting quite strangely and speaking in many different languages. Although they accused the noisy mob of being drunk, the citizens were also puzzled how these obviously native Galileans were able to speak in different languages which they had never been taught.

     Peter, assuming his leadership role, began to explain that this phenomenon was the fulfillment of Old Testament prophecy and represented the establishment of the church of Jesus Christ for the latter days. He told them bluntly had Jesus had come to the earth to be their Savior, but they had rejected and crucified the only begotten Son of God. The citizens believed what Peter had to say, felt condemnation for their actions, and asked point blank, “What shall we do?”

“Then Peter said unto them, Repent, and be baptized every one of you in the name of Jesus Christ for the remission of sins, and ye shall receive the gift of the Holy Ghost.” Acts 2:38 KJV

     In the eyes of Pentecostals, every other New Testament scripture which refers to salvation is a verification of Peter’s commandment…even the scripture which is most commonly used by televangelists and pastors who do not accept the necessity of baptism or the receiving of the Holy Ghost…Romans 10:9: “That if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised him from the dead, thou shalt be saved." The citizens of Jerusalem on the Day of Pentecost, after hearing Peter’s sermon, did, in fact, confess and believe, thus fulfilling Romans 10:9, but they were still not saved until they followed the instructions of Peter.

     So Pentecostals, appreciative of their personal relationships with their Creator and fully embracing Peter’s commandment, enthusiastically get involved in the process of a church service through active praise. Praise is accomplished through singing, prayer, raising and clapping hands, and playing musical instruments. There are many scriptures which substantiate these activities:

Psalms 9:11…….”Sing praises unto the Lord.”

Psalms 33:2-3….”Praise the Lord with harp, and an instrument of 10 strings. Sing unto him a new song; play skillfully with a loud noise.”

Psalms 51:15…..”Oh Lord, open thou my lips, and my mouth shall show forth thy praise.”

Luke 19:37…….”….the whole multitude began to rejoice and praise God with a loud voice.”

Psalms 150:1-6…”Praise him with the trumpet…psaltry…harp…timbrel…dance…stringed instruments…organs…loud cymbals! Let everything that hath breath praise the Lord!”

     It is through praise that a person is able to create a communications channel to God. The action of praising forces us to concentrate on His blessings and disregard our personal concerns. The difficulty we have sometimes as mere mortals is that we attempt to approach God with a laundry list of things we need, when His simple desire, repeated countless times in the scriptures is for us to praise Him. He already knows our problems, but we need to create an avenue through which He can move to help us overcome. Positive praise creates a positive attitude in our outlook and gives us greater determination and strength to face the challenges of living. The act of praise is not limited to the confines of a church service, but may be given anytime or anywhere the desire for communion with God is felt. We are told in the scriptures, “He inhabits the praises of His people.”

     But beyond praise, there is a higher level of communication with God which brings a deeper understanding of His ways.  Although active, enthusiastic praise is the sugar that gives energy to the true believer,  puts icing on the spiritual cake, and strikes the match that starts the fire…worship is the steak and potatoes which gives us long term strength and helps us to grow spiritually. Praise and worship are two words which are used many times synonymously, but their characteristics are distinct and separate. Notice the different tone in the scriptures referring to worship:

I Chronicles 16:29…” Worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness.”

Psalms 95:6………..”Oh come, let us worship and bow down, let us kneel…”

Matthew 2:11……...” And when they were come into the house, they…fell down and worshipped him.”

Matthew 28:9……...”…And they came and held him by the feet and worshipped him.”

     Worship involves a much more intense, personal, and introspective approach. Worship does not require great actions, loud music, active engagement, or group participation. It occurs when we are most directly in contact with God, and our love, appreciation, and, yes, perhaps even fear of His power demands that we approach Him is a reverential manner. We show humility to Him by bowing and kneeling. It is a moment when we search our hearts and souls. The old song said it clearly:

“Search me, O God, and know my thoughts today

Try me, Oh, Savior. Know my heart I pray.

See if there be some wicked way in me…

Cleanse me from every sin and set me free."”

     Some of the most powerful services I have ever witnessed were some of the quietest. Years ago, our pastor at that time conducted communion services on a monthly basis. Although in our normal services we had a variety of musical instruments and we praised enthusiastically, for the communion services only the piano and organ were utilized. His sermons concerning the sacrament were quiet, intense, and very compelling. We members took the sacrament while kneeling at an altar and prayerfully looking to God for strength, guidance, and forgiveness. It was during these services of intense worship and soul searching that we gained power and strength, and as a result we spiritually matured.

     Praise and worship are both vital elements to a successful church, and as such, there should be a balance between the two. Praise is the chocolate bar in the mid-afternoon which gives us a quick jolt and sustains us until the next full meal. The success of our praise, perhaps because it is more active and visual, is sometimes inaccurately measured in decibels, movement, and rhythm.  Though not necessarily harmful, it is tantalizingly easy to put the emphasis on the sizzle and not the steak. A steady diet of chocolate, though enjoyable and perhaps highly desired, will inevitably be detrimental to our health; whereas a balanced diet of essential nourishment will permit the thorough enjoyment of the occasional sweet treat. In the final analysis, it is through worship that we come to His spiritual table and feast on the food that will give us life everlasting. In ancient times, when the king and his entourage paraded through the streets of his kingdom, the villagers were expected to offer honor and loud, enthusiastic praise. But those same villagers, had they been invited to the castle, were expected to approach the throne of the king with a deep, quiet reverence. True believers today do the same: we praise Him enthusiastically when He is in the midst of our services, but as we get closer to Him and His throne, we are compelled to bow, kneel…and worship.

"Jaws" Revisited

     My wife and I love the state of Hawai'i.  Forgive me for spelling it with the apostrophe, but that’s the way it’s done over there. Were it not for money, family, friends, jobs, medical care, cost of living, church, and other various details, we would probably be living there. But, alas, since we don’t have much money, but lots of friends and family, and we need good medical care, plus the Hawai’ian cost of living is astronomical, not to mention that Hawai’i is politically heavily Democratic, we have chosen (been forced?) to settle in our own little Garden of Eden in Houston, Texas. The only thing you can say that is true about both Houston and anywhere in Hawai’i is that they are on the same planet. However we have made several trips to Hawai’i , and are now card-carrying kama’ainas, which allows us to get into all sorts of places nearly free and gives us the right to complain how all the mainland tourists are ruining the true Hawai’ian momona aloha.

     We have wandered Waikiki, cruised Kaua’i, mellowed on Maui, snorkeled Lana’i and Molokini, and viewed volcanoes on the Big Island. We've dinner cruised on every sort of ship and went down in a submarine to view….well, not much. If you get a chance to take the Yellow Submarine, don’t. There's not much to see off shore and 150 feet down. We have practically been to every luau (beach festivity) in the islands and have eaten our share of i’a a poi. It would be easy to say about any activity in Hawai’i, “Been there, done that,” but the fact is, given an opportunity to “be there and do it again,” we would jump at the chance to repeat every Hawai’ian adventure we ever had. Hawai'i is truly a state of mind, and, once affected with the “aloha” spirit, every other place which is touted as “just as good as Hawai’i” somehow pales in comparison.

     On our fourth visit to Honolulu, we stayed at the Sheraton Princess Ka’ialani, next door to the International Marketplace and across the street from the Sheraton Moana Surfrider, the oldest (built in 1903) and most expensive hotel on Waikiki Beach. We had access to it due to the fact that we were in a Sheraton Hotel, but our extent of usage was walking through it as we headed to the beach. Our first couple of days there were spent doing the things one does when in Honolulu…visit the famous sites, hit the beach, shop, and stroll around. On the second evening as we were collapsing in our room after a full day of activities and tours, I happened to see an advertisement in a tourist paper that headlined, “Fish for Shark…The Great Adventure!" The ad went on to say that the boat made regular evening tours with the prime directive of catching big sharks. Upon further reading, I began to hear the soundtrack of “Jaws” playing in my head and could imagine myself as the grizzled Robert Shaw battling the monster of the deep in mortal combat. The fishing excursion, strangely enough, did not debark the dock until 10:00 p.m “because all the big ones cruise and feed at night.”

     Placing a quick phone call, I discovered that there was a trip planned that very evening, and there was space available. The gravelly voice on the phone said, “We catch more big shark than any other boat in the harbor! There is an 85% chance you will catch a shark!" Already, I was hooked. About 9:30 p.m. I headed downstairs to the lobby and shortly hopped in a van from Sushimo Fishing Charters. The other seven patrons were already aboard. I had been a little nervous about this trip. I had imagined it to be a test of my manhood…you know, the man vs monster plot that Hollywood has used for a hundred years. But on board with me were four giggly young girls, none older than 21, and three of their latte-sipping, quiche-nibbling nabobs that pass for young men now days. The fourth young girl was a girl friend of one of the other girls. I decided that this was a serious joke or that this adventure was not going to be as challenging as I thought. These young examples of America’s future (shudder) were much more interested in their personal interactions that the task at hand. The young girls looked at the large buckets of dead fish we would be using as bait and exclaimed,” Ewwww!" It was clear I was not in a group of serious fishermen. Oh, well, less competition, I thought.

     Our boat for the night would be the “Explorer,” a well equipped 60 foot vessel that sported around 50 ready-to-go fishing rigs, including 10-12 rods and reels that looked heavy duty enough to reel in a battleship. Sure enough, the heavy babies would be our weapons of choice for the night. The captain gave us a safety pitch as we motored out of the harbor and assigned each of us a spot along the rails. The plan was the crew would bait our monster sized hooks, drop them over the side, and our job was to holler “Shark on!” if the line took off. When the alarm went out, all others were to reel in their lines to avoid tangling while the battle of survival was going on. Once the “all clear” came, the lines went back in the water. It was exciting!     We motored out of the harbor and the night was…enchanting. The full moon caused the water to sparkle, and the warm breeze created just enough wave action that there was a rhythmic slap against the bow of the boat as we slipped farther from the harbor lights. The lights of the Waikiki hotels glistened and reflected on the water. I had imagined that we would go offshore for 10-20 miles or so to bob for the big ones, and it confused me when we sailed out of the harbor, turned on our port beam and cruised until we were just off of Waikiki Beach. When we stopped we were close enough that we could see people walking along the beach in the light of the hotels. The captain explained that this was the best place to catch shark…we were in about 100 feet of water and relatively close to the shore because “sharks like to cruise the shoreline to feed." After hearing that amazing bit of news, I made myself a personal note…no more romantic midnight swims!

     The crew started baiting the hooks and tossing them overboard. I was fisherperson number three. Mine went in the water, and about the time he got to number six, I felt a somewhat firm tug on my line and then suddenly my reel started spinning out the line like mad. "Shark on!” I yelled, and the crewman ran over and said, “Yeah, that’s a good one!” as my rod began to bend from the strain. "you want to try it yourself?” he asked, meaning that he would pull it in for me if I wished. My manhood issues popped up again, however, and I replied, “No, I want to bring him in." So he got a cable and anchored the reel and rod to the boat. I noticed he didn’t offer me a safety belt of any kind. Oh, well, tourists come and go, but fishing hardware is expensive. He did help me adjust the drag on the reel a bit so that I ceased to lose line, and afterward it became a tugging war between the shark and me. He stayed near the bottom and did not want to come up, but inch by inch, and reel crank by reel crank, he tired and slowly rose to the surface. When he got within about ten feet of the surface, the crew switched on spotlights, and there he was, a gray shark, about seven feet and around 170 pounds (captain’s estimate). Not the shark from “Jaws”, but big enough to make you decide to stay in the boat. Since this was all catch and release fishing, the idea was to pull him as far as possible out of the water for all to see, then cut him loose.

     I had my camera with me and, while lifting mightily along with the crew’s help, I held the camera in my right hand and sort of aimed sharkward and hoped for the best. At least I got photo proof of my catch. By this time a crewman was holding the line leader lifting the shark and another reached down with some wirecutters to cut the line (see photo). What happened next could have been disastrous. When the crewman cut the line, it snapped back like a whip, and the backlash caught the captain, who was leaning over the rail watching the process, about an inch under his left eye and opened a two inch gash clear to the cheek bone. He fell back and grabbed his face, and grabbed a relatively clean towel and in a few seconds stopped the flow of blood. He put on a bandage and continued with his job. Tough guy.

     With the shark gone and the excitement over, it was lines back in the water, but this night would prove to be a dud. About an hour later one of the young guys caught a four footer that caused a little excitement when it came off its hook inside the boat and the crewmen had to grab it without getting bit. Its teeth were snapping shut like a steel trap. Finally it was grabbed by the tail and thrown overboard. By this time the girls were tired of yucky dead fish bait and just plain tired, so they quit fishing and drank Cokes and ate hot dogs. The guys eventually followed suit, and I, like the Ancient Mariner, was left to go it alone. I had made my catch for the night, however, and since it was approaching 1:00 a.m., the captain asked me and I said yes, I’m ready to go home.

     We heaved to the anchor, fired the engines, and made the short journey back to the docks. All in all (at least if you’re a fisherman) it was a worthwhile evening. I had a new experience, a cool photo, and another Hawai’ian memory to add to the collection. I'd go shark fishing again.

The End Justifies The Means

(An experience from 2009) 

    It all started with my most recent interview with my melanoma doctor at M.D. Anderson Cancer Clinic. Since I had undergone surgery to remove a melanoma (skin cancer) on my right arm about a year ago, I have been checking in with him about every three months. Everything has been going well, and he was about to cut me loose from him and allow me to just visit a dermatologist occasionally. This time, just in passing, he asked me when I had last undergone a colonoscopy. When I replied that I had never had a colonoscopy, he stopped and gave me that look that only wives and doctors can give and said, “You’re 66 years old and you’ve NEVER had a colonoscopy??” After casting my eyes down in a repentant manner and shuffling my feet a bit, I regretfully answered that I had not. That response, of course, gave him the opportunity to launch into a lecture about the need for regular checkups, including colonoscopies, for anyone as ancient as myself and how all sorts of bad things can happen if regular checkups aren’t scheduled. The upshot of all this was that a colonoscopy was scheduled for me two weeks later. I was to go in on a Thursday for “anesthesia assessment” and the main event would start the next day promptly at 8:00 a.m. I was due to visit the clinic that Friday anyway for my six month checkup in the Leukemia Center, so this way I could kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. You have to understand that at M. D. Anderson Cancer Clinic, every floor of the hospital is like a separate hospital. For melanomas, it’s the ninth floor; for leukemia, it’s the eight floor, for GI endoscopy, it’s the fifth floor, for lymphoma, it’s the sixth floor, for lab work, it’s the second floor. I have been on all these floors; I’m trying to avoid the other levels. Each floor is an entity unto itself having different registration procedures and totally concerned with only its mission…to treat whatever form of cancer is its specialty. They are incredibly competent, organized, and caring. I am convinced I am still here on earth because of God’s hand and their skills.

     Now, if you’re under the age of fifty, it is possible that you do not know what a colonoscopy is. For those of you who are teachers, it has nothing to do with English grammar and counting, adding, or subtracting colons in an essay. Rather it is an up close and personal (REAL personal) examination of your intestinal tract. Your colon (or intestinal tract,) doing the critical job that it does for you, is fertile grounds for all sorts of bad bacteria, germs, and diseases, and therefore close monitoring of this very critical function within your body is a prerequisite to disease prevention. The actual examination is an exercise in state of the art technology and medical creativity. Doctors are able to insert a little video camera into the colon and visually inspect every inch of this tunnel of digestion. When it’s over, they’ll even give you photos, for crying out loud, of the inside of your colon! Seeing any abnormality, they are able with tiny scissors to snip away any bad stuff and remove it for closer analysis. “How do they do this?” you may be nervously asking. Well, the camera and any other tool is inserted through the….is inserted through the….through the…the…well, I’m sorry, I can’t say it. I was raised in a very sheltered environment, and there were just some words we did not say in public conversation, and that included the crude words used by uneducated folks and educated words describing the same things used by doctors and proper people. Let’s just say that the word describing the place of entrance rhymes with the word for the seventh planet from the sun, and let it go at that. If you’re not an astronomer, there are only a couple of areas of entrances into the human body…from the top down or the bottom up. And it’s not the top down. I think I’ve made it clear. It’s really better not to think about the process, anyway, just the results. Fortunately, when all this probing and photography is going on, you will be in dreamland thinking about candy canes. They will say, "This will relax you,” the lights will go off, and the next instant they will be saying, “Wake up, Sir! It’s over!” Piece of cake.

     So, on Thursday, Shirley and I made the trek to M.D. Anderson for my “anesthetic assessment,” which is basically a question and answer activity to make sure I had no hidden allergies, previous bad anesthesia experiences, or potential problems. Each time you visit MDA, a blood draw will be taken along with “vital signs” which are weight and blood pressure. This data is then analyzed and compared to previous records for any changes. All was well with me, and we left MDA to head home via the drug store, where a prescription had been sent for me. The prescription was for the “prep” that would get me ready for the main event tomorrow. When I walked out of the drug store, I was carrying a jug that was bigger than a gallon milk container. In fact, at four liters, it was about a gallon and a pint.

     Just for your future references, if you see any kind of medication with the work “lyte” in it, I would suggest that you make yourself scarce at the earliest possible moment. Medications such as Gavilyte, Colyte, Nulytely, and Golytely (someone had a sick sense of humor there) have an effect that, well, you just have to experience it to believe it. My medication was the tried and true Gavilyte, and all I had to do was drink the entire gallon and a pint of Gavilyte at the rate of 8 ounces every ten minutes. Needless to say, since the makers of these drinks have a sort of captive audience, they have no concern for taste or “drinkability” to quote a beer advertisement. In fact, one could come to the conclusion that the drinks had been designed as some sort of evil revenge for our past sins. Anyway, the taste was not too good. But it wasn’t too bad, either, and I downed the first two or three glasses with no effects. I began to think that this whole process may be pretty easy. A few minutes later, however, the inevitable took place. Without being too graphic, let me just say that in the next few hours I had plenty of opportunity to study my bathroom and make a list of trim to touch up, paintwork to do, and doors to adjust. I was able to determine that my new toilet, which I installed only three weeks ago, worked very well even under extreme conditions. By 4:00 a.m., I was able to find the bathroom in pitch darkness, do my job, and get back in bed without even opening my eyes. At 6:30 a.m. Shirley and I rose up to prepare for the MDA big day.

     Friday morning the weather was muggy, warm, cloudy, and rainy…a bad day for someone like Shirley who is still recovering from a knee replacement a couple of months ago. People who have joint problems like arthritis or joint replacements are better weather forecasters than the best meteorologist on TV. When the weather changes for the worse, they feel it in their joints. And Shirley was feeling it this Friday morning. To make matters worse, she forgot her cane as we left home, and so she had to wander all around MDA without much help. Plus, she had to push me in a wheelchair for a short time. Her day was as hard as mine. The plan on Friday was for me to have my colonoscopy from about 10.00 to 12:00, and then visit with my leukemia doctor about 1:00. I had to get another blood test for him, so since we got to the hospital about 7:30, we went to the leukemia laboratory (8th floor) first. I weighed in, got my “vitals” taken, and blood drawn and headed to the GI Endoscopy Department (5th floor). Check in time was 8:00 for the 10:00 procedure.

     Another thing to consider when entering a hospital is that you check your modesty at the door when you go in. Endoscopy is a prime example. We were cheerily lead back to a large room divided into maybe 16 individual cubicles with curtain walls. The sweet young lady said, “Remove all your clothing, put the hospital gown on, open in the back, lie on the bed, and cover with the sheet. When you have finished, open the curtain so we’ll know you’re ready.” I did so, and lie back to listen to the voices around me. You put sixteen patients with spouses and friends plus nurses in a big room, and cloth walls don’t mean much. The nurse visited the old guy across from me with the intent of giving him an IV, and he told her (as we listened) all the horrible experiences he had endured in hospitals. When she jabbed him with the IV needle, he yelled like his leg was being amputated. I can say truthfully that in the last two years I have probably been stuck with a needle a hundred times, and there have been times I did not know I had been stuck until I looked. The nurses at MDA are incredibly skilled. But maybe he got a bad one…I think it was in his head.

     Think also, there were sixteen patients in the room and all still feeling the effects of their “prep,” and there was ONE unisex bathroom. The traffic was heavy. The Oriental lady next to me headed to the bathroom thinking she was holding her gown closed in back…but she wasn’t. Oh, well, we’re all in this together. Another husband and wife (patient) came in and was assigned to a bed. As soon as the nurse left, the guy said, “Well, there’s not much I can do here. I think I’ll go down to the first floor and have lunch. I’m sure they’ll call me when they’re finished.” And he left. I do not predict a long and happy marriage for that couple.

     In a few minutes, a different cheerful nurse came in and placed an IV in my right hand, and said the big event would commence shortly after 10:00. Since it was still before 9:00 the interminable waiting had begun. In this regard, MDA is like every hospital; time is relative, and there’s no need to rush. But around 10:25, sure enough, in came the serious looking medics who, after telling Shirley to wait in the waiting room, wheeled me down a couple of halls to a large refrigerator. Well, it really wasn’t a refrigerator, but it was cold enough for one. I guess that’s just the characteristic of an operating room. I then had about a dozen wires attached with suction cups to my chest and arms and told to roll onto my left side (open back gown.) With nary a modest thought, I dutifully rolled, and then the nurse said something about relax…and that’s all I remember.

     I awoke to someone yelling in my ear, “Mr. Downing, wake up!” and to the worst sore throat I have ever experienced. My chest was hurting and I was having a little difficulty breathing because I was so congested. I tried to speak, but I had no voice, and I felt I had swallowed a box of razor blades. I lie there for a few minutes until they determined I was back amongst the living and could respond to questions, at least with a head nod, anyway. I asked for a drink of water, but they said, “Not yet.” So I asked for a tissue and was able to blow some of the cobwebs out of my head and breathe easier. They begin to explain that the procedure had gone well, but midway I had begun to choke and managed to get some of my stomach acid down into my lungs. They could not explain why my stomach still had liquid in it while my colon was clean except to say, “Sometime that happens.” They had been forced to aspirate (suction) the liquid from my lungs using the gadget they force down your throat into your lungs. Hence the sore throat. I would assume in an emergency situation like that they’re not too concerned about the effects on your throat and vocal cords.

     I was wheeled back to the recovery area where my faithful wife was waiting. I couldn’t say much to her since I could barely talk, and when I coughed, I sounded like a lifelong chain smoker. In a few minutes, the doctor came by, and said I still had some fluid in my lungs and to be very careful the next couple of days and watch for fever and difficulty of breathing. Pneumonia was a definite possibility because stomach acid can damage the lungs. However, I was able to see for the first time full color photos of my colon which I will not post here in the interest of delicacy and decorum. The colon report was very good and there were no problems. In a few more minutes, we were released from the Endoscopy department…just in time for lunch.

     I was in a wheelchair by this time, and Shirley wheeled me to the first floor and the cafeteria. Although I had not eaten for two days, I wasn’t too hungry, and after a half of a sandwich, I was done. Shirley’s knee was bothering her enough that I couldn’t bring myself to have her push me, so we left the wheelchair in the foyer and headed to the eighth floor and my visit with my leukemia doctor. By this time, neither of us was feeling too well. I was moving slow because the procedure medications had not yet worn off and Shirley was limping badly. But we checked in right on time at 1:00. We were called back to Doctor Farhad Ravandi-Kashani’s (NOT a native Texan) office about 1:30 and waited….and waited…and waited. Finally the nurse came in and gave me my lab reports from the morning…and that was the bright spot of the day. My blood condition is the best it has been in probably twenty years. One funny note: since I had blood work and vital signs taken on Thursday and on Friday, she noticed that my weight on Friday was six pounds less than it was on Thursday. “How could that be?” she asked. When I said, “I had a colonoscopy this morning,” she smiled slightly and replied, “Oh.” Finally, over two hours after our 1:00 appointment, my doctor makes his appearance, checks me over and declares me sound. He asked when I wanted to come back, and I think if I had said in a year he would have said OK, but he said, “Why don’t we keep it at six months; that way I can keep an eye on you.” I agreed; a lot can happen in a year.

     We pulled out of MDA shortly thereafter and drove home and collapsed. As I walked in our home, I began to have chills and a little fever with a still-awful cough. It began to assuage in an hour or so, and, other that just feeling worn out, I began to feel better. Both of us did very little besides recline in our sofas before bedtime. Saturday morning I awoke with a throat not nearly as sore and feeling much better, but not perfect. As I write this, I still have a hacky cough, but my prognosis is in a couple of days I’ll be back to my normal, cheerful self.

     To you readers who are over a certain age, consider a colonoscopy. I think I had a rougher time of it than the usual patient, but truthfully, it is a vital part of your maintaining health vigilance. Remember, you have to go into it with the proper positive attitude and consider it an adventure. Plus, you’ll have photos that are guaranteed to break up any party whenever you feel the need!

Downings...1938-1949

     If you have read “The Nomadic Lives of Bob and Shirley Downing” you have already discovered that my family has a tendency to pull up stakes.  Sometimes of necessity and sometimes of desire, curiosity, or simply wanderlust, for many years we traveled with our saddlebags half packed at all times.  Granted, as we have become older we have sort of lost the momentum or even desire for greener pastures, but I can blame heredity for some of the early shuffling in our marriage.

    My parents, Robert (R.L.) and Ethel Downing, married in 1938.  Forgive me for occasionally referring to my earlier blogs, but I have described in earlier writings about their youths and the struggles they encountered in the embryonic years of their marriage.  They met in a very unusual circumstance…at an Indian PowWow in Oklahoma.  To this current day, the various Indian tribes which inhabit the state of Oklahoma have annual meetings of their tribes to conduct business and enjoy various traditions and festivities.  These are respectfully called powwows.  My dad was always very proud of his Cherokee lineage, pointing out at the slightest encouragement the fact that his great-great-grandfather served as Chief of the Cherokee Nation in the 1800s, which to this day is an independent governing agency within the state of Oklahoma.  My sister, Kathyrn, has gone to extensive lengths to secure her citizenship within the nation and, as a citizen of the Cherokee Nation reaps some of the rights and benefits of citizenship.  I have applied for my “Indian card,” but the Cherokee Nation government works at the same glacial speed of every government agency ever created. “Government” and “efficiency” are not synonyms.  Oh, well, maybe someday I’ll retire to my very own teepee in a corner of the reservation.

    Anyway, during a particular powwow on a warm summer evening,  a young farm boy from Lone Wolf, Oklahoma went with his brother to see the festivities, while at the very same time a young girl from Shawnee, Oklahoma, arrived with her sister at the same powwow.  During the festivities the visitors were invited to dance with the tribe members during one of the ceremonies, and in the process, R.L. Downing and Ethel New, both 20 years old, bumped into each other.  Their conversation lasted but a few minutes, and R.L. went his way.  A few minutes later, Ethel spotted R.L. again.  This time she pointed him out to her sister and said, “Sis, see that boy over there?  Some day I’m going to marry him.”  And she did.

    The next five years for R.L. and Ethel were busy building a marriage and a business while adjusting to a wartime America.  They moved to Baytown, Texas, and Dad and Mom (foregoing the R.L. and Ethel,) like many young couples, moved frequently as Dad followed the work.  Mom told often of the time they moved to Brazosport, and, from the time they rented a house to the time they were able to occupy it, a tremendous flood occurred, and consequently they had to move in their furniture and belongings using a boat.  In 1943, a momentous event took place which changed their lives and plans…I was born.

    Needless to say, I don’t really remember that event or the two or three years thereafter.  Dad had founded Downing Roofing Company with his brother, only to be drafted into the U.S. Army.  He spent parts of two years in the Aleutian Islands, being trained as a tank driver and serving as a carpenter (typical Army.)  He served into 1946 even after the war ended.  During this period occurred, as far as I can tell, my very first memory.  Dad had settled at Fort Sill, Oklahoma, toward the end of his hitch, and Mom would, every three or four weeks, drive to Fort Sill to see him.  In those days, military men and their families were highly regarded, and Mom told stories of her car breaking down, running out of gas, or getting stranded for the night, and in each case a kind family or person would come to her rescue and get her on her way.  Dad told about hitchhiking from Fort Sill to Baytown wearing his uniform.  He said every time he was dropped off at some destination by one car, he never waited more than a minute to be picked up by another.  Everyone appreciated and took care of their military boys.  Times have changed.

    Anyway, my memory is thusly:  One night Mom and I were traveling in the car heading for Oklahoma and came up to a group of flashing police lights.  There, across the highway, was a semi truck lying on its side.  The police, the flashing lights, and the sight of the overturned truck seared an image into my memory, and to this day I can see that truck.  I was three years old.



Me, Vernon, Jan

     A short time after this, I can remember my first residence.  Once Dad was discharged, they settled into a shotgun house on East James Street, in Baytown.  It was called a “shotgun” house because it was narrow and long, and, if you fired a shotgun through the front door, the shot would go through every room in the house and out the back door.  I am not making this up.  The house was about fifteen feet wide sitting on a 25 foot wide lot and about 40 feet deep.  From the front to the back, there was a living room, bedroom, bath, and kitchen. There was parking in the back, but no garage.  The house was old in 1946, and it is still in the same location today.  I slept on a small bunk in Mom and Dad’s bedroom, and in one of my more exciting memories, I can remember awakening one morning, looking up, and seeing a rat peering down at me from a hole in the ceiling.  I yelled for mother, and she ran in with a broom and stuck the handle up through the hole and jiggled it around and the rodent retired.

    Next to the old house was a tiny Mom and Pop grocery store on the corner.  Mom would send me around to the store to get bread and milk occasionally.   When you walked in the store, there was one aisle about three feet wide and ten feet long surrounded by counters, and an old guy behind the counter who would ask, “What’cha need, Bobby Lynn?”  On the other side of our house was another shotgun house where lived my best friend, Vernon Williams, with his older sister Jan and mom and dad, Ruth and Vernon Williams.  We played many hours in the two tiny front yards.  Just to show you how socially deprived (by today’s standards) we were, one of our most enjoyable times was when Vernon’s Mom, Ruth, would get a big mouthful of bubble gum and blow bubbles.  She could blow the biggest bubbles we had ever seen in our young lives.  Now THAT’S entertainment!  I have a photo of Vernon and me playing in the mud in our front yard.  We were wearing only our white briefs.  Things were pretty casual back then. Vernon was a big guy who later played football for Lee High School.  He died several years ago.

    During this time, Mom and Dad were still struggling, and in lieu of spending money for toys, Dad used his carpentry skills and built me wooden cars, trucks, bats, wooden horses, you name it.  He was a skillful carver with a knife.  I’d pay a lot of money for one of those lost toys today.

    Recreational activity was pretty limited in those days, but two things stand out in my memory.  On West Texas Avenue in Baytown there was a W.O.W. Hall (Woodmen of the World) which about every Saturday night held a big dance and party.  I can remember sitting in a chair as a wallflower watching my mom and dad trip the light fantastic to the sound of a Hank Williams tune.  While the dancing was going on, someone would sprinkle some kind of wax on the wooden floor to make it slicker, the better to slide gracefully around on, I guess.  The second memory involved an ice house on North Main Street which sold two items: block ice and cold beer.  We would pull up in Dad’s Mercury with the suicide doors, and Dad would enjoy a few cold beers.  Strangely, I never saw my dad drunk, and I never saw my mom take a drink at all.  One night we as pulled away from the ice house and Dad turned into the traffic, the right rear door of the Mercury swung open.  I, being a little kid, was standing behind the front seat (no seatbelts in those days) and fell toward the open door, but somehow caught myself (or someone caught me, I can’t remember) before I planted myself on the pavement.  Even before my parents joined the church, God had his hand on them (and me.)

    I was also introduced to the educational process at this time when Mom enrolled me in a small, neighborhood kindergarten school in Old Baytown (the name new folks called the old part of Baytown.)  Most kids did not go to kindergarten back then, but Mom knew that I was special (or maybe needed some more help.)  The thing I remember about kindergarten was that it was a morning deal, ending about noon.  Mom would drop me off and come back at 12:00 to pick me up the same as the parents of all the kids.  The building was close to the street, and, at noon, the teacher would say, “Class dismissed…goodbye!” and kick us out the door.  There was no place to wait, so we kids would play in the street until we saw our parents' cars coming.  The parent would ease slowly up to the group of kids, and the appropriate child would hop in and they would drive away…and we would occupy the street again until the next car arrived.  How we all survived is beyond me.

   My biggest memory on East James Street was about July 11, 1947, when Mom and Dad brought my sister, Judy, home from the hospital.  I’m not sure who took care of me during the hospital visit, but when we all reassembled on James Street, suddenly there was this new little kid.  In time, Dad decided that two adults and two little kids in one room was a bit much, so about year later, we moved to roomier pastures, namely 206 Hafer Street. (See my blog, “206 Hafer, 1949-54”)

Strength from Experience

I am not the author of the following words; they came to me in a random email and the original author is unknown. They are so profound, however, I could not pass them up…with a little embellishment from myself.

To Those of Us Born between 1935 and 1970

     At the very start, we survived being born to mothers who smoked and/or drank while they were pregnant. Our mothers took aspirin, ate blue cheese dressing and tuna from a can, and didn’t get tested for diabetes…or much of anything else. Then, after the trauma of birth, we were put to sleep on our tummies in our baby cribs covered with bright colored lead-based paints. As infants and children, we would ride in cars with no car seats, no booster seats, no seat belts, no air bags, worn tires, and weak brakes. We had no child-proof lids on medicine bottles, locks on doors or cabinets, and, when we rode our bikes, we had baseball caps, not helmets, on our heads.

     Riding in the back of a pickup truck on a warm day was always a special treat, and, when thirsty, we drank water from a backyard garden hose and not a bottle. We shared one bottled soft drink with four friends, and no one died from this. We ate cupcakes, white bread, real butter, and bacon. We drank Kool-Aid made with real white sugar…and we weren’t overweight.

     We were either in school or we played outside. If the weather was nice, we were seldom inside our houses. We would leave home in the morning and play all day, coming home only for snacks and lunch, but we had to be home by the time the street lights came on at night. No one was able to reach us practically all day…and we were okay. We guys would spend hours building our go-carts out of wood scraps and wagon wheels and ride them down the hill realizing then that we should have considered brakes. After running into bushes and hitting street curbs a few times, we solved the problem.

     We did not have Play Stations, Nintendos, and X-boxes. There were no video games, no 150 channels on cable, no video movies or DVDs, no iPods, so smart phones, no internet, and no chat rooms. We had real human friends, and we went outside and found them.

     We fell out of trees, got cut, broke bones, and teeth…and there were no lawsuits…even if it happened at school or someone else’s home. If we got a paddling at school, we got another one at home, because our parents supported our teachers. We received spankings with wooden spoons, switches, ping-pong paddles, a leather belt, or just a bare hand, and no one called child services to report abuse.      We ate worms and mud pies (real), and the worms did not live in us forever. We boys were given BB guns and pocket knives for our tenth birthday as a rite of passage. We made up games with sticks and tennis balls, and although we were warned by our parents, we did not put out too many eyes. We rode bikes or walked to a friend’s house and knocked on the door. If no one answered, we would just walk in…the door was unlocked anyway.      Little League had tryouts, and not everyone made the team. Those who did not learned to deal with the disappointment. The idea of a parent bailing us out if we broke the law was unheard of…the parent sided with the law.

     Using the warped guidelines of the current crop of child psychologists and human development theorists, each of us who grew up in the 40s, 50s, 60s, and 70s would have been classified “severely at risk.” And yet our generations have produced some of the finest problem solvers, risk takers, and inventors in history. We experienced success and failure, freedom and responsibility…and we learned how to deal with it all. To each of us who truly experienced life and survived…cheers!

     Notable quote:                                                                                                                      "With hurricanes, tornadoes, fires out of control, mud slides, flooding, severe thunderstorms, threats of flu epidemics and terrorist attacks…are we sure this is a good time to want to take “under God” out of the Pledge of Allegiance?”

Jay Leno

A Church Birthday

     If you are not of the Pentecostal religious persuasion or at least pseudo-Pentecostal, you’ll be forgiven if you choose to skip this little essay and glam onto one of my more scintillating essays in the index. This essay is an informal observation of a contemporary Pentecostal church…more specifically a church affiliated with the United Pentecostal Church, International, which has headquarters in St. Louis, Missouri. The UPCI, as it is affectionately acronymed, had its official beginnings in 1945 with the merger of two large Pentecostal organizations which dated from the fundamentalist revivals of the 1800s.

     The church in focus is Bethel Tabernacle of which Shirley and I are proud members. Though my wife and I have known of this church in Houston, Texas, for many years, it was only after we retired and moved to the general vicinity that we began attending. The church in recent days celebrated its eightieth anniversary, and it is of the style and content of that anniversary celebration that I would like to offer some observations. The celebration lasted a week, kicking off one Sunday and ending the next, with activities every night except Monday night.

     Bethel Tabernacle has experienced a very unique history. Founded by Rev. Oliver F. Fauss in 1929, the minister arrived in Houston with his wife, children, an old car, fifteen cents in his pocket, and a desire to start a church. Eighty years later, his grandson, Pastor David Fauss, preached a sermon which was entitled “Three Nickels and a Dream,” which stirringly detailed the commitment and spiritual calling which brought Oliver F. Fauss to Houston. To us folks of the current generation, it seems unbelievable that a man could be in a strange city and have a family, and yet possess only fifteen cents, but 1929 saw the beginning of the Great Depression, and the havoc it played on the American culture makes the economic downturn we have experienced in the past few months appear as a minor cloud in the sky. There were no jobs, no money, no welfare, and no where to turn for help. I can remember my dad who grew up during the depression talking about his unmarried days and how he and his date would go out for the evening with absolutely no money between them. They would spend the evening walking, visiting friends, or watching sidewalk shows put on by actors and vendors. If he was able to earn fifty cents he was rich, and he could take his date to a movie and buy dinner. Fast forward thirty years, and when my wife and I married in 1961, I was earning $1.18 per hour and she $.85. No savings, no credit cards, no wealthy parents to borrow from…but we were happy.

     Needless to say, for a person to be willing to pull up stakes and head to a new city while dragging one's family to start something as tenuous and tentative as a church required a great deal of commitment and belief that one was in the Will of God. Such was Rev. Oliver F. Fauss. The early years were hard, but he was able to carve a niche in Houston, preaching the Plan of Salvation according to the Book of Acts. Pastor David Fauss tells of his grandfather in one of his intense prayers during a trying time in the development of his church raising the Bible above his head while he prayed and, placing his finger on Acts 2:38, saying, “Lord, whatever the future holds, as long as this scripture is in the Bible I’m going to preach it!”

     What has contributed to the uniqueness of Bethel Tabernacle is that the same bulldog determination of Rev. Oliver F. Fauss to preach the Gospel according to the scriptures was passed down to his son, Rev. O.R. Fauss, and now to his grandson, Rev. David Fauss. Though each has offered his distinctive ministry, all three have been loyal and nonwavering in their pursuit of biblical accuracy in their preaching. The result of this for Bethel Tabernacle has been an eighty year continuity of commitment. I have been attending Pentecostal churches for nearly sixty years and have seen churches rise and fall with the changing of pastors. Not every word which comes over the sacred desk in the form of a sermon is a message from God, and some ministers have shown their humanity in excruciatingly unfortunate detail in some of their comments which are labeled, “Thus saith the Word of God.” In eighty years, Bethel Tabernacle has never suffered a church split or a congregational exodus, and that fact alone puts it into a very rarified atmosphere. I am sure that if Oliver F. Fauss were to somehow in spirit visit Bethel Tabernacle on any typical present-day Sunday, he would be amazed, aghast, astounded, and overwhelmed at the complexity of a modern service, at the actions and appearance of the church congregation, and at the style and presentation of the music and worship. By the time his grandson, Pastor David Fauss, got up to preach he would be telling himself, “The Spirit seems the same, but it’s so different!” But then Brother David would begin to preach the story of the Gospel and the Plan of Salvation, reading the very same scriptures used eighty years ago by his grandfather, and the founder of Bethel Tabernacle would settle back and say to himself, “Praise God, the things that really count haven’t changed at all!”
     The anniversary services began with two special speakers, Reverends Simeon and Curtis Young, one preaching Sunday morning and the other Sunday night. After a rest night on Monday, Tuesday night we heard Reverend Don Tipton, and on Wednesday night we heard Reverend Gary Wheeler. The main claim to fame for these ministers was that they all came to Bethel Tabernacle years ago, found themselves wives, and left town. More seriously, perhaps it would be better to say that each came to Bethel Tabernacle under a different circumstance, became a faithful member of the church, and was rewarded by God with a faithful wife and then called by the Spirit to go elsewhere and preach the Gospel. Thursday night we heard our first woman minister and another Bethel alumnus, Cindy Miller, who, forgive me for saying so, preached the most powerful sermon of them all. Had I been a young person in that service, I would not have been AT the altar, I would have been UNDER the altar. Her message touched everyone, even us Golden Agers. Friday night it was Reverends Nathan Scoggins and Wayne Huntley, whom Shirley and I had not seen in 38 years. Shirley used to baby-sit for the Huntleys when their child was an infant. Time flies…he still has a mischievous smile.

     On Saturday night we had a big dinner and hullabaloo at a local hotel convention center. Tuxedos and tennis shoes were both well represented, and we even had the traditional erratic sound system and mediocre food. The speaker was South Texas District Superintendent Ken Gurley, who is a historian of early Pentecost memorabilia. He gave a very informative summary of the early foundational days of the UPCI. Ken (excuse me, Reverend Gurley), Shirley and I attended the same church in Baytown as we were growing up. There was a tremendous spiritual display as Reverend Gurley was ending his presentation…most unusual considering we were in sort of a public area. I have been in only two such public events in all my years where there was a speaking in tongues followed by a prophetic interpretation afterward. It was very powerful.

     On Sunday, the week was wrapped up with the General Superintendent of the United Pentecostal Church, International, Reverend David Bernard, giving a stirring sermon of encouragement and a prophecy of a great future for Bethel Tabernacle. His sermon was very detailed, very articulate, very uplifting…and totally read. I have heard only two ministers in my lifetime who could read a sermon and be effective, and Brother Bernard is one of them and Reverend Cleveland Becton is the other. There was no Sunday night service, and I think most of us collapsed for the afternoon. It had been a very exhausting week. To make matters worse (well, sort of) for Shirley and myself, the ministers, families, friends, and hangers-on were fed after services on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday nights, and Shirley and I volunteered to be part of the kitchen duty staff. These preachers and friends were treated royally by Bethel Tabernacle with top quality cooking, china plates, silverware, goblet glasses, and cloth napkins. I washed so many dishes I thought I was back on military KP. We didn’t head home till near 1:00 a.m. each night. By Saturday we were exhausted, but it had actually been a lot of fun. We who slaved in the kitchen while the ministers dawdled over their desserts created a bond, and Shirley and I had more close friends than we did a week earlier. The services and ministry were top level…all the ministers are heavy hitters in the Pentecostal ranks, and every sermon was powerful and specific. The music and worship were lively and blessed, and the Spirit of the Creator seemed tangible at times in the services. It reaffirmed to me that there is still life and spirit in the UPCI. If you have never been in a church service in a United Pentecostal church, you owe it to yourself to visit. There is a spiritual joy and a freedom to truly worship linked to an underlying appreciation of the seriousness of salvation. Pentecostals do not consider their religion a spare tire to go to in an emergency, but rather the engine that powers life itself, both in this world and the world to come.

     More than anything, however, the week's festivities reminded me that Bethel Tabernacle is a special church with special people led by special ministers, Reverends O.R. Fauss and David Fauss. If Grandaddy Oliver F. Fauss could have seen it, he would have been proud.

Visit Bethel Tabernacle at http://www.bethel.cc/.