October 26, 2009

graynation: stories from sovereign neighborhoods

Editor's note: graynation has its roots in a project I started three years ago called Sovereign Neighborhoods. It was – is – a community memoir, written by the Class of 1961, Abilene High School. It is about being 10 and 11 years old in Abilene, Texas, in 1953 and '54, when kids still found their recreation mostly out of doors, before television and later computers started to pull kids out of their neighborhoods and into their living rooms. Our neighborhoods were well-defined, sovereign worlds in which we went to school, played, and found adventure. In graynation, the global version of Sovereign Neighborhoods, there are literally millions of memories and vignettes not present here, but it is time to publish the material we do have because a) it is fun, and b) people reading it may be inspired to send their own stories of life as kids in Abilene, or in communities around the world . . .

We moved into a new house at 1502 Green Street in 1953. The street behind us was Burger, and past that only pasture land. I remember the red dirt that would not come out of our clothes, especially white socks, and red ants that could sting like crazy.We then moved just across Catclaw Creek to 1517 Graham Street. Our “block” ran from North 12th Street to North 18th Street. I remember David Winkles lived on one end and Travis Cranfill at the other end, and so many others in between. Donna Day lived down the street and she had a piano. (My one wish in life that we could never afford) She and I went to the movies on some Saturdays and almost always went to the book store next to the theatre. I think I bought every Nancy Drew book that was published during that time. Can you imagine, I had 25 cents to spend. I went to the movie, bought a drink and Jr. Mints and still had money left over for a book. Sometimes we would venture across the street to Minters or Grissoms and try on hats. My mother would have had a hissy fit if she knew we did that!- Ann CoppedgeOur address was 1926 South 19th. Evidently Abilene wasn't prepared for all the "war babies" so the schools were overcrowded when I started to 1st grade. I went mornings only in 1st grade at Alta Vista and in 2nd grade I was an afternoon student. My husband says we were the Alta Vista Roosters but I don't remember that. He was a year and a grade older and was in the old building. First and second graders were in the new building and really didn't take part in much since we only went half a day. When I went to third grade Bowie Elementary was finished so I became a Bowie Bobcat.The community seemed to be a lot safer for kids in those days than it is today. I guess Mother drove me to Alta Vista and picked me up in 1st grade, (no school buses) but I remember walking home by myself in 2nd grade, and it was pretty far to our house. I always hurried so I wouldn't miss my favorite radio program--Big John and Sparkie. It came on at 5 or 5:30.-Holley PurcellIt was a late June evening in dry, dusty West Texas. The year was 1951. "Daddy, Are we there, yet? It smells like we are home," I asked my father as I stepped over my sleeping brothers and popped my head up between my father's head and the open window. Smelling the tell tale smell of the Paymaster Feed mill on Treadaway Street woke me up. "Yes we are in Abilene now, Sister. Just a few more minutes and you will be in your bed." From Highway 80 he would turn onto Treadaway, following it to South 20th Street, just a little further and turning right to 1933 Belmont Boulevard. Then I could smell the mimosa blooms that told me I was really home.
No one was hungry because Aunt Faye in Ranger had seen to that earlier in the day. Not only did we have a cowboy breakfast of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, eggs, bacon, orange juice, homemade biscuits, toast from homemade bread, milk and coffee, but as we were leaving in the late afternoon, she sent a sack of sandwiches along with peaches from her trees to eat on the road. We always loved to visit Aunt Faye and Uncle Kirk in Ranger.- Karen LusbyMy world was ending; I had to move from North Louisiana where my extended family lived way out west to Texas. I only knew about Texas from cowboy movies. When we finally got to our new home, Abilene, we lived in a rented house at 1641 North 21st St. My mother enrolled me in College Heights School. My new second grade teacher was Mrs. Morton. For the first time in my life I was in a new school that was really new. My classroom was in a new addition that had been recently opened. I didn’t get to know many people before school was out for the year. I do remember Allison Kay Tartt; it is hard to forget a pretty girl, even at seven years old. That summer my folks bought a house on the south side of town, at 818 Grove St.
-Larry Scott

San Angelo was my birthplace and for the most part my known universe. Then on an early spring day in 1952, I learned that my father was moving us lock, stock and barrel to a town called Abilene. I clearly remember hearing him say that the family and his new shoe store would fare better in this far off place.For an eight year old boy, moving was a fate worse than death. How could a person possibly survive a summer in a strange place and with no buddies to explore for good crawdad fishing holes?
San Angelo was my birthplace and for the most part my known universe. Then on an early spring day in 1952, I learned that my father was moving us lock, stock and barrel to a town called Abilene. I clearly remember hearing him say that the family and his new shoe store would fare better in this far off place.

For an eight year old boy, moving was a fate worse than death. How could a person possibly survive a summer in a strange place and with no buddies to explore for good crawdad fishing holes?
My father rented us a place on Jeanette Street, not far from South Junior. There were few kids my age on the block. So, my sister and I entertained ourselves by listening to music on the Motorola. There were nighttime serials along with frequent updates on General Eisenhower’s run for president plus how things were going in another far off place called Korea.- Dale Thorp

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October 19, 2009

graynation: Sovereign Neighborhoods

Editor's note: graynation has its roots in a project I started three years ago called Sovereign Neighborhoods. It was – is – a community memoir, written by the Class of 1961, Abilene High School. It is about being 10 and 11 years old in Abilene, Texas, in 1953 and '54, when kids still found their recreation mostly out of doors, before television and later computers started to pull kids out of their neighborhoods and into their living rooms. Our neighborhoods were well-defined, sovereign worlds in which we went to school, played, and found adventure. In graynation, the global version of Sovereign Neighborhoods, there are literally millions of memories and vignettes not present here, but it is time to publish the material we do have because a) it is fun, and b) people reading it may be inspired to send their own stories of life as kids in Abilene, or in communities around the world.The project will be updated and re-published as new material arrives. We begin with Nancy Shoemaker . . .

My block, 1800 Chestnut, was the perfect place to grow up. There were playmates to find and adventures to be had in nearly every house on the block. Traffic was light and there were concrete sidewalks populated with horned toads. It was easy to learn to skate, ride a bicycle, and to find one's place in the social structure of the time. I had Kay Altman across the street, Bob Denham next door, Alice Fisher across the alley behind, and Teresa Smith one house away. There were others and I loved to play with all of them.
- Nancy Shoemaker

I went to Bowie. I started there in the 3rd grade and we lived at the very end of Sayles Blvd. It was a perfect place to ride our bikes all over, play football, baseball and walk to the Metro Theater. Linda Simmons moved in in the 4th grade and I was forever late getting home because I had to see one more show. She, Max Mossholder, my brother David and I used to do everything together. We would usually meet at Linda's house because her parents and ours were friends and would play croquet for hours.
- Barbara Stevenson

We lived on Sycamore Street, I believe it was off of East South 11th. When I was about 9 years old we moved to the South part of Abilene. I lived on Over St. which was one block south of South 20th. I went to Bowie Elementary (which was built in 1951) We moved into a brand new house and the only thing beyond our backyard was a pasture with horses in it. We put the lawn and trees in after we moved there.
When growing up, there was a vacant lot on the corner across the street, with mesquite trees and we would play and play and play over there. Play jacks on that cold front porch, ride our bikes and stay out late and watch the lightning bugs and sit on the front porch and enjoy the evening breeze. I would rather be outside than inside. But would of course go in to watch I Love Lucy.
- Edna Cole

At one point we had a “club” and built some sort of underground “fort” across the street from the school. To be a member of the exclusive club one had to be initiated. This entailed having hot wax dripped on your ankle. If the initiate yelled, you might not get to be a member. I’m sure the fort situated on a vacant lot covered a very small number of square feet, but to us it seemed massive, a complex of underground rooms in the darkness. It was probably no more than a few feet deep, covered with boards and metal, with dirt thrown on top. But it served its purposes to hide out and use when we had “clod fights.”
- John Odam

Our house was at 1118 Green St. Four blocks to the west of Green St. was Mockingbird Lane, and west of there was the Planet of the Unknown: BB-gun territory.
What we considered a good workout was chasing a DDT truck dispersing a cloud of toxic smoke for 16 blocks, while devouring an Eskimo Pie we had retrieved from the neighborhood ice cream wagon. DDT also went good with a Dreamcicle. After hosing down for 30 minutes in the back yard sprinkler, we made our way into the house for the best home-cooked meal in town. You were always welcome to stay.
Then it was out the doors for the neighborhood sunset. We played marbles, tops, yo-yos, kite flying, Red Rover, kick the can, while it was still light. As the sun set, it was hide and go seek, and the gathering of lightning bugs. On our backs, we could make a wish on a falling star, how far is far, how is there no end, I wish I may, I wish I might . . . “You kids get inside and clean up, it’s past your bedtime!!”
- Jerry Grider

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October 11, 2009

graynation: Twenty-four months

I just received a summary of my Social Security Earnings Record, and its first entry is for 1955, in the amount of $109. I was 12 years old. That summer, I worked for Abilene Reproduction Co. They printed blueprints, and other schematic documents, in a room filled with big machines that reeked of ink and ammonia.

It was my job to deliver the tightly-rolled-up documents to offices around town, mostly downtown, either on foot or on my bicycle. The secretaries gave me a lot of attention, which I enjoyed but was too young to fully appreciate. I liked the routine of being outside in the heat, then inside the cool office buildings, then outside again. It was a good job.

Since I was a delivery boy, I lobbied my mother for a motorbike. No, in 1955, that was not an unusual thing for a 12-year-old to do. Several of my friends had motorbikes or scooters. Gerald Williamson, my icon, had one. He let me ride it, or tried to. I couldn't get a grip on the clutch. I sat there on the sidewalk, engine screaming, Gerald screaming, "Let out the clutch!" I did, finally, and got under way, sort of.

Frank and Bruce Teagarden had Cushman Eagles. Many graynation men remember the Cushman Eagle as their last most desirable thing in the 12-year-old male world before the puberty tsunami swept through and replaced all male thought with the image of a leg protruding from a skirt. Frank, who was my age, had a black Eagle. Bruce, a year younger, had a pink one. They were the epitome of cool.

Johnny Richardson, who lived in the very next block from me, had a Vespa. This is the machine I lobbied for. There was no way, I knew, that my mother was going to put me, a mild-mannered church-going boy, on a Cushman Eagle. The Vespa was very cool, too – hell, anything with a motor on it was cool – but compared to the Eagle, it looked downright conservative.

Eventually, my mother caved, and she put me on a kind of motorbike – motorbikes had spoked wheels – called a Simplex. It was belt-driven, for Pete's sake. It had some kind of automatic transmission, or maybe because it was so slow it only needed one gear. I just turned the throttle, and down below a drivetrain slowly meshed, in a stately sort of way, and motion was achieved. YouTube being what it is, you can see an actual 1955 Simplex in action. As soon as I saw it, I remembered the centrifugal clutch, whirring away inches from my right thigh.

I rode it for about two months, without incident. Then seventh grade started, and I parked the Simplex in the school lot, and that afternoon it wouldn't start. Somebody had put sugar in my gas tank.

I haven't owned a motorbike since. On my SSN Earnings Report, it shows I didn't earn anything in 1956. I think that is the summer I went to camp. Then, 1957 shows a contribution of $92. That would be from Lucile Gerber, owner of Lucile's Flowers. In two years, I went from a bicycle-riding, secretary-delighting 12-year-old, to a hormone-besotted delivery boy for Lucile's Flowers, careening around Abilene in a green 1957 Chevrolet panel truck in which I could get rubber in all three gears. At the time, I don't believe I appreciated the rate of change. Looking at it now, it stuns me.

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October 04, 2009

graynation: Sunday chicken dinner, and other amusements

Every other month, Susie would fix fried chicken for Sunday dinner. I started to pay close attention to this when I was about three, which would have been 1946. After breakfast, she would go behind the swinging kitchen door, next to the water heater, and bring out the broom.

Seeing this, I would follow her out the back door and down some steps to the back yard. She had a chicken coop built onto the back of the garage, and there were always several chickens in residence. During World War II, and after, men in the area, mostly friends of her son, my uncle, Clyde, who was a cavalry colonel in the South Pacific, would visit the house, bringing Susie firewood, produce, meat and chickens.

Susie would go among the milling chickens, select one that I am sure she had already picked out days before, and grab it by the neck. She carried the chicken away from the others, then put its neck down on the ground, lay the broomstick across it, and put her foot on the broomstick. Then she reached down and pulled the chicken's head off. It never ceased to amaze me, how easily the chicken's head came off.

She lifted the broom handle and the headless chicken ran around for some moments, then fell over. She placed the chicken in a paper bag and carried it inside, at which point I lost interest. The rest of it involved routine stuff like scalding the chicken, pulling out the feathers, washing it and cutting it up for frying.

At 10, I was taken to Sunday school, no matter how much I protested, and at 11 Susie, her three daughters, and I, went to church, St. Paul Methodist, on the north side of the tracks. After church, we stopped by Mack Eplen's Restaurant, across the street from the First Baptist Church, that you could hangar a blimp in, and picked up a pan of rising yeast cloverleaf rolls.

Autumn afternoons were nothing like today. We had a radio, and a piano, and sometimes my mom or aunts would play the piano. Professional football teams played games on Sunday afternoon in the east, but nobody in Abilene paid much attention. Of course there was no television and no computers. Clyde was a polo player, and after the war we spent many Sunday afternoons watching teams play polo on fields south of town, where South 20th is now.

On other afternoons, I would play outside or listen to the radio. It didn't matter what was on, though as time went by, I really got attached to shows like "Sky King," "The Green Hornet," and "The Shadow." The radio provided a bit of foreshadowing. Sometimes, when a favorite show was on, I took my dinner into the living room and ate it listening to the radio.

Otherwise, we always ate as a family at the big dining room table. There was a story in The New York Times this morning about the benefits to children when families all eat together at the dining table. I suppose that is true, but I also witnessed quite a number of dysfunctional things that can occur among family members eating around a dining table. Susie's other memorable employment of the broom was to chase her daughters around with it once in a while.

There was also something about touching food that made it non-consumable, and this was most apparent on fried chicken night. I suppose kids today would have some vivid mental picture of where that golden chicken on the table came from, but in those days it was no big deal. It was just fried chicken, with cream gravy, the cloverleaf rolls, and green beans or black-eyed peas, a couple of vegetables like that. Susie always ate the back and the neck, which none of the others would eat, and at the end, there always seemed to be a leg left on the platter. Susie would say to me, "Why don't you have this last piece? Nobody's touched it."

It still seems important to me, not to offer anyone food that I have touched. I also know how to cut up a whole chicken – it's a lot cheaper that way – and to cut it so there is a pully bone to wish on at the end. The short bone got the wish.

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September 27, 2009

graynation: being white in the 1950s

I was saying a couple of Sundays ago that remembering the 1950s didn't make me feel particularly old, but remembering the 1940s sure did. I think that must be because the 1950s have a similarity to the world I live in now, whereas the '40s were truly the ancient times.

The '50s were the years when the world started to change from old – pre- 1950 – to new. In fact, the 1950s were tumultuous with change. The media and consumer driven world of the early 21st century can trace its roots directly to events of the 1950s. It's strange. To people with only a general attentiveness to history, the 1950s have receded into memory as a quiet time, a period of Eisenhower-era tranquility. The tumultuous 1960s by contrast certainly did what they could to enhance that memory. But the Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter and author David Halberstam saw so much happening in the 1950s that he wrote a complete book, titled, simply, “The ‘50s.”

Cars, television, radio, music, suburbs, shopping centers, clothes, advertising, everything was changing. It is true that at the time, in Abilene, Texas, much of that change occurred with the force of a pebble dropping unheard into a distant pond, such as the unanimous Supreme Court decision of May 17, 1954, that ended the “separate but equal” doctrine of educational facilities for whites and blacks. That ripple would not reach Abilene for another decade.

Which means that I, essentially, grew up in an exclusively white community. Of all the strange things about life on that planet, I believe that, today, for me, remains the strangest. In Abilene, Texas, in the 1950s, there were separate facilities, wherever they were required, for the black population. Water fountains, restrooms, waiting areas, a part of town, all identified by the same label: “Colored.” Downtown stores, restaurants and movie theaters were closed to blacks, to whom the Abilene media commonly referred as “Negroes.” If it were socially necessary, newspapers of that time would airbrush photos to remove black people from the image before publishing it in the paper.

The education codes, unlike the social (written and unwritten) codes, didn’t say anything about any of the other races: Hispanic, Asian, Indian. Not many of them did, but any of those could attend white high schools and play white high school football. There were black Abilene teenagers in those days who were very good football players, like Robert Kelley and Louis Kelley, who played for the Woodson Rams, the Colored high school down in Colored Town on the east side below the railroad tracks. Woodson and black high schools in the other cities played in their own league. The Rams, whose colors were green and white, did play some of their games at the white stadium, Fair Park Stadium, but that was as close as the Kelleys or any of those high school kids could come to wondering what it would be like to go to Abilene High School, be an Abilene Eagle. White kids liked to go to the Woodson games because it was good football and Woodson High had a small but joyous band.

Those games were the only social contact I ever had with black kids. Then, in 1961, I was graduated from Abilene High and in the fall began my freshman year at Stanford University. Total culture shock. The biggest shaping event of my life. In 1969, after school and three years in the Army, I came back to Abilene and got a job at The Abilene Reporter-News, covering high school sports. Something had happened while I was gone. Desegregation reached Abilene. On the teams were kids like Kelvin Ceasar, at Cooper High, and Don Brown at AHS. Today, in Abilene, it's like segregation never happened. But one thought stays with me, as I sit here in my skin, in this place on the planet that I have arrived this morning in my 66th year. To change all that, to change my life completely, you would only have to change one thing about me. Make my skin black.

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September 20, 2009

graynation: YouTube's window to the birth of rock

I am starting to let YouTube consume far too much of my time, but I can't stop my brain from popping up with thoughts like, "I bet I can find 'Party Doll' on YouTube."

After that, what can a man do, but find out? And, of course, there it is. Then there's that menu of associated clips, and it includes "Searchin'," "Whispering Bells," and "Poor Little Fool." And "Click Clack!" I bet I haven't thought about "Click Clack" since the 20th century ended. But there they were, Dicky Doo and the Don'ts, and the acclaimed chorus: "And the wheels go oom-ba-la-la-la click clack, oom-ba-la-la-la shoo! Oom-ba-la-la-la every click clack brings me closer to you!"

And there goes an hour I could have been working on peace in our time.

I am going to blame my parents. They contrived to bring me into the world just at the right time to make me 12 years old when rock and roll came in and blew away the Perry Como Era. One spring night in 1955, a couple hundred junior high and high school kids sauntered into the Paramount Theater (tickets were 25 cents), as we always did on Friday nights, and we took our seats in our usual sections, our Paramount "turf."

The movie this Friday night was “Blackboard Jungle,” starring Glenn Ford and Anne Francis. Also in the cast were two young actors, Vic Morrow and Sidney Poitier. None of the kids in the theater knew anything about the movie; we were there because it was Friday night. First there was the black-and-white newsreel, then the cartoon, then the curtain fell in preamble to the feature. The effect was to set up anticipation, and in fact the crowd became quiet. There were two or three moments of relative calm. Then:

“One two three o’clock four o’clock ROCK!
“Five six seven o’clock eight o’clock ROCK!
“Nine ten eleven o’clock twelve o’clock ROCK!
“We’re gonna ROCK around the CLOCK tonight!”

It was music, very loud and urgent, and it thundered on into its first verse – “When the clock strikes one, join me hon” – but the kids in the Paramount Theater sat rock-still, stunned, staring at the rising curtain, transfixed by the energy blasting at them from Bill Haley and the Comets.

We knew there was something happening to music out there somewhere. We could catch snatches of it on local stations KRBC and KWKC, but we had better luck if we searched for stations in New Orleans, Oklahoma City and Nashville, that came in sometimes with remarkable clarity through a still-uncluttered sky. This was high-energy music that came from people with exotic names like Fats Domino, Chuck Berry and Elvis Presley, and it didn’t sound at all like what we were accustomed to hearing from Gisele MacKenzie, Mitch Miller, Les Baxter, Perry Como, Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney.

We were intrigued by the new music, but it had come from somewhere else far away across the sky. Now we sat in our very own Paramount, with its big speakers and this high-speed music rocketing at us, and for several seconds we were frozen by it. Then we reacted. We jumped up and yelled and the cooler ones got into the aisles and danced in frenzy. It was a before-and-after moment that no one there would ever forget.

The title of the song was “Rock Around the Clock,” and it came to Abilene and all the other cities as a nice example of cross-media marketing. In the 1950s, the recording industry’s principal marketing outlet was radio. Listeners who heard a song on the radio might then go buy it at a record store.

But there were only 24 hours available in a day, and not many radio stations. In 1955, Abilene had only two, meaning there were only 48 music marketing hours available in any given day. Worse, the stations used much of their time to broadcast soap operas, news, and shows like “Farm Roundup,” “Mixing Bowl,” and “Arthur Godfrey.” Their music playlists leaned to proven artists and songs like “Hard to Get,” “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” and “Love is a Many Splendored Thing.” It would be years before enough radio stations existed to develop what came to be called “narrowcasting.” In 1955, on KRBC and KWKC, you took what you got, in a very mixed bag.

So “Rock Around the Clock” rode a movie into town, and the results were instructive to future students of cross-media marketing. “Rock Around the Clock” became the first example of this new music to reach No. 1 on the Billboard Magazine rating charts, and it did so very quickly, reaching No. 1 in June.

The movie was electrifying, too, about gangs in schools not only challenging, but intimidating and literally attacking authority. The teacher, Richard Dadier, played by Glenn Ford, wins in the end, the punk Vic Morrow is hauled away, and Sidney Poitier (a black kid!) leaves the bad guys and becomes a good one. The movie was so controversial that many communities would not allow it to be shown, including, of all places, Memphis, Tennessee.

But Abilene did, and kids who came out of the Paramount that night weren’t the same kids who went in. They came out in possession of a new kind of music, and they knew a new word: “daddio.” It was the first night in Abilene of a new extension of culture that would become a culture unto itself. It tickles me, talking to my kids and grandkids, and all my students, who now think of this culture as their own, to tell them I was there the night it was born. My God, I sound like one of the Three Wise Men.

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September 13, 2009

graynation: old enough to be historic

Okay, so now I am feeling slightly old. The Abilene Reporter-News yesterday took great pains to report that Friday night's Abilene High-Cooper High football game marked the 50th anniversary of the first game played at Shotwell Stadium in Abilene, on Sept. 11, 1959.

I played in that game. I was a junior fullback for Abilene High, and we beat San Antonio Thomas Jefferson that night, 14-12. Fifty years! And I was already 16 years old! I had to check the score in my yearbook; I remembered it as 26-12, so you see how reliable memory is. I do remember the best player on the Jefferson team: Tommy Nobis, who starred at Texas and then Atlanta in the NFL. The best player on our team was David Parks, who was an All-American at Texas Tech and All-Pro with the 49ers.

In the yearbook, 1959 looks modern. Not personally. The way kids dressed at AHS in 1959, you could mistake it for a Catholic school. For boys, the uniform was Levis, a shirt, black penny loafers, and white socks. For girls, the uniform was a dress, black suede penny loafers, and white socks. But there are color photographs, and the school, which opened in 1955, looked modern. The cars had transitioned from the black humpmobiles of the 1940s to cars with long lines and wrap-around windshields.

It's the black humpmobiles that are in my mind today. If I played in the first game at the new Shotwell Stadium, it means I also played in the last game, in December of 1958, at the old Fair Park Stadium, where Eagle teams had played since the 1920s. I find my links to the first half of the 20th century are becoming increasingly awesome. I remember thinking what a strange life it must have been for my grandmother, who rode in wagons before cars appeared. My own life assumes the same strangeness, as I check in at Facebook, remembering a day when I lived in a house with a telephone that was on a party line. A "party line," kids, meant that your phone, and others in several other homes, shared the same line. I picked up the phone many times and heard other people talking. It WAS, I guess, sort of like Facebook. I remember what a big deal it was when we got a private number. It was 7973. Later it became 4-7973. After that, we heard that phone exchanges were coming. I was excited. I had been in big cities with phone exchanges like RIverside, KLondike, FEderal, and SEquoia. I was disappointed when the phone company said our choices would be ORchard and OWen. Ick. At least we got ORchard.

Then, in the same online edition with the Abilene-Cooper story (Abilene won, 49-37), was a story about the Abilene Candy Company burning down. When I was but a boy, in those days in the first half of the 20th century, the Abilene Candy Company made the Jo-Boy candy bar, which was like a Baby Ruth but with a pink center. I loved Jo-Boys and was so impressed that they were made in my home town. The company was still in business, making candy suckers for worldwide distribution. The photos with the story showed it totally engulfed. The building was on North 3rd St., in an industrial area east of downtown.

Downtown was still downtown then. Two hotels, the Windsor and Wooten. Three movie theaters, the Paramount, Majestic and Queen. Two high-tone department stores, Minter's and Grissom's. A drugstore with a soda fountain. Head-in parking, for the black humpmobiles. Texas and Pacific steam engines huffing through the middle of town. A Christmas Parade down Pine Street. No television. No air conditioning. Bottles of milk on the front porch. No traffic roar. So quiet a place, it seems, it was.

Then came the '50s, and modernization. A shopping center. A new stadium, that I played in, and they are still playing in today. That doesn't seem so long ago. But 1949 sure does.

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September 06, 2009

graynation: rock n' roll quiz answers

Here are the answers to Friday's rock and roll quiz. I hope it aroused interest among the younger demographic. This was the real rock n' roll, kids.

As he was motoratin’ over the hill, who did he see? He saw Maybelline in a Coupe de Ville.

What is it that Long Tall Sally’s got? Everything that Uncle John need, oh, baby.

How you call your lover boy? Oh, Lover Boy. And if he doesn’t answer? Oh, Lover Boy. And if he still doesn’t answer? C’mere, Lover Boy!

What’ll be the day? That’ll be the day.

What ain’t there no cure for? The summertime blues.

How many candles make a lovely sight? Sixteen candles.

Ain’t what a shame? You broke my heart when you said let’s part.

What does she do when she does the Ooby Dooby? She wiggles to the left, she wiggles to the right, she does the Ooby Dooby with all of her might.

Who’s sorry now? Whose heart is aching for breaking each vow? He’s sorry now. Her heart is aching. She’s glad that he’s sorry now.

Who calls the English teacher Daddio? Charlie Brown.

Why did Little Susie fall asleep? The movie wasn’t so hot. It didn’t have much of a plot.

How black were the eyes of Felina? Blacker than night were the eyes of Felina

You know he can be found where? Sittin’ home all alone.

Who told Tchaikovsky the news? Beethoven.

They furnished off an apartment with a two-room Roebuck sale. With what did they cram the coolerator? TV dinners and ginger ale.

What can you do in lieu of stepping on my blue suede shoes? You can burn my house, steal my car, drink my liquor from an old fruit jar.

What can stop the Duke of Earl? Nothing can stop the Duke of Earl.

Well, did he ever return? No, he never returned, and his fate is still unlearned.

If you want to know if he loves you so, is it in his eyes? No, it’s in his kiss.

When do your heartaches begin? When you find your sweetheart in the arms of a friend.

Well bless my soul, what’s wrong with me? I’m itchin’ like a cat on a fuzzy tree. I’m in love. I’m all shook up.

Why do I walk the line? Because you’re mine.

What did he really want to send her? An orchid of some kind. But what could he actually send her, with all that he had in his jeans at the time? A rose and a Baby Ruth.

You load 16 tons, what do you get? Another day older and deeper in debt.

Where do fools rush in? Where angels fear to tread.

Whose barn? What barn? His barn. Jerry Lee Lewis’s barn.

What do chantilly lace and a pretty face do? Make the world go round.

Who is dancing to the Jailhouse Rock? Everybody in the whole cellblock

He never ever learned to read and write so well, but how does he play the guitar? Just like ringing a bell.

Oh, please, Diana, stay where? Stay by me, Diana.

Why is a party doll all he wants? To be with him when he’s feeling wild. To be ever-loving true and fair, to run her fingers through his hair.

Who used to play around with hearts that hastened to his call? Poor Little Fool.

Gotta be what kind of music, if you want to dance with me? Rock and roll music.

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August 30, 2009

graynation: The end of a long novel

For most people in graynation, watching Teddy Kennedy's funeral on Saturday was like reaching the end of a long novel and closing it. Kennedys have been in our consciousness since the late 1950s, when John F. Kennedy started getting national attention. His debate with the Republican candidate, Richard M. Nixon, in the fall of 1960 (I was a high school senior) was the first televised presidential debate in history.

And it was historic, because of television. "That night," wrote Russell Baker of The New York Times, "image replaced the printed word as the natural language of politics."

We didn't see near as many images of our presidents and politicians as you kids do now. What we knew of them, we read, mostly, in newspapers and magazines. The first coast-to-coast television broadcast was not until September, 1951. It showed President Harry S Truman opening the Japanese Peace Treaty Conference in San Francisco. And it was all black-and-white. Most of our national leaders before 1970 we never once saw in color, unless they came to campaign in our town..

When I was born, a man named Franklin D. Roosevelt was president. He died in 1945 and was succeeded by his vice-president, Mr. Truman. I was 2 at the time and don't remember much about it. Truman was elected to his own presidency in 1948 and held the office until I was in fourth grade. School is where I learned that Truman's middle initial was not followed by a period.

I liked Truman, who looked like a high school principal, but my favorite president was Dwight Eisenhower, who had been a top general in World War II. He was elected in 1952. His wife was named Mamie, and she looked like she should have been married to Harry S Truman. We didn't have what you call terrorism at that time, but our huge enemy was Communist Russia. There was what they called the "Cold War" between the United States and Russia, that started right after World War II ended in 1945. So it felt good to have one of our war generals in the president's office. We worried about Russia and the Communists all the time. We had bomb drills at school, bomb shelters all over town with big yellow "CD" (Civil Defense) signs on them, and once a month (or was it twice?), the air raid sirens were tested, at noon, all over town.

Eisenhower was re-elected in 1956, the same year he signed bill that created the interstate highway system. If I had to pick one image to illustrate the difference between that graynation America of 1956, and today's America, it would be the difference between a two-lane U.S. (as all the major highways were then called) highway and a multi-lane interstate freeway. The fastest traffic in those days could go only as fast as the slowest truck, until you could find room to pass.

The new highways were also intended to make military movements quicker and easier in case we were invaded. The Cold War really got serious in October of 1957 when the Russians launched Sputnik, the world's first space satellite. It was about 23 inches across and weighed 185 pounds. But it meant to Americans that the Russians could spy on us from space and launch the ominous ICBMs (Inter-Continental Ballistic Missile) at us. We felt a little better when America put its first satellite into space in January, 1958.

The Kennedy era began with JFK's election over Nixon in 1960. At that time, the big airport in New York was called Idlewild, and the space launching complex in Florida was Cape Canaveral. We had a real scare in October, 1962, when JFK confronted Russia for its attempt to ship nuclear missiles into Cuba. The Russians backed down, and historians say it was the closest the world ever came to nuclear war.

Then, of course, JFK was assassinated on Nov. 22, 1963, and his brother, Robert Kennedy, was assassinated on June 5, 1968, as he was campaigning for president in California. Robert's funeral was June 8, where his brother Ted delivered a eulogy that many of us still remember, in part. "My brother need not be idealized," Ted said, "or enlarged in death beyond what he was in life; to be remembered simply as a good and decent man, who saw wrong and tried to right it, saw suffering and tried to heal it, saw war and tried to stop it."

The Kennedy era acquired a nickname: "Camelot," after a 1960s musical based on the King Arthur legend, whose title song included this verse: "Don't let it be forgot, that once there was a spot, for one brief, shining moment, that was known as Camelot." Now the last player in the graynation's Camelot is at rest. If we seem a little quiet today, that is probably why.

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August 23, 2009

graynation: thinking outside the box inside the box

It is true that people my age, when we were children, would get a gift that came in a box, play with the gift for a minute or two, then take the box outside and play with it.

Our parents would act befuddled. They couldn't explain it. And they didn't have anyone to explain it to them. Professionals in the 1940s, like Dr. Spock, were beginning to research child behavior. But parents, even if they cared to look, couldn't find much information about why a kid could get a great gift, then prefer the box it came in. A few parents would intrude, calling the child out for ignoring the gift, particularly if it was a gift from a favorite relative. But most parents, in the 1940s and '50s when I was a kid, would just let the child play with the box.

I don't remember, hunkered in my box in the front yard, peering over the rim for enemy airplanes or lions or spacemen, any adult coming out to ask me why I preferred the box. If they had, and I could have articulated it at the time, I might have said, "The box is full of questions, and the questions are very interesting." Actually, I would have shrugged my shoulders and said something like, "It's fun."

As it turns out, researchers can now tell us, I was learning. And learning was fun. Who would have thought? But it's true, and I think most people have known it, without knowing it, all along. Once we realize it, we see how obvious it is. In my journalism classes, we write a story about a 13-month-old named Duane Shelby who has been ordered to report for job placement or lose his food stamp privilege. At its core, the story is about a bureaucratic screw-up, but we're always looking for ways to make the story interesting. So we ask ourselves: what do we know about Duane Shelby? For example, can Duane work? You wouldn't think so, until you think about watching a 13-month-old at play. When he isn't sleeping, Duane Shelby works all day long. Every move he makes is a learning experience.

All us Duane Shelbys are explorers. We learn the most, and have the most fun, with things unknown. Traditionally, by the time a kid was four years old, the unknown was always outside, sometimes with a box full of questions. As time went by, we staked out neighborhoods. I call them our "sovereign neighborhoods," our home turf, or what today is frequently called a 'hood. To better understand your childhood sovereign neighborhood, read some of the anecdotes at my blog of that name.

Kids in my generation went outside naturally – wasn't much to do inside – but in the '60s and '70s, that started to change, as television, and then computers, and then the digital blizzard, lured kids indoors. Today's parents and grandparents are made uncomfortable by that, sometimes just by instinct, an instinct that we easily acted upon by going outside, and that we wish for today's kids as well, because there is something important out there. Various researchers have started to put their finger on it, including my San Diego friend in journalism Richard Louv, who identified it as "nature-deficit disorder," wrote a prize-winning book about it, and created a national "Children & Nature Network."

Now, in the Aug. 16 New York Times, comes a report about a Berkeley researcher, Alison Gopnik, who worries that parents think their babies, their very own Duane Shelbys, should "learn in a focused planned way," even though research shows those babies can learn better when left to their own devices. They "carefully watch," she writes, "ceaselessly manipulate," and "imagine different ways that the world might be." This, she says, is "very different from schoolwork," which is mostly data compilation.

"Parents and other caregivers teach young children by paying attention and interacting with them naturally," Gopnik concludes, "and, most of all, by just allowing them to play."

And that, the brave sons and daughters who are the parents of our young learning-machine grandchildren, is the advice from one box-loving graynation veteran of the pre-digital world.

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August 16, 2009

graynation: The very first day of school

In 1949, I entered first grade at Ben Milam Elementary School in Dallas. (Ben Milam was a fighter in the Texas revolutionary war against Mexico.) There was no kindergarten then. Before the first day of school (traditionally the Tuesday after Labor Day), my mother and I completed my off-to-school shopping. Her name was June, and she was a worrier. My good young grandchildren, you may have your own thoughts about mothers who worry, but it is far better than having a mother who doesn't. When you are 20, you can start weaning them.

My mother bought a fabric coinpurse, with a gold metal clasp, in which I would carry my lunch money. She reasoned it was more difficult for a six-year-old to lose a whole coinpurse than it was to lose the loose coins themselves. Off I went, the first September morning, with my pencils and ruler and tablet and the coinpurse in my pocket.

Ben Milam was huge, brick, and imposing, in the early 20th century style of elementary schools, two storys and a basement. It was in the Cole Park neighborhood of Dallas, where highway crews were busy excavating the right-of-way for the North Central Expressway, the first urban freeway in Dallas, just across a temporary fence from the upstairs apartment where my family lived on Keating Way. I and some friends had found our way through that fence one weekend, after a rainstorm, when all the huge machinery was still, and we returned home with only the whites of our eyes peeking through the mud.

Susie, my grandmother, could barely restrain herself at the sight. She filled a hot tub and parked me in it, but that was not enough. A few minutes later she re-entered, with a spatula (she called it a pancake turner) in her hand. She hoisted me onto my feet in the dark water and flailed at my bottom until she was satisfied.

But I digress, though I must say I would have preferred a spanking in a muddy tub over being in a line early on a Tuesday morning to have my picture taken in the basement of Ben Milam Elementary. The cafeteria was also in the basement, and 60 years later I remember its scent, though I still can't describe it. It was somewhere between mashed potatoes and peas. In the photo queue, I became a Bluebird, like half my mates, while the others were Redbirds. So early, in our lives, to whet our competitiveness.

I do not remember my teacher's name, but as lunch hour approached, she kindly explained the lunch protocol to us. Then she smiled and held up an object. It was my coinpurse! She said: "What little girl has lost her coinpurse?" It certainly was not worth lunch, or two nickels, or my entire educational future, to respond. I played dead until she gave up and placed the purse in her desk drawer. I was trapped in a startling day in a startling world within a startling world, and I saw no choice but to run.

I had to wait. I didn’t know the penalty for a shamed first-grader bolting for freedom and relief on the first morning of school in the Texas educational system of 1949, but there must have been one. Eventually we filed out of the classroom and marched to the basement, and lined up as Bluebirds or Redbirds, on either side of the hall at the cafeteria doors. Only, when I saw the portal and stairs that I remembered as the way we had come in that morning, I broke for it. I ran up the stairs and out of the school and down the sidewalk three or four blocks to home and unrepentantly threw myself against the apartment door, wanting in.

The next day, I reluctantly walked back to my second day of school at Ben Milam, with two nickels rattling loose in my pocket. I took it as a victory of sorts.

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August 09, 2009

graynation: touching Susie's hands

The graynation concept spreads! Here's the first paragraph (called the "lede" in journalism) from New York Times film critic A.O. Scott's review yesterday:

"I've reached the age when my children sometimes ask, 'Dad, what were things like in the olden days, when you were a teenager?' They mean the 1980s, and it's not so easy to explain. The ancient past never is."

I can see A.O.'s tongue bulging in his cheek when he refers to the 1980s as "the ancient past;" I would wager his yearbook pages haven't even started to yellow yet. To our kids, though, it's all relative. They just know that their parents came from a time from before they were born, and what a strange place it must have been. To them, any graynation story is unique, whether it dates from the 1980s or the 1950s (when I was a teenager) or the 1890s, when my grandmother migrated from Belgreen, Alabama, to Haskell County, Texas, in a covered wagon.

I would ask my grandmother, Susie, about those days, and she told me unique stories about that move, and what Texas was like before I was born in 1943, but she never wrote any of it down. It's not so easy to explain, as A.O. says. The ancient past never is.

I think we owe it to our kids, and their kids, to try. Hence, graynation. In the effort, we may well learn something about ourselves. "We shall not cease from exploration," wrote T.S. Eliot, "and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time." And we provide our kids bragging power: "My dad shelled pecans with his grandmother, whose parents were alive at the time of the Civil War!"

True story. I sat at the dining room table and shelled pecans with a slender, gray-haired woman whose eyes were icy blue, whose parents and grandparents told her stories about living in the Civil War, and life in the United States in the early 1800s. I could touch a living hand that had touched those living hands. I think that is an awesome transmission.

And through Susie, I experienced something first-hand about 1800s rural life. In all the time that I knew her (she died in 1977), Susie was a country woman living in the city. I, my mother, and her two sisters lived with Susie in her house. My mom and dad were divorced shortly after I was born, and Susie (he says) had a role in it. But that's another story. Right now, I was about to say that Susie saw her mission in life as keeping the men in the fields. I watched her cling to that life, through choice, or lack of choice, even though the men had become daughters who worked in downtown offices, and one small boy who was under foot most of the day and once managed to set the dining room curtains on fire.

There were two real men in her life, two sons, whom I never saw until I was three. One was fighting in the Pacific, the other in Europe. The newspaper every day had battle stories all over the front page. I remember the tension, wondering whether we would win or lose. I didn't worry like they did about the two men. I didn't know who they were. They both made it back, and I was amazed by them, coming into my house. They were huge, of a gruff humor, and totally different from the women.

Susie kept food on the table and everybody healthy. Dinner was on the table at 5 p.m., ready for the girls when they hit the door. I hated it. If it was August and 105 outside (no air conditioning), Susie still poured the milk at 4:45, and if we ate at 5:05, the milk was warm. For health maintenance, she had two principle remedies: Vicks Salve, and black salve. Kids, I've told you the Vicks Salve story a hundred times, so I won't repeat it here. And the black salve is another story altogether (so many other stories). Susie could mend and chop wood and run a ringer washer and kill a chicken in the back yard in the morning and have it fried on the table for dinner. She was the toughest person I ever knew (Dan Fouts, the fabled Chargers quarterback, comes in second). She was a trained schoolteacher, a Methodist, and a church-goer. When we didn't go, she listened to the services on the radio. She never learned to drive.

She was gentle to all people, except, maybe, sometimes, her own. Her daughters could be spiteful and high-tempered. Sometimes she would chase them with a broom. Getting older, I would have liked to learn more about the relationships in that house, but there were some things that nobody would talk about. As the graynation people know, it gets complicated.

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August 03, 2009

graynation cont.: See the USA, in our DNA

Normally I plan to run graynation blogs only on Sunday, but Mason left a comment on yesterday's blog that deserves immediate attention for what it proves about the strength of DNA.

"This," Mason said, "is the car I hope to drive."

An excellent choice, my young friend. We will get to the grim details about gasoline prices, insurance, and maintenance another time. In this blog, I just want to show you the car that I actually did drive.

It was this very same color, but it had the stock wheels. Blue interior, bucket seats, four on the floor, and that big mother 396 engine. I bought it in Norman, Okla., on the day, or the day after, I was graduated from Artillery OCS at Ft. Sill in June, 1967, with orders to West Germany (I was a lucky boy; I'll tell you about it sometime) in my pocket. The car cost around $3,000. I drove it all the way to Abilene with the windows down, partly because it was cool (in the sense of hip) and partly because it wasn't air conditioned. Somewhere I have a Kodak (that's a type of photograph) of me in that car, 180 pounds, shaved head, in my khakis, left elbow on the door sill, right hand draped at the wrist over the wheel just-so.

I had that car for three years. It is the car I had when I met your grandmother. We traded it in, in Abilene, in 1970, for a Fiat 124 Spyder. Now THERE was a car.

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August 01, 2009

graynation: check out THIS 14th birthday

You can credit Mason Bell, a grandson of mine, just turned 14, as the inspiration for this new Sunday blog called graynation. He asked me, "Gpa, what was it like when you were 14?" That's the same kind of question most children eventually ask their elders.
Children/grandchildren become very curious about the world in which their parents/grandparents, the graynation, lived. They receive short, intensely interesting, verbal reminiscences, but nothing ever written down, nothing to keep, and read again, or actually shape into the annals of a civilization. So every Sunday morning, I, a resident of graynation, am going to write stories for Mason, and all my grandchildren and children, stories from a planet even I can hardly believe existed, and I was THERE.


Mason, your 14th birthday was July 24, a little over a week ago. I hope you had a great birthday. My 14th birthday was March 6, 1957, and my birthday celebration was different from yours. On my 14th birthday, I got my driver's license.

This was in Abilene, Texas, where I grew up. The driver's test office was on Butternut Street, around South 16th Street, which in those days was almost on the edge of town. My mother drove me to the office, I took the written test, and then the driving test, and I walked out licensed to drive my mother home. I was in the eighth grade. In Texas, in the early-to-mid-20th century, the legal driving age was set at 14, because so many farm and ranch families, and city families as well, after the Great Depression, put their children to work as soon as they could, and driving a vehicle was a regular part of work. My first job, in fact, in the summer of 1954, required a vehicle: a bicycle. I delivered blueprints for Abilene Blueprint Company.

I learned to drive in a 1951 Chevrolet just like this one. The hardest part was dealing with the clutch. Like most cars back then, the Chevy had a three-speed manual transmission (called a "three-speed stick"), with first, or "low," gear, second gear, and third, or "high," gear. Low gear was powerful, as it had to be to get the car under way. The shift lever was on the right side of the steering column: you pulled toward you and down to get into first, then up and away from you to get into second, and straight down for third. When shifting gears, you had to disengage the transmission from the drive train, and to do this you pushed in the clutch pedal with your left foot. When you were in the gear you wanted, you let out the clutch, and power went to the rear wheels.

Low was so powerful because it turned a lot of times per second. If you knew how to "pop" the clutch and hit the gas just right, low was so powerful that it would make the rear wheels screech against the pavement; that was called "getting rubber." For beginners, the trick was to let the clutch out smoothly with your left foot as you pressed on the gas pedal with your right. That was called "engaging" the clutch. The pressure, as they say, was on. If you let the clutch out too slowly, the engine would scream. Let it out too fast, and the car would "buck." If it started to buck, you had to push the clutch back in and start over. There was no "play" in that clutch at all. As soon as you started to let it out, you were in peril of starting a buck.

And that, of course, was mortifying. Other drivers laughed at me, including (you would have to be a boy reared in West Texas to truly appreciate this) a couple of high school girls one day at the corner of South 7th and Elmwood. But my desire to drive was far greater than my fear of mortification, so I bucked that Chevrolet all over town, as my mother hung on. (Actually, teaching your kids to drive is one of the grandest experiences of parenthood, something you have to look forward to.)

By driver's test day, my 14th birthday, I was good to go. And, sure enough, in the summer of 1957 I got a job that required driving. I worked at Lucile's Flowers and delivered arrangements all over town in a 1957 Chevy panel truck, pale green with a three-speed stick. By then, I was so good with the clutch that I could get rubber in all three gears. That's why, Mason, looking at you and the great, responsible, 14-year-old that you are, that I am so thankful you have to wait until 18.

Kids of mine, your personal graynation connection welcomes more questions.

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About me

  • I am a journalist, educator, writing consultant and author, living in La Mesa, CA. I am a native of Texas, which shows in most of my work. I believe that anything is possible. When I was 35, I realized that the ideal life would be to have the imagination of a six-year-old, and the wisdom of a 65-year-old. I can still get to the imagination (as you can, simply by cutting away all the data you’ve learned from first grade on) and I now possess the wisdom of a 65-year-old. Being 65 can be unsettling – too late to plant trees and enjoy the shade – but the wisdom that comes with it is terrific compensation. I learned in 50th grade that, no matter how bad things get, there is always compensation. Now I am in the 60th grade, and I am learning things that I didn’t know in 59th. This September, I’ll start 61st grade, and learn things I don’t know now. To find what grade you’re in, start with the year you started 12th grade, and count up. My newest book is “Warbirds – How They Played the Game.” My new company is The Write Outsource, quality media writing on deadline, at www.writeoutsource.com. I am working on a book about the media, and I am about to revise my cookbook about home cooking on a tight budget, such as so many of us face at this time.
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