Wistful Wyoming

                                                                                                                                                                  I am a native Texan with a certain amount of pride in my state, but my family was privileged to live for seventeen years in Wyoming, and, although it has been twenty years since we were residents of the Cowboy State, a part of us remained there when we left. Even today we feel the occasional need to see an antelope in its natural habitat or simply be able to see twenty miles in all directions without even stepping on a footstool. The fact that we still have relatives living in our former homeland gives us further impetus to look for reasons to head northwest from Houston.

     Thus it was that a few weeks ago Shirley, her two sisters, and my esteemed mother-in-law found a bargain in air travel and decided to go back home. As it worked out, my obligations with tutoring at my local school ended about the same time that their travel was scheduled, so I decided to tag along. I mean, there needs to be at least one level headed person in a traveling party, anyway. So we had a fivesome headed to Wyoming.

     The trouble with flying cheap is you have to fly when it’s cheapest…which meant that we would be leaving at 6:00 a.m. on a recent Thursday morning from Hobby Airport in Houston, a mere forty miles or so of lovely Houston traffic from our home in NW Houston. Janie, Beth, (sisters-in-law) and Mother-in-law would have to get up even earlier because they lived 20-40 miles further away. The plan was they would come by our home in Janie’s van on the way to the airport. We needed to get to Hobby an hour before takeoff, plus we needed to find a place to park Janie’s van, so we figured we needed to get on site around 4:30, which meant leaving our home about 3:30, which meant that the in-laws would have to get up at some awful time. But, sure enough, they were at our place promptly at 3:30, and we all loaded up (I do mean loaded) and headed for our Wyoming adventure.

     We made it to the parking garage with nary a hitch. I had gone on line and found the nearest airport parking, secured a reservation, printed our boarding passes, and even checked and paid for our extra baggage (Frontier Airlines…$20.00 per bag checked in), so we parked the van, caught the parking garage bus, zipped to the airport, checked in, and were sitting in the gate area almost an hour before we were to get on board. That’s the way I like it…I can’t wait till the last minute for anything. If I get anywhere right on time, I consider myself late.

     I am not a good flyer…I don’t know why, I’m just not. As the plane lurched down the runway I did my usual Lord’s Prayer, repented of any sins I could think of, and closed my eyes. The takeoff was smooth, and in a few minutes we were settling down to two hours of boredom as we rocketed toward the Mile-High City. Fortunately, after the plane reached cruising level, I calmed down a little, too. Thankfully, I had my iTunes music collection on my BlackBerry, so I whipped out my earphones, selected “shuffle music” and settled back to try to catch a few winks as we sailed along. All in all, I honestly don’t remember too much about the flight, and I slept about as well as one can when you’re strapped into a space 20 inches wide without much reclining or foot room. With the time change to Rocky Mountain Daylight Savings Time, we landed in Denver about 7:30…still early.

     When we left Houston, the temperature was above 80 degrees and muggy. The weather had been hot and dry for weeks and the area was in a severe drought condition. Only at the last minute did we throw coats into our suitcases “just in case.” When we landed in Denver it was 33 degrees and snowing. We walked out of the terminal toward our rental bus to take us to our rental agency, and the wet snow and cold breeze woke us out of whatever morning sleepiness we had been experiencing. We all grabbed our coats out of our bags. Naturally, since we were traveling on the cheap, we didn’t rent from Hertz or the other big boys, but rather from Advantage Rentals. Results: we had to wait a few minutes for the rental bus to amble by. Cold minutes.

     The bus picked us up for the three mile ride to the rental agency, and we saw snow floating beautifully down, lots of snow ground cover, and the majestic snow-covered Rockies in the distance. Gorgeous. I had reserved a Kia Sedona van for us at Advantage (cheap, again) and upon checking in, the agent began trying to bump me up to a Chevrolet Surburban. Only $100 or so more, but the daily full coverage insurance was $48(!). For five days’ rental, I didn’t want to spend the extra amount, so I refused. So she adjusted it this way and that, and I still refused. Finally I said let’s go with the original deal. She said OK and prepared the papers. When she gave me the keys, they were to the Surburban. She said, “Well, we have an extra one, so you can take it at the Sedona price.” I was happy for the deal, but a little bugged about how much it would have cost me if I had caved in a her first suggestion.. Oh, well…the Lord protects the ignorant.

     The drive from Denver to Cheyenne, Wyoming, was the same that it has been for 35 years…heavy traffic around Denver but slowly thinning as one heads north until you finally crest a hill and the “Welcome to Wyoming” sign greets you. Before you lays an expanse of land stretching majestically as far as the eye can see…mountains to the west and rolling plains to the north and east. Suddenly global overpopulation seems a distant threat, and a certain feeling of safety descends with the awareness that you have 360 degree vision.

     Buddy and Jeannie (beloved in-laws) have moved to Cheyenne from Casper in response to his job promotion/transfer with Blue Cross/Blue Shield and are now residents in a brand new subdivision of what I would call duplex town homes. Each structure consists of two three level town homes…very contemporary and very nice. Any home where Jeannie lives will look like it was a former Home of the Month from Better Homes and Gardens magazine, and this one was no different…beautifully and tastefully decorated from roof to basement. I told her (only half in jest) that I was afraid to touch anything. I felt sorry for Buddy…I mean, a man’s got to be a flat out, lazy, dirty slob occasionally (it’s the way we are), and he has no real place to relax. Maybe he can claim a corner of the garage eventually.

     Buddy and Jeannie have a beautiful family with four married offspring and a baby (!) boy at home. Of course, Noah, their “baby” is nineteen, 6 foot 5 inches or so and around 250 pounds, so “baby” is somewhat relative. Grandkids are starting to appear magically, and I enjoyed observing the easy, relaxed relationship that each of the family has for all the others. A close-knit family is a rare phenomenon in American society today, and such a relationship should be treasured and protected. I’ve said this before about the Creel family in general…I have been a part of this family for nearly 50 years, and seldom have I heard a disparaging word from one family member about another. It is the glue that holds this ever-growing family together. Of course, there was that one time when…well, never mind.

     Shirley and I saw most of the Buddy Creel clan that Thursday evening when kids, spouses, and grandkids came from far and near to do what Creels do best…talk and eat. Jeannie and the ladies outdid themselves over the next three days in the kitchen. That statement probably horrifies any feminists who happen to read this, but I got the feeling upon observing our wives, daughters, et.al. brewing up those incredible feasts that they were not suffering very much. When it comes to kitchen creations, no one can touch the Creel women. However, all activities that first evening centered around the newest member of the Buddy and Jeannie family, namely Jack Cooper Bauers, three month old son of Mitch and Meghan. How a tiny, cute bundle of humanity can turn a bunch of women into a bunch of blithering mother hens is beyond me, but Jack was the master of his universe that night. Must be tough being the newest kid, though. For a year or two or three, you’re the darling of the runway, and then a new brother, sister, or cousin comes along, and suddenly you’re second fiddle. Oh, well, one of life’s early lessons we have to learn is how to cope.

     Buddy and Jeannie have been blessed with sons-in-law who are sportsmen, and in my eyes, if you are a fisherman, that fact covers a lot of sins. The last time we visited Wyoming, son-in-law Justin (Michelle) took us fishing, and this time Mitch (Meghan) was the generous benefactor. On Saturday, Buddy, Noah, and I met Mitch at Glendo Reservoir, 100 miles north of Cheyenne to hunt for a few walleye. The drive on IH25 to Glendo is an exercise in either torture or grandeur, depending upon your appreciation of the scenery. A vast, open country with craggy mesas, rocky bluffs, roaming antelope, and about seventeen trees, it’s easy to imagine caravans of covered wagons, seas of thundering buffalo, and tribes of roaming Indians (excuse me, Native Americans.) If you haven’t visited Chugwater, Wyoming, you haven’t experienced true Americana. We arrived at Glendo just as Mitch was putting the boat in the water…and what a boat! It was a brand new Ranger sport fisherman, about 20 feet, with a monster 250 HP Mercury engine plus a 9.9 HP backup. (See photo) This thing was fancier than my car and cost about three times as much. It had a trolling motor with GPS! Once you got to your location to fish, you set your location with the GPS. Then the trolling motor with GPS would hold your location to within 10 feet of your selected spot. I am probably out of touch with modern fishing rigs, but I thought it was incredible. Equipped with two sonars, stereo (naturally), power everything else, this boat hit 59 MPH as we zipped across the lake, and that was not the maximum speed. Well, anyway, I was impressed

     The fishing wasn’t too impressive, though. For Wyoming, it’s still early in the fishing season. The weather was cool and the wind still a little biting. The water was choppy and not conducive to good fishing, and as a result, I will (modestly) report that I was the only one who caught anything, and although what I caught classifies as a fish, but it wasn’t much. But I didn’t care. Being on a Wyoming lake on a clear, bright day with the snowy Laramie Range of mountains in the distance, seeing the craggy, rocky hills, and being miles from the nearest low-rider or hip-hopper…it’s pretty close to a visual representation of happiness. Needless to say, the guys I was with completed the perfect picture. Back home, it was an evening of visiting (food), games (food), comparing cell phones (food), and more food. My thanks to Mitch and Justin for making my BlackBerry work like it should.

     Saturday we were scheduled to go visit Jim and Heather in Fort Collins. They are the professional students of the Creel clan, and, having recently graduated from CSU with masters, they are now moving to Ft. Worth, Texas, where Jim will pursue his doctorate and also teach. Heather has interviews scheduled for the coming weeks and will no doubt contribute more than her fair share to the family success. The going away celebration was to be at 2:00 p.m. at their home. During the morning, however, things became apparent that my mom-in-law was not acting quite normally. She was becoming easily confused and disoriented and couldn’t remember from one moment to the next what was going on. She seemed to be feeling all right, but her awareness of her surroundings wavered. In an hour or two, she seemed to snap out of it, but the closer we got to our time to leave for Fort Collins, her condition seemed to worsen. The family held a conference, and it was decided that Buddy and Janie would take Mom to an emergency clinic to be checked while the rest of us went to Fort Collins. Mom, of course, insisted it was the altitude or whatever that made her a little confused. So off we all went.

     We arrived at Jim’s and Heather’s to a houseful of people and the smell of brisket and ribs on the smoker. We enjoyed a good visit, but most of us had one ear pricked toward our cell phones to catch any calls from Buddy or Janie. Jim, apparently, is becoming quite a cook, and this day was a good indication, as the ribs and brisket (and rice, beans, etc.) were all super tasty. We were able to meet Jim and Heather’s two children…I mean, dogs…Woody and Luke, two well behaved, beautiful golden retrievers. About 4:00 we received a call that Mom had been taken to the Emergency Room of the Cheyenne Medical Center for tests, so Beth, Shirley, and I headed back to Cheyenne. After arriving, we were told that Mom had apparently experienced a transient ischemic attack (TIA), which is “a brief episode of cerebral ischemia.” Translation: a small blood clot in the brain which can affect a person in various ways depending upon the location in the brain. The danger is it can sometime be a forerunner of more serious problems, hence the need for close observation and quick response when it occurs. By 6:00 p.m., Mom was released and seemed none the worse for wear. The plan is for her to see her home doctor after returning to Houston for further observation, with Cheyenne Medical Center sending her doctor all the results of her tests. Apparently and thankfully, her CT Scan, Xrays, EKG, and whatever else that was done were all negative for any lingering damage. For the rest of the time we were on our trip she showed no signs of any lingering effects. She was her usual old…I mean, sweet, normal self. By Saturday night, the kids (and Jack Cooper) had gone to their respective homes. It was just us old folks and poor Noah, who spanned the generation gap gracefully. Naturally, when Shirley, Janie, Beth, and Jeannie get together, the games come out, so we all played some kind of weird card game.

     Sunday morning we went to Johnstown, Colorado, to Abundant Life Tabernacle, pastored by Rev. Deiter Skowron. His parents were there, also, and spoke with a heavy German accent. They were instantly likeable, and Pastor Skowron preached an excellent sermon. Their church is beautifully constructed, and a couple of members proudly stated it was built with their hands. Germans…you gotta love them. Afterward we drove to Loveland to meet with all the kids at P F Chang Restaurant. We had a good lunch (Jack Cooper was there), although P F Chang is not my favorite restaurant. The evening was spent with more games, eating, visiting, and eventually packing for the return home the next morning.

     3:30 a.m. does come early. By 4:15 we had said our sad goodbyes and were on IH25 South headed to the Denver Airport. Stopping to fill up the Suburban ($95!!), we arrived at Advantage Rental about 6:00, and about 6:10 we were on their shuttle to the airport. It was a nice, quick check in. We didn’t even have to go inside the building…just get on the shuttle. Again, these things may be normal procedure now days…we don’t do much flying/renting/traveling anymore. We had time for coffee and a scone before our plane loaded. By 8:05 we were in the air, and about 11:20 we landed at Hobby after I said my Lord’s Prayer and went through my takeoff/landing ritual. By 12:15 we had picked up Janie’s van and drove to the Potatoe Patch on FM 1960 and were having some guy throw hot rolls at us while we had a good lunch. Janie dropped us off at our home about 1:30 and our enjoyable saga had come to an end. I had managed to survive a close trip with my wife, two sisters-in-law and my mother-in-law…and we’re still on speaking terms. In fact, I would do it again. I am a very blessed person.

The Shootdown of Flight 60528

     The United States emerged from World War II victorious and the most powerful nation on Earth with its enemies completely vanquished. With a world weary from years of war, American leaders at the time expected an extended period of peace and reconstruction based on cooperation with wartime allies. It soon became apparent, however, that the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, more commonly referred to as the Soviet Union, and more specifically, Russia, along with its newly expanded bloc of closely-controlled satellites were acting with increased hostility toward the nations of the West, particularly the United States.

     Rather than a shooting war, this new conflict came to be know as the “Cold War,” played out in many theaters behind the scenes as a political chess match with the threat of nuclear holocaust constantly hovering above the participants. The United States initiated new actions to protect the security of the U.S., among them national-level intelligence activities. Most decision makers at the time remembered the trauma of the Japanese sneak attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941 which caused heavy loss of life, great damage to the U.S. Navy, and swept the U.S. into the Second World War. These officials were determined to prevent another Pearl Harbor.

     At the same time, the primary object of concern for the U.S., namely the Soviet Union, was a “denied” country, that is to say, travel within its territories for foreigners (and even its own citizens) was severely restricted. Obtaining reliable information about the country or its military capabilities was extremely difficult, if not impossible, through conventional intelligence methods. In response to the need for more verifiable intelligence, defense policymakers established a national program of reconnaissance, carried out by the U.S. Air Force and U.S. Navy. The U.S. Army also engaged in reconnaissance, but primarily for tactical objectives.

     The existence of the intelligence program was kept classified for decades. When I arrived in West Berlin in 1965, the 6912th Security Squadron had been at the U.S. base at Tempelhof Airport for several years, but even the base commander did not know the true mission of the squadron for a long period after the group arrived on base. Although it became obvious that the Soviets suspected some aspects of the program, many key features remained secret from them. The fact that the U.S. was running a clandestine operation in West Berlin, a city 100 miles inside the Iron Curtain and in the very middle of Soviet military activities, grated on the Soviets’ nerves, and as a result, they took every real and imagined opportunity to exert pressure, both political and military, upon the U.S. military presence in West Berlin.

     The decision to keep the program secret had some unfortunate implications: it prevented public recognition for the veterans of the program as well as public honor for those who lost their lives while conducting various forms of intelligence gathering, such as aerial reconnaissance. During the Cold War Period of 1945-1977 more than 40 reconnaissance aircraft were shot down by the Soviet Union. The secrecy of the intelligence programs prevented recognition of the slain military personnel at the time of the incidents. Their loss was mourned by their families, fellow soldiers, sailors, and airmen, but the fallen could not be accorded public honors. The end of the Cold War has allowed the United States to lift some of its security restrictions concerning these programs and allowed recognition of the achievements and sacrifices of these silent warriors, and to tell their stories.

     On 2 September, 1958, Soviet MiG 17 pilots shot down Flight 60528, a U.S. Air Force C-130 reconnaissance aircraft, over Soviet Armenia. Six crewmen were aboard along with eleven Security Service Russian language specialists. What exactly happened is unclear. The C-130 crew navigated by homing in on a beacon signal, and it was suspected that Soviet navigational beacons deliberately overpowered the beacon Flight 60528 was following and drew the aircraft into Russian territory. The aircraft was easily identifiable as U.S. Air Force and non-lethal. One Russian pilot identified the craft as “a four engine transport.” Four Soviet aircraft attacked the plane in groups of two. On the third approach the C-130 caught fire, the tail section blew off, and the plane plummeted to the earth. No parachutes or survivors were identified.

This photo of Flight 60528 aflame was taken through the gunsight camera of the attacking MiG-17.

     Of all Cold War incidences involving the Soviets, the shootdown of Flight 60528 is the most controversial. Not willing to admit that Flight 60528 was on a spy mission, the U.S. Government did not confront the Soviets until 6 September, when the Soviets denied all knowledge of the incident. On 12 September, the Russians stated they had “found an aircraft,” and “assumed that six airmen had perished.” At the same time, the Soviets publicly denied downing the aircraft, claiming the aircraft inadvertently “fell to the earth.” On 24 September, the Soviets returned six sets of human remains but stated they had no knowledge of the other missing eleven airmen. Throughout the Cold War period, the Soviets denied responsibility for the shootdown, and the fate of the remaining crewmen remained unknown.

     Finally in 1991, Russian President Boris Yeltsin began releasing “available” information about the shootdown. Among the information was a combat report, published 20 September, 1958, from the air control officer who commanded the MiG aircraft. He described in great detail and with a great deal of professional pride the second by second events which took place as the attackers surrounded and eventually destroyed Flight 60528. It is a fascinating document describing the cool professionalism of the dedicated fighter pilot while embellishing with the usual hyperbolic language of the standard communist terminology prevalent at the time.  Eventually, the remains of the crew of Flight 60528 were returned to the United States and now rest in Arlington National Cemetery.

     When I arrived in Berlin, it had been seven years since the shootdown of Flight 60528, but it was still uppermost in the minds of those whose mission was the gathering of intelligence. The loss of the airmen had hit home to the 6912th because the airmen of Flight 60528 had been based in West Germany at another Security Service site with which the 6912th worked closely. By 1965, the Soviets were convinced the 6912th Security Squadron was up to no good in the city of West Berlin, and we were warned to be ever vigilant while carrying out our duties. Our whereabouts had to be known by our superiors at all times. If we missed a rendezvous point by more than one hour we were counted as deserters and had better be able to show proof of our actions when we reappeared. We were to never mention our attachment to the 6912thSS when off the base. We did not wear our uniforms off the base but wore civilian clothes, preferably with a Germanesque style. However we were required to carry our military identification papers. Theoretically, it was our ticket to freedom if picked up by political adversaries. Upon arrival at our base of operations, Russian language specialists like me went through a week of orientation to prepare us for the job ahead. One of the tasks I had was listen to the audio transcripts of the Soviet pilots as they stalked, attacked, and eventually shot down Flight 60528.

     My first impression upon listening was the incredibly poor quality of the Russian transmissions, and I began to realize that I was about to embark on the most challenging mission of my life. Over the next two years, technology helped improve voice quality, but, even at best, listening, comprehending, translating, and deciphering communications required every ounce of concentration one could muster. As I listened to the calm, professional transmissions from the pilots, it seemed almost surreal that I was hearing the account of the deaths of seventeen airmen just like myself. The pilots coolly described the first two salvos of attacks, which resulted in hits on the plane, but it was not until the third pass that Flight 60528 burst into flames and the tail section fell off. The Soviet pilot then described how the plane rolled over upside down and began a plunge to the earth. After being satisfied that the aircraft was down, the four planes systematically returned to their home base and landed. There was no further comment about the downed aircraft.

     During my time in Berlin, I listened to other accounts of downed aircraft, some unfortunately as they were occurring.  Berlin, being located 100 miles inside Communist East Germany, was accessible by three ten-mile-wide air corridors. These corridors had been established after World War II through agreement by the Four Powers: France, the United States, England, and the Soviet Union. As the political strain increased between the three western powers and the Soviets, the Soviets became increasingly belligerent, to the point that if an Allied aircraft strayed out of the ten mile corridor, it ran the risk of being shot down by Soviet aircraft. Over the period of the Cold War, several aircraft were lost for this reason, with the Soviets generally claiming an “aggressive” act by the Allies caused each conflict. Regardless, lives and planes were lost and sometimes unaccounted for.  The Soviet pressure was increased on the ground in West Berlin, also.  During the life of the 6912thSS, two U.S. airmen defected to the Russian side due to bribes and threats.  One of the airmen wound up back on our side of the wall through mysterious circumstances, and as far as I know is still living a life of repentance at Ft. Leavenworth Military Prison.  There was no trace found of the second airman until the fall of the Berlin Wall.  As of a few years ago, he was living a quiet life somewhere in the former Soviet Union.

Soviet military personnel at crash site of Soviet fighter plane, West Berlin.

     Occasionally, the tables were turned. In 1966 a Soviet fighter aircraft experienced engine failure and crashed into a lake in the British section of West Berlin. As it turned out, it was one of their latest generation aircraft, and the Soviets panicked, sending soldiers through gates of the Berlin wall and heading for the lake to reclaim their aircraft. They were stopped at the edge of the lake by British and U.S. soldiers. They fretted, fussed, and fumed about not getting access to their aircraft, but eventually returned to their side of the wall. The U.S. and British promised full cooperation in the recovery of the pilot’s body and the aircraft. The pilot’s body was quickly returned, but the aircraft took nearly two months to be pulled piece by piece from the clear waters of the lake and returned to the Soviets. It took two months because U.S. frogmen and intelligence specialists photographed every piece of the Soviet aircraft before it was pulled out of the water. It was a treasure trove of current Soviet aircraft design.

     Fast forwarding to the present, I recently discovered that the National Security Agency, the primary intelligence gathering arm of the federal government, had declassified all documents pertaining to the shootdown of Flight 60528 sixty years after the event took place. Unbelieving at first, I went to the NSA website, and, sure enough, all previously secret and top secret documents including U.S. and Russian versions of the shootdown, photos, and audio tapes were available for public consumption. I downloaded the Russian pilots’ audio and copied the transcripts (both in English and Russian.)

     In the privacy of my den, I put on an old set of headsets, turned off all lights except my desk lamp, grabbed some writing paper and pencil, and listened and transcribed the conversations between four Soviet pilots that I had last listened to over 60 years ago. For one hour and ten minutes, I was transported back to 1965 to the fifth floor of Head Building East, 6912th Security Squadron, Tempelhof Central Airport, West Berlin, Germany. I had to listen closely and repeat some conversations…my Russian is a little rusty, but it was an incredible feeling of déjà vu. The impact of listening to the event was still powerful, but at least now, the names of the airmen who perished have been made known and their contributions to our society have been recognized.

     In September of 2011, many of those who served in West Berlin during those exciting years of the Cold War reunited in Berlin for what was probably the last reunion. Time has done to us what the Soviets could not do. But even time cannot diminish the patriotic pride felt by those who were the Silent Warriors of the Cold War. We did our job.



Inevitably Dependent

     In Gail Sheehy’s classic textbook of human development, “Passages,” she discusses the various periods of life (“passages”) one experiences as life evolves from infancy to advanced maturity. Youth, with its excitement of exploration and discovery, inevitably leads to the highly productive middle years in which we exercise with maximum energy our greatest creativity. It is during these middle passages (there are various stages even within this middle period) that we create families, fortune, and fame, and the challenges of creating drives us and keeps us at a peak operating efficiency due primarily because we are young enough to be healthy and physically able to handle the tasks of 24-hour parenting, planning, and producing.

     Coupled with this drive to create is a certain feeling of indestructibility. Although an incomprehension of our mortality is evident from the early days of youth, the compelling evidence which we observe on a regular basis…deaths and illnesses of friends and loved ones combined with life-changing accidents and events, has little impact on our personal conviction that “none of these things will ever happen to me,” or “this thing may happen to me, but it will be sometime far into the future.” This personal concept of indestructibility can sometimes work toward a positive outcome and is why younger generations are usually more willing risk takers. It is the reason they don’t hesitate to attempt to beat the odds in physical activities, business, or personal relations no matter how stacked against them the odds may be.

     Inevitably…and in the passages of life the word “inevitably” is sprinkled throughout the entire life process, once we have survived our years of maximum production and activity, the period of deactivation begins. It is during this period that working overtime no longer has great appeal regardless of the extra pay, and, where an uneventful evening was once considered lost time, a quiet evening at home is now highly anticipated. The children have long since left the nest, and now there are grandchildren visiting. The grandchildren are loved dearly, and when they visit it is an exciting, joyous time, but once children and grandchildren have said goodbye and gone back to their home, we heave a big sigh of relief and collapse on the sofa.

     The most anticipated event of this period of life passage, however, is probably retirement from full time work. Having worked fifty or more years on the average and hopefully been fortunate enough to have a retirement plan, the freedom from a full time work obligation creates endless opportunities for activities which have been put on the back burner for years due to work restraints. Travel, recreation, hobbies, and various other enjoyable activities are now within reach, and the anticipation of this “free time” is what motivates many experienced workers as they see their retirement day approaching.

     One of the beauties of retirement is the clock ceases to be your master. No longer burdened with the time requirements of employment, use of the clock’s alarm pleasantly diminishes. Leisurely breakfasts can be enjoyed at will, and each day becomes a blank schedule which can be filled in at the whim of the retiree. Want to be busy? Fill in the schedule. Want to lay low? Keep it blank. It is a lifestyle almost incomprehensible to the middle passage person with a full schedule of parenting, working, and managing a home. Mention retirement to a middle passage person and that same glazed-eye look appears on his/her face as when we try to talk to children about finding jobs when they grow up.

     At the same time, the challenge of parenting, working, and managing a home, though we wistfully look forward to the day when these obligations are passed, satisfies for the middle passage person a critical requirement…a fulfillment of dependency. The drive for success during the middle passages is fueled by the knowledge that others are dependent upon our productivity. Parents are driven to provide for their children. An employee’s production affects the success of his manager, and a manager affects the working environment of his/her employees. In short, we want someone to need us. We strive to be good parents, employees, or managers because we would like to think that someone needs us to do well.

     Retirement, with all its free time, takes away this fulfillment. Since we are no longer productive members of the workforce, there are no employees anxiously awaiting our management decisions. There are no bosses anywhere impatiently waiting for us to show up so the big problem of the day can be solved.  Even at home, there are no lunches to prepare for workers or students. We can leave our schedules open for the day because no one needs us. That perception can extend to family. With children now grown and faced with fighting their own parenting wars with our grandchildren, we feel that, though we may be concerned observers, we are not required as our children carve out their own destinies.

     The result of this perceived lack of need can be a nagging depression, especially if the perception of uselessness is within the home. Faced with a lack of obligations, retirees can easily retreat within themselves to the point that though a husband and wife have fought the parenting and working wars for years together, once the battles have been survived, each one enters a personal cocoon replete with his/her own personal activities, preferences, and interests. Seldom sharing moments of common interest, they intensify the isolation to the point that in time they become strangers sharing only a roof over their heads.

     In most cases, of course, this perceived lack of need is just that…a perception. Husbands and wives still love, children and grandchildren still love, and friends are still friends. Psychologists however, will attest that many of our thoughts and actions are based on perceptions and not actual facts. With that in mind, retirees must initiate active attempts to deflect any signs of depression encountered upon retirement by any member of the household. During the middle passage years, there is a feeling of camaraderie while a couple works together to raise a family and provide for its general welfare, but upon entering the later passages when retirement has come and the children have gone, that feeling of working together for a common cause can vanish. The truth is, that feeling needs to morph into a realization that close personal support and companionship are needed more than ever. Their personal bonds of love and need, cultivated years before during courtship and enriched during a life of sharing, need to be strengthened, not weakened.

     I penned the following poem the year I turned sixty years old. Although it was written pre-retirement, the gist of the message still applies today.

Nothing Rhymes with Sixty

Nothing rhymes with sixty as one turns the annual page.

Nothing rhymes with sixty. It’s an awkward, frustrating age!

Too young to be old; too old to be young,

Concerned that your song has already been sung.

The memories of the past grow stronger, yet fade,

While the future once dreamed seems fainter in life’s shade.

Helpless and hapless, trapped in time’s ceaseless tide,

Then saved from the gloom by, “Hey Papaw! Come outside!”

The message becomes clear; it’s not the future or past

But the present is where our legacy is cast.

Children and grandchildren, the love of a wife,

The closeness of a family…therein lies life.

With His hand to guide us as we travel along

Everything rhymes with sixty…if you play the right song.

A Christmas Tradition

Bob Downing (King Herod) Casper, WY, 1985

     There was an aura of excited expectancy inside the church as the time approached 6:00 p.m. on the mid-December evening.  Choir members were nervously walking about in their robes visiting with friends or muttering their lines under their breaths. The video/soundtrack operator was praying out loud and with a certain degree of panic as he was having difficulty getting the video/soundtrack display to properly cooperate. Members and a good representation of visitors were entering the auditorium, looking for familiar pews or friends. Last minute lighting arrangements were checked and rechecked.  At the last minute, everyone began took their seats, children shushed, lights dimmed, and the pastor rose to greet the congregation. The Christmas Cantata to celebrate the Christmas Season was about to begin.

      Past Christmas Cantatas have been in the record books for a while now, and shortly after each conclusion we began to concentrate on more challenging matters such as increasing our intake of high calorie goodies.  Thankfully, it was too early to begin to think about the upcoming back to work schedule and the inevitable bills for all our Christmas purchases which began to roll in as we entered into January. Though replete with activities, expenses, and exhaustive endeavors, Christmas is still a favorite time of year when we have the opportunity to reconnect with relatives and friends, and, being so close to the end of the calendar year, we also have the occasion to review the year just past and reflect on our successes and challenges.

     In the world of Christianity, of course, it is a special time of year, equaled only perhaps by the Easter season. Although historical evidence offers clues that Jesus Christ was probably not born in December or the winter season, it is still a time, however arbitrary, that we celebrate the coming of the Savior to Earth and all the ramifications that the event means to believing Christians throughout the ages.

     With the importance of the Christmas season weighing heavily upon the organized churches, the need for some sort of special pageantry during this time of celebration became evident at a very early date. For centuries, churches have celebrated the birth of the Christchild with music, singing, and worship. Many of the greatest classical compositions from the 17th and 18th century, written by composers whose works have survived the test of time, were created to celebrate the birth of Christ. These earliest compositions, written during a period when music was created primarily for the elite and privileged, tended to be very formal, very complicated, and very restrictive…in as far as the listener was expected to enjoy the music in a quiet, hushed matter. Completion of a musical presentation was met with polite applause, and discreet congratulations were offered to the composer who was usually in attendance.

     This tradition of a musical "cantata" (a composition of a dramatic presentation along with vocal solos, choruses, and music to tell a story) to celebrate the Christmas season continues, at least in some diminishing circles, to the present day. The complexity of the presentation is generally in direct proportion to the size of the church doing the presenting, although the word “size” may refer to the quantitative number of church members or the qualitative number of skilled musicians and singers within a church body. What that means, translated into English, is that a church, though large in number, may not have the reservoir of musical talent required to present a cantata at the skill level that its member number may indicate. The opposite is true: a small church can offer a presentation far beyond its expected performance if it is blessed with a great talent pool.

     The concept of the relatively formal Christmas cantata reigned supreme in the religious world far into the 20th century. With our Pentecostal music backgrounds, Shirley and I have been involved in Christmas cantatas for over sixty years. The church we attended as youths, Peace Tabernacle in Baytown, Texas, was a relatively small church with an average attendance of around 140, but it was a church rich with musical talent. That talent was put to good use during the Christmas season, when we delved into the preparation of yet another cantata. There was always an almost perceptible groan in the audience when it would be announced around the first of November of each year that “cantata practice” would begin. We realized we had a lot of work ahead of us, but somehow as the practices slipped by the music became more meaningful and enjoyable, and the night of our presentation was always one of spiritual uplifting and fulfillment. Led by a woman who was an accomplished pianist, organist, singer, and artist, our little choir was challenged to be the best we could be. Miss Anniedeen Bateman, our leader, had perfect musical pitch and could hear our sour notes at fifty paces and made us sing it till we got it right. Anniedeen started the beloved tradition of “Anniedeen Beans,” which meant that every year after the very last practice before our big presentation, all the participants of the cantata went to Miss Anniedeen’s home and enjoyed chili and beans with French bread. That was enough to make all the work worthwhile. Little did Shirley and I know that many years later that same Miss Anniedeen Bateman would become our stepmother and step-mother-in-law respectively, although as events transpired, we both have sort of forgotten the “step” part.

     The general format of the Christmas cantata, consisting of organ, piano, choir, soloists, director, and narrator continued until the early 1970s. Presentations continued to be offered within a context of quiet, reverential dignity. But as we moved into the latter 1970s there was a “restyling” of the traditional Christmas cantata. Before you jump to the conclusion that I’m about to yell, “It’s an abomination!” please be aware that is not the case: many changes which have occurred I welcome.

     In the latter 1970s the traditional formality of the cantata began to fade. Narrators became more conversational in their deliveries; actors/singers played the parts of the main characters of the Christmas story, and the music and solos became less operatic and more appealing to the average person. That’s not to say that the music was less difficult; it simply had a broader base of appeal. Along with the change in voices and narration came a dramatic change in music. The long-held tradition of organ and piano (especially in the southern United States) gave way to other musical voices such as strings, brass, and percussion. The greatest invention to come down the pike for many smaller churches with limited musical resources was the soundtrack. Although the 8-track tape and reel-to-reel tape player had been around for some time, it was not until the cassette tape with its ease of operation came on the scene that soundtracks for practically everything were instantly available. And now with the advent of computers, CDs and DVDs (both disks now becoming obsolete) the possibilities for soundtrack presentation are limitless. For those musically uninitiated, a soundtrack offers background music for a singer or choir to follow. Suddenly, a church which didn’t even have a pianist could put on a presentation with a full orchestra if desired. There was some resistance to such electronic gadgetry from those who felt like some of the spiritual spontaneity was lost by being “controlled” by artificial music. I think in some extreme situations that was a good argument, but for a presentation like a cantata, the negative effect is minimal. I will be the first to admit, though, that, given an option, I will always prefer live, human-created music. In years past, I have seen Shirley agonize and practice on her piano for days learning a thick booklet of Christmas cantata music. There is a presence, an immediacy, evident in a live performance which does not come through a loudspeaker.

      By the mid 70s, we were attending a small church in Casper, Wyoming, where my father-in-law was pastor. By this time Miss Anniedeen Bateman had become Mrs. Anniedeen Creel and my mother-in-law. The first time we used a soundtrack I brought my stereo amplifier, cassette player, and speakers from home and we set everything up in the church. For the first time, we had electronic music for our cantata and were on the cutting edge of technology. It did not become the modus operandi for our Christmas musicals, however, because we were blessed with some very accomplished musicians in our church, so the soundtrack became an option each year but rarely used.

     It was in the latter 1970s that The Greatest Christmas Cantata of All Time was produced. Okay, that’s obviously an opinion on my part, but it’s the ONLY Christmas cantata Shirley and I listen each year, and I have already listened to it twice this season (2023). The cantata “Noel, Jesus is Born!” composed by Lanny Wolfe and Don March is a timeless classic combining traditional and contemporary compositions, powerful solos, a touch of dramatics, and thought-provoking narration. The harmony of the melodies is haunting in its beauty, and it is impossible to sit through a presentation of this musical and not feel a touch of the Christmas spirit. (Note:  It is now available on YouTube...just search Noel Jesus is Born.)  Perhaps I feel a sentimental attachment to this cantata because our church in Casper, Wyoming, performed it two years in succession, and when I hear the music, I hear my loved ones and friends sing the parts they brought to life nearly forty-five years ago. I was privileged to play the part of King Herod.  Some of those loved ones and friends have gone on to their rewards, but I still hear and see them when I listen to “Noel!". Our little group took a difficult cantata and did it well.

     Over the years Christmas performances have become more complex, at least in non-Pentecostal churches. In many Pentecostal churches, however, the opposite has occurred.  Recognizing the effort required to master a musical instrument or the vocal practice needed to master a difficult vocal presentation, we now have instrumentalists who never progress beyond striking the basic chords of a musical piece and singers who all sing soprano and never bother with alto, tenor, or bass. Apparently, decisions have been made in many churches that too much effort is required for a complicated Christmas presentation.  Throughout the years I have sung bass, tenor, solos, duets, and trios. I have been King Herod, a wise man, a shepherd, an inn keeper, or simply the program narrator.  (I even directed a choir once in Oklahoma...they were REALLY desperate.) Every year most choir members dread the beginning of practice knowing that they will be sacrificing time and effort, and every year the general feeling is that it will never "come together.” But somehow, through perhaps God’s grace, it always does “come together” and we are able to celebrate Christmas. Such has been the case every year. Every year the choir practices for weeks on end until the final nerve-racking formal night, and suddenly things just seem to fall into place. The presentation comes across powerfully, and the singers are beautifully harmonious. The Christmas cantata is not just about Christmas…it IS Christmas.  May the Christmas cantata live on.  

Old Time Religion, Revisited

     Anyone who has bothered to read any of my essays concerning contemporary Christian (using that term very loosely) music knows how I feel concerning that very sensitive subject. Not desiring to flog a dead horse nor rehash wild accusations, I wish to move on and rejoice when one of those increasingly rare moments occurs when singers, souls, spirits, minds, music, melodies, and songs happen to blend into a spiritual oneness which creates an atmosphere of simple yet elegant, spontaneous, joyous, heartfelt, sincere, and meaningful worship of our Creator.

     In our church, we members address one another as “brother” or “sister,” so as I meander through this story, fellow members to whom I refer will be named as such. If this is strange, weird, offensive, or unusual to you, please forgive our trespasses and just count it as a charmingly antiquated method of communication. Be aware, however, that the custom is traceable back to the Bible and the days of the apostles and the belief that the church is the family of God on Earth.

     Three months or so ago, Sister Audrey Thomas, a devout member of our church, approached Shirley and me about participating in a singing group which would be emphasizing the classic gospel songs of yore (You know, those songs that apparently no one under the age of forty knows.) Sister Audrey was getting a group together at the invitation of a fellow church in Edna, Texas, a small community about 100 miles southwest of Houston down US Highway 59. The folks from that area visited our church a few months ago and enjoyed such a good reception that the invitation to reciprocate was extended. The strange thing is, Shirley and I don’t remember their visit at all, and we’ll usually sing an old song at the drop of a hat, so we concluded that we must have been out of town when the blessed event took place.

     Anyway, it was our time to be the singers, and Sister Audrey was on a mission. We began to meet on Wednesday evenings an hour before church time in the fellowship hall of our church and practice the songs that Shirley and I had been singing and playing musically for fifty plus years. Shirley was our pianist and I strummed my guitar, so, at least in the beginning, we furnished the music while the other volunteers learned the songs. They needed Shirley, because she is apparently the only pianist (other than my mother-in-law) in a twenty mile radius of the church who can play a gospel song out of a songbook. (Now, for those who didn’t know this, there was a time when people in church actually sang gospel songs out of real, honest-to-goodness song books, provided free by the church. You just picked them up, turned to the correct page, and sang right out loud. It was awesome!) However, since we come as a package, they had to put up with my guitar playing also.

     When we first began practicing, it was in the dead of summer, and the fellowship hall was blazing hot when we practiced. Coupled with that was the fact that our volunteer singers were volunteering at a very slow pace. The first few sessions were a little discouraging, and I confided to Shirley that I wondered if this gig would ever get off the ground. We plowed through twenty or more songs during a practice, but with few voices and stifling heat, by the time we finished, we were almost too tired for church. But the songs were the old songs we had cut our teeth on as children, and I will debate with anyone that the simplest of these old songs has more depth, spirit, and meaning and any of these new “Christian” creations with their non-rhythmic, non-rhyming melodies with seventeen chord changes. Oops, there I go. Sorry. Anyway, even with the heat and limited numbers of singers, the old songs carried a message that inspired worship.

     But we continued to practice, and things picked up when Brother Trini Hernandez began attending on a regular basis. Sister Audrey had anointed Brother Trini as the lead singer, and it was a good choice. Trini had managed his own band and played the local bars for over thirty years until God miraculously changed his life several years ago. A big, burly guy equipped with a quick smile and a ready laugh, his positive attitude is contagious and his testimony inspiring. He is one of those people whom you instantly like upon meeting. He has that instinctive ability to sing well and project a spirit of worship while doing so.

     Sister Audrey, of course, was still the ringleader of this band of carolers, and when Brother Trini did not sing a song in the way she wanted, she was quick to make him stop and start over. More than once she asked us to stop the music and let Trini sing without music or other singers so she could make sure he sang it right. Trini would graciously smile…and sing the song to her approval. I suggested that when Trini made a mistake that we all stop, point at Trini, and yell, “That’s wrong!,” but Sister Audrey thought that was a little extreme. Anyway, we had a good laugh, and everyone kept a good spirit.

     As we drew closer to our date with destiny, more people began to join our little ensemble, and by the time we left for Edna, we had a good sized group of singers, three guitars, a bass guitar, a saxophone, and a set of drums. When I first saw the drums a couple of practices before we left, my heart sank. I am convinced that the decline of Christian music began when a music director somewhere said, “Hey, man, let’s put some drums up there and see what happens!” I have since learned that drums can be very beneficial to certain church music if played with the idea of complementing the other instruments, but unfortunately the guy with the sticks usually tries to dominate the musical sound, and the effect is devastating to the spiritual impact of the music. Let me just say that when the time came for our presentation in Edna, our drummer (whose name I forget) was very complementary.

     On a recent Saturday, our date with infamy finally came. We assembled at the church, loaded our gear into two large vans, and prepared to move out. We had to take all our instruments and sound gear with us because the meeting was to be at a civic center in Edna. Apparently the church would have a keyboard for Shirley, but the rest of the instrumentation was up to us. We had been unsure of the starting time and length of the service, but Sister Audrey told us the starting time would be at 6:00 p.m….and we were leaving at 2:00 p.m. for a two hour trip. I had understood that there would be several singing groups there, but it turned out that we were the main attraction. Fortunately, we had practiced at least 25 songs. As we were loading up, Sister Audrey put a chest of ice water in our van…and then told us we couldn’t drink any of it because “it was for emergencies.” Right after that, she told us that we could talk amongst ourselves only for the first thirty minutes of travel. After that we had to pray the rest of the way. Though anxious to be responsive to the spirit, we decided that if we prayed for the additional hour and a half it would take us to get to Edna, and then have two additional hours once we got there to pray, we would be so spiritual that we would not even need to have a singing service, and we could go back home. So that we would have some worship in our tanks to use during the service, we sort of coasted and meditated on the way to Edna. Besides, Brother Trini kept laughing.

     Arriving in Edna, we drove to the address given us…and there was nothing there. It took us awhile, but we finally discovered that our address was “north” and not “south.” The civic center turned out to be very nice, spacious, and ideal for our use. Chairs had been set out, and there was a nice keyboard. Shirley prefers a piano, but this was a good quality keyboard, and, after finally getting all the slides and settings right, it sounded fine. There were approximately 100 people in attendance, along with the local pastor and his wife, Reverend and Sister Yancey, and the UPC District Presbyter, Brother Kite and his wife.

     A touching thing occurred while we were in the process of warming up. Shirley was breaking in the keyboard, and I was limbering up my fingers on my guitar. Sister Yancey came up to me with tears in her eyes, and said when I played my guitar it sounded just like her late father when he played his guitar. She wanted to know if it was all right to take a video of me playing. Of course I said that would be fine. She then called her sister on her phone and told her to “watch this,” and then held the phone up to video my playing. Brother Yancey mentioned in his testimony later how his wife appreciated my guitar playing. Don’t get me wrong…I am not the greatest guitarist in these parts; I have a simple style of playing which produces a sort of steel guitar sound. Apparently her father was on the same skill level I am. I was glad I was able to bring back some memories for her.

     At 6:00 the music started, and to make a long story short, we barely took a breath for nearly three and a half hours. We sang them all…

(1) He’s All I Need

(2) I Will Bless Thee, Oh Lord

(3) Turn Your Eyes upon Jesus

(4) Peace in the Midst of the Storm

(5) Jesus is the Sweetest Name I Know

(6) I Have Decided to Follow Jesus

(7) Let’s Talk about Jesus

(8) Come and Dine

(9) I Feel Like Travelling On

(10) We Have Come into This Place

(11) Heavenly Sunlight

(12) What A Day That Will Be

(13) Because He Lives

     The above list is about half of the songs we sung and played. And let me tell you, the spirit and worship began with the first song and did not end until the last one. We sang and played for an hour and a half before we stopped for a moment. Presbyter Kite spoke for about fifteen minutes and preached liked they used to preach. Not once during the entire three and a half hours did we hear someone say, “Let’s give Him a handclap of praise!” Didn’t have to…the praise was coming anyway. I can remember that when we were growing up, it would have been considered out of order to give applause to anything or anyone. Spontaneous handclapping was common during worship, but "applause" was nonexistent. When we Pentecostals went to the Music Hall for a gospel concert, we did not applaud the singers, because it was considered secular. Shirley and I never heard applause in a church until we moved back from Wyoming in 1991. By that time some Pentecostals had been watching the mega-churches on television and apparently thought applauding everything that moved was cool, and our churches adopted the practice. Successful mega-churches which have only a message of self-empowerment have had a far greater influence on Pentecostal assemblies in the areas of music, management, and praise than we would ever care to admit. God help us if we adopt the message. Forgive me…I digressed again.

     Into the second hour of the service, we began to have personal testimonies along with greetings from Pastor Yancey. There had been a couple of prayer requests, and finally a prayer line was formed, and everyone, including us musicians, went through the prayer line to receive healing or blessing. The singing continued, and the enthusiasm never seemed to wane. We musicians played until our fingers ached, but we enjoyed every minute. The simplicity of the worship, the enthusiasm of the singers and musicians, and the power of the spirit approached those days of the Rocky Mountain Camp Meeting of years past. I was amazed that when I took time to look at the crowd, everyone appeared to be singing (with no books)…because the songs were simple, powerful, and meaningful.

     By near 9:30, the service had run its course, and after a final word from Brother Yancey, we were dismissed. Naturally, the time honored tradition of eating came next, and we were taken to another hall where yummy baked potatoes, salad, desserts, and refreshments were in abundance. We ate and talked far more than we should have, but the food was good and the fellowship better. I enjoyed chatting with Brother James Thomas. I did not realize he was a roofer. Since my dad was a roofing contractor in Baytown for 40 years, I grew up on roofs and still feel a certain kinship to roofers. Finally around 10:30 we reloaded the vans and headed home. As we were leaving, we asked Sister Audrey if we could have some of the water now that she had forbidden earlier. She laughed. With all the food and the two hour drive back home, as a safety precaution (!) we stopped at Buc-Ees on the way back to get some decent coffee to sustain us along the way. I noticed several people got other items to sustain them on the way home, even though we had just enjoyed a big meal. In the interest of decorum, I won’t say who got what, but nobody starved on the way home, that’s for sure. We rolled into the church parking lot about 12:30 a.m. We were tired, but we had enjoyed a great evening. Shirley and I felt closer to more good members of Bethel Tabernacle, and once more we were thankful to be a part of a great church family.

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!