Back in the Saddle

     When we decided to purchase our current home, there were several factors of the neighborhood which appealed to us besides the features of the home itself. We are less than 300 feet away from a pool, tennis courts, nature trails, and picnic area, and after extensive checking on my part, the neighborhood seemed to be relatively quiet. Oak Creek Village advertises itself as having the lowest crime statistics of any neighborhood along FM 1960, which may be a dubious claim, but sometimes you have to go with the information at hand, so here we are.

     Another item which appealed to me particularly was the fact that directly behind our back fence is an elementary school. That may or may not seem advantageous, but to me, having a school behind us meant no noisy neighbors evenings, weekends, holidays, or summers, and though my wife accuses me of deafness on a regular basis, I have an acute sensitivity to rowdy neighbors. What you do in your own yard is your business, but be quiet about it. Secondly, being a retired teacher, I decided that here was a chance to perhaps do a little substitute teaching occasionally and in doing so collect a little more spending money to finance my lavish lifestyle of three meals a day and driving a 1993 Ford Ranger.

     So in the spring of this year, I did some further checking on Pat Reynolds Elementary, my neighborhood school across the fence, and found out that it was a very successful school. Of course, nowadays in Texas “successful” means proficiency on the state mandated TAKS tests. Forget about active PTAs, PTOs, science/math/chess clubs, art and music programs, after school activities, or community contributions…the media, parents, Realtors, politicians, and home buyers all ask the same question…”How did the school do on TAKS?” I personally like the TAKS tests as a measure of progress, but the tests have been politicized and publicized to the point that their importance is grossly exaggerated and do not represent the success of a school. But that’s another story. The point is, Reynolds had a good track record on TAKS. My next step was to get my foot in the door and start the process of application to the Spring ISD. As it happened, Reynolds had a science and art open house in May, so I attended with the idea of looking over the school and getting a feel for the staff.

     As I walked through the school that evening with the halls gaily decorated with science posters, project reports, and some really impressive artwork and abuzz with parents and children, it reminded me a lot of my old school, Williams Elementary in Pasadena. Both schools are old, established schools which had gone through a recent major facelift. Reynolds had the most recent modernization, apparently a year or so ago, and is in beautiful shape. I chatted with a few of the teachers, all who seemed energetic and appeared anxious to introduce me to their principal once they found out I was a retired teacher. Eventually I met Mrs. Carolyn Mays, a most gracious lady with a kind, dignified demeanor, who seemed most encouraging when I mentioned that I would like to visit with her about the possibility of substituting. With the school year ending, we agreed to meet in the summer and discuss our options for the fall. I went home that evening feeling very positive about my future relationship with Pat Reynolds Elementary. By the time Mrs. Mays and I met again in June, I had already sent my substitute teacher’s application to Spring ISD.

     When we met again, Carolyn (I will respectfully use her first name) and I hit it off immediately. We have both been down the road a ways (although I am MUCH further down the road than she), and we found common ground concerning teaching philosophy and student concerns. With my experience in teaching science and math, it was agreed that I could make a contribution to the school’s success, and I made it clear I had no interest in substituting anywhere else but Reynolds. The next step was to get my application completed and be up and running by the time school started August 23.

     Sure enough, I received my first substitute assignment in early August. One of the teachers in the fourth grade had given birth in June and would be out the first five weeks of school. I would be her long term sub for the duration. I excitedly looked forward to getting back in the (education) saddle. The week before school started, Reynolds had an open house to allow kids to meet their teachers, see their new rooms, and in general get back into the spirit of school. Kellie Rosebush, the young lady for whom I was substituting, was in the classroom and I was introduced as the person taking her place for the first five weeks.

     Anytime a visitation like a school open house takes place, there’s a certain “sizing up” on the parts of parents, teachers, and students. I’m sure some of the students and parents wondered who the old guy in the room was, but as for me, I was pretty impressed with the kids and parents. At least, compared to my old school, these kids were relatively decently dressed and didn’t look like junior members of the Crips Gang. The parents were respectful and inquisitive, and, all in all, I felt really positive about how the classes would be once we got rolling.

     The first glitch came the Sunday night before the Monday morning that school was to start. Carolyn called to tell me that my application background check still was not completed, and I would have to hold off coming in until all was approved. I haven’t gotten a traffic ticket since 1974, so I concluded that the Spring ISD Personnel Department apparently had waited until the very last minute to act and now couldn’t complete the job before H-hour. No use whining or crying however, so I waited….three days. It was the fourth day of school before I was able to walk into the classroom.

     Teachers will tell you that the first few days of school are critical in establishing classroom rules and procedures. In those early days teachers establish ground rules and students learn what is acceptable and unacceptable behavior. It is the worst possible time to have a substitute teacher. When I walked in, all the kids saw was the big “Substitute” sign stamped on my forehead (not literally), and to them it was a green light to see how far they could go and how far the boundary could be stretched. Children today do not instinctively show respect for authority or adults. They are trained by clueless parents, irresponsible television and video, and even other children that the way to get what you want is to take it by whatever means necessary. Of course, these characteristics are not universal among the youth, but, where I used to say that most of the problems of a classroom were caused by less than ten percent of the students, I think now that percentage is pushing 30-40%. It is a high enough percentage that, without restraint of some sort, pandemonium can reign in a classroom with very little provocation. A teacher will now spend 10-25% of the time NOT teaching, but regaining order, parenting, disciplining, or counseling. It is a tragic waste of time. The students come to school without being taught any social skills at all by their parents. Politicians are quick to nail teachers to the cross for poorly performing students, but poorly performing students learn to perform poorly at home before they ever walk into a school. There should be an accountability measure for parents as well.

     The first few days in the classroom were, simply put, torture. If I could have somehow walked away without causing Carolyn grief, I would have done so. I lie awake at night trying to figure out a management plan that would bring order to the classroom. One policy at the fourth grade level was to take the class to the restroom as a group, waiting quietly (oh, right!) in the hall while three or four students went into the restrooms. It was like pushing on a balloon…you press in one spot and another area would swell out. The front of the line would begin to chatter and I would walk toward them and the back of the line would start up. Going to the back would fire up the front. We would stomp back to the classroom and I would preach fire and brimstone for 20 minutes. A few minutes of relative quiet would ensue, but the next time we went into the hall, the cycle began again. After three days, I said enough is enough. I told them we were not going to the restroom as a group anymore. If a student needed to go to the restroom, he/she raised a hand to let me know. If I was not in a teaching moment and we were doing independent practice, I allowed one at a time to go. It worked, and, correct or not, it was the first step in establishing order, and our hallway behavior to and from activities began to improve. And my blood pressure at the end of the day went down about 30 points.

     Inside the classroom during those early days, structure was hard to maintain. Part of the problem was the seating arrangement…you know…buddies sitting next to buddies creating pockets of conversation. By the second week I had learned the students better and rearranged both classes, sitting the students in their most hated arrangement…alternating boy and girl, while spreading the talking problems around the room. It made a decided difference. Not perfect, mind you, but at this point I was grasping at straws. Within another week, I was more familiar with the students and rearranged again. There was another slight but perceptible improvement.

     Changing the subject a bit, one of the features of Reynolds that struck me was the extensive playground. In Pasadena, the district is so gun-shy about playground accidents that most playground equipment has been taken out. Probably another reason for that fact is that in Pasadena there is no organized “recess” period. All physical activities are coordinated through the physical education departments. The district’s argument for this is that the state requires 135 minutes of organized, structured physical activity per week, and as such there is no time for “recess.” In Spring ISD, there are P.E. activities scheduled, but every elementary class has 25 minutes of recess daily. The recess is monitored by teachers, but it is not structured. The kids can run and play as they like within safety guidelines. As a result, Reynolds has a beautiful playground with more than two dozen swings, plus slides, monkey bars, climbing gear, and miscellaneous paraphernalia. I suspect the students get more physical activity during “recess” than they do during P.E. if sweaty faces are any indication.

     I sat inside a science and math classroom for five weeks and never saw a text book. I am sure that Spring ISD has instructional plans for covering all the pertinent TEKS objectives, but I never saw them. Kellie Rosebush had very efficiently laid out my instructional plans for the entire five weeks, so, realistically speaking, I didn’t need to see anything else. Whatever the instructional plans, they must work, considering the success of Reynolds on last year’s tests. But with no textbooks, we went through tons of copy paper. I couldn’t help but think back to my Williams days when copy paper was treated like currency to be used sparingly.

     I was flipping through Kellie’s emails one day (she graciously allowed me access to her emails so I could keep up with school and grade level news), and saw an email stating that there was an unused “smart board” in the school that anyone could have for his/her class if desired. I almost jumped and ran for it, until I realized I was going to be out of there in a few days. I received the first Promethean smart board at Williams about five years ago, and it changed the way I taught. It is the most efficient way possible to blend video, power point, pictures, graphs, and activities into a lesson…and save the whole package for the next time you need it. By now, there is probably a smart board in every classroom in Pasadena ISD which has always been a very technologically advanced district. Of course, that also explains why PISD has been running in the red with their budget.

     Though Williams Elementary had a very high percentage of “free and reduced lunch” students, it is primarily a Hispanic school. At Reynolds, I met my first truly culturally diverse classes and came away with a simple observation: It is not the cultural background, but the developmental environment in which a child grows which many times determines the success of a child. I had three or four students whom I considered serious behavioral problems. Anger, rebellion, and disrespect were shown by them on a daily basis. The third week of my assignment, I received student profiles and made a point to read the background information for my problem children. After reading their profiles, I wanted to go hug each one and tell them everything was going to be OK. It is readily apparent that the traditional nuclear family of dad, mom, and children is nearly extinct, and the children of these contemporary dysfunctional arrangements suffer the consequences. I made a point to talk to each one…not about their profiles, but just to let them know I liked them and wanted them to do well. Believe it or not, one of those kids whom I had ground on so hard about behavior came up to me the day I left, hugged me, and said he was going to miss me. Man! Just when you’re ready to hate them, they do something like that and melt your heart!

     The fourth grade team at Reynolds consists of five members: four “regular” (English) classes taught by Nicole Baldwin, Edwin Bigsby, Beth Chippendale, and Kellie Rosebush, and one bi-lingual class taught by Elma Ayala. They are a very experienced and professional team. Each was very helpful and supportive to me, and I appreciated their cooperation. When I left they presented me with a thank you card and a lovely token of their appreciation. I was very touched by their gesture of friendship and decided that when I become district superintendent of the Spring ISD, they will be given choice, high paying jobs. Alas, I fear that prospect is dim, however.

     By the fourth week of my sentence…er, assignment, things started to level out a bit. I knew the students by name and began to get a feel for their personalities and learned to sometimes nip a problem in the bud before it began to blossom. Don’t get me wrong, it was not peaches and cream, but it was becoming manageable. The frustrating part was when things got a little rowdy, I could growl a little bit and they would settle down…for about five minutes. And then it would start all over again. I think administrators and to an extent even teachers do not realize that one of the greatest skills inborn into every child is the ability to figure out how to work, even beat, the system. To some children, you mention “silent lunch” and they clam up, but to others “silent lunch,” “wall time,” and “I’m gonna call your mama!” doesn’t constitute even the slightest threat. Therein lays the challenge: creating consequences which will get the attention of the intransigent student. I am not in favor of corporal punishment, but I am ready to defend the proposition that in many instances, teachers and administrators have few options in dealing with difficult students.

     Carolyn Mays and the new Assistant Principal, Ms Grace Leal, along with the staff of Reynolds Elementary have every reason to be proud of their school. Taking a group of playful, carefree, resistant-to-learning, distracted students up to the next level of success is sort of like trying to herd a bevy of cats. But somehow, through it all, a group of dedicated, professional teachers and administrators manages to pull it off. And just when you're ready to sit back and congratulate yourself on a job well done, a new school year starts it all over again. Welcome to the education profession.

Verizon...Clueless

     Having been about seven months since I last visited the Toyota Center in downtown Houston, I reflected as I traveled to the venerable sports arena last evening on the heavy hitters who were speakers during the all day motivational seminar I enjoyed on my previous visit. With personalities such as General Colin Powell, Evangelist (excuse me)… Republican Sarah Palin, Ex-NY Mayor Rudi Giuliani. Ex-Razorback Coach Lou Holtz, and motivational icon Zig Zigler, the place on that particular day had been a magnet for all business mogul wannabes, albeit with a small section marked off for us souls who were far past our prime and simply attended because we wanted to hear some good stories.

     This time the purpose was far different. My family was en route to the center to hear music, and since our beloved daughter-in-law was going to be on stage during one of the performances, we felt a paternal obligation to be there and yell, “That’s my daughter-in-law!” She was part of a group of singers (Bethel Praise Choir) from our church, Bethel Tabernacle, which had been selected to participate in the “How Sweet The Sound” musical celebration sponsored by Verizon Wireless. This musical celebration of gospel choirs is in its third year of sponsorship by the giant communications company, and the process begins when regional choirs submit videos of performances and are judged on presentation, skill, and musical abilities. Those eight groups who are fortunate to make it to the Toyota Center are the crème de la crème and the winner of the Toyota Center sing-off goes to Washington for the national finals in November of this year. Not to mention that there’s generous prizes involved: just making it to the Toyota Center puts $3,000 in the pockets of the choir, and the night’s winner can walk away with as much as $15,000 plus a free ride to Washington for the finals.

     Up until this point, the choir contestants could pick their own songs, but for the Toyota Center concert, each choir was allegedly assigned a new song to practice, learn, and present. We have found out since that, while our group was assigned a song, other groups were allowed to sing songs of their own choosing. The reason for this inequity remains a matter of conjecture. The groups were divided into small choirs and large choirs, and, since our group is a fairly small ensemble, it was assigned to the small choir category. The song for them to learn was “Mary, Don’t You Weep,” which is, according to Wikipedia, a “Negro spiritual that originates from before the American Civil War…thus it is what scholars call a slave song, a label that describes their origins among the enslaved and contains coded messages of hope and resistance.”

     I love these songs. When I taught United States History in school and our time line reached the pre-Civil War Era, I usually spent a day in class teaching my kids to sing a few of these old songs that projected such powerful messages of longing and hope. More than once, my students thought I was nuts when they saw tears in my eyes as they innocently sang of travails and struggles they knew nothing about.

     The Sunday before the concert, the Praise Choir gave a dry run presentation to our church, and the effect was incredible. Without a sound of music, a cappella, our singers projected through beautiful harmony a powerful message of spiritual encouragement. The church responded in kind, and a wave of worship swept through the building. Our lead singer, Misty Hargrave, offered a perfect balance of power and spirit with minimum theatrics. Hopes were high as the big day of the concert approached.

     Arriving at the Toyota Center parking garage and paying the modest(!) $20 parking fee, we walked the short distance to the center. The center, home to the Houston Rockets, seats around 14,000, I think, and is heavily used for every imaginable venue. As I walked toward the entrance I began to observe more about what “How Sweet The Sound” was all about. In the first place, the crowd was predominantly African-American, and once we were inside and I was able to pick up a copy of the program I realized who Verizon’s target market for this musical experience was. The celebrities, judges, masters of ceremonies, and a majority of choir participants were African-American.

     Now, before you get the wrong idea, please understand that I feel when it comes to spiritual, powerful, moving presentations of gospel music, no one can touch the depth of soul and heart like the African-American singer. So my conclusions after observing our entrance into the Toyota Center was that we were going to hear some really outstanding choir music, and that it was going to be a very enjoyable night.

     The dual Masters of Ceremonies were Donald Lawrence and Cece Winans, both heavy hitters in the African-American gospel music realm. I’m sure Donald Lawrence deserved the accolades he received, but, I’m sorry, someone needs to show him how to dress. I know this betrays my age, but in the sixties super skinny pant legs and narrow lapels on a suit were in…but not now. And glittery sneakers? Somehow the image was not memorable. Cece Winans, on the contrary, was dressed to the teeth. Slinky floor length gown, beautifully coiffured, she seemed to me to be sort of the Janet Jackson of the gospel set…lots of image and flash with a medium dash of skill. The prompt cards gave her a little trouble. Fortunately the idle chatter between the two hosts was minimal, and the choirs were the main attraction.

     As luck would have it, the Bethel Praise Choir was the first group out of the chute. As the lights, dimmed everyone in our section, which constituted a considerable number of Bethel Tabernaclers, collectively held our breaths as Shelaine Fauss-Everhardt, choir leader, gave the first wave of her arms.

     All I can tell you is the Bethel Praise Choir absolutely nailed it. Before they were halfway through, the crowd of ten thousand plus was on its feet, and, when Misty Hargrave really got into it, there was a wave of praise which swept the center. The judges were swaying along with our choir members, and when they finished with their last “Mary!” the crowd erupted. It was totally thrilling. The judges gushed praise to Shelaine and Misty with not a single word of suggestion or criticism. It was a proud moment for our choir and for our church.

     There were three other contestants in the small choir category. “Heaven Bound,” a Seventh Day Adventist group, sang the way you would expect Adventists to sing…beautifully…but without an ounce of spirit or conviction. The “Bible Days City Voices” and the “Bethel Temple Pentecostal Church Mass Choir” (too long a name) were traditional all-African-American groups which sang as many such groups do…tremendous spirit and worship but only middling in skill. In every instance, the judges were complimentary, but offered some point of suggestion or criticism that they felt would improve the presentation. To make a long story short, once all groups had finished, we felt that our group had won, hands down, no contest.

     In the large choir category, let me say simply that the Royalwood Sanctuary Choir from Pastor Macey’s United Pentecostal Church blew the doors off the other three contestants’ carriages. By the time they finished singing “God Blocked It!” half the audience was shouting, Sister Macey, their choir director was dancing around, and the judges were waving and bouncing also. It was an amazing demonstration of singing with spirit and a confirmation that the singers were singing the way they did because they knew, and had experienced, what they were singing about.

     The time finally came for the awards to be presented, and Bethel Tabernacle held its collective breath for the second time. It was not surprising when Royalwood Sanctuary Choir won the large choir category and the ticket to Washington for the finals (not to mention $15,000.) By this time we had seen clips of last year’s performances at the finals, and I had decided it was highly unlikely that a small choir group would go to Washington since all the groups there seemed to have been of the large variety. But we were stunned…shocked…and dismayed when the small choir award went to the Adventist’s “Heaven Bound” group, the group with the funereal presentation, the group that one judge said he wished they had sung the song with more spirit and connected with the audience.

     As we were leaving the Toyota Center, still in shock and mumbling to ourselves, we overheard two different people just in our area and not connected to our group say they "thought that other group…the Bethel group, was much better.” We let them know we agreed. Being somewhat analytical in nature, I tried to determine why the obvious verdict had not been reached and for what purpose would a decision contrary to the obvious be made, and I have come to one or two scenarios:

     “How Sweet The Sound” is a marketing strategy by Verizon Wireless to reach a particular audience. The brochure, the presentation, the style of delivery all point to a market segment which Verizon feels is an untapped source of future income. It must have been particularly galling to the marketing director for Verizon who was introduced to the crowd to see Royalwood, which is not a group which represents the target market for Verizon, blow away the competition to the point of no contest. But once it became evident that Royalwood was the hands down winner, I can also see a decision being made by Mr. Verizon…or the judges (that’s the second scenario)…that they’re not going to allow TWO non-representative and non-targeted groups walk away with all the prize money. So the best small choir was slighted and the money went to probably the second best group, minimal spirituality notwithstanding.

     However disappointed we were in the outcome, our pride in our little band of singers swelled to probably excessive levels. They represented our church with honor, and their singing brought a worshipful spirit into the Toyota Center that was unmatched. In the final analysis, powerful singing does not come from culture or latent talent, but rather it comes from a deep personal experience with our Creator. And to think, we get to hear the Bethel Praise Choir just about every service!

George Creel...Good Memories

     George Dennis Creel passed from this life at the far too young age of 61. He was one of my closest friends from the early days of my youth. My parents in 1950 became part of the church where George and his considerably sized family had attended since its founding in the early forties. I was seven years old when my family began attending church, and George quickly became a companion and a confidante. There were several young boys in the church at that time, but two, George and Ronny Guidroz, the pastor’s son, seemed to share the same interests and activities as I. We spent many Sunday afternoons at one of our parents’ homes between Sunday School in the morning and evangelistic service Sunday night.

This photo was taken in February, 1956, and shows five of my friends from Peace Tabernacle. They are (left to right) Jerry Kemplay, Jerry Smith, David Smith, George Creel, and Ronny Guidroz.

     In 1959, Ronny’s father resigned from the church and the Guidroz family moved away. Ronny and I would be reunited a few years later as brothers in law, but for a while, George and I spent even more time together. As a teenager, I drove a 1954 Mercury which at the time was an average decent car. George was on a little tighter budget, but managed to buy a 1950 Ford in dire need of paint…but it was a convertible. George sanded and painted the car himself, cleaned up the convertible top, and afterward for most of the time we prowled Texas Avenue in Baytown, Texas, we rode in George’s Ford because, well, it was a convertible, and it looked pretty good and sounded good. George’s Ford didn’t sound as good as my Mercury (sound was VERY important back then) because he only had one glass packed muffler while I had dual exhausts with dual glass packs. I could turn onto North Main from Texas Avenue, and for about three blocks where the street was pretty narrow and the buildings close together, I could give my old Mercury a little gas, the glass packs would roar, and the display windows of the stores would vibrate. If you don’t understand the sanity of this…well, it’s a guy thing…a sort of human version of the Lion King roaring from the top of a mountain. But the fact was…given a choice of driving a car that sounded REALLY good or riding in a top-down convertible…we chose to ride in George’s car.

     Just to show you how brave (lonely? chicken? nervous?) George and I were back in those days, one warm, summer night we were cruising Texas Avenue in George’s car with the top down, feeling sorry for ourselves because we didn’t have any girls with us. Just at that moment, we passed the Brunson movie theater which apparently had ended a show because everyone was leaving. I said to George, “Hey, George, pull up and let’s see if we can pick up a couple of girls!” So George pulled up to the curb in from of the theater and we looked expectantly at the crowd exiting the building. I saw a couple of girls who seemed to be single and I waved to them, and they smiled…and started walking toward our car! The closer they got, the higher our level of panic went. When they got within about ten feet…we took off. I just hope we didn’t destroy the girls’ self esteem for the rest of their lives and they are suffering to this day from feelings of rejection. It’s a wonder George and I ever got married, but fortunately as time went by our relationships with fair maidens improved. In 1961 Shirley and I married, and a little later George did the same. In 1963 I went into the Air Force, and Shirley and I traveled for the next four years. George went into the Navy, and we had difficulty maintaining contact for a few years. You have to remember, this was before email, Facebook, and cell phones. Long distance phone calls were expensive, and letter writing was the only practical means of contact. We would occasionally cross trails at a family reunion, and there we would try to catch up on family news.

     Shirley and I moved to Casper, Wyoming, in 1974, and happily, in the early 80s I think, George, wife Dee, and children moved to Casper, also. It was a happy reunion and our families enjoyed many good times together thereafter. During this time our two families entered the Motorhome Era. Because Wyoming offers so many scenes of natural beauty, recreational vehicles are very popular, and Shirley and I had purchased a motorhome for family camping. George and family did the same. George’s motorhome was a Winnebago which had been converted to a Caterpillar diesel engine with an Allison transmission. His motorhome would fly down the road, but the only problem was, the transmission did not have a “Park” position. On most big trucks, apparently, the vehicle is secured with an emergency brake that locks the driveshaft someway to keep the vehicle from moving rather than using a “Park” on the transmission. George’s Winnebago had the emergency brake lock on the driveshaft…but it didn’t work too well. So George, when they stopped for the night, would put chocks behind the wheels to keep the motorhome from rolling. One night we were sitting at a scenic camp ground up in the Wyoming hills. I was parked across from George’s motorhome in the adjacent camping spot. George’s camping spot was on a slight incline, but behind his motorhome the land dropped off quickly into a deep ravine. George, however, had carefully put out his wheel chocks, so all seemed OK. As the evening wore on into darkness, his family, Shirley, and our kids began playing some sort of game in the motorhome. For some reason, I was in our motorhome…probably taking a nap.

     Anyway, some time later, I heard some yelling and then a crash. I ran out of our motorhome and George’s Winnebago was down the incline several feel, but, fortunately, resting up against a tree. There was a single tree that had been between George’s motorhome and disaster, and thankfully, the Winnebago and rolled up against it with a thud and stopped. Shirley said that as soon as the motorhome began moving, George knew what had happened and nearly ran over everyone trying to get to the brake pedal. Other than a couple of mild heart attacks and minor damage to the motorhome bumper, everything was fine. We had several other camping trips with George’s family, and enjoyed every one, even though none of the others was as exciting as that trip.

     In the early 80s the economy suffered in Wyoming, and George’s family moved to Dallas where there was work. Shirley and I visited George and Dee on several trips to Texas, making an overnight stop at their home on the way to Baytown. After we moved back to Baytown, we visited them in Dallas occasionally, but it was at the Creel reunions during the Christmas holidays where we were most able to catch up on family news. The last time we saw George, the disease which would take his life was already taking its toll, but he was being ably cared for by Dee, family, and friends. Their church family offered tremendous support, and at George’s passing the family was surrounded by caring friends. George’s passing was another lost link to the days of youth, but my memories of George as a youthful buddy, close friend and companion will live on.

Animal Farm 1954-1961

     By the spring of 1953, with the arrival of Dad and Mom’s third child and my second sister, Kathryn, the decision was made to find a larger place for our growing family. The home on Hafer, though comfortable, was cramped, and Dad longed for some breathing room and a return to his farming roots. So they began looking at rural property outside of the city limits. To us city kids, driving through the countryside outside of Baytown seemed a whole new world, what with all the vacant land, barbed wire fencing, cows, horses, and space.
     The first time we looked at 6134 Cedar Bayou-Crosby Road (sometime over the last fifty years the name has been changed to Crosby-Cedar Bayou Road), it was not a very impressive looking place. Situated on a dusty, shell road five miles north of Baytown, it was a model of Early Americana. I say this through the eyes of an adult, because it was, even in 1953, an old house…wood framed, wood shingle roof, three tiny bedrooms, and no bathroom…it had an outhouse. However, the present owner was in the process of adding two bedrooms and a bath to the house, so by the time we moved in the outhouse was gone. I remember being a little disappointed in that. Included on the six acres of property were a barn, chicken house, and a small garage or storage building. The barn was probably the best building on the place…a two story, sturdy, pole barn with loft and cattle feeding area, plus a granary (place where your stored your grain.) The chicken house was fully furnished for chickens…i.e., there were roosting areas, feeding and watering areas, and a fenced outside area for casual afternoon strolls. If you were a chicken, it was pretty nice. The storage building was basically a single garage, and eventually became the place where we stored our boat.
     The yard area occupied about an acre of the property with the remaining five acres being pastureland. All of it was properly fenced in and ready for cows or roaming kids. I have said that the place was not impressive as viewed by an adult, but for us kids it was a grand new adventure. Miles of space to run and explore, a really cool barn, a chicken house, and tons of trees to climb…I mean, what more could a kid want? (Remember, this is pre-television and electronic stuff.) The only glitch that happened during the looking stage was on one of our early visits while the family was wandering around the house looking around. My little sister, Kathy, being a few steps in from of me suddenly stumbled to her knees. That was not uncommon, since she was only eighteen months old or so, but this time she let out a wail. I couldn’t figure out what the problem was and picked her up. When I picked her up, I noticed her right leg did not straighten out and, looking down, saw a roofing nail imbedded in her knee just under the kneecap. Without thinking, I grabbed the nail, which was driven into her knee completely up to the nail’s head, and gave it a pull, jerking it out. She REALLY let out a yell then, and I ran with her back to Mom and Dad and told them what happened. We hopped in the car, rushed to a doctor’s office, and she was given a tetanus shot and bandage. A few hours later, she was back to her normal self. After a couple more home visits, the farm deal was done. Dad and Mom paid $9,500 for the whole spread.
     In the ensuing days, another tradition of years past occurred. As I said, the house was old and needed work, plus the new addition that the previous owner had begun was unfinished. The walls were sheetrocked but not textured or painted, and the exterior of the new area was not painted. The new area had roof decking but no roof. So on a couple of Saturdays before we officially moved in, Downings from far and wide came and in a matter of two or three workdays the wood shingle roof on the old area was removed, new decking was applied with a new shingle roof over the whole house, walls were knocked out inside the house resulting in three bedrooms and a much larger kitchen/living area, the bathroom was finished, and the outside of the house received new siding and paint. The women brought enough food to feed a small army. It was not a happy time for me because I was tortured. Well, at least I thought I was, since I was put to work pulling nails out of old lumber. There were so many cool things to get into, but I was anchored in front of a pile of old lumber and given a hammer. Looking back, that’s what I would have done to my ten year old son to keep him out of trouble while everyone tried to work, but I didn’t like it then. Anyway, in a couple of weeks the old house was transformed into a very presentable home, and it wasn’t long before we said goodbye to Hafer Street and moved into our new home. It was the Spring of 1954, and school was still in session, so for a couple of months, Mom drove me to my old school, Alamo Elementary, to avoid a mid-year school transfer.
     Strangely enough, I have found no photos of this eventful period of my family’s life. The photo adjacent to this paragraph was taken in 1954, after the house had been refurbished, but before Dad built the double garage close to where the family’s 1952 Mercury is located in the photo. As far as I know, there are no photos of our old home in the original condition that Mom and Dad bought it. Probably just as well.
     Once settled into our new home, we began the exploration. The barn became one of my favorite places. On the second floor Dad kept bales of hay…not the big round 1,000 pounders you see today, but the square traditional sized 60 pounders that were easy to stack. Dad would have them all stacked in a corner of the second level, but I discovered that I could take the stack down to a single level and then build a wall of hay along two sides. What I created was a hay “room,” which I could access by pulling out one bale of hay, crawling inside, and then replacing the bale of hay. My “room” had a small opening looking out over the pasture, and I would sometimes after school crawl into my private room, look out over the pasture, and daydream. For a while there, dad couldn’t figure out why his stack of hay seemed to be growing, because once I restacked it to make my room, the stack took up more space. When he discovered what I was doing, he didn’t seem to mind, but as we fed the cattle that Dad had begun to buy, my room would occasionally disappear. But with each new load of hay, I rebuilt my Secret Garden.
     With the chicken house, visions of fresh eggs and fried chicken soon abounded, and before long we had a fully operational egg farm. In the beginning, it befell me that one of my duties was to gather the eggs. Mom would sell the eggs to people in our church, and it was not uncommon to gather 50 to 100 eggs in a day. Boy, I hated that job! The reason was we had some really grouchy hens and mean roosters. Going into the chicken house, I had to walk through the fenced-in outside yard, and those roosters considered me an intruder. They would come running toward me squawking, jumping, and flapping their wings as I beat it for the chicken house. Once inside, there were rows of nests for the old biddies to lay their eggs. They would be sitting on their nests, droopy-eyed and half asleep, and my job was to ease my hand underneath them and snatch the eggs without disturbing their beauty sleeps. Inevitably, about every second hen would be startled awake (cold hand?), let out a squawk, and give me a hard peck on my arm. I would come out of the chicken house fuming and ready to engage in chicken abuse. Even grouchier were the hens which were “setting.” They had eight to ten eggs underneath them that they sat on for however many weeks it was until they hatched. They did not want you even coming into the chicken house. They would growl and squawk the whole time I was gathering eggs from the other hens…but they wouldn’t leave their nests. Once they had their chicks, they were pretty friendly, maybe because they knew I also brought chicken feed to them. It was always fascinating to watch a mother hen and her chicks when they were outside the chicken house. The little chicks would be scurrying around in all directions, but if the mother hen sensed any kind of danger, like a hawk overhead, she would give a particular squawk, and the little chicks would come running to mama. She would stand up, spread her wings, and the little chicks would run under mother, Then mama would settle down, cover her brood with her wings, and not a chick would be visible.


Dad and "Sweetie Face"

      There were also visions of fresh beef on the table, and Dad began buying a few calves. In those days you could buy a young calf for $5.00, so the goal was to raise those cows and occasionally get one butchered to stock our freezer. What with fresh eggs, chickens, beef, and Dad having a green thumb when it came to vegetable gardening, we were going to be eating well, to say the least. The only problem was my sisters. To me a cow was a cow, but to my sisters, each cow was a member of the family. Each one was properly named (”Sweetie Face”) and treated according to its personality. Cows had to be brushed occasionally and properly fed. Those cows soon learned who buttered their bread, and they would follow Judy and Kathy around like little puppies. They could lead their pets around by just walking in front of them, whereas what cows were assigned to me, I think they knew I was looking at them as future rib eye steaks. Consequently, they were never very cooperative with me, and I never was able to complete the “bonding.” The upshot of all this however was the first time Dad mentioned taking one of our cows to the packing plant, and when the girls realized what “packing plant” meant, there was a shocked moment and then howls of protest. (We’re NOT going to EAT Sweetie Face!!) Needless to say, the entire time we lived on the farm, we never butchered a cow.      Hogs were a different story. I guess because it’s hard to call a hog “cute” For a year or so, Dad decided to raise hogs and built a hog area out next to the chicken fence. He bought three or four grown hogs and fed them, and before long we had bunches of little piglets running around. Okay, a six week old piglet is cute, but it goes downhill pretty quickly after that. Hogs live like…well, hogs, and their hog pen soon turned into a muddy, stinky hole, a breeding ground for mosquitoes and foul odors. They’re good food disposals, however, and my job was to take food leftovers from our table plus whatever scraps of other stuff Mom had and feed it to the hogs. They could hear me coming and would begin banging on the wooden fence to be first in line for their gourmet dinner. I held my nose as I dumped the slop over into the trough. Gross. In time, their poor manners and foul smells made Dad and Mom decide to get out of the hog business. Dad had the adult hogs sent to the packing plant, but about a half dozen piglets, all about 20 pounds, he butchered himself. I remember the day that we had some of our favorite relatives, Leroy and Louella Wilson (Mom’s sister and brother-in-law) with their two daughters, Karen and Linda, over to visit. Dad had taken the little piglets and butchered them, but he had only skinned them and cut them in half, right down the back bone. They were then put on a spit and roasted over an open fire in our back yard. Mom and Aunt Louella whipped up all the fixin’s to go with roasted pork, and we all enjoyed a feast of roast pig. To this day I can remember my half of pork and eating till I nearly exploded. And there was nary a squeal of protest from my super sensitive sisters.
     This doesn’t involve animals but it does involve food. Three or four years after we had become farmers, Dad decided we would become REAL farmers. He had already purchased a Farmal Cub tractor, but he decided that he wanted to grow corn. He bought a corn seed planter attachment for the tractor, and, choosing the south three acres of our land, proceeded to plow it up and prepare it for planting corn. With the planting attachment on the tractor and a load of corn seed, he headed down the prepared rows, and the planter worked amazingly well, digging a small trench in the furrows, dropping a couple of seed about every 12 inches, and neatly covering up the seeds in one fell swoop. It even added a shot of fertilizer as it dropped the seeds. We waited for nature to take its course. Three acres may not sound like much, but that’s over 200 feet wide and 600 feet long, and we discovered you can grow a LOT of corn on three acres. Once the corn reached maturity, however, I learned that farming was not for me. Naturally, all the corn produced has to be gathered, and we had to gather it by hand. Dad drove his pickup to the first rows, and he and I began yanking the ears off the stalks and throwing them into the bed of the truck. It was hot, sweaty, monotonous, torturous work. It was even worse than pulling nails on those work days. It took us all day to pick all the corn and we were worn out. But sure enough, that evening the Wilsons had come visiting again, and the women cooked dozens of ears of corn. We must have had other food, but all I remember is that Uncle Leroy, Dad, and I got into a corn eating contest, and we ate until we were nearly comatose. I don’t remember who won, but each of us ate over a dozen ears of corn. Best corn I ever ate in my life.
     Getting back to the chickens, eventually Mom and Dad tired of hassling with the chickens and eggs. By the time this decision was made, we were down to 80-100 chickens. My parents decided (and since my sisters had not adopted the chickens) that we would butcher the chickens and pack them all in the freezer and eat well for the coming months. I was around 13 years old at the time, and my cousin, David Phillips from Dallas, was spending the summer with me. The job that fell to us was the worst job of them all…we were to kill the chickens by cutting off their heads with hatchets and then dip the carcasses in a washtub of steaming water. The steaming water loosened the feathers, after which we were to remove all the feathers and take the naked chickens to Mother and Dad who would do the cleaning and butchering.
     So out by the chicken yard David and I built a fire upon which we placed a number 2 washtub with water. In time the water began to boil, and we were ready to begin our work. Each of us had a hatchet, and with a foot on the chicken’s heads, we aimed carefully, and with one fell swoop the heads came off. The birds would flap furiously for a few seconds, and then we would place the poor creature in the boiling water for about a minute. Taking the now-boiling chicken out of the water, we attempted to remove the feathers without burning our fingers. It was hot, tedious work, and we were miserable.
     Until David accidentally dropped his chicken after cutting off its head. To our amazement, the chicken ran off and rushed wildly from here to there for about 30 seconds and a good 75 feet from the fire. Thus the expression was born…”Running around like a chicken with its head cut off.” We thought that was the coolest thing we had ever seen. Sure enough, David, with his evil mind, (I’m going to blame this on David since he’s not here to defend himself…I really can’t remember who thought of it) said, “I bet I can make my chicken run farther than yours!” The challenge had been made, so on the next two chickens, we said, “Ready, set, chop!” We cut our chicken’s heads off, turned them loose, and watched them run around like…well, you know. After that, we started keeping score, and until we were nearly finished, we had a ball. Work turned into fun! But then, just as we let a couple of birds make their runs, Mother came out the door just as my bird ran underneath our house! Mother was absolutely horrified at what we were doing, and when she saw the chicken run under the house, she insisted we go in after it. The trouble was, underneath our house was a dank, dark, scary place that we had heard abounded with spiders, scorpions, and snakes. We moaned, groaned, and whined, but to no avail. Under the house we crawled to reach our poor, lifeless chicken. After that, the air had sort of been let out of our balloon, and we completed the chicken de-feathering without any racing incidents.
     Before you draw the conclusion that I am intrinsically cruel to animals, please remember that these stories took place in the context of the fifties. Now that I am older, more educated, and much (well, a little) wiser, I would never condone such activities today. Also, although it seems each time I mentioned work in this essay I was whining about the alleged torture, it was not as bad as I may have described. After all, to a young person, if it ain’t fun, it’s torture. The amazing fact is we youth were able to occupy ourselves without a single electronic device. We spent our time outside and did not faint in the heat. We ate real butter and fried chicken and didn’t gain a pound. And finally, speaking charitably, we were at least creative in our search for amusement. All I can tell you is that, looking back, I have priceless memories of my youth.

In Memory of Pastor V.A. Guidroz

     In 1938, my mother and dad, R.L. and Ethel Downing, were married and in 1939 moved to Baytown to seek work. For the next eleven years, my dad worked to establish his business, Downing Roofing Company, while Mother established a stable home life for her children. Mother attended a Baptist church, carrying me along, but Dad, as many men in that era, was too busy trying to make a living to be concerned with church. Dad had opened his home and company to his many relatives who migrated from Oklahoma. In the late forties the Downing family worked hard, lived hard, and played hard.

     In about 1949, one of his brothers, O.E. Downing and his wife, Reba, suddenly changed their lifestyle after joining Peace Tabernacle, a Pentecostal church pastored by Reverend V.A. Guidroz. It must have been a dramatic change, because they began to pester Mom and Dad to attend church with them. For months, Mom and Dad refused, but sometime in 1950, my Uncle O.E. caught Mom and Dad in a weak moment and they agreed to visit Peace Tabernacle. To make a long story short, since this essay is not about my parents but about the Guidrozes, let me say that in a matter of weeks my mom and dad had been baptized in Jesus Name and received the Holy Ghost, and the homelife of the Downing family changed forever.

     Please understand that as I offer my impressions of the Guidroz family in the following words, they are created at least in the beginning through the eyes of a young boy. When we began attending Peace Tabernacle, I was seven years old. The pastor’s son sat down next to me in one of our early services and said, “I’m Ronny, and I’m six!" To which I replied, “I’m Bobby, and I’m seven!" We young boys liked to establish the pecking order as soon as possible. Glory Guidroz was the teacher of the Primary Sunday School Class, and to this day I can remember getting my fifth star in a row on her attendance chart and she declaring, “Bobby is now a member of our class!" I had found a home.

     Upon meeting Brother Guidroz, he seemed larger than life. He was a big man who was obviously in charge and did most of the talking. I was still a little unsure on the concept of “pastor." He was quick with a laugh, and seemed to enjoy talking to us kids. I thought it was so cool that he was missing a joint or two on one of his fingers. His influence on my mom and dad governed the way we lived, where we went, and what we wore, and Mom and Dad followed unquestioningly. Brother Guidroz loved to fish, but was a salt water fisherman, and my dad and mom did not eat anything that came out of the ocean. Dad and I fished rivers, lakes, and streams and had a bay-worthy boat, but it never tasted salt water. So I have no Guidroz fish stories.

     In fact, one of the strange things I had to get accustomed to once I started visiting the Guidroz home was something called “gumbo.”  The Downings were basically steak and potatoes, chicken and potatoes, ham and beans type of people, and when the first bowl of gumbo was placed in front of me, I had no idea what I was supposed to do with it. It looked like soup, but it wasn’t, and there were strange things floating around on the surface. I had been introduced to shrimp gumbo. It was like a whole new world had been opened up. To this day, my section of the Downing family loves gumbo.  Sister Guidroz, unlike her husband, was not larger than life, but rather seemed like a matronly grandmother (remember I was seven at the time, so anyone over 35 was antique.) Her place was the second pew on the left hand side (facing the pulpit) at the left end of the bench next to the wall. In those early years Ronny and I sat in front of her on the first pew. As soon as my family got to church, I would find Ronny, and we would play outside until church started. Running and jumping in the heat of a Texas summer until the very last second, we would slip into church, sit down in our places, and my shirt would be wringing wet with sweat. Sister Guidroz would lean forward, pat me on my soggy shirt and whisper, “Bobby, Bobby! What are we going to do with you!”

     When my family started attending Peace Tabernacle, the building which was Peace Tabernacle at 1102 North Main was pretty well complete. It was built in the standard format of construction of that era with a wood frame and outside asbestos siding. There were two story sections in front and in the rear that had been added to the single level auditorium area. A large attic fan pulled air through the open windows (no screens) in a usually unsuccessful attempt to cool the interior in the summers. We hot, sweaty sorts always tried to sit next to an open window to catch the air being pulled into the building by the fan. Didn't help much, but it was something. Speaking of the Downing family at that time, there was just Mom, Dad, my sister Judy, and I, and yet there seemed to be Guidrozes everywhere. Sons and daughters seemed to be in every classroom, and I quickly learned that a family is sometimes more than four people! Ronny's younger brother, Lowell, and older sister, Wanda, were about the only two I could relate to because the rest of the kids (in my seven year old mind) were old as the hills. Buddy, Ronny’s oldest brother, seemed a grown man to me, also. So Ronny and I created our own little world. Though he was a year my junior, he influenced my life more than he will know.     But that’s another story.

     In those early days, the Guidrozes lived on Lobit street, not too far from the church. One of the exciting things about going to the Guidrozes house with Ronny on a Sunday afternoon was I got to ride in their big Chrysler limousine. One daughter, Gracie, was wheelchair bound all her life, and the Guidrozes had this stretched Chrysler limousine with huge back doors and fold down middle seats. When Gracie came to church, they would fold down the middle seats, and Gracie and her wheelchair would be lifted through the big doors into the middle of the car where she rode to church. The thing I remember about that Chrysler was the smell. It had power windows, but they were hydraulically powered, and once the windows were raised or lowered a few times there was the slight smell of hydraulic fluid…not offensive, just distinctive. Over those years, I think I remember that the Guidrozes had at least two of these Chryslers. When I was older and able to drive, I was privileged to be the driver. The second feature I remember was that the Chrysler had Fluid Drive, which meant that it was a manual transmission, but by doing it just right, you could shift gears without pushing in the clutch. Very hi-tech in those days. In time, the Guidrozes moved to a larger home on North Eighth, where Ronny and I spent many nights talking about all the things that concerns young boys. On August 17, 1961, I spent my last night with the Guidroz family and my best friend. Actually, by then he was only my best male friend, because the next night I got married.

     Brother Guidroz was a legendary minister and teacher, and there are others who can probably more accurately tell of his accomplishments as a minister. To me, his most powerful skill was the ability to draw the lost soul to the altar at the end of his sermons. There was a time when I hated him for that skill. As I began to reach my early teens, I began to feel the drawing of the Spirit on my life.  AlthoughI had heard his “altar calls” many times, suddenly they began to feel directed to me, and as I resisted, I began to dread the ends of services. I can remember sitting on the back bench counting down the verses of whatever invitational song was being sung trying to make it to the point where he invited everyone to the altar…so I could escape to the restroom and hide. I held out for a long time until one service while I was hanging tough, I saw my good friend Ronny walking toward me with tears in his eyes, and I knew what he was going to do…and at that point I even hated my best friend. Ronny told me I needed to go pray, and I started to resist, but instead I began walking toward the altar. I didn’t receive the Holy Ghost that night, but it was a start, and I remember it as if it happened yesterday. A few days later, Brother Guidroz baptized me, and eventually, on June 4, 1958, about 11:00 p.m., standing on a sawdust-covered floor at the Texas Youth Camp, I received my personal Pentecost.

     In the ensuing years, Brother Guidroz’s influence on my life was second only to my parents. He preached a straight line, and my behavior and activities in school and at home were governed by the guidelines that my pastor preached to his church. Though he has been gone for many years, I see how events in the world have transpired, and I can’t help but think to myself occasionally, “Brother Guidroz was right.” In 1959, the responsibilities of Texas District Superintendent became too great for him to be able to pastor a church in the full-time manner he preferred, and, honoring the greater need of the district, he resigned the church which had never known another pastor but him. On that Sunday morning, as the clock approached twelve noon, he spoke of the need for us members to not dwell on the past but look to the future. Offering prayers and encouragement, he asked us to turn around and face the clock at the back of the church. As we watched the second hand and minute hand approach high noon, he said what had passed was history. We could remember the past, but we needed to look to the future and have faith that though we may not understand, God would work it all out. At straight up noon, the auditorium went silent. We heard a click of the door at the back of the rostrum. There were a few sobs. We eventually turned to face the pulpit…and it was empty.

     Nearly sixty years later, we are still honoring the pastorship of Brother V.A. Guidroz. Several Peace Tabernacle reunions have been held over the years, and we who lived those early days still feel a bond of common experience. We have enjoyed a special relationship because we enjoyed a special pastor.

The Catch

    For a few years my family made annual treks to Canyon Lake in the Hill Country of South Central Texas. It was a tradition began by my son and his wife and our grandchildren a few years ago when the allure of Schlitterbahn, a water park in New Braunfels, Texas, became too great. Once the joys of paying exorbitant prices to splash in water with thousands of other people under a blazing sun became apparent, it quickly became an annual affair. The fact that there were Canyon Lake, a scenic man-made water paradise nearby with boating, the Guadalupe River with tubing and rafting, and shopping with scads of antique, junk, and outlet stores around added to the charm of the area. Not to mention that nearby was one of the premier barbeque restaurants of Texas, so there was the opportunity to enjoy quisine magnifique, also. In time, they set aside a week of each year to bask in the local culture and in general have a good time relaxing.
     Since our family, thankfully, got along pretty well, we oldsters were invited to tag along, and for several years we did just that, usually not staying the entire week, but getting in three or four days of fun and visitation. Son and family stayed in a high-fallutin’ upscale time share condo while we poor senior citizens fended for ourselves, usually locating a nearby motel to be within driving distance of our kids. It was a nice arrangement and very enjoyable. Back then, we were been able to hop into a single vehicle and head for our destination of the day, and we often shared breakfasts, lunches, and dinners as the opportunity arises. The normal weekly schedule called for a couple of days at Schlitterbahn, one day renting a boat on the lake, one day shopping, at least one evening at Salt Lick Barbeque, one day of wandering around the area, and a day or two of…well… nothing. Sometimes you needed to rest up from having so much fun. This of course was the schedule for the week, but since Shirley and I didn't spend the full week there, we sort of jumped in where ever the schedule was at during the week and tagged along. In the vernacular of the contemporary, it was a very bonding experience for the family…plus it was just plain fun.
     My only problem was the Schlitterbahn ordeal. It seems that the older I get I am becoming more…..well…anti-social. It’s not that I’m really anti-social; I just don’t care to be around hoards of people. And hoards of humanity are what you get at places like Schlitterbahn. To top it off, at Schlitterbahn, people are not really at their best, appearance-wise…and sometimes behavior-wise. I have gone there a few times with the family, and I used to be concerned about how I looked. It pains me to say this, but I’m getting a little older now (cough) and don’t really have a buffed physique like I would like to have when I stroll around in a swimsuit (with a teeshirt). But after visiting Schlitterbahn a few times, I could walk into the park with my head held high without any concern of some little kid telling his mama, “Hey, Ma! Look at the funny-looking man!” Believe me, it is a fact that no matter how bad you think you look, you will find at least ten people in the park who make you look like a health fitness freak…and they seemingly are proud of how they look!
     So anyway, this essay is not intended to knock Schlitterbahn. I actually sort of enjoyed my visits there. It’s just that my interests tended to drift to the more quiet and restful…like fishing. I am not a lake fisherman, I prefer rivers and streams. More specifically, I prefer fishing in cold, fresh water rivers and streams for rainbow and brown trout. I have caught bass, catfish, walleye, perch, panfish, drum, redfish, snapper, gar, even shark, you name it, and to me they’re all about as exciting as catching a log. I was able to do my share of trout fishing when we lived in Wyoming, but naturally here along the Gulf Coast of Texas, fresh water trout are a little scarce. Amazingly, here in the Houston area the officials are dumping trout in some of the local small lakes during the winter season when the water is cold enough and allowing fishermen to go after them for the two or three weeks that they are available. On the days of the trout planting, the lakes are lined shoulder to shoulder with wannabe fishermen. Snared lines and frayed tempers are the standard for the day. It ain’t really fishing. I have fished for speckled trout in Galveston Bay, and they’re a lot of fun to catch, but a fisherman needs a boat and a certain amount of mobility to track them down.
     The closest place I had found to Wyoming fishing was, believe it or not, Branson, Missouri. There, amongst the glitter of gaudy country shows, rests Table Rock Lake, a large man-made lake formed with the building of Table Rock Dam back in the fifties. Being a lake, it doesn’t really interest me, fishing-wise, but below Table Rock Dam, it’s another story. The water that flows from Table Rock Dam comes from the bottom of the lake, probably at a depth of 100-150 feet, and is very cold, in the mid fifty degree range…perfect for rainbow and brown trout. The water stays cold for 10-12 miles downstream before eventually warming up to a non-trout-habitable temperature. There is a trout hatchery at the base of the dam which keeps the river well stocked with trout. The “river” is actually called Lake Taneycomo for the twelve mile stretch below the dam, but it’s really just a nice sized river. Out of Lake Taneycomo I have caught some beautiful trout using the same fishing gear I used in Wyoming.
     Which brings us back to Canyon Lake. Although we had visited Canyon Lake several times in the past, I did not discover until the last day of our last visit that the situation with the Guadalupe River below the Canyon Lake Dam is quite similar to the Branson, Missouri scenario…big lake, big dam, cold water, and trout. When I discovered that the Guadalupe was stocked with trout on a somewhat regular basis, I determined that for that particular year when we visited I would be loaded for bear…er, fish. I had walked down to the water outlet below the dam the year before to inspect the river and found a beautiful, cold, clear river that beckoned promisingly to the aspiring fisherman. Surrounded by heavily wooded gentle hills, the picturesque scene beat anything I had observed at Schlitterbahn. So I set my plans afoot. The day that the family set sail for Schlitterbahn, I waved goodby, wished them fun, and grabbed my fishing gear.
     My fly fishing hardware consists of a Shakespeare Silent TruArt Automatic Reel Model FC1836. It is approximately fifty years old. My dad bought two reels for himself and me around 1960. I don’t know what happened to his, but mine has been used extensively, and, other than an occasional cleaning, it has never been serviced or broken. There’s not a piece of plastic on it anywhere…all metal and beautifully crafted. I have used several rods over the years and am now using an Eagle Claw IM7 GrangerFly X6 high module graphite 9’ 0” fly rod. It’s a little long, but I like the flexibility. I use a forward-weighted floating line with a six foot, eight pound test leader. Packing along my muddler minnows, wooly worms, wooly buggers (for the uninitiated, these are types of artificial flies), and even a couple of old Platte River Specials, I parked my car and walked down the 58 steps from the parking area to the water’s edge.
     The sun was high in the sky and the heat of the day was already setting in (I didn’t say I was an EARLY MORNING fisherman.) There was a slight breeze rustling through the trees wherein the scissortails, swallows, and mockingbirds were making themselves known. The water was flowing from my right to left into a deep pool about 20 yards down river. The pool was bordered by shallows on the other side and to the left over which the water rippled and the rocks underneath glistened in the sunlight. Tying on a size 8 silver muddler minnow, I pulled out a few yards of line and began to work the fly around the edges of the pool. After each float of the fly I gently brought the line up and behind me for a couple of turns to dry the fly and then settle the fly back onto the water’s surface, hopefully imitating an insect resting on the water. I repeated this action several times, working up, down, and around the pool, but without much luck. I noticed about 100 yards downriver from me was another fly fisherman plying his trade. Since fishermen are notorious kibitzers and copycats, I watched him out of the corner of my eye to see if he had any secret tricks, but his luck was running the same as mine. I decided to change weapons. I tied on a size 8 gold wooly bugger and laid it out there for my unseen trophy to latch onto. For twenty minutes there was only the sound of the swishing line and the rippling water as I worked the line every way I could think of. A couple of times, as I laid the fly onto the water’s surface, I thought I glimpsed a flash of movement or an abnormal ripple on the nearby water, but there was no corresponding singing of the reel as the line played out. At this time I must confess another of my fishing weaknesses (besides no early mornings) that keeps me from being a great fisherman…I am not a patient fisherman. Let me catch a fish about every hour, and I’ll fish all day. Let me go two hours without a fish, and I’m ready to pack it in. By this time, I was getting close to my cut-off point. I decided to try a size 8 black with red tail wooly worm. Those little dudes are usually pretty successful, and I decided to give it this one last best shot before going home. Flipping the line into a figure eight pattern to avoid an overhanging branch, I laid the wooly worm at the upstream edge of the deep pool and let it meander into the depth.
     I saw the upheaval of water just as my line straightened like an arrow. There was a glimpse of red and gold, and the taunt line began to slice through the water like a knife through butter. I fought to keep the loose line floating at my feet straight as I attempted at the same time to activate the auto return on my reel. Holding the line with my left hand, I strained to maintain a proper tension on the fragile connection between the fish and me. Too little and the trout would spit out the fly like a seed and too much tension could cause the line to snap. Unable to shake the object in his mouth by just violent swimming, the trout broke the surface and began to take wild jumps in the air, all the while shaking its head wildly. I saw then that I had snagged a huge rainbow trout. Probably 5 to 7 pounds, it flashed its array of colors every time it writhed from left to right in an effort to shake the hook. With its mouth opening and closing wildly, it would crash back into the water and race madly for another part of the pool, then shoot straight up vertically to try again to dislodge its captor. Incredibly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the downstream fly fisherman standing motionless as he observed my struggles. Suddenly the rainbow headed straight toward me, thus slackening the line. I worked feverishly to take in the line to maintain tension, and a second later worked just as feverishly to let out line as he made an abrupt U-turn and headed away from me.
     But I began to feel a lessening of the violent resistance. The big trout was beginning to tire. Each pull and each jump was less intense than the previous. After another strong swim away from me and a last cutting of the line through the water, his resistance was minimal, and I was able to carefully and slowly ease him up near my feet. I reached down and gently slipped my fingers into his mouth and gill and lifted him up.

     He was the most beautiful rainbow trout I had ever seen. Massive in size with the trademark rainbow colors down the side. He was called in these parts a “holdover”…one of the fingerlings planted in the river several years earlier which had somehow survived countless fishing days and hungry predators. In the left side of his mouth I saw the remains of a small rusty hook, a souvenir of a past battle. Though tired from the struggle, he gasped for water, and strangely, he appeared to look at me. His eye seem to communicate a resignation that he had lost the conflict against a worthy adversary, and he was ready to meet his fate. There would be no more battles. As I held him in from of me, I saw him for what he was…a survivor in a world of endless struggle, who had given his all and was now resigned to his judgment.
     Using a small pair of needle nose pliers, I gently remove my fly, and then reached to the other side of his mouth and removed the remains of the old hook. Holding my hand under his belly, I eased the big trout back into the water and gave him a few back and forth pushes to get water moving into his gills again. He moved slowly, tiredly, but then he deliberately moved away about ten feet and then circled around back toward me. For an instant he stopped, facing me, as if to say, “Thanks, Friend!” and then, with renewed strength, he turned quickly to the left and disappeared in a stream of bubbles.

I gathered up my gear and walked to my car. I’m not sure if I’ll ever fish again.

Family Reunions

     In the early part of the twentieth century the American family unit was far different from the cozy clan which represented the family in the latter part of the century. Being a primarily rural nation, Americans living on farms looked at children not as financial drains upon the family budget, but rather as additional sources of funding and labor. With this outlook, the family grew in number. My father, born of a farming family in Western Oklahoma, was one of fifteen children, and my mother was one of eight. Although primarily a “city” family, my mother’s family, like many other city-living families, embraced the concept of the child being a contributor to the family welfare. Although surrounded by loving parents and supportive brothers and sisters, a child understood that there were responsibilities to be shouldered and duties to be performed. Every member made a contribution to the overall success and harmony of the family. Perhaps this concept was in keeping with the American philosophy that hard work and initiative always resulted in rewards and benefits. However, it may have been just a matter of survival. The early twentieth century saw the Great Depression wreck havoc on the American economy and create an atmosphere of economic struggle that few people living today can understand. As a result, children were put to work at an early age, either in the home, in the fields, or in a form of employment. Children of the Great Depression Era never forgot the early lessons of childhood. Seeing their parents lose everything due to lost jobs, lost crops, and lost health, these Depression children tended to be very frugal most of their adult lives and carried a distrust of banks and investments, but they also understood the value of hard work. Many felt strong loyalties to their employers as persons who contributed to their financial successes and were loathe to changes jobs, preferring the perceived security of a longtime relationship.The main point of this discussion, however, is that families were BIG. Ten, twelve, fifteen children were not uncommon. Compare this fact to today’s family unit which averages somewhere between four and five and it becomes easy to understand how the social fabric of a nation can be affected by such a dramatic change in its structure. Consider also our future, into which we can project that for the majority of children being born in the coming years, there may not even BE a family unit as we understand it…i.e. married mother and father and siblings. As dramatic as the family changes of the past 75 years have been, the changes in the future may be just as startling.

     This brings us to the discussion of one of the vanishing phenomenons of the large family era…the family reunion. By the very fact of many children existing in a family, it draws the conclusion that upon reaching adulthood, these children would scatter to the four winds in search of their fortunes in life. No matter how close the connections to home, the communications options of the mid-twentieth century were limited to letters and expensive phone calls, and we all know that in the daily grind of life time flies when you’re trying to survive in a competitive world. A case in point: my father’s family by 1960 had long since been spread across the United States. With parents deceased, the surviving children over a period of a few months decided the time was ripe to gather again near their old homeplace in Western Oklahoma for a “family reunion.” The ages of the “children” by the time of the first reunion in 1962 ranged from 42 to near 70 years of age, and needless to say they had produced their share of children and even grandchildren, albeit in smaller quantities than their own parents, Levi and Ida Lillian Downing.

     At the time of the first reunion, I was 19 years old, recently married, and in keeping with my youthful immaturity, unaware of the significance of the family reunion. I went to the family reunion to see old cousins and play games, with only brief greetings to my elder uncles and aunts. The reunion was a grand affair with much reminiscing and domino playing (a major Downing vice in those early years.) It was so successful that another was planned the next year and into the indefinite future. But in the coming years, the inevitable began to happen. During the reunion in 1963, one of the “children,” an elder aunt of mine was stricken. I was the driver as we raced for the nearest hospital ten miles away, but it was too late. Amazingly, the same event occurred the next year with one of my elder uncles. In the fall of 1963, I joined the United States Air Force, and my wife and I lived a nomadic existence in the U.S. and Germany for the next few years. Unable to attend the reunions, we received occasional news of another passing of an uncle or aunt. To be honest, I’m not sure when the last reunion was held, but when the number of original children dwindled to a precious few, even they were too fragile to make the trip to Oklahoma, and the Downing Reunion of the Children of Levi and Ida Lillian Downing ceased. Their offspring, having created families of their own, internalized their interests within their own families, and though keeping in occasional contact with their near and far cousins, each new offspring family developed its own traditions and memories. It is the natural progression of life

     In 2007 I was amazed to hear that there was another Downing reunion gaining traction. One of my dad’s older sisters, Mildred, had married Verlon Phillips when my dad was still a youth. Together they had four children, but shortly after the birth of the last one, Verlon passed away. She remarried to Manuel Pineda, with whom they had eight children…giving Aunt Mildred and Uncle Manny a total of twelve kids. One of Aunt Mildred’s childen, David, was close to me and like the brother I never had but was killed in an industrial accident in 1967. The others, however, have survived and flourished. Apparently about ten years ago the Phillips/Pineda clan, with their ages by then ranging from about 40 to 65 years of age, began having their own family reunion. In a spirit of true graciousness, they eventually decided to call it a Downing reunion and invite anyone from any branch of the Levi/Ida Lillian Downing family tree to visit. Only by accident did I hear that there was a Phillips/Pineda family site on My Family.com. It was too late into 2007 when I learned all these facts to visit the reunion of that year, and then as luck would have it, 2008 was not a good year for me. I went through open heart surgery and then it was discovered I had leukemia for which I received chemotherapy treatments the last half of the year. In 2009 I was still recovering my strength after being declared cancer free, thankfully, so it was not until this year that things worked out that I could plan to attend. Even then, Shirley could not go with me because she was recovering from knee replacement surgery, so I was on my own. The reunion was held at Tyler State Park, just north of Tyler, Texas. The reunion to be from Friday night till sometime Sunday, so I planned to arrive there around noon Saturday and stay through whatever festivities occurred Sunday. I left home about 9:00 a.m. and headed up IH45 towards Tyler. Exiting IH45 at Buffalo, I traveled up U.S.79 through Palestine and then highway 155 toward Frankston and Tyler.

     I have come to the conclusion that Houston does not really represent the state of Texas. To live in a major metropolitan area like Houston requires you to give up a certain amount of your personal identity. We homogenize into an anthill of humanity constantly scurrying about in every direction trying to survive and make some sense of life. Getting away from this concentration of activity allows one to see what the real world is like. Personally, I would prefer an area where the local Brookshire Brothers and Ace Hardware are the largest outlets in town. Places where you don’t have Chevrolet dealerships…you have one dealership selling Chevrolets, GMCs, Buicks, Cadillacs, Volkswagens, and Hondas. Places where Fred’s Quick Stop is the main convenience store and Dairy Queen is the place to go on a Saturday night. Places where the internet is only available by dial-up connection. (Okay…now I’ve gone too far, but you get the idea,) When I get to areas like his, I feel a lessening of the tension and I feel like I can put my gun on safety…maybe even take the shell out of the chamber. In places like Houston, you always stay aware of what’s around you.

     After checking into my motel room at the grandiosely named “America’s Best Value Inn,” (Actually, it was a very nice room at a good price.), I headed to Tyler State Park, just a ten minute drive up the road. I discovered a beautiful, forested park with a scenic lake complete with swimming area, lots of camping areas, and a pavilion in Area 10 reserved for the Phillips/Pineda/Downing reunion. The place was already swarming with first, second, and third cousins, many of whom I had never met. Fortunately, sitting outside were a couple of familiar faces (only because I had seen their photos on the MyFamily site), and I was able to begin greeting my cousins from years past…many of whom I not see in nearly 40 years. The next 24 hours was as enjoyable a time as I have had recently. To be able to reestablish contact with my relatives was a privilege, and, in observing the offspring of Verlon and Mildred and Manny and Mildred, I couldn’t help but sense a déjà vu, as if I were reliving those early Downing reunions of the 1960s. Forty years later, the Phillips/Pineda clan is repeating the traditions begun by the Levi/Ida Lillian Downing family. We who were the kids running about while the oldsters talked endlessly about the good old days have morphed into those same oldsters talking about our “old days” while our kids and grandkids go roaring about. It is a microcosm of life, and I’m glad to be a part of it. The Phillips/Pineda clan will have the same experiences in the future as the previous Downings as time begins to take a mortal toll. The lesson to be learned here is that we should value today. We appreciate the past and look forward to the future, but it’s in the present that we live, and we need to live it to the fullest.

     The last remaining child of Levi and Ida Downing, my Uncle Thurl, now 90 years old and frail, was at the reunion and helped create a connection from the present to the past. It seems unbelievable to realize that, of the children of Levi and Ida Lillian Downing, the first child, Lettie, was born on October 8, 1896, and the last, Thurl, was born on September 28, 1919. With Uncle Thurl still living, it means that there has been a child of Levi and Ida Lillian Downing living on this earth for the last 114 years. Truly incredible.

     Beyond renewing contact with the Phillips/Pineda family, it was good to see many of my other Downing cousins from Texas and Oklahoma, also. The years have left their marks on all of us, but we shared many good memories and I am thankful we were able to visit again. To the children and grandchildren (even great-grandchildren) who ran gleefully around the pavilion (just as we oldsters did 40 years ago) while we new oldsters reminisced about the old days, if I could give a word of advice it would be…value and appreciate those who are around you today. There is no promise of tomorrow.