FLYING HIGH, FLYING LOW

James Hays is up next with one of his "flying stories". This may not have impressed his friends then, but it is sure to impress his friends now. I know I'M IMPRESSED that he survived!

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I started flying in earnest January 31, 1955 with my first lesson without parents’ knowledge or permission. Legally J. W. Longenette wouldn't solo me without permission until I turned 18. They found out about it in May 1957 before my birthday and it was a tense moment -- like when Bubba shot the juke box in the song. I had to catch up with lessons and finally soloed August 27, so Glenn beat me on that one. However I never got lost, but I have been temporarily disoriented on occasion. Schooling and other priorities kept me grounded until I was at Peter Smith Hospital in Fort Worth. I signed on as a designated examiner of sexual assault victims for Tarrant County for thirty-five bucks a pop. So I finished my pilot’s license on rape money -- much to my instructor’s amusement.

I restored a 1936 Taylor Cub with allegedly a forty horsepower engine in ‘'73 and by May 1974 I was doing hammerhead stalls in it. To enter this maneuver one with sufficient altitude must dive to gain speed, pull up in a vertical climb and when it almost stops climbing, kick hard left rudder, pivoting 180 degrees and now in a vertical dive, pull out when flying speed rapidly returns now going in the opposite direction. At this point, I decided to impress my friends on the ground with my new found skills, so I buzzed the Bangs, Texas aerodrome at about 60 feet with more or less forty horses banging away and pulled up vertically when it began to dawn on me - DUMB!!! Not enough speed, altitude, or smarts. I'm committed so I kicked hard left rudder in the suddenly soggy airplane and it swapped ends and snapped into a spin past vertical at maybe 150 feet high. At this point, rather than accepting an early demise, I kicked opposite rudder and as soon as I felt the controls bite in the air I pulled back on the stick -- using almost all of my precious altitude and went through a small clearing under the treetops. The plane was hidden from the amazed spectators whom I had intended to impress, one of whom, I believe, stood up to find a shovel. Three seconds later I zoomed up over the trees and flew around for a few minutes to get calm enough to land and sheepishly to face my friends. I had less than 300 hours flying time at the time and now have accumulated 2200 hours in 98 different types of aircraft by not being so stupid. At this time in my life I aspire to be an old pilot instead of a bold pilot.

I've had other adventures flying and even injury since then but never faced the grim reaper so close face to face since.

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Editor's Note: I had intended to do something really special for Valentine's Day, but as it turns out, I will be traveling to Austin tomorrow morning to be with two of my children and grandchildren this weekend. As some of you know by now, I lost my mother this past Sunday. She had been ill with Alzheimer's, among other things, and in a nursing home for a long time, so this is something of a mixed blessing for our family. We are relieved to see her suffering end. And although we will miss her very much, she would want our lives to go on as usual... and being with my first grandchild this weekend as he performs with the All-State Men's Choir is a very important family event -- one she would have loved to attend. Therefore, I will leave you with a few loving thoughts.

First, if you are fortunate enough to spend Valentine's Day with someone near and dear to you, tell them how fortunate you feel. Scroll down to the music playlist on the left of the blog, click on the big arrow, and take that special someone in your arms while you listen to love songs from the past. If it so moves you, you might dance around the living room a bit. A little candlelight would be nice, too.

From my "Cherokee Feast of Days" book by Joyce Sequiche Hifler:

"..We can be so busy that we miss the little things that sweeten life, the way a pet waits to be noticed, the way an owl, a wahuhi, hoots in the woods, and a bluejay chortles in the middle of winter. It is a lovely thing to turn away from busy work to pay attention to our loved things and loved ones. We know how we wait to be told we are important. We should never wait to say or think something beautiful that will make someone's day easier and more secure."

"We do not want riches. We want peace and love."...Red Cloud 1870

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HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY EVERYONE! Remember, YOU make the "good stuff" happen!

With love,
Marilyn

LOVE BY ANY OTHER NAME

The following occurred in "my back yard" in the summer of 2006... Marilyn

THE ORPHAN EGG

I continue to see my back yard as a microcosm of the world. I have a difficult time understanding physics, but I once read a book on chaos theory and as a result, I see patterns repeating themselves over and over, down to the minutest particles I’m able to see. A world within a world within a world. As I watch the events unfolding in my back yard, I find myself relating them to what’s going on in the world at large.

I have a couple of feeders and some water dishes for the birds in my back yard. I love watching my feathered friends, even though I don’t know very much about birds. I often turn to my bird books and field guides to seek information about the birds I am seeing.

One morning I watched a single small blackbird on the grass behaving strangely. A brilliant red Cardinal would frequently fly down to this little bird. As he did so, the blackbird would ruffle its feathers and flap its wings. I know Cardinals are very territorial and I thought he might be trying to chase the blackbird away. I silently applauded the little bird’s efforts to resist this aggression.

As I continued to look out my window, I noticed a different behavior between the two birds. The Cardinal seemed to be “nuzzling” the beak of the blackbird. “Hmmm”, I thought, “could all that fluttering and ruffling of feathers be some kind of courting ritual? Between two different species of birds?” Someone must be confused – and it was probably me! I longed for a pair of binoculars to see the pair up close. After watching for several minutes, I realized that the Cardinal was going to the feeder, then coming back to the little blackbird and feeding it!

All day that day, I could not stay away from the window. I even put out more birdseed than usual, hoping to keep them around longer. I watched the Cardinal get into the water dish and take a bath, shortly followed by the blackbird. The Cardinal was parenting the little bird and teaching it how to care for itself. I have read stories about some birds that lay their eggs in another bird’s nest and then abandon them. I can’t remember if crows or starlings do that. Perhaps that is how these two came together.

It has warmed my heart to observe this little miracle in my back yard. I thought of many analogies as I watched this odd couple the next few days, but my first thought was of the wonderful people who are adopting orphaned children from all over the world as well as in our own country. Most of them have so much love to give a child that they never give a thought to the color of its skin.

I was also reminded of the terrible tragedy going on in the Sudan (Note: The Congo has lost 5.4 million people due to the conflict going on there as well.) and all the hungry, often orphaned little children. We should take lessons from the beautiful proud Cardinal and help feed the people of that beleaguered country as well as help them in their efforts to become independent and care for themselves. With peaceful means, of course. As it goes in my back yard. .. Marilyn Moragne July '06

Recently, I was amazed to have the following video forwarded to me. Thank you, Ann Burton, for this touching little vignette. As I watched it, I began to tell myself that this just might be the little Crow I watched being mothered by a Cardinal in my back yard! What do you think?

A SAFE PLACE TO RAISE CHILDREN?

And we all thought Glenn Smith was such a timid young man! The following story, even though it is a little longer than most of the submissions to-date, is well worth reading. Along with Denny Hill's story of riding down City Park Hill backwards and the tales of the boys riding over the falls on Elm Creek, this pooh-poohs the notion that a small town is the safest place to raise your children! It also goes to show that teenage boys in West Texas did not have to be big football stars to experience a sense of adventure that got the testosterone and adrenaline flowing.. Marilyn

Farm life didn't fascinate me, a fact that my father noted with frequent disapproval. And I was not better off at school. "Glenn is a nice boy who needs to apply himself more," teachers wrote on my report cards. I read pilots' autobiographies from the junior high library, also a book on how to fly. I barely stayed awake in class. The social studies teacher threatened to keep me back from high school, relenting only after my sister begged on my behalf.

I graduated from high school in the bottom half of the class after my grades fell too low to stay in the Honor Society. I was a mediocre trombone player. I ran one of the slowest miles in BHS track history. Terrified to speak in front of any group, the only part I could get in a school play had one line. I liked girls but feared asking for a date. Senior year I came out for football, after my father finally gave in. I tried hard but didn't impress the coaches, barely playing enough minutes to make the "B" team. Most of those minutes were after it was clear the games could not be won. 

Sunday afternoons I began hanging out at Bruce Field. One day I realized that if I skipped lunch I could use the money for flying lessons. It took weeks to save enough for a half hour of instruction, but I loved every minute in the air.

I soloed May 18, 1957, having tricked my mother into signing her permission by entering a photography contest. (I clipped black and white prints over every inch of the permission form--except for the parental signature line.) As soon as she signed, I ran out the back door and biked furiously down the nearly mile long lane to the county road where I caught the bus. 

August 1957 I languished in English and History at ACC. Someone told me about a 25-year-old undergraduate who owned a plane. I arranged to meet Robert ("Bob") Harris, a duster pilot who made enough in summer to fund his studies the rest of the year. He owned an Interstate Cadet, a two-place, high wing aircraft that looked almost identical to a Piper Cub. He rented the Cadet with gasoline provided for $4.30 an hour. I sold my Ziess Icontaflex camera for $50 to pay for flight time.

Bob checked me out, turned me loose to fly on my own. I liked to climb the Cadet as high as it would go--around ten thousand feet--scooping cumulus cloud into the cockpit with my right hand through the open side window. Then I'd turn on carburetor heat (to keep ice from killing the engine at idle), pull the nose sharply up, close the throttle and provoke a spin with rudder and aileron crossed, stick full back. The effect was dramatic, better than a roller coaster ride. With the plane stalled, then standing on its nose, perspective shifted as the earth rotated slowly. The second turn was faster; the third, still more rapid. To recover, the pilot briefly reversed all the control positions and moved stick and rudder to neutral, then advanced the throttle and pulled out of the dive with the plane now flying normally. I'd alternate a turn or two to the right, recover, then one or two to the left, until most of the altitude was gone. Then I'd climb and do it again. 

Spins began to seem routine. One afternoon, instead of stopping at three turns, I let it go longer. I had learned to "spot" like a dancer by choosing something on the horizon to briefly notice during each revolution. All was going well enough through about five turns. Then I had trouble keeping up with the accelerating rotation. The plane was in a nose down free fall as it twirled faster and faster. I was thinking turn number seven as the Cadet finished rotation number eight. Somewhere short of turn nine finishing, I stopped the spin. As the stick went full forward, my left hand pushed the throttle wide open. The fact that the craft was already in a screaming dive didn't register till the airspeed was 80 percent past redline. Of course I should have pulled the throttle back but I sat as if in a stupor watching the tachometer also go way beyond redline. The plane started pulling itself out of the dive. I let the stick come back, feeling my face sag into distortion from g force. Fabric groaned, and I heard wood snapping. I felt suddenly scared. I promise never to be so foolish again if I get through this stupidity! The plane and I survived. I'd had enough of spins, at least for then.

With 14 hours logged, it was time for a solo cross country. I flew Abilene to Ballinger and back twice. That was easy. I navigated by flying the highway. (James Hays nearly turned me in to the FAA for buzzing his farm, not knowing it was I. Fortunately he couldn't read the aircraft number as I shot nearly straight up after building up a lot of speed in the dive that preceded climbing over his house.) 

Now I was ready for a "three legged" cross country. I took off on a Friday afternoon for Brownwood, landing there about an hour later. Got my log book signed by a woman in the hangar. Someone on the flight line pulled the prop to restart the engine. It was early October and pleasantly warm. 

Everything was routine as I made a slow, climbing left turn. The engine throbbed smoothly. The warm enclosure of Plexiglas vibrated reassurance as the propeller's revolutions picked up evenly spaced slices of glowing western sun. Twisted mesquite and clumps of ubiquitous prickly pear made a hypnotic background.

I woke up with a jolt. Where am I? Oh. In the Interstate Cadet. Must have zoned out for a second. Shielding my eyes from the large orange sun, I looked at the compass, then at the landscape, studied the sectional chart. Nothing on the chart looked like what I saw outside. Ah that must be the railroad. No, that's not a railroad. The Brownwood-Ballinger highway should be just ahead. There it is! No -- only mesquite and prickly pear. I thought I had likely drifted left, south. So I corrected to about 285 degrees. I'll cross the road to Ballinger soon. But no road showed up. The sun kept easing toward the horizon. I held the heading, grew more anxious. 

In retrospect I know I must have slept for minutes, probably more than five. For sure I woke up confused. I was already north of the highway that I kept thinking I would see any minute. I flew a few miles north of Bangs, Santa Anna, Coleman, Glen Cove, Winters and Wingate. Didn't notice any of them. Climbing would have let me see farther but I was disoriented and might have stayed lost. I flew low to keep the headwind less. I could see clearly only about three miles.

Finally, late in the afternoon, a town loomed. It had a water tower. Hooray I thought. Its name will be there. I pushed the stick forward a little, got closer, rolled into a left turn around it, flew more than 360 degrees in sinking disbelief. Nothing there! Probably the only town in Texas that had not painted its name on the water tower. 

I looked at the two lane road leading into town and spotted a green rectangle. Hey, a city limit sign. I scanned the road for crossing power or telephone lines. Seeing none, I flew outbound for about two minutes, lined up the highway as if it were a runway. I was a foot above the road. No traffic. I eased the stick forward. Tires squealed. I pushed the throttle up to about 2100 rpm, sailing past the city limit sign at nearly 70 miles per hour, right wing up to clear the sign with only the left tire touching the pavement.

"Blackwell," it said.

Full throttle, carb heat off, nose up. 

Where is Blackwell? As the Interstate climbed I grabbed the chart. Finally I saw it, north and west of Ballinger. A quick pencil line helped me calculate a heading. I hoped I'd beat sundown--because Bruce Field had no runway lights then, and I had no night flying experience. The last orange rays disappeared a minute after the wheels touched. I taxied in the dusk, tied down with dark still 18 minutes away.

A few days ago, I drove to Blackwell. The city limit sign is where I saw it fifty years ago. The water tower is gone, replaced by a tall cylindrical one with the town name painted vertically.

I'm not sure what flying means in my life. It brought compelling experiences. (I got a private license and logged 335 hours in 18 different planes.) Several times I was unsure where I was. Not only was I clueless going from Brownwood to Ballinger, I also got lost in California, Iowa, and Oklahoma. Saw a few places I hadn't meant to visit. Once I landed a plane at dark with no lights and no gas--total fuel capacity was 24 gallons; it held 24.3. Never got hurt but was less than three seconds from death when my instructor nearly rolled inverted as he missed the approach in a fog that closed most airports from Canada to Kansas City and from Chicago to Denver.

In 1981 I flew the fourth plane I owned to Pecos. Johnny ("Have Tools Will Travel") Sullivan, from whom I had bought it, sold it for me. He took the right seat as I flew his Cherokee Arrow to the Midland-Odessa airport. The Arrow touched well down the runway after my low, hot approach. Runway's end loomed; John pulled the brake hard: "Were you plannin' to brake?" he asked as if inquiring whether I wanted more coffee. "Thinkin' about it," I said, trying to match his laconic tone. That was the last day I logged any "pilot in command" time.

John said goodbye, distant sadness in his gaze. I got on the American 727, looking at the window as a flight attendant went up the aisle. I wiped my eyes. I wouldn't see Johnny Sullivan again. Who he was and how we met--that's a flying story for another time."

Remind me never to fly with Glenn -- in case he asks! OK, James and Jerry. It's your turn to share some scary flying stories. Bob, I know you didn't fly while in high school, but I'll bet you have a flying story or two to tell, too.

Hey everyone, didn't I tell you, "Good stuff happens"!


'Til next time,
Marilyn

CYCLES OF THE PAST

Professor C. Denson Hill (otherwise known as our Denny) sent the following to me to share with the Class of ’57. I think you’ll enjoy it as much as I did. I was disappointed it didn’t come with a picture of him on his new unicycle.

"From the time I was in Jr. High, and throughout my High School days, in the summer, I used to go swimming almost every day. I would ride my bicycle there. As you probably remember, there was a quite steep hill leading down to the pool in the park. My bike was an old "Western Flyer", without gears like the modern bikes. If you stepped hard on the brakes, the back wheel would lock up. Since there was usually a bit of sand or fine gravel, especially toward the bottom of the hill, you could manage to "fish-tail" your bike, as you slid to a dramatic stop right near the front of the pool. Probably already in the 7th grade I learned how to go very fast at the top of the hill, then lock up the brakes, and fish-tail-all-the-way-down the hill, without falling down, just managing to stop right in front of the girls hanging out by the pool. 

I thought I was so cool!

A bit later, on level ground in front of my house, I practiced until I learned how to ride my bike backwards: You sit on the handle bars, pedal your feet backwards, and there is really no problem, except it is hard to see just where you are going; you have to look over your shoulder. In a few weeks I got to be rather good at it. So I would make figure eights, riding backwards, on the street in front of my house. It was natural to put the two things together. I started at the bottom of the hill, going down into the park, and tried locking up my brakes and doing a little fish-tail, while sitting on the handle bars and going backwards. Of course I fell down a few times, and skinned up my elbows and knees, but that was standard at that age. Finally I got it down. So to "impress" the girls even more, I would start at a good rate of speed at the top of the hill, sitting backwards on the handle bars, and fish-tail-all-the-way-down. There were times when it got really hairy, but fortunately I had practiced, so I was always able to (barely) pull it off before totally wiping out. In those days there was never any thought of wearing a bicycle helmet (I don't think I had ever even seen a bike helmet, up to that point in my life). Sometimes I did scare myself, but I don't think I ever really thought about how serious an injury one might get by falling down such a steep hill, at speed, and landing on your head. So everything went OK. (Now, I shudder and feel goose bumps when I think about it.) Having mastered the backwards steep hill fish-tail, with all of  my weight right above the front wheel, and with the back wheel swinging back and forth, acting like a rudder, I started to think that maybe the back wheel was not so important after all. 

That was when I decided that I should get a (homemade) unicycle, and learn to ride it. Of course that had to be done on level ground. After some really badly skinned knees and elbows, I soon learned to just step off the unicycle a microsecond before falling down. That way, you were left standing on your feet, and the poor unicycle went tumbling. After 4 or 5 days of practice, I finally learned how to stay up for a long time, and was able to ride a considerable distance before getting too tired to continue. But since unicycles do not have brakes, I was never able to do anything
on the hill going down to the park, except very slowly inch my way
down.

So if you ask: "Why did you decide to learn to ride a unicycle in high school?" I would say that "The hill made me do it." 

PS: As I write this, from my office at Stony Brook University, there is a unicycle here, just behind me. I had not touched one for maybe 35 years, so I didn't know if I could still do it. But, just to check it out, I bought one, and discovered that it is just like typing or swimming: I can still do it, but of course not as skillfully as before."

Editor:
Denny remembered it was a Western Flyer bicycle. The photo I put with this is probably very similar -- early 1950s. However, his was yellow and black with streamers from the handles.

Isn't it amazing how the City Park hill brings back memories to all of us? I think Denny's experiences riding backwards down the hill is even more dangerous than the boys riding on an old car hood. But maybe Coach Gosney would have thought teaching young teenage girls how to park on that hill would be the one most likely to end in an accident of some sort!

I'd still like to hear some of the "love stories" out there. There's never enough love in the world.

And don't forget... "Good stuff happens."

Marilyn

WINTER WONDERLAND

Classmate Gene Routh sent these beautiful photos. Pretty to look at, but makes one appreciate living where there is less snow and more spring-like weather in the winter. This part of Texas fits the bill!

"These pictures were taken just before Halloween 2006. We had about 24-30 inches of heavy wet snow in about 18 hours. No one moved for two days until the roads were cleared. If it weren't for my trusty snow blower, we would have been stuck for a week. Luckily, we haven't had a storm like this one this year. I still am looking forward to Spring. Front range Colorado has been cold and lots of snow, but nothing like Wolf Creek and the western part of the state...

Glenn's rodeo story was funny. That last photo you had on your Blog looked like the 4-mile causeway close to Glenn Smith's house to me. (It was!) I enjoyed the beautiful young ladies in the snow also.

I have been doing very well, saw my orthopedist last week for my six month post op on the ankle, and I am basically totally healed. I have enough hardware in my ankle to thoroughly alarm the airport security people, but I can live with that.

Keep up the good work on the Blog, it's nice to have a central spot to share memories with friends.
Tell all hello for me."

Nydah Ellet sent me the following update:

"I am making good progress. (Remember, she had knee replacement surgery in December.) I do not quite dance yet, but I do ballet barre stretches at home. I am doing out patient physical therapy for another week and then I am on my own.

I have not worked at my job in sooo long that I no longer want to do it. I have discovered that it is just great to be retired as I have lots more interests I have neglected for the past few years."

Editor's Note:
She went on to tell me she has plans to put together a book of her dad's memories, clippings, and notes over a twenty year period, as well as delve into her family genealogy. Nydah also indicated she wishes to get back to ballroom dancing soon. You go, girl!

Susan Herring Stahl wrote the following:

"Have you identified the 'snow bunnies'? I think one is Jerry Ann, one is Ruth Ann and one is Virginia, but not sure about the other two. I remember the one on the far left...don't think she graduated with us...just no name comes to me....alas!"

The 'snow bunnies' are Barbara Campbell Witte, who was our classmate for a while; yes, Jerry Ann Pruser Eaton, Virginia Harral Egan, Ruth Ann Henniger Wood, and (drum roll, please!) the bobby soxer on the far right is none other than June Hash Curry. I have to tell you all that June did not recognize herself!

"Was the other photo 3-mile crossing? or was it 5-mile crossing....? or was it some-other-mile crossing?" (Close, Susan. It was the 4-mile crossing on Elm Creek.)

Editor's Note:
Susan went on to say how much she enjoyed the anecdote submitted by Glenn Smith. Glenn, we could use another one of your little stories. How about one of your flying stories?

And, James... I hear you love to tell your flying stories. How about one from you, too?

In the last ten days I have been to Plano to visit my sister and my mother, who is in a nursing home, as well as my dad who lives in Mineral Wells. While in Dallas I stayed at a hotel with my daughter Carajean and my oldest granddaughter, Audrey, who was there to audition for the SMU School of Dance. We saw a unique ballet performed by the students at SMU. I also got in some visiting with my son Craig, who was kind enough to chauffeur me around.

I think of how scattered most families are today, and I sometimes long for a time when everyone in a family lived in or near the same community -- often the grandparents living in the same home with children and grandchildren. My father is still very independent at 89, but it is a lot to expect of someone his age to travel all over to visit family. Modern airports don't make it any easier on us as we age, either. The last time I flew to Amarillo to see my daughter, it took 8-hours from the time I left San Angelo! I can drive there in 4 or 4 and a half hours, but that is not something the kids want me to do alone. Do any of you get frustrated as I do at the difficulty experienced in visiting children and family members who live at a distance? As much as I love them, I am always glad to get home again!

February is the month of love. How about sending me some of your love stories? Check out the new slideshow in honor of February. There is a black and white photo of a honeymoon kiss. Can anyone guess who this couple is? One is a classmate -- and no, it is not me! This couple celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary this past summer.

Until next time remember, "Good Stuff Happens!"

Marilyn

BABY, IT'S COLD OUTSIDE

Who says it never snows in Ballinger?

This picture, if you haven't already guessed, was taken while we were in high school. Notice the cars parked on the right. How about those bobby sox and loafers? Can any of you name every one of the teen cuties in the picture?

In regards to the Ballinger baseball team that Jim Cowlishaw talked about, Jerry Eoff wrote that he thinks there was one named Ballinger Cats, a member of the original Longhorn League started in the mid-40s that included other teams such as the San Angelo Colts, Carlsbad Potashers, Odessa, and Artesia -- one was the Drillers and the other the Oilers. There were more teams in the league that he doesn't recall. He remembers "Stormy" Davis, a power hitter for the Cats, who was killed by being hit in the head by a pitch.

Eskell Powell, later a Ballinger Police Chief, came here as a player for the Cats, according to Jerry's recollection, and he thinks the Cats were a pro team. One team in the league was a farm team for one of the big leaguers, and Pee Wee Reese (even I remember him!), later a big league star shortstop (wasn't he with the Brooklyn Dodgers?), played on one of the teams.

Jerry says he has home movies of his Pony League team playing in what was called "Cat Park" in 1955. The scoreboard showed "Westerners". Perhaps there was a semi-pro team then. Cat Park was on top of the hill on the Bronte Highway a mile or so past the new high school when these movies were taken. Those have got to be fun movies to watch! Jerry, who were your teammates at that time?

There is a new feature (I know -- again?). I apologize to the January birthday folks for being late to put this out. Happy belated birthday to Jerri, Charles, and Tommy. And Paul - have a great day tomorrow. In the future I will post the birthdays at the beginning of the month. If your (or someone you know) birthday isn't here, please let me know.

If you wish to leave a comment, just click on "Comments" at the end of the article and follow the directions. They come through me first so I can keep "spam" comments or anything obscene or too offensive from being put there by strangers. I will also make minor corrections to spelling, etc.

Medical updates: Peggy Sharp says she is feeling like her old self. I am too, other than a little shortness of breath. I see a pulmonary specialist tomorrow to see if I need to do something about that. I haven't heard from Gene Routh lately, nor from Rosalyn Hoelscher... however, she sent me a forwarded email, so I know she's at home! I hope both of you are still well on the road to complete recovery!

James Hays is putting in two days a week at his Coleman medical office, and the rest of the time he's working on his old planes and guns. He sounds glad to have one of his sons now practicing radiology in Brownwood.

Did any of you play the "If" game with me? "If you had the ability to change three things in this world, what would you change?" I'll share my answers with you:

1) End all wars forever. 2) End poverty, and, therefore, all hunger in the world. 3) Stop global warming now!

Ahhh...if only we could accomplish even one of the above. What a difference it would make in the world for our children and grandchildren.

Does anyone recognize this spot?

Until next time, remember, Good Stuff Happens!
Marilyn

COURTYARD MEMORY

I wish I had asked someone knowledgeable about the history of Ballinger -- like Jerry Eoff -- when this pretty little courtyard with fountain and gazebo, across the street from the courthouse, was built. He did give me some information about the old advertising sign painted on the adjacent Petroleum Building, which now houses Home Healthcare services. His mother was a staunch advocate of many of the historic buildings around town, including the Carnegie Library and the old German Church located on the corner of 6th and Strong Avenue. It seems that Mrs. Eoff is responsible for saving this wonderful example of early American advertising as well. I remember when farmers made money by allowing such advertisements to be painted on their barns. By the way, you may not be able to tell, but this is for a brand of tobacco.

Jerry also gave me a lot of interesting information about pro and semi-pro baseball teams in Ballinger at one time. Sort of a followup on something brought up by Jim Cowlishaw recently. I will post that in a future issue of the blog. I am running late to head for the airport in San Angelo to catch a flight to Dallas for the weekend.

Rumor has it that Bob and Ann Burton, Ter Cothran, and girlfriend are headed for a cruise to Mexico this weekend. Ann: take some photos for me for the blog!

Ah, yes.... Good stuff happens!

Marilyn

HE DIDN'T GET THE JOB

I was happy to go to ACC to get away from all the farm work. I spent freshman year changing majors every six weeks or so. By sophomore year, I had tried nearly all academic emphases except agriculture. I still needed a major so I tried Agriculture, figuring 18 years on a working farm would give me a head start. A new faculty member taught Intro to Ag. He made up for his ignorance of farming by forming a rodeo club. "Join the club or drop the course," he announced. I elected to drop but discovered it was too late. Our first project was to sponsor a rodeo.

"Do you like a bucker or a twister?" Jock or Jake or Jack--I forget his name, sitting in front of me--turned to ask. I should have said "neither," but if you were in the club you had to ride something. I said, "Oh . . . a twister." "Me, too. I'm putting us both down for twisters." Five weeks later on a Saturday night I was in Clyde, 20 miles east of Abilene, sitting on a bull named something like "Awful" or "Devil" . . maybe it was "Awful Devil." I was to follow Jock who was on his twister in the chute behind me, making adjustments as he waited to ride. Some anonymous cowboy had helped us put on chaps. He had tied with rawhide the big rowels on our Mexican spurs so they couldn't turn. "When the chute gate opens, dig your spurs in and hang on," he advised wrapping the rope around Awful Devil's chest, then round and round my gloved right hand as he poured resin on to keep it from slipping. Jock signaled; his chute gate swung wide. His bull exploded into the arena. Jock hung on with dedication but something was wrong. He began slipping to the right with every jump. And with each thud, Jock rotated more. Soon he was under the bull, still holding on, dirt and hooves flying as the big animal bounced him against the ground. The 8 second signal blasted--two seconds after the bull's left back foot struck Jock in the solar plexus and slid down to the ground between his legs. Whirring red lights as the ambulance lumbered into the arena. Jock lay motionless, eyes closed, no sound as medics rolled him onto a gurney, hoisted and slid it like an ice tray into a freezer. Ambulance flashing and leaving, I nodded yes.

The chute gate opened. Stetson high in left hand, spurs pressing hard, I gripped the rope as Awful Devil jumped higher and came down harder than I thought anything could, knocking the breath from me with every crash landing. Still I thought to hang on, thinking 7 of the 8 seconds must have already elapsed. Then the left spur rowel cut through its rawhide. As my body rotated the bull went up again, twisting to the right. I pictured Jock carted away lifeless, and relaxed my right hand. Awful Devil dropped away like a spent booster at Cape Canaveral as I rocketed upward . . . then floated. . . and . . . floated. Hat still waving, grin permanently lockjawed, I sat there on a cloud, looking at individual faces in the crowd, watching the clowns tempt Awful Devil further away.

The photographer's second snap showed me high in the air, both legs extended parallel to the ground, right hand between my legs as if still gripping the rope, Stetson salute extended, my face wearing a broad grin. Then I hit, in seated pose, legs stretched parallel to the ground. I was scrambling out of the arena adjusting my Stetson when the 8 second buzzer honked. I decided it was safer to read about other people's adventures than to participate, so I changed my major to History.

Four decades later a physician studied x-rays of my S-shaped spine: "Looks like life's road had some pot holes," he said……… by Glenn Smith

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Okay, all you storytellers out there, send me your stories! They don't have to be very long. A paragraph or two. Let us hear about some event in your life. Something from high school or growing up in Ballinger...something funny that happened during the intervening years...a highlight of your career...anything you wish to share with us!

In the meantime, remember "GOOD STUFF HAPPENS"

Marilyn

GOODBYE DIANE

As I looked at the calendar today, I realized it is the one-year anniversary of the death of a very good friend and former co-worker. She was a beautiful young woman -- too young to die. Last year I was unable to attend her funeral, however, I wrote this little piece for her sister Carin and their wonderful family. Carin had asked us to remember the laughter and humor of knowing Diane. These were some of my memories. A portion of this was read at her funeral service.

My tribute to a beautiful little spirit...

GOODBYE DIANE

Perhaps one would have to know Diane and me really well to understand what I am about to relate; to know our backgrounds and the parallels therein. A few incidences, about which I will not go into detail, are our relationships with the men in our lives, and the dealings she and I both had at one time with IRS. I will say that the latter really turned out to be beneficial to each of us in the long run. The following events will remain in my memory as long as my memory continues to serve me!

When I started to work at Horn-Chandler-Thomas, Inc. in early 1995, Diane and I had both been through more than our share of rough years, however, she was already way ahead of me in putting the past behind her, and paving the road to success in front of her. From time to time, though, we would play “woe is me” with each other. 

I remember the time I came to work upset because I had seen a small snake in my bathroom. My little dog Fancy chased the snake under the bathtub – an old fashion claw foot tub, and I assumed the snake got out the same way it got in. Perhaps through a hole around a water pipe. (As it turned out, that was not the case…it went down my bathtub drain creating a monster plumbing problem!) As I was telling my “horror” story, I wondered why I was not getting the response I had expected. Carin sat at her desk with a slight grin on her face. Then Diane proceeded to tell me about the 4 foot long snake she had once discovered in her kitchen. (She never found out where it went!) Or the snake that dropped down on her as she was getting a sweatshirt off a shelf in her closet. Even today, that story raises goose bumps on me. 

Then she told me about the night she saw the snake stretched out on her windowsill as she was getting undressed for bed. Already unclothed except for her underpants, she quickly grabbed her cowboy boots and put them on, while picking up a short piece of 1X4 that she used to prop open the window. (She and I both were living in very rustic places.) By now the snake had dropped down onto the floor and Diane quickly pressed the end of the 1X4 behind its head. As the floor was carpeted, she couldn’t get enough pressure to kill the snake. Then she realized her predicament. What was she going to do now? 

You know, I don’t remember how she resolved that dilemma, but the picture in my mind of Diane naked except for cowboy boots and panties, bending over with a piece of wood holding down a snake in the middle of the night has caused me to laugh out loud many a time through the years. We laughed together that day, although I know it wasn’t funny when she was experiencing it.

As time passed, we shared more misadventures of our lives in the country. I complained about having squirrels get into my walls and attic. She countered with “How would you like to have skunks spraying under your house and keeping you awake nights?!” At one point, even her clothing had to be de-scented! 

I dealt with my squirrels and she dealt with the skunks the best we could. Then I had an influx of rats that must have been getting in where the squirrels did. One morning I reached under my kitchen sink without looking and tried to get the Windex to clean my glasses before leaving for work. Imagine my shock when I got bit by something! I screamed, Fancy started barking like crazy, and before I could get the broom, she had a large rat by the neck and was shaking it! I cried, wet my pants, and the rat died. As soon as I was able to speak, I called work to tell them I would be a little late. It turned out the rat bite didn’t break the skin, and the animal control officer told me to not worry about it. Everyone at work had a good laugh on me this time. I got busy and had my son help me seal places we thought the rodents were getting in.

Not to be outdone in the “misadventure department”, I believe it was that spring that Diane went out to her car one night with a long house robe on. As she walked back to her house from the drive, she was rushed by a skunk! It chased her, biting at her and catching the edge of her robe in its teeth. She yelled for a friend who had stopped by to come help her. As he rushed out the front door with a broom, the skunk ran in the front door and began spraying the house! They finally got the skunk out somehow. The end result was Diane had to take the painful series of rabies shots as the skunk was found to be rabid. Whoa! I had to agree that was much worse than my measly little rat bite.

Are you seeing a pattern here? However inadvertently, Diane was my teacher during those years. It was as though she were showing me, “If I can triumph over this, surely you can overcome your problems, too.” And hers were always bigger and worse somehow than what I had to deal with. It’s funny, though, that the smallest of creatures created the situations that caused each of us to give up on our country living and move on in life. The squirrels brought tiny little mites into the insulation of my walls and ceiling. They were impossible to get rid of in an affordable manner. As I was trying to decide what to do – and feeling like I was being eaten alive at times, Diane discovered that the country house she was living in and thinking of buying was infested with termites! I was outdone again!

During my final winter at the Barn, I became very ill. I really thought my time had come as I waited on the paramedics that night. I made all kinds of promises to God. When I was admitted to the hospital, the doctors thought I had pneumonia. Then an x-ray indicated a mass in one lung. I knew the moments when Carin and Diane and our group of Unity friends began to pray. I could feel – and at odd moments I thought I saw a physical presence in my room, and I was comforted. Two days later, a subsequent x-ray showed no mass at all.

When Carin emailed me this past December and said Diane had been admitted to the hospital with pneumonia, my first thought was how our lives still seemed to parallel. However, it had been seven years since my hospitalization. I had gone on to sell my property and move out of state. Diane had bought a brand new home and moved on to greater professional success. We both seemed to be over the rough spots. What was going on now? 

As I waited one Sunday to hear results of Diane’s tests, I stood at my back door drinking coffee and staring at a small hawk sitting on the fence not 15 feet from my door. I have bird feeders in the back yard, and I was feeling somewhat badly that I had attracted this predator, endangering my smaller feathered friends. As the CD I had put on played the 5th, 6th, and 7th songs, I began to realize this hawk was there for a reason. He and I never lost eye contact, even as he turned around on the fence. I finally went to my native lore books on animals and birds and rediscovered that hawks are known as messengers. He had a message for me. By now, I knew I must check my email. Sure enough, I received the sad message that Diane’s diagnosis was not good. She had a mass in her lung, too. 

This little hawk had never been in my yard before. The days that followed his appearance were full of prayers and messages regarding Diane. Everyone was pulling for a complete recovery of this bright, talented, generous, warm, beautiful loving spirit. As she prepared to leave the hospital to go to her own home for a short while, I prepared to make the trek to see her, planning to stay and be of help to her and the family. I had put a note out for the mailman, packed my bags and put them by the door to be loaded into my car when the telephone rang. It was Carin. When she told me Diane had left us earlier that morning, I moaned and walked with the telephone in my hand to the back door. 

As Carin told me of Diane’s last day and her brief visit to her home, consoling me, and assuring me how close Diane was to us still, I looked out my back door and saw the hawk had returned. In a tree this time, but keeping watch the entire time Carin and I shared our grief over Diane. I told her I felt this beautiful bird was a messenger from Diane telling me “goodbye”..

~~~

I can picture you now, my little friend, riding your beautiful horse -- long, golden hair blowing in the wind -- in an endless field of wildflowers, forever young. I learned a lot from you; I hope you learned a little from me. So until our next meeting, maybe in another lifetime.. ”Goodbye, Diane”. Your time with us was much too short. Perhaps the next time, we will be comparing all the good things happening in our lives.

With much love,
Marilyn

ACT III

Last year was a milestone for us. Of course, the 50^th Class Reunion was a real biggy! However, do you all catch yourselves asking “What’s Next”? I do. Now we also are in the zone of making resolutions for the coming year. I catch myself saying this is really going to be my year! My year for what? What is it I wish to do now in Act III of my life? And will I be physically able to do it? After all, didn’t I just have a heart attack two months ago? Is it too late to accomplish anything of any significance? Lots of questions!

A year or so ago I watched Jane Fonda being interviewed by Larry King. (I hated her – she looked so youthful and glamorous, and she’s older than we are!) She captured my attention when she spoke to him about how she looks at the stages of her life. To paraphrase what she said, life is one long drama – like a three-act Broadway play. In today’s world of better health, fitness, and medical advances, it’s feasible that each of us can live to an average age of 90. If you divide that by three, the first thirty years of our life is Act I, the second 30 years is Act II, and at age 60, each of us began the Third Act of our life drama. Jane went on to say that typically, in a three-act play, the Third Act is the time the whole play “comes together”, starts making sense, and reaches the conclusion.

Hey guys! We are well into Act III! Is it making sense yet? Are we solving the mystery; is good winning out? Are we getting our just rewards? Are we finally reaching a pinnacle of sorts? What kind of drama are you acting in? What is your role?

Marianne Williamson has written some books in the past that put a new spin on my outlook as a woman. (i.e., “A Woman’s Worth”) This morning I received an email from a publishing house I subscribe to regarding her newest book. I haven’t read it yet, but the excerpt sounds intriguing. Especially with the questions I (and maybe you) have been asking myself about “the future”. Here is the excerpt I read:

“Sometimes what we appear to have lost is simply something it was time to leave behind. Perhaps our system just lets something go, our having moved through the experience and now needing it no more. A friend of mine was sitting once with two of his best friends, a couple he'd partied long and hard with during the 1960s. At about ten in the evening the couple's twenty something daughter came home, saw them on the couch, and admonished them, "You guys are so boring! You never go out!" To which all three responded in unison, "We were out, and now we're in."

The mind is its own kind of dance floor. What this generation could do from our rocking chairs could literally rock the world. If in fact the highest, most creative work is the work of consciousness, then in slowing down we're not doing less; we're doing more. Having slowed down physically, we're in a better space to rev up psychically. We are becoming contemplative. We are shifting from the outer to the inner not in order to begin our demise, but to reseed and regreen the consciousness of the planet. And that's what is happening now: We're going slower in order to go deeper, in order to go faster in the direction of urgently needed change.” ……………Marianne Williamson, ”The Age of Miracles”

My fascination with the old familiar places, structures, and buildings in this town stems from a fear of losing something of value in a place where I experienced such joy at an important time in my life. Just as we are losing so much of our planet – the ice caps, the rainforests, the water tables, the animals, etc., due to our neglect and/or misuse of the earth’s resources, I feel a certain amount of pain when I see small towns like Ballinger starting to decay. I feel an urgency to capture some of these old structures before it is too late.

Many have done so before. I recently heard that Jerry Eoff’s mother was among those responsible for saving the Carnegie Library, and even a huge painted sign on the side of a brick building downtown. She helped save an old stone church, also. I plan to photograph more of these and post them in the near future.

From one of my daily inspirational readings, this one from “A Cherokee Feast of Days” by Joyce Sequichie Hifler:

“All that has been a part of the important past is a part of this more important present. We are bits and pieces of who we were yesterday and all the many yesterdays..This is the turning point, the place where we begin to see over the hill and around the bend… What might have been cannot govern or grieve us… Better, happier and more joy-filled times are looking for us. And they have found us.”

I’m not certain what all this reflection I am experiencing will amount to, but it won’t go away. I leave you with this question from a little game I like to play sometimes. It’s called “If”:

“If you had the ability to change three things in this world, what would you change?" Think about it. Can we still “rock the world”? 

Good Stuff Happens,

Marilyn