Sometimes it's hard to remember what it's like to wake up in the morning rested and painless. Old age does take its toll on the mind and body. I try really hard to remember being a kid. There was so much of life ahead and so much excitement nearly every day. I'm glad I didn't grow up in a world regulated by safety conscious zealots. Can you imagine riding down the street on a bike in 1959 with a foam helmet on your head? You would be laughed out of the county.
How about the times you got to "drive" the family car by sitting in your dad's lap and steering that big old hunk of metal down a two lane blacktop? The first time I actually drove the car was on a summer day when I was ten years old. I remember driving down Pine Street in the 1955 Pontiac Star Chief. I felt so grown up. I wanted to make sure all my friends saw me so I kept looking both ways for them as I slowly cruised down the street. That is probably the reason I ran over curbs on both sides of the street and failed to notice the stop sign that had been there forever. I didn't get to drive again until I was fourteen.
My love for the automobile grew steadily throughout the years. I wanted a car almost as much as I wanted a girlfriend. My dad was determined to deny me both. Some old boy I knew had been given a 1950 Cadillac fastback when we were in our early teens. I think his grandpa gave it to him knowing it was never going to run again. It sat in his driveway so long his mom told him it had to go. He offered it to me for $50. I was so excited I thought about nothing else. In my mind I restored that old car over and over again...a different color each time. The hurdle, aside from accumulating $50, was getting my dad to "okay" the purchase. I practiced my sales pitch over and over until I felt I had every argument covered. Finally, on a Sunday afternoon, right after lunch, I gathered up all my courage and asked. He was sitting in the living room reading the paper. I sat down on the couch and shook and sweat for a spell until the words finally came out, "Can I buy a car for $50?" I nearly fell over with his response. Instead of the expected "no way" he asked, "what kind of car" My spirits were soaring because of the dialogue. I told him it was a very nice 1950 Cadillac. He thought about it for a bit and finally said he didn't think it was a good idea. Then he added these magical words, "If you really want a car to mess around with let's find you an old Chevy to fix up". The mixture of disappointment and excitement made me dizzy. Sounded like I was getting a car!!
I think we did look at a Chevy or two but my early excitement soon turned to frustration as I figured out my dad was avoiding the headaches of an old car by "playing like" we were actually going to buy something for me to tinker with. That old Chevy never materialized.
Cindy and I went to Belton for a couple of weeks one summer after all this. Our aunt Dovie was in bad shape with cancer. Cindy went down to help her and I went down to have fun and overeat with my cousins, Jamie and Donnie. Our parents picked us up on a Sunday afternoon and we got back to our neighborhood late that evening. I clearly remember turning the corner to see a 1953 Studebaker Champion two door hardtop sitting in the driveway. All the excitement I've enjoyed my entire life is paled to what I felt that moment. If I could have jumped out of the Pontiac we were riding in I would have beat everyone to the house. We had a spare car!!! The best part of the whole situation was my dad bought it for Cindy and me "to learn to drive in". It was a three speed on the floor with a CLUTCH. There was no way Cindy would ever learn to drive that car! It was MINE!!
I got a key to the Studebaker on a key chain with my initials for my 16th birthday. Life had never been better. I still have that key and key chain. I wish I still had the car. It's in good hands though. My brother inherited it, fully restored, and it is stored in one of his garages. He drives it in parades occasionally. Hey, I wasn't slighted on inheritance day.....I got four cemetery plots!!!
Tuesday, August 28, 2018
Thursday, August 16, 2018
The Summer of 1954
I was only three during most of the summer of '54 so my memories are vague. I turned four in August of that year and shortly before that time my memories became a photo album. I can leaf through it any time I want. It was during this time that we got new neighbors next door. The old neighbors are in my vague and fuzzy memories but I do remember a little girl about Cindy's age and a boy about the same age as me. Evidently we were pretty good friends because I Cindy and I both cried on moving day. The next family only had one son. He was about a year older than me in physical age but around twenty-one in street smarts. His name was Mark.
I was scared of Mark and didn't rush right over to meet him. In fact, I do remember hiding in the house and watching him from a window. Since growing up in my mama's mind included spending time in the great outdoors she eventually pushed me out from my little fortress and made me play. Mark wasted no time in coming over to introduce himself. It went something like this:
Mark: Hi! My name's Mark. What's your's.
Me: Rusty
Mark: That's a stupid name.
Me: Uh huh...
Mark: Where does your daddy work?
Me: Convair
Mark: That's a sissy job. My dad works at Swift during the day and boxes at night.
Me: What does he box?
Mark: He fights! Boy, you really are stupid.
Me: Nuh uh!
Mark: Let me show you how he fights. (At this point he goes into a boxer stance, dances around me like an idiot, and takes a swing at me. I did not expect this!)
Me: WHAAAAA, mama, this boy hit me......(all the time holding my hand over my eye and running for the house.)
Of course this awakened the mama bear hiding in my mother and she raced out the door "to give that young man a good piece of my mind". He had taken off by the time she got out there so she had no outlet for her anger. She came back in and yelled at me for a while. It was her studied opinion that I needed to grow up and defend myself. I needed to not be so scared of everything and everyone. I guess she was right. I was about to turn four! According to her I had already run from a tarantula, a "big bird", and a spooky man walking down the street who turned out to be my uncle Wayne. She told me she expected me to "whip" that boy next time he bothered me. And so it was.....my mission was to whip Mark next time I saw him.
The next day I was out in my backyard playing my Roy Rogers guitar and singing to my girlfriend, Terry, who lived down the street. Mark came over and proceeded to ridicule my guitar playing....something I've heard for a lifetime now. I put the guitar down and told him, "My mama told me to whip you!" He said, "Well all right Rusteee, come on and try to whup me!" He then posed in his boxer stance again, which was surprising to me because I had never done that before I got whipped. I grabbed him by the collar and gave him a spanking like he had probably never seen before. He finally broke free, laughing and ran off. I figured I had taught him a lesson he wouldn't soon forget. I went inside to tell mama and she said she had watched the whole thing from the kitchen window. She just shook her head and wandered off. She probably went to the bathroom, locked the door, and smoked one of daddy's cigarettes like she was prone to do when we were little.
Later in the day I heard Mark hollering at me from the driveway. He wanted me to come out. I figured I was gonna have to whip him again. Instead he told me he was sorry for picking on me. He didn't realize I was a "retard*" and he would like to help me learn a few things. I had a new friend. Wish I knew what he meant by * (a word that was socially acceptable back in the early 50's). Throughout all of August and into September Mark taught me lots of new things like, how to fight! He and I rumbled several times over the coming months. He taught me how to sneak out of the yard without being seen and touring the neighborhood. He taught me how to cool off on a hot day by waiting for Mrs. Maddox to hang out her laundry and then run through the sheets with both arms spread out. That was a cool thing. I would still like to do that. He taught me how to throw rocks at hub caps on passing cars. This training included not throwing at passing police cars, especially if you still threw like a girl and sometimes hit the windshield. The policeman was very nice about the whole thing but daddy spanked me anyway. Mark also gave me my first math lesson...
On September 1st, Pete the Python escaped from the Fort Worth Zoo. I didn't know this because I didn't get to stay up late enough for the news and would have ignored it even if I hadn't been sent to bed. Mark did get to stay up that late and whether or not he listened or his mom told him about it doesn't really matter. Mark made sure to tell me about it the next day.
Mark met me in the driveway early the next morning and told me about Pete. He said, "Pete the Python escaped from the zoo last night". I asked what a python was. He told me it was a huge snake. I don't like snakes now and I really didn't like snakes then so I was already spooked. He said the news guy told parents to keep their children inside because Pete was a man-eater weighing nearly 500 pounds and measured six yards long. I was trembling by this point but I held my ground. I asked Mark what six yards looked like. He said, "You're kidding me right? You don't know how long six yards is?". I told him no. He grabbed me by the arm and led me out to the front of the house. Then he pointed to his house and said, "First you see my yard. Now look at your yard. The next yard is Mrs. Maddox' yard. The yard after that is the Studebaker driver's yard. Then we have the old people's yard and then the yard after that. THAT is six yards!" That scared me so much I got dizzy. I probably would have passed out right there where I was standing had I not already started my mad dash to the house. I stayed in the house for at least two days after that even though Mark stood in my driveway and begged me to come out. No 500 pound snake that long was gonna eat me. It could go ahead and eat Mark.
Later on, mama explained to me that Pete only weighed 150 pounds and she showed me with a tape measure what six yards really looked like. That was still one big, stinking snake. I figured they caught Pete after a couple of days or maybe he died so I ventured back outside and Mark and I roamed the neighborhood and threw rocks at hub caps until we moved to a bigger house that winter. I was spooked awfully bad when mama mentioned at breakfast one morning that they had finally caught old Pete on October 4th.
I was scared of Mark and didn't rush right over to meet him. In fact, I do remember hiding in the house and watching him from a window. Since growing up in my mama's mind included spending time in the great outdoors she eventually pushed me out from my little fortress and made me play. Mark wasted no time in coming over to introduce himself. It went something like this:
Mark: Hi! My name's Mark. What's your's.
Me: Rusty
Mark: That's a stupid name.
Me: Uh huh...
Mark: Where does your daddy work?
Me: Convair
Mark: That's a sissy job. My dad works at Swift during the day and boxes at night.
Me: What does he box?
Mark: He fights! Boy, you really are stupid.
Me: Nuh uh!
Mark: Let me show you how he fights. (At this point he goes into a boxer stance, dances around me like an idiot, and takes a swing at me. I did not expect this!)
Me: WHAAAAA, mama, this boy hit me......(all the time holding my hand over my eye and running for the house.)
Of course this awakened the mama bear hiding in my mother and she raced out the door "to give that young man a good piece of my mind". He had taken off by the time she got out there so she had no outlet for her anger. She came back in and yelled at me for a while. It was her studied opinion that I needed to grow up and defend myself. I needed to not be so scared of everything and everyone. I guess she was right. I was about to turn four! According to her I had already run from a tarantula, a "big bird", and a spooky man walking down the street who turned out to be my uncle Wayne. She told me she expected me to "whip" that boy next time he bothered me. And so it was.....my mission was to whip Mark next time I saw him.
The next day I was out in my backyard playing my Roy Rogers guitar and singing to my girlfriend, Terry, who lived down the street. Mark came over and proceeded to ridicule my guitar playing....something I've heard for a lifetime now. I put the guitar down and told him, "My mama told me to whip you!" He said, "Well all right Rusteee, come on and try to whup me!" He then posed in his boxer stance again, which was surprising to me because I had never done that before I got whipped. I grabbed him by the collar and gave him a spanking like he had probably never seen before. He finally broke free, laughing and ran off. I figured I had taught him a lesson he wouldn't soon forget. I went inside to tell mama and she said she had watched the whole thing from the kitchen window. She just shook her head and wandered off. She probably went to the bathroom, locked the door, and smoked one of daddy's cigarettes like she was prone to do when we were little.
Later in the day I heard Mark hollering at me from the driveway. He wanted me to come out. I figured I was gonna have to whip him again. Instead he told me he was sorry for picking on me. He didn't realize I was a "retard*" and he would like to help me learn a few things. I had a new friend. Wish I knew what he meant by * (a word that was socially acceptable back in the early 50's). Throughout all of August and into September Mark taught me lots of new things like, how to fight! He and I rumbled several times over the coming months. He taught me how to sneak out of the yard without being seen and touring the neighborhood. He taught me how to cool off on a hot day by waiting for Mrs. Maddox to hang out her laundry and then run through the sheets with both arms spread out. That was a cool thing. I would still like to do that. He taught me how to throw rocks at hub caps on passing cars. This training included not throwing at passing police cars, especially if you still threw like a girl and sometimes hit the windshield. The policeman was very nice about the whole thing but daddy spanked me anyway. Mark also gave me my first math lesson...
On September 1st, Pete the Python escaped from the Fort Worth Zoo. I didn't know this because I didn't get to stay up late enough for the news and would have ignored it even if I hadn't been sent to bed. Mark did get to stay up that late and whether or not he listened or his mom told him about it doesn't really matter. Mark made sure to tell me about it the next day.
Mark met me in the driveway early the next morning and told me about Pete. He said, "Pete the Python escaped from the zoo last night". I asked what a python was. He told me it was a huge snake. I don't like snakes now and I really didn't like snakes then so I was already spooked. He said the news guy told parents to keep their children inside because Pete was a man-eater weighing nearly 500 pounds and measured six yards long. I was trembling by this point but I held my ground. I asked Mark what six yards looked like. He said, "You're kidding me right? You don't know how long six yards is?". I told him no. He grabbed me by the arm and led me out to the front of the house. Then he pointed to his house and said, "First you see my yard. Now look at your yard. The next yard is Mrs. Maddox' yard. The yard after that is the Studebaker driver's yard. Then we have the old people's yard and then the yard after that. THAT is six yards!" That scared me so much I got dizzy. I probably would have passed out right there where I was standing had I not already started my mad dash to the house. I stayed in the house for at least two days after that even though Mark stood in my driveway and begged me to come out. No 500 pound snake that long was gonna eat me. It could go ahead and eat Mark.
Later on, mama explained to me that Pete only weighed 150 pounds and she showed me with a tape measure what six yards really looked like. That was still one big, stinking snake. I figured they caught Pete after a couple of days or maybe he died so I ventured back outside and Mark and I roamed the neighborhood and threw rocks at hub caps until we moved to a bigger house that winter. I was spooked awfully bad when mama mentioned at breakfast one morning that they had finally caught old Pete on October 4th.
Saturday, August 11, 2018
It Wasn't My Fault...
I was a pretty good kid growing up. I tried to stick to the straight and narrow. Oh sure, I did learn to smoke when I was four and then I let my cousins Jamie and Donnie teach Glenn and me how to pee off the roof when I was six, but other than that I kept it pretty calm...although the peeing incident reminds me of how my cousin Mike and I used to write our names on the side of the house by....you know. Mike had fits trying to dot that "i". But, all in all, we were good kids. It amazes me to look back on those early years and remember how much trouble I seemed to stay in.
I had it okay before my brother Glenn came along. If you remember your Bible stories I was Ishmael and Glenn was Isaac. He could do no wrong and was without question the heir apparent. When things got broken it was usually Glenn who broke it and me who got blamed for it. I did learn early in life that being the reporter on the street was not a glamorous job. Daddy would come home and ask, "Who broke this?" I would calmly answer, "Glenn did it!" After a while the story got old I guess. One afternoon when he came home from work he found the gate torn down. It wasn't a great gate. In fact, whoever built it must have spent a good fifteen minutes putting it together but it did keep our dog, Lady, in the backyard. The way Daddy discovered the broken gate was having Lady greet him in the street out front of our house. As he was putting the gate back together he asked no one in particular, "Who in the world could have done so much damage to this gate?" I assumed he wanted an answer so I told him...."Glenn did it". And he had! I saw him do it! I reckon I should have kept it to myself. Daddy turned around from his work and yelled at me, "I guess you don't ever do anything wrong, do you? I guess you are Mr. Perfect and sit back and watch Glenn do everything!" I guess I shouldn't have answered "yes" because it made him even more mad. To be fair, I hadn't ever told him about the smoking.
After this affectionate conversation between father and son, I decided to keep my mouth shut. The three of us used to spend the fall evenings raking up oak leaves into a huge pile and on Friday nights we would have a bonfire to get rid of them. Great times! Even greater were the Saturday mornings when Glenn and I would sneak out to play in the pile of ashes. We would ride our imaginary horses "over the ash of the battlefield" or wrestle in the ashes like the cowboys on TV who always got in fights around the campfire. One Saturday morning we were playing around and Glenn found the hammer our dad had been missing. Unfortunately, he found it in the ash from the fire the night before. I have heard that hickory makes a wonderful handle but I have to say it burns up just like any other wood. The hammerhead was left but we didn't think this was going to please Daddy a lot. Glenn told me to take it. I said, "No way. You found it. You take it." Glenn 'playfully' threw it at me and hit me right between the eyes. A knot the size of a walnut rose up on my forehead and I went screaming into the house. Daddy asked what happened...I told him I got hit by a hammer. He asked who hit me. My brain was fuzzy from the hit but still working. I remembered the earlier conversation so I told him I did it myself. He looked at me like I was an idiot and asked how in the world I hit myself in the head with a hammer. I was a fast learner but a terrible liar. I told him I threw it up in the air and tried to catch it. He stared at me for a few seconds then said, "You're an idiot".
Another accident revolving around those leaf ashes actually wasn't Glenn's fault. It was all my fault but darn it, he didn't have to laugh so hard. One morning he pointed out some smoke rising from the ashes. We were surprised because Daddy was always good at soaking the embers down to nothing the night before. Instead of reporting the small situation to headquarters, I told Glenn I would take care of it. Just like all my cowboy heroes, I stomped down on the smoky spot at which time my foot sank a foot deep in ash and down to the live coals. A small ember fell into my shoe and I let the whole neighborhood know I was on fire. Everywhere I jumped the ember went with me. I jumped and hollered all over that backyard until Glenn stopped laughing long enough to tackle me and help me get my shoe off. I had a huge burned spot on my sock but not too much damage to my skin. I would survive. I took both socks off and threw them in the trash can. I suggested to Glenn we keep that story as our little secret.
There are more examples of the equality of early life in our household. I won't tell the story of the Playboy magazine smuggled into the house by Glenn when we were teenagers. Suffice to say that after an hour or two of brutal questioning, Glenn confessed because he could tell I was about to get it...and I didn't even get to see the stupid magazine.
I had it okay before my brother Glenn came along. If you remember your Bible stories I was Ishmael and Glenn was Isaac. He could do no wrong and was without question the heir apparent. When things got broken it was usually Glenn who broke it and me who got blamed for it. I did learn early in life that being the reporter on the street was not a glamorous job. Daddy would come home and ask, "Who broke this?" I would calmly answer, "Glenn did it!" After a while the story got old I guess. One afternoon when he came home from work he found the gate torn down. It wasn't a great gate. In fact, whoever built it must have spent a good fifteen minutes putting it together but it did keep our dog, Lady, in the backyard. The way Daddy discovered the broken gate was having Lady greet him in the street out front of our house. As he was putting the gate back together he asked no one in particular, "Who in the world could have done so much damage to this gate?" I assumed he wanted an answer so I told him...."Glenn did it". And he had! I saw him do it! I reckon I should have kept it to myself. Daddy turned around from his work and yelled at me, "I guess you don't ever do anything wrong, do you? I guess you are Mr. Perfect and sit back and watch Glenn do everything!" I guess I shouldn't have answered "yes" because it made him even more mad. To be fair, I hadn't ever told him about the smoking.
After this affectionate conversation between father and son, I decided to keep my mouth shut. The three of us used to spend the fall evenings raking up oak leaves into a huge pile and on Friday nights we would have a bonfire to get rid of them. Great times! Even greater were the Saturday mornings when Glenn and I would sneak out to play in the pile of ashes. We would ride our imaginary horses "over the ash of the battlefield" or wrestle in the ashes like the cowboys on TV who always got in fights around the campfire. One Saturday morning we were playing around and Glenn found the hammer our dad had been missing. Unfortunately, he found it in the ash from the fire the night before. I have heard that hickory makes a wonderful handle but I have to say it burns up just like any other wood. The hammerhead was left but we didn't think this was going to please Daddy a lot. Glenn told me to take it. I said, "No way. You found it. You take it." Glenn 'playfully' threw it at me and hit me right between the eyes. A knot the size of a walnut rose up on my forehead and I went screaming into the house. Daddy asked what happened...I told him I got hit by a hammer. He asked who hit me. My brain was fuzzy from the hit but still working. I remembered the earlier conversation so I told him I did it myself. He looked at me like I was an idiot and asked how in the world I hit myself in the head with a hammer. I was a fast learner but a terrible liar. I told him I threw it up in the air and tried to catch it. He stared at me for a few seconds then said, "You're an idiot".
Another accident revolving around those leaf ashes actually wasn't Glenn's fault. It was all my fault but darn it, he didn't have to laugh so hard. One morning he pointed out some smoke rising from the ashes. We were surprised because Daddy was always good at soaking the embers down to nothing the night before. Instead of reporting the small situation to headquarters, I told Glenn I would take care of it. Just like all my cowboy heroes, I stomped down on the smoky spot at which time my foot sank a foot deep in ash and down to the live coals. A small ember fell into my shoe and I let the whole neighborhood know I was on fire. Everywhere I jumped the ember went with me. I jumped and hollered all over that backyard until Glenn stopped laughing long enough to tackle me and help me get my shoe off. I had a huge burned spot on my sock but not too much damage to my skin. I would survive. I took both socks off and threw them in the trash can. I suggested to Glenn we keep that story as our little secret.
There are more examples of the equality of early life in our household. I won't tell the story of the Playboy magazine smuggled into the house by Glenn when we were teenagers. Suffice to say that after an hour or two of brutal questioning, Glenn confessed because he could tell I was about to get it...and I didn't even get to see the stupid magazine.
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