How does a person start his memoirs when so many stories and memories are fighting to get out of my mind and onto the printed page. There is so much I want to say, and maybe little time to say it!
So let me begin with one key observation that burned itself into my earliest thoughts: I was born with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. I wanted to learn something about everything! I wanted to be able to walk into a room and have something cogent and interesting to say to anyone that might be there!
I wanted to be a true Renaissance Man, but of course I didn’t know that term at five years of age. I did understand that I would have to devote much of my life studying. I also realized that I would have to find enjoyment in the process of learning-for-learning’s sake.
Finding enjoyment in the process of learning was not hard for me. My biggest problem was ordering my efforts so that I wouldn’t take on too much at one time!
Oh, by the way . . . . I never learned this lesson. I always found myself taking on too much at one time. This often came back to bite me on the nose!
I remember how active I was as an undergraduate student at Tulane University (’61-65’). I thrived on campus politics, student union functions, music, Art History, and Science! By the time I ended my junior year, I had been elected Senior Body President, President of the Dorm Council, President of the Tulane A Cappella Choir, and President of the Student Union Committees. Then, I got my Economics Class grade . . . . a stunning “C”!
I couldn’t connect with this teacher who did little to bring life to the Economics classroom. Her monotonous high heel trudge from one side of the room, crossing over an elevated wooden podium, and emerging on the other side of the room was enough to drive any student crazy. I can remember her “crossing” record was 21 times in a forty minute class. I don’t remember what she said during that class, but I remember how many times she antagonized our ears and our minds.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have the good sense to drop the class and retake it with a more inspiring instructor, but as young people often do . . . . I thought I could barrel my way through the course. I was so busy being a student body “big guy” that I didn’t take the time to get proper advice.
The grade of “C” invalidated all my presidencies and left me to face a senior year in college with few affiliations, and fewer accolades.
The lesson I should have learned from this humbling experience was to not take on so many activities, but I found myself repeating this mistake over and over in the years ahead.
I did learn that better organization of my time would help me get through these “overwhelming” crises. As a matter of fact, I would soon discover that I was really good at dealing with crises.
The loss of these presidencies did give me a splendid opportunity to focus on academics and every side event that tied itself to that study. I had the time to look within myself and discover that I really didn’t want to become a doctor. Thank you to my senior year roommate for giving me the opportunity to explore Tulane Medical School and Charity Hospital. I will always be indebted to you, Bruce Weinberg.
I was able to keep singing with the Roberta Capers’ Madrigal Singing Group. I entered this group in my junior year when Roberta Capers, Head of the Tulane – Newcomb Art Department, visited the Tulane A Cappella Choir and asked for a baritone to volunteer to sing in her group. I loved madrigals and thought this would be a marvelous opportunity, particularly since I was taking Dr. Capers’ Art History class.
Interestingly, I continued taking her courses and continued singing in her madrigal group until I finally graduated with a minor in Art History.
I loved learning how History, Art, and Politics intertwined in the creation of classic pieces of art and architecture. Again, my love of knowing something about everything rose up and engulfed me in a passion to understand art history, anthropology, and archaeology. Roberta kindled new flames of interest that greatly influenced my own teaching efforts in later years.
Oren Roberts Elementary School
One of my earliest memories takes me back to my first day of school at Oren Roberts Elementary School in Houston. My parents thought it would be great if I walked to school with our neighbor’s son, Ricky. We were both starting 1st Grade at the same time, but Ricky was a full head taller and almost a year older.
Walking to school was never a problem; walking home from school was a disaster! Ricky told me on that first day that he was going to beat me up every day after school. He was true to his word! I would come home beaten and bruised every day. My parents were outraged and demanded that the neighbors control their son, but they were unconcerned and felt this was just “kids play.”
My Dad was deeply concerned that this daily “thumping” would hurt the way I looked at the world, so he gave me boxing lessons . . . . which did absolutely no good! Dad would hide sticks and baseball bats in the bushes along the way home so I could use them to defend myself. Ricky would take the sticks away from me and beat me with my own stick. More bruises and a minor concussion!
A friend thought that taking Judo might help me fend off the bully. I guts-up to going to Judo classes for six weeks, but noticed that I was the only judo student having to run a half mile before and after class. All the other students would be practicing Judo moves while I would be running.
I asked the Instructor why I had to run and the other kids were allowed to jump into practicing their moves. He replied: “Kid, you are so bad, you are going to need to know how to run!” That was my last lesson at the Judo Academy.
The beatings went on for over two months until we had a special day at school: “Show-And-Tell Day.” Every student brought something special to share with the other members of the class. I brought a little policeman’s outfit that included a badge, plastic gun & holster, policeman’s cap, policeman’s badge, simple hand cuffs, a policeman’s baton, and a police whistle.
Of course, on the way home, Ricky told me he was going to beat me up again. I begged him not to do it this day! I promised to give him my complete policeman’s outfit! He hesitatingly agreed. I pinned the badge on him, helped him on with the policeman’s cap and holster. I asked him if he knew how the hand cuffs worked. He said he had no idea, so I invited him to stick out his hands so I could show him.
I placed the hand cuffs on Ricky’s wrists and gave him two black eyes and a minor concussion with the policeman’s baton! His family was furious. I loved it! My Dad was historically proud of me.
The following day on our walk to school, Ricky apologized for beating me up all those days. We swore lifelong friendship. That friendship remained strong until Ricky took off for California after high school. I cried when I learned he overdosed on drugs at twenty-one years of age.
Ricky lost the guidance of his Mother in Second Grade. His Mom dropped dead at a convention in Galveston. His home life was never the same with little care and comfort from his father or relatives.
What did these daily beatings teach me? I learned I might not be able to physically overwhelm a bully, but I could anticipate his actions and out-think him. If I couldn’t out think them, I learned to do something unexpected to throw the bully off guard.
I learned to stand up for myself.
My Ninth Grade Bully
I was faced with this same bullying dilemma in ninth grade when I was in Hazel McCarty’s English class. The freshman class bully was seated behind me and started pestering me by poking me in the back and threatening to write on my jacket slung over the back of the chair. Every student had their own wooden desk with ample room to place their books below the seat and hang their jacket on the back of the chair.
My 9th Grade bully kept taunting me for several days. Ms. McCarty never recognized what was happening although some of the other students pointed out I was getting the brunt of the bully’s attentions. I gathered Ms. McCarty just didn’t want to bother with the issue.
We reached the day when the bully actually started writing on my jacket. I asked him to stop; he flipped me off and continued writing. Moving very slowly but with care, I stood up from my chair as if I was going to sharpen my pencil. I grabbed the chair, lifted it over the head of the bully, and brought it down on top of him as hard as I could.
Ms. McCarty jumped up and screamed! The other students pulled away in shock. The bully lay on the floor. Yes, I had awarded another bully with a black eye and mild concussion.
I received a 3-day suspension for my handy work, but I stood up for myself. More importantly, I received the nick name “Mad-Dog Marks” which stuck with me throughout high school and protected me from bullies and thoughtless people. Nobody knew what Mad-Dog was going to do, or when he was going to do it! I earned “cred” in the eyes of my classmates, and found I had lots of new friends.
My Dad was very proud of my standing up for myself. He took me on a train trip to New York during my 3-day suspension. He was not happy that I hurt somebody, but his belief in me reaffirmed the importance of not being a bully’s victim.
The lessons I learned as a kid helped mold my life. Maybe I should have been more cautious, but I learned at an early age that standing up in the face of harm or controversy was always the best way to proceed.
Beachcomber Marks
I was greatly influenced by Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe. The idea of a marooned person learning to live by their wits ricocheted through my 9-year old mind. I asked my Dad if he would let me camp out by myself on the beach at Kemah (Texas) with minimal supplies. I wanted to see if I could survive, and learn what it really meant to be alone.
My Dad laughed at me, but over the months, I began to wear down his opposition. He told me he would consider it after I was baptized into the church. My Mother thought postponing a decision for almost two years would end this mania.
Well . . . . it didn’t end my enthusiasm to find out what I was “made of.” I planned to stay three days on the beach. I organized a list of essential items I would need to survive, and began collecting them. The Sunday after I was baptized, I demanded my Robinson Crusoe-style trip to Kemah . . . . and amazingly Dad agreed. I remember my Mom fussed and complained for days, but Dad would not be swayed.
Dad dropped me off at an isolated stretch of beach not far from Kemah. I waved goodbye and set about collecting drift wood to make a “lean-to” shed. I could barely contain my enthusiasm for this adventure I planned for two years. I brought water, matches, string, and several fish hooks. That was it! Dad told me he would return on the third day.
I never saw anyone during my three days on that beach, but I had the good company of crabs, birds, fish, and a fox or two. My lean-to, constructed from accessible drift wood and seaweed, kept me secure at night, but I have to admit I enjoyed waking up each morning to see the footprints of crabs that scampered around me during the night.
I was able to catch small fish in the shallows and cooked them over the fire. This filled me with an overwhelming sense of “rugged” individualism . . . . no food ever tasted better because I caught it, cleaned the fish, cooked it, and ate it.
There was a brief storm on the second night, but my lean-to provided sufficient refuge from the wind-driven rain. My only real problem was that I lost one of my sandals in the surf on the first evening. I developed burns on the bottom of that foot walking over the hot sand, but I was not to be deterred. It was a small price to pay for the adventure.
My Dad arrived on the third day, surveyed my lean-to, but said few words. I was bubbling-over with experiences, but he didn’t respond. He just listened to my enthusiastic explanations and tales of accomplishment.
Little did I know that Dad hired one of his employees to camp a half-mile away from me and keep me in his sight all three days. I would never have learned about this but for a deep sea fishing trip Dad hosted for employees years later. I was 17 years old and on my first deep sea fishing trip. I was overcome with seasickness, and remember resting at the base of the toilet asking for “death.” One of Dad’s employees checked on me to see that I was surviving. He let it slip he had watched over me seven years earlier on my Robinson Crusoe-style beach experience.
I never told my Dad I knew about this surveillance. It was obvious that he wanted to give me enough “rope to hang myself,” but also wanted to be a good father. The only thing he ever really said about my beach adventure happened later on that summer during a family vacation in San Francisco.
Summer vacations were real opportunities for me to plan, research, and set up travel schedules. Part of this plan included a trip to China Town in San Francisco. When we ordered our meal, I asked Dad for a glass of rice wine. Research told me that it was more “fun” to drink than sake. I argued this would help me better understand Chinese cuisine and culture.
My Mother was outraged! I can remember her saying: “Max, you just can’t let Lehman have rice wine. He is too young!” And here it came . . . . . the only real comment my Dad ever said about my beach experience: “Goldie, let the boy have a glass of rice wine. He earned it living on the beach this summer.” This sentence echoed in my head. My Dad was actually congratulating me!
The restaurant server brought each of us a small glass of rice wine. I looked at Mom and Dad, and downed the small glass of wine in a single gulp. Pride seemed to glow from my face as I demonstrated I knew what I was doing!
I remember my shoulders started burning a few minutes after the rice wine gulp! This pain seemed to move up my back freezing the muscles in my neck; my head was whirling. The next thing I remember was waking up with my face in the middle of my food.
Everyone within a radius of 10 feet was chuckling at the kid that passed out. I totally embarrassed myself. The conquering Robinson Crusoe-style hero had been conquered by a glass of rice wine. Mother was furious, but Dad reassured her that this would be a valuable lesson for me.
The best part of all of this was that I learned that Mom and Dad would rarely scold me for my actions. They didn’t need to! They knew I was my own worst critic, and that I would do a good job beating up myself for thoughtless actions.
The Lawn Mower Experience
Dad’s “quiet” policy expressed it several more times during my high school years. The first involved a lawn mower; the second focused on a chemistry explosion in my “home chemistry lab” that blew a hole in the roof!
The only time my Dad lied to me was when he bought me a lawnmower and told me I was going to enjoy mowing the lawn. Houston’s lawn-growing season was horrible. Between the heat, humidity, and mosquitos, mowing the lawn was hell!
Dad bought the best lawnmower ever made: a 1958 Briggs & Stratton beauty. I am unashamed to say that I did my best to destroy that machine. I ran it off embankments and into trees; I provided horrible maintenance; I rarely cleaned it. To its credit and my sadness, that lawnmower never failed!
My interest in “go-carts” spiked when Dad took me to a small engine repair shop in the Village, a shopping area near our home in West University. Dad was checking out new lawnmower models, but I was drawn to a group of high school kids trying to put together a small “go cart” from leftover lawnmower parts.
There is was! A bright fire engine red “go cart” complete with 8” diameter chrome wheels. It looked like it was traveling 10 mph when it was just standing still! I loved it.
I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I wanted to build one!
I asked the boys how they made this beautiful object! One scruffy kid scowled his “old man” helped him make it, but then admitted that it was all the work of an engineer at the repair shop. The “go-cart” had a bent wooden frame forming the base of the car, complete with cross supports topped by a plastic driver’s seat. A very basic foot steering mechanism would guide this eight foot long go-cart dream!
The go-cart was so mesmerizing that I couldn’t take my eyes off its gentle lines. I touched every part of the wooden frame, examined the lawnmower-style accelerator, and checked out the simple gear-to-drive-shaft mechanism.
I asked Dad if we could build a “go-cart,” but he was just too busy with work expansion and other business needs. This didn’t stop me. I dreamed about this type of vehicle night after night making mental notes and scribbling down vaporous thoughts when I awoke each morning. Slowly, my concept of a “go-cart” took form, but I had no money to buy parts . . . . . let alone find a motor.
Dad had limited tools, but I was able to find, borrow, or “get-on-loan” parts I needed for the frame. I never sawed a wooden board in my life, but I learned how from a next door neighbor. Working in an alley behind my house, I constructed a simple frame with a foot-operated steering axle. My less glamorous wheels came from a trash heap lawn mower, but they worked. My drive axle came from a large baby carriage; gears arrived via a discarded racing bicycle complete with chain.
After several weeks of hard work, a sawed-up hand, and a black eye from a gear flying off an old bicycle, I had a non-propelled “go cart.” I painted it red copying the fancy “go cart,” but that was the only similarity between my vehicle and the chrome-wheeled beauty. Even so, I was so very proud of my first ever construction!
But it was not complete! I needed to find a motor, but I couldn’t find anything in my community. It felt like I put hundreds of miles on my bicycle trying to find a solution. Actually, I only drove 20 or 30 miles, but in those hours scouring trash heaps and alleys, I could only find one solution: I needed to find a discarded lawnmower engine.
I hesitated destroying Dad’s lawnmower, but it seemed the only logical solution! The success of my “go-cart” hinged on using Dad’s lawn mower engine.
So when Dad left on a business trip, I went to work tearing apart the lawnmower. It was hugely exhilarating dissecting this two-year old mechanical friend. I disassembled it with a sense of reverence and revenge, but it was a great feeling! Now, with a motor, I had to figure out how to mount and align it on the “go-cart.”
Again, my next door neighbor helped me align the motor shaft with the drive shaft gear. I locked everything down with a new mechanism called a locking washer. Amazing these mechanical techniques!
The chain was a nightmare. I never anticipated it would be so difficult getting the drive system to turn smoothly. There just didn’t seem to be an easy fix for a loose chain. I started the motor only to find the chain wanted to fly off the gear. With trial and error as my best friends, I learned how to tighten the chain by adjusting the motor mount. This eliminated the lose chain problem and gave me a smooth turning motion.
Now, I had to test it! I pulled the starting rope, the motor roared to life, and the “go-cart” leaped forward! I wasn’t in the vehicle so it went crashing into Dad’s Buick parked in the garage. I just created a significant dent in the car’s rear panel. Thank goodness it was located on the lower portion the car and didn’t break the paint.
Dad returned from his business trip and asked why the grass was so tall! I tried to ignore my Dad’s eyes as he was trying to read my reaction. I finally said: “Dad, you need to see something.” I took him outside and positioned him along the side of our house. I ran to the garage, started the “go-cart” motor and proudly drove the small vehicle to the sidewalk in front of my Dad.
My Dad’s face was expressionless. His eyes were narrow slits taking in all of the details of the “go-cart.” He asked two questions: “Who built this?” I told him I built it, with a little advice from our next door neighbor. He then asked where I got the money to buy parts. I told him the truth: some parts were scavenged, other parts were “borrowed.”
I awaited my Dad’s wrath as he noticed the Briggs & Stratton motor . . . . our lawnmower motor . . . . now a part of the “go cart” drive system. He looked at me with the same “slit eyes” and said: “I guess we are going to have to hire somebody to mow the lawn now.”
My Dad never said any judgmental statements about that “go cart.” This may well be because I showed him how fast it would go, followed by crashing the “go cart” into a tree and breaking my leg. I refused to show pain because it would diminish the glory of the moment, but the pain sure took the zest out of driving that foot-steered vehicle.
As a footnote, I paid for most of the lawn care with my summer job in my Dad’s store. I worked for him every summer and holiday season from 1955 to 1964. First sweeping the stock room, then selling sportswear, and finally selling cameras during my college years.
My Chemistry Home Lab
I love Science, particularly Chemistry. I convinced my family to allow me to turn my room into a Chemistry Lab complete with a lab bench, Bunsen burner, dozens of pieces of Pyrex glass lab equipment, chemicals, and reagents. This was at the end of my sophomore year at Lamar High School. I planned to dedicate the summer of 1960 to learning Chemistry in summer school. I devoured every class, and repeated every lab experiment when I got home in my own lab.
Like any young “know-it-all” high schooler, I felt I could launch into my own chemistry experiments. I found a particularly good experiment involving several organic chemistry compounds. A particular interesting experiment called for me to “cook” a compound for several minutes before moving to the next step.
During the hiatus, I went downstairs to get a snack. I had just opened the refrigerator when the house was filled with a deafening explosion followed by a strange sucking sound. Every window rattled like an earthquake had stuck the house. I raced back upstairs to find my room was black! There were signs of a fast-burning fire, but it had been extinguished by the explosion itself.
The room was strangely illuminated from above, but there was no light fixture. Looking up, I saw I had blown a 4 foot wide hole in the ceiling and on through to the roof! Sunlight poured into my bed room. I couldn’t keep my mouth closed! I was totally stunned by the damage . . . . but interested in how it happened. Why had the fire blown itself out?
Our wonderful maid came running upstairs just behind me. Standing at the door, she looked up and exclaimed: “Master Marks, your Dad is going to skin you alive!” My heart stuck in my throat.
It would be hours before Dad came home. My mind raced through alternatives! I had to tell the truth . . . . the evidence was too obvious to craft a mitigating explanation, but should I alert Dad before he got home? I decided to wait until Dad walked in the door. Maybe if he was tired, he wouldn’t get so angry. Luckily Mom was visiting family in Louisiana.
These were some of the longest hours of my life. I could see my high school Science career ending, and being shipped off to military school in Harlingen. The hours passed!
I heard Dad’s car pull into the garage and heard him enter the back door. I meet him in the kitchen and told him I needed to show him something.
We slowly walked upstairs. Dad asked about the burnt smell in the air, but I ignored the question. I figured it would all become abundantly clear in 30 seconds. We rounded the corner from the stairs giving Dad the first view of my bed room. The charred walls screamed out with pain. We slowly walked into the room. Both of us had eyes fixed on the hole in the roof.
Dad looked at me, then looked again at the hole in the roof . . . . . and walked out of the room. Without a word to me, unannounced workers appeared by dusk to cover the roof. The ceiling, the roof, and the room had been repaired in a week’s time, including the installation of a new chemistry lab. Dad only said to me: “Try not to destroy this one (lab), and laughed.” Mom, on the other hand, had a few well-chosen words for me.
As a footnote, I ended up paying for the roof with my continuing summer job working for my Dad. I calculated I could pay this off by the time I started shaving.
High School Science Fair Project Nightmare
I did have one more high school Science flop! I wanted to enter the high school Science Fair, but I wanted to find a project that would be totally unique and exciting. We were just learning about particle accelerators in Physics, so I decided I would build a small “working” model of a particle accelerator.
I researched the topic for months followed by constructing a small model of a “working” particle accelerator. The unit was mounted on a wooden platform to provide stability and more pizazz! I secured several grams of low-grade radioactive material during a family vacation to White Sands Proving Grounds, and used it to simulate a real particle accelerator. The accelerator would never work, but it would serve as a “demonstration-of-principle.” The few grams of radioactive material created extra excitement because it could be detected with a Geiger Counter.
The Science Fair Project looked like a real winner! Everyone was interested in the metal construction I put into the accelerator, and fascinated by the “radioactive” symbols emblazoned on all parts of the project.
Mid-afternoon I found myself being hurriedly summoned to the Principal’s Office. Smoke filled the first floor hallway . . . . the fire alarm was sounding . . . . everyone was exiting the building. My science fair project was on fire!
I would learn later that some of the electrical parts had shorted-out causing the wooden supporting structure to catch fire. Of course, everyone was horrified because the project had radioactive signage all over it!
The Houston Fire Department quickly put out the fire, but that wing of the high school was closed for two days so that specialists could check for any residual radioactive contamination. I was not punished but totally embarrassed by the electrical failure.
I was now known as “Mad Dog Marks – the nerdy Science Kid”.
Interestingly, I was to repeat this Chemistry Lab catastrophe in college. I was working in the Tulane Chemistry Lab under a hood conducting an experiment with a fuming cyanide compound. My hand slipped causing me to strike the bottle of cyanide. It rolled out from under the hood. It fell to the floor breaking into a dozen pieces and releasing its fuming contents into the room. I immediately screamed for everyone to vacate the lab leading ultimately to the evacuation of the Chemistry Building.
The Tulane Chemistry Building was shut down for two days while the New Orleans Fire Department and Hazardous Materials Personnel decontaminated the Chemistry Lab.
This was a bit embarrassing since I was a Chemistry Major. My Inorganic Chemistry Professor came up to me at graduation and said that I graduated with a Degree in both Chemistry and Lab Evacuation! We had a good laugh!
Inheritance from my Dad
My Dad taught me many things over the years I had the privilege to work for him. Of course, as a teenager, I moaned and groaned about the work. I wanted to be out with my friends, but Dad never listened to my complaints. (Good for him!)
Dad did not leave me a million dollar inheritance, but he taught me something that was worth so much more. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize this gift for many years!
Every day we went to work, I watched my Dad meet with customers and observed how he listened to their interests and concerns. I was always amazed how he could handle the wildly screaming complainers who stormed into the store shouting insults about an item or some element of service. All complaints were funneled to Dad.
I watched countless times when Dad would start off by shaking the hand of the complaining party. Many people refused to shake hands, but the offer of this heartfelt gesture telegraphed his good intentions and established a less confrontational battle field.
Dad would listen to their problems, inquire about the nature of the complaint, and offer to hear the complaining party’s solution. After that person was worn out cussing and discussing the issue, Dad would start talking in a calm, orderly manner advising the complainant about his options and reassuring them they were right to come back with their problem. He made everyone feel special and appreciated, no matter how they acted! That was a feat to behold!
It was amazing to watch all the fire and fury go out of the complainant’s speech and become normal conversation. At that point, Dad had them! He was now in control of the conversation. He would find a solution to the problem making everyone feel satisfied. More interestingly, he was almost always able to sell extra items to the complainant before they left the store. Many of these “fuming people” would become my Dad’s life-long friends.
My inheritance from my Dad: I learned how to take screaming, sometimes vicious problems, find a solution, calm the person or problem down, and use the experience for my own benefit. What a priceless inheritance. I didn’t see the importance of this knowledge for many years, but it has served me well through the years.
I never got to thank him for teaching me about people, what motivates them, and how to deal with their concerns. I only hope that Dad is looking down on me and saying: “I taught that kid how to do that.”
Introvert Marks meets Billy Bammel
With all this focus on the love of learning, I became a “dedicated introvert.” My mother always felt it was important for me to learn how to entertain myself. This lesson I certainly mastered. Between 8mm film-making, chemistry experiments, rock collecting, music appreciation, piano lessons, zoology collections, stamp collections, and postcard collections, I was a totally happy person.
Then one day, my dog Butch decided to take a bite out of the butt of a kid walking next to my house. Butch got away from me, chased the kid up a tree, and provided a little “nip” on the butt to add insult to injury! I corralled my dog and invited the young man to come inside for a Coke. I was starting my junior year in High School.
The young man’s name was Bill Bammel, Jr. . . . . . and he was to become my best high school friend! It appears that I became a project for Billy. It didn’t take him long to realize I was inwardly focused, so he made it his goal to break me out of my shell and introduce me to his world of friends. Actually, this was pretty frightening for a 15-year old boy who was totally content with his books, engineering projects, film-making, and collections.
Billy demanded I join his “little group” for simple outings . . . . like eating French Fries with the “gang” after school. His friends would meet at a great Pharmacy/Lunch Counter located across the street from Lamar High School. A dozen regular friends would share plate after plate of steaming hot French fries with mountains of ketchup. I reluctantly went with him to these painful sessions. I was the “awkward duck.”
It was hugely difficult for this “socially retarded soul” to learn the pleasantries of high school fun. Yes, I had been subjected to the perils of Cotillion and learned how to ballroom dance, but the simple process of sharing small talk baffled me. I had always been focused on big thoughts and great issues. Now I was forced to talk about the amount of salt on the French fries. It was hard for me to rewire my brain to adjust to the trivial.
Billy would not let me run. He made sure I became part of his “gang,” and by my senior year, I was able to carry my own weight. His friends were now my friends, all fourteen of them! Our common bond was High School ROTC. We were the seniors in the ROTC program, and I loved it!
ROTC was to become my home in high school since I was not the best in sports.
I never seemed capable of catching a ball even though I played football through the eighth grade. I could tackle any kid my size, but by the end of eighth grade, all the kids got taller. My football career ended when I seriously injured my left arm during a football practice.
I had just tackled a kid, but ended up being thrown to the ground. A bigger kid fell on top of me breaking my forearm in three places. Coach Rumberger found a wooden shingle that had blown off a roof and scooped up my arm with a make-shift sling. I trudged through the halls of the school to the Nurse’s Office oblivious to the freakish looks from bystanders seeing a broken arm with bits of bone protruding from the skin.
Later, I remember doctors telling me that I must have been in shock because the pain should have immobilized me. It didn’t! The school nurse told me I inhaled almost a full bottle of ammonia trying to stay conscious until my parents arrived to take me to the hospital, Houston’s Methodist Hospital. This would be a venue that would play a big part in my military life some ten years later.
It was not until I was a high school senior that I learned I needed glasses! Somewhere along the line, my parents never tested me for glasses. The doctor told me I had a depth perception problem which explained why I couldn’t catch a ball.
As I think about it now, I am amazed my Father never realized this! We would play catch in the backyard which usually ended up with me being hit in the face by the baseball. My Dad was convinced I just needed more practice, but it always ended up with me being exhausted from running after the ball, or getting a black eye. After these numerous sessions, I never fully appreciated playing baseball.
By the time my vision was corrected, I was too old to be interested in sports. I later would find in college a true love for physical fitness and track . . . . all activities that didn’t involve me catching a ball! I ended up spending 28 years of my life being a body builder, and loved it.
Senior High School Year ROTC
My senior year in High School was filled with excitement! I was the top ROTC student and the winner of every award available to a cadet. I was in line to be the Battle Group Commander, a position I had dreamed about for years! To stand in front of several hundred cadets seemed glorious.
Then, the day arrived and I was called into Colonel Burke’s Office, the ROTC Commandant. I nervously waited to be announced by Sergeant Yates, then walked smartly to the Colonel’s desk and offered up an impeccable hand salute! He returned my salute and said: “You will not be Battle Group Commander . . . you are too short.”
I was dismissed with no further explanation.
My heart sank to a depth I have rarely reached in my life. I knew, everyone knew, that I was entitled to be Battle Group Commander, but now everyone also knew that I just wasn’t tall enough to do the job . . . . .as Colonel Burke saw it! This would mean I would be subordinate to this “other guy” for all of my senior year!
There was one glimmer of hope: the person named Battle Group Commander was a good friend. Brian went out of his way to make sure I was able to weather this pain, and did his best to share recognition with me. His 6’1” frame made him a great commander. I learned a great deal from the way Brian treated me. We remained good friends.
Sadie Hawkins Date
Billy, also a ROTC cadet, helped me through this senior year by making sure I was included in all the social functions associated with a 1960s high schooler. We even double dated for a Sadie Hawkins Day Dance. He was to take Jan Jamison, later to become his wife. I was to take Kay Martin. Everyone was in our “gang.”
Kay drove us all to the dance. She picked me up and presented me with a vegetable corsage, an accoutrement that seems appropriate for a Sadie Hawkins Dance. Bill and Jan were already in the car. Driving down Kirby Street, I mentioned to Kay that there was a parked car about 100 yards ahead on the right; she strongly said she saw it. I mentioned the car again; she yelled she saw it! We hit the car!
Our arrival at the Dance was a bit delayed by the exasperation associated with Kay having to give the details of the wreck to the police and the car owner. Kay was a gentle soul. Dealing with the indignity of wrecking the car was hard for her, but she was determined that “the guys” were not to be involved!
I dated Kay several more times in High School, but never saw her again after graduation. I learned she had joined the Peace Corps and was lost in the Far East. Her friends and family were never able to find out the details about what happened. No body was recovered. She was the first of our gang to be lost to the perils of adulthood, but there was no closure without a funeral. This left us with a hollow feeling because the family didn’t want to have a celebration of her life.
Billy and I Go to College
Billy and I stayed close friends even through college. He went to Texas A&M; I went to Tulane University. Our schools weren’t rivals, but we shared the normal fun that comes with college rivalry. Having said this, we decided that each of us would share the other’s school rituals. I was to come to College Station and pretend to be in the Corps; Billy was to come to New Orleans and share Mardi Gras.
I remember to this day the fun of arriving in College Station to see Bill. He showed me his dorm room and shoved me out the door telling me the entire time I was going to enjoy a tree-cutting experience! I was profoundly puzzled! What he was saying was I would be enjoying the fun of helping Aggies cut down trees for the famous bonfire that lit the night sky before the big University of Texas vs. Texas A&M football game.
Bill taught me how to “whip out” . . . . which meant aggressively sticking out your hand to vigorously shake someone’s hand while at the same time saying “howdy.” I was told to do this to every person I saw at A&M. We cut down 8”-10” thick pine trees, removed the limbs, and carried the logs to the bonfire site. I learned how to make trash can coffee . . . . a delicacy prepared by pouring a pound of coffee into a trash can, add water, and heating it over a small wood fire! It was remarkably good, but that could have just been due to the cold weather.
He also taught me about how Babo-Bombs could destroy a dorm room! The Corps Seniors would always harass and humiliate freshmen. Payback came with a Babo Bomb.
Take a can of gritty Babo Kitchen Cleanser, put a cherry bomb fire cracker in it, light it, and roll it into an upper classman’s dorm room. Close the door as quickly as possible!
Run like goodness!
With the explosion came a thin cloud of grit that settled over everything. Of course, everything had to be spotless in a Corp Member’s dorm room. We had just created hours of extra cleanup duty. This was payback for a senior’s cruelty to freshmen.
Such fun!
Billy got to share the fun of Mardi Gras with me! He arrived howling that he wanted to “hit” Bourbon Street. We did! Pat O’Brian’s was the crowd-drawing watering hole for all college students. You had to experience the two foot tall red drink housed in a horn-like plastic container! These “hurricane” drinks were legendary.
Billy got lost in the crowd after he downed his third hurricane. I was petrified knowing that New Orleans was not ready to handle this drunk Texas Aggie! After several hours search, I headed back to my car. There he was! He was standing on top of my car, and using his long plastic hurricane container to harass New Orleans Police Officers trying to drag him off my car!
Intervening in the crisis, I begged the officers to give him a break. I told these obviously agitated officers they were dealing with a poor Texas Aggie with no drinking experience (not true), and that he really didn’t know what he was doing. I knew if they hauled him to the station, he would have to spend the night in jail!
I promised the officers I would take care of him, and take him back to the Tulane dormitory. A couple of gun shots could be heard in the distance. The officers let Billy go and ran after the shooter as fast as their tired legs could take them. We dodged our own “bullet.”
It was almost 6:00 AM when we returned to Tulane. I helped Billy get to a rented cot in my dorm room, and just settled down to get a few hours rest. Then . . . . BAM, BAM, BAM! Someone was pounding on my dorm room door. I opened the door to find a small man dispatched to pick-up the rented cot. At this point, Billy would have nothing to do with anyone interrupting his much-needed sleep. He decided to sit up on the cot and yell: “It is going to take a bigger guy than you to get me out of this cot.” The small man said he was sorry to bother us and closed the door.
Ten minutes later the door rattled with another BAM, BAM, BAM. This time, the door just flew open revealing a 6’6” man-mountain who said: “I am here to get the cot.” Billy jumped out the bed, folded the bedding, and helped the man get the cot out of the room. I never saw Billy move that fast in his life.
Billy and I shared these college experiences many times during our lives. They seemed to form a bond between us.
High School Fraternity
I can’t leave high school memories without recounting a few thoughts from my high school fraternity experience. Yes! Lamar High School actually had fraternities! Billy was already inducted into the Ramal Fraternity during his junior year, so he goaded me into applying at the beginning of my senior year! I was pledged to join Ramal (Lamar spelled backwards) late September, 1960.
High School fraternity life came with pledging, hazing, harassment, and hassle. Senior fraternity members were always cornering pledges in the school hall ways and asking them to recite ridiculous memory tasks, but this didn’t compare to the after school fun. The dreaded “grab your ankles” followed by loud “pops” from a wooden paddle graced many an afternoon.
Yes, I know this was all about building camaraderie, but it taught me that uppity kids would take advantage of a little power to display latent cruelty. The worst memory: having to wear underwear filled with syrup and crushed crackers all day at school. The best memory: being required to act like a seal for hours at the Houston Zoo.
These ridiculous experiences left a lasting impression! I declined a college fraternity bid. Pledging a college fraternity was not going to be my focus. Besides . . . . who needed to be in a fraternity to “party” when you went to college in New Orleans!
No Car in High School
My parents thought I was too young to have a car during high school. I was younger than my friends. Mom wanted to make sure that no one would take advantage of the youngest member of the “gang” for their own purposes. Although I complained mightily, the lack of a car relieved me of having to pick-up friends. I was the one who was getting picked-up!
I still was a “car crazy” guy! I remember when Jim Kamrath got a Volkswagen “Beetle.” This just about sent me over the edge because this little car was so much fun to drive! Jim and I would dart around town cutting in and out of traffic without any problem . . . . . often resulting in angry looks and hand gestures from other drivers.
We did have two problems with the “Beetle.” First, it was light and floated in water!
I remember a horrible experience driving down Westheimer Street during a famous Houston flashflood. The water rose so quickly that the small car started floating! We had no control over the car’s forward motion because it was floating sideways down the road. Jim and I leaned out our windows and paddled as if our lives depended on it. We were finally able to get the Beetle onto a side street where the wheels could get some traction!
The second problem revolved around the Beetle being convenient to sit on! This used to drive Kamrath crazy! He hated for people to sit on the small hood of the car because it dented the panels. Luckily, “Mr. Fix-In” (Me) was able to remedy this problem by installing a small electric generating device to the skin of the Volkswagen. With a flip of a switch inside the car, Jim could send 100,000 volts through the skin of the Beetle. It would not affect anyone inside the car so long as you kept your feet off the ground.
I loved seeing people wander over to Jim’s Beetle and perch themselves on his hood. Jim would get in the car and throw the switch. Everyone would laugh when the offender would go flying off the car. This also worked when Jim would drive slowly up to another car slightly touching that car. He would honk his horn angering the driver. When that angry kid exited the car putting their feet on the ground, they would get the same kind of shock. This “shocking device” would keep Jim from getting picked on my bullies!
Summers with Grandma Rosie
As I grew up, I had the privilege of spending numerous summers with my Grandma Rosie, my Mom’s Mother. She lived in the remnants of an old antebellum home east of Kentwood, Louisiana.
I loved arriving at Grandma’s home. Two rows of great oaks formed a causeway for the person arriving at the 150-year old home. The structure was not well-maintained, but the eight columns that lined the front porch still gave the appearance of a warm, welcoming home.
My grandmother was born during the last year of the Civil War. Her mother, my great grandmother, was reputed to have positioned herself on the front steps of this home with a rifle, and threatened to kill any Damn Yankees that tried to cross her threshold. None ever did! (so the story goes)
Rosie was already old when I first met her. My Mom was the youngest daughter in a family of 11 siblings. Many of the older brothers and sisters had grown-up and left home by the time she came around. Even so, Grandma Rosie was spry and brilliant. She loved to write poetry. The reader’s heart would soar reading her verse. I wish I knew what happened to her poems. Someone should have kept them.
When my grandmother was born, it was the custom to invite a young girl her age to join the family and be her companion throughout her life. I met Sally when I was four or five years of age. Her words would pour over me like honey and always brought great wisdom to my life. You just knew Sally cared about you.
One of my best memories of Sallie was her taking me to an old country church. Of course, there was no air conditioning in those days, so everyone in the congregation had a fan. Sally asked me to observe how fast people would fan themselves. She told me this would tell me a great deal about that person.
For instance, if the Pastor was talking about “Love the Lord” themes, everyone would be fanning at a routine pace. If the Pastor would go off on a more troubling theme like “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife,” you could observe several men in the audience fanning a bit faster than anyone else. This gave the Pastor the opportunity to learn who most needed his attention. Who would think that the speed at which you fanned would be such a “give-away.”
Grandma Rosie taught me many things, such as the importance of Nature, the value of the crops in the field, the beauty of the flowers in the yard, and the importance of running faster than the bull in the lower 40! She also taught me how to blow bubble gum bubbles! We both had some bubble disasters with gum getting in our eyebrows and hair, but it was sharing the experience that burned this memory into my mind.
With such a large family, Grandma Rosie always had “tons” of people around her. With 11 children and over 40 grandchildren, I felt very privileged to be allowed to spend so much one-on-one time with her in the summers.
My other grandparents passed away before I was born or when I was very young. Only Grandma Rosie was to have an impact on my life. Her life’s gift to me: take time to appreciate the beauty in the world; don’t dote on the meanness generated by man.
Summers at the Friday Mountain Boy’s Camp
My first experience at summer camp took place at the Friday Mountain Boy’s Camp located outside Austin. I suffered little homesickness by learning that being in the “wild” was wonderful. I particularly liked horseback riding.
On the first day of camp, my counselor took us to the stable so that we could pick out our own horse. My choice was a beautiful brown bay named “Flicka.” I would return to Friday Mountain Boys Camp year after year always choosing her. I felt she knew me because of the way she responded to my touch.
Flicka had one drawback . . . . . she loved to rollover in any water! This was particularly tedious when you are running and unexpectedly come to a stream. Flicka would slow down, enter the water, and just roll over and enjoy the coolness. She always rolled to the right side, so I learned to quickly raise my right leg as she was going down. I couldn’t change her behavior, but I could always anticipate it and compensate. I know she liked me letting her have her way with water play!
I like to say I never met a horse I didn’t like, but this should probably be qualified by the horse I encountered in New Orleans’ Audubon Park. During my first year at college, I was grasping for things to do that reminded me of home. I soon discovered Audubon Park had a riding academy.
Arriving late at the park gave me the opportunity to ride with fewer people on site. They brought out my horse complete with an English riding saddle, not a western saddle with a “horn.” I was not to be deterred, so I hopped on the horse and had a wonderfully spirited ride through the park. Then, about 5:00 PM, I turned back towards the stable, and completely lost control of the horse! I would later learn this was feeding time.
My Audubon horse took off like a bat-out-of-hell! I was leaping over picnic tables and weaving through people seated on the grassy lawns. I lost the reins and my footing in the stirrups. Yes, I was flying out behind the horse holding on to the tiny English saddle.
We arrived at the stable in just a few minutes. I probably should have fallen off the horse earlier, but I felt a sense of responsibility for the animal. Bottom line: the horse stopped; I didn’t! I went flying over the horse before coming to rest on my nose, my now bloody broken nose. I never road an English saddle again, but I should have been smarter than to ride an unfamiliar horse so close to feeding time. My fault! My pain!