I graduated high school being slightly overweight, short, untanned, and terribly shy. Seeing everyone in my “gang” getting ready to go off to college, I decided I was going to radically change my life . . . and appearance.
I started the raisin bran diet when I kicked-off working with Dad during the summer between high school and college. By the end of the summer, I lost 35 pounds and learned that push-ups and sit-ups could produce a real difference. I was a lean kid when my parents tearfully dropped me off at my Tulane Dormitory mid-August, 1961.
But I was not tearful, I was ecstatic about being my own man.
I dearly loved my parents, but an overly protective Southern Baptist family never gave me a chance to figure out who I was! My first semester at college was to give me just that opportunity! I found that I wanted to devour every new adventure, every new school subject, and every new cultural experience.
My first freshman roommate was a young man from New Orleans. He and I really hit it off because we both liked having those great “late-night” college debates trying to figure out the nature of the universe, or seeking to define the boundaries of time. We reached no conclusions, but the fun was in the light banter that bounced around the room at 2:00 AM. You can always think better at 2:00 AM when it is dead quiet and pitch dark.
I soon learned that my roommate had a very interesting view of the world colored by the fact that his family was New Orleans mafia! He taught me three things: never go anywhere by yourself, never be the first person to go through a door, and always sit with your back next to the wall. I tried to teach him that promoting prostitution and drugs was not necessarily the best thing to do in life.
In the third month of our rooming together, I returned to the dorm room to find a man sitting on my bed, and two other strong-looking men on the dormitory balcony. The man told me that he was there to pick up his son. He was moving him home! I was stunned because I thought we were really getting along great!
I asked the father why he was moving his son home. His answer rocked me back on my heels leaving me speechless. He said that I was too good of an influence on him. He added that when his son came home on weekends, he started questioning his dad about the family business. The father let me know in no uncertain terms that he could not let this persist. The son was coming home. He wasn’t angry . . . just concerned. He seemed to appreciate that his son had found a good friend, and told me that he would be there for me if I ever needed anything.
My roommate was gone in ten minutes of swift packing by the strong men accompanying the father. Nothing was sorted. All the clothes, books, and bedding were thrown in two large trunks and carted to a waiting car. I never saw my first college roommate again.
I have often searched my mind whether or not I was too zealous with my arguments. I only hope he never suffered from our late-night discussions. I do not mention his name because a family friend told me years later that he stayed in the family business.
The Great Scab Event
My new roommate was a motorcycle enthusiast! I loved his stories characterizing the glory associated with bike-riding, and all his dare-devil experiences. He invited me to ride with him on the motorcycle for a great dinner at Arnaud’s, a famous restaurant in the French Quarter. We turned a few heads arriving on a motorcycle, but that was all a part of the motorcycle schtick! We had a great meal, but when we exited the restaurant, we discovered that we were we facing an ice storm.
My roommate was undaunted by the icing, but I was a little bit more concerned. I remember racing down St. Charles Avenue at an unsafe speed dodging patches of ice that were already beginning to form on the roadway. I asked my roommate to let me off! I felt it was safer to park the motorcycle and just walk home. He wasn’t buying my arguments, so I began my walking while seeing him riding off in the distance.
As cold set into my bones, I begin to think about how foolish I was to walk back to the dormitory! It felt like my eyebrows and lashes were freezing! I had visions of trudging across a mythical Siberia! Had I made a major mistake?
I had only walked two blocks before I found my roommate splayed-out on the road. He apparently hit a patch of ice, flipped the motorcycle, and it carried him along the street stripping off the upper layer of skin on his back! He was in real pain!
I got the motorcycle off the road, called a cab, and got him to the Tulane Infirmary. There was not much of a jacket left to peel off his back. What was left was a huge flesh wound that ran from the back of his neck almost all the way to his waist. The doctors put on an antibiotic ointment and directed him to leave the wound uncovered until a scab formed.
So I had a job! Put on the ointment in the morning and the afternoon. My roommate went to class wearing a cape-like drape that allowed his wound to heal, but gave him some sense of dignity. In less than two weeks, we had scab . . . . . a huge scab that ran down most of his back!
We used to joke that we rode the motorcycle to Arnaud’s Restaurant; the motorcycle road my roommate back to the dorm! We also loved inviting dorm friends to come to our room to “pick-on” my roommate . . . . . literally pick-on the scab! I know this sounds a bit gross, but as college freshmen, we thought this was a “real hoot.”
Reaching the End of My First Semester
My first college semester was a real learning experience. I came from a very conservative family, but I discovered that if I could put my money on the bar, this very young seventeen year old kid could get a drink! I went off to Tulane when I was sixteen; I turned seventeen two months later.
One of my best high school friends and I mastered the skill of drinking during our senior year of high school. We learned how to drink scotch . . . . Chivas Regal to be exact! So I planned to continue drinking Scotch in college. David Vinson and I would sneak over to Dave’s home to share his parents scotch while reading J.R.R. Tolkein’s The Hobbit. Somehow, Scotch and Tolkein went well together.
My friendship with David grew throughout college and graduate school. He would be my Best Man in my 1967 wedding; I would be his Best Man in his wedding. We would go on to build a revolutionary computer service company in 1971, and remained best friends until his early death from cancer. He was probably the smartest guy I ever knew. Chain smoking and 20-hour work days gave him an early ulcer, but he had the most incredible work ethic. A week rarely goes by without my thinking about him.
I didn’t just drink . . . . I DRANK! I learned how much I could drink without throwing up;
I learned I didn’t get “drinking-mean” or turn moody. Unfortunately, I learned drinking drastically affected my hands! My fingers seemed to dry up producing horrible cracks.
College taught me many lessons. When I returned home for my first Thanksgiving Holiday the first thing I said was: “Mom, where’s the beer?” I thought she was going to skin me alive! Then she saw my hands and rushed me to the doctor where I underwent weeks of treatment to reverse the damage done to the skin on my hands. This treatment required sleeping while wearing gloves filled with a medicated location.
On returning to New Orleans after Thanksgiving, I realized my first semester grades were not going to be promising. Weekend drinking experiments in dozens of New Orleans’ finest establishments, and too many late night discussions put me in real jeopardy! I remember a statement made during Freshman Orientation: “If you look to your right and to your left, one of your friends will be gone by second semester!” It dawned on me I might be this “one.”
I busted my tail trying to get caught up in my classes before facing my first college final exams. Rarely sleeping, no partying, and a rigorous study calendar gave me a fighting chance, but the dread of my first college exams produced hysterical nausea. I was admitted to the school infirmary suffering from exhaustion and nausea dehydration.
A well-meaning nurse tried to make me comfortable, but somehow felt a cup of hot tea would cure my nausea. I told her I wasn’t interested preferring something “bubbly.” She demanded I drink the tea or she would check me out of the infirmary. I thought this was a little bit “over-the-top,” but I went ahead and drank the tea to satisfy her. I immediately, unintentionally threw-up on her.
Survived Freshman Year
I survived my first year living on the fourth floor of Tulane’s Phelps Dormitory! Six flights of stairs did a great job keeping me in shape. My grades were great and I loved college life, but lived for the weekends. Come Saturday mornings, I was up early to board the “Ferret Jet” (bus) or the St. Charles Street Car, and headed downtown to the French Quarter. No partying here, but rather an effort to develop an appreciation for Old New Orleans. Mom’s family arrived in Louisiana in the late 1600’s; Dad’s family arrived in the 1800’s.
Growing up in Houston, all I ever experienced was new construction, new experiences, and homogenous white communities. Dad told me that he would help pay my college education if I would return to Louisiana, and try to develop an appreciation for the people and the culture. I strongly resisted this idea, but Dad made a compelling argument based on the costs of college.
I was born in Baton Rouge, but as I used to say, my family “got good sense” and moved to Houston when I was three years old. I loved the newness of Houston and the advances at the newly constructed Johnson Space Center. I got Dad to drive me down to the JSC every weekend so that we could watch them build the facility. I remember many a wonderful hour spent hanging on their fences watching every new building go up, and wondering what kind of “neat” Science would take place inside that structure.
I found that Dad and I were great “sidewalk superintendents.” Rarely did a major building go up in Houston without our watching, commenting, and critiquing. Many a day would find me making drawings of what I observed being built, along with my annotations and never-observed suggestions.
Dad was a successful retailer, but he always wanted a doctor in the family. He said he would continue helping finance my education as long as I worked towards becoming a doctor. Yes, I worked every summer and holiday for him, but this would not completely fund college expenses. I deeply appreciated Dad’s support and belief in me.
I have not yet mentioned my Mother. She was a dominating force in the family. I think she developed this “fight-for-everything” skill based on her growing up being one of eleven children in a rural Louisiana environment. If I achieved any success in life, it is because she shoved and pushed me to be my “best.”
Sophomore Year at Tulane
I returned to Phelps Dormitory my sophomore year. I thought it was going to be the same environment as my freshman year, but the school decided to make Phelps the “jock” dorm and never said anything about it to me! Was I shocked to find my suite mates included two football players, three swimmers, and two baseball players. There were times when I felt I was the only one with good sense in our suite, but I learned to appreciate these guys and learned the value of camaraderie. They taught me some very interesting gambling games!
The “twist” dance craze hit campus at the beginning of my sophomore year. I loved this crazy dance, but didn’t realize that you should move your feet when your twisted your body. I planted my feet and just twisted my knees! After a wild weekend of dancing, I realized that I couldn’t bend my knees. I could walk on flat surfaces, but I couldn’t walk upstairs. I was doomed! I had six sets of stairs to overcome just to get to my dorm room!
I remember finding my solution on the Monday following my crazy “dancing” weekend. I sat on my butt and lifted myself step by step until I reached the fourth floor. During one of these step-by-step ordeals, one of my suite mates, Buddy Lindsey, saw me and told me he would carry me up! As Captain of the Tulane Football team, he grabbed me with one arm and easily carried me to the fourth floor. I felt like a rag doll, but I was so totally grateful.
Buddy and I were going to become great friends. I was told that he was a great football player, but his academic skills were lacking. I would spend many evenings helping him with his studies in return for the many favors he did for me. Yes, he carried me to the fourth floor for a week, but he also watched over me. I was 5’4;” he was 6’3”. He was always there when I needed him.
For example, I was running for Dormitory President, but a kid down the hall decided I wasn’t going to run. He went so far as to hit me over the head with an umbrella and threatened to do more if I didn’t withdraw. Arriving back at my dorm room with a bulging black eye, Buddy grabbed me, shook me, and demanded I tell him what happened. I sometimes felt he thought of me as a little brother. I was a sophomore, he was a freshman, but we were both the same age.
I told him what happened. He immediately stormed out of the dorm room, rallied his roommate, and ran down the hallway toward the kid’s room. A few minutes went by followed by Buddy and Charlie casually walking back to their room. I never knew what happened, but the threatening kid moved out of the dormitory the next day. Buddy and I never talked about that incident, but he was there on election night to make sure people came out to vote!
Buddy invited me to come home with him over an Easter Holiday. It was an eye-popping experience. I had never witnessed such racial prejudice. Although I always loved spending summers with my maternal grandmother in rural Louisiana, I had never experienced the “Mississippi culture.” This was the early 1960’s . . . . . a time when the freedom riders were carving their way through the South. Racial tensions were running high.
I never experienced racial prejudice growing up in West University next to the fabulously wealthy River Oaks families. But I would see this prejudice firsthand when I went off to school in New Orleans. When I was a freshman, I was struck dumb when some friends and I went to a sandwich shop near Tulane. One of my friends was a wonderful black student from New York. We bounded into the sandwich shop full of fun and excitement only to be met by the owner swinging a broom and yelling obscenities. He would not have a black person invade his shop, let alone buy a sandwich.
I could not believe the racism and bigotry. I discovered that I had been insulated from this prejudice growing up in my area of Houston. My ignorance astounded me! I was mad at myself for not knowing and comprehending the situation. I was shocked to learn Freedom Riders would be killed such a short distance from New Orleans.
My friends were roommates, class mates, or members of the Tulane A Cappella Choir. These were all accomplished young people. Seeing the meanness and bigotry that swirled just outside the Tulane Campus almost overwhelmed me.
My racial education would be expanded when Hodding Carter Jr. and his wife became advisors and chaperones to the choir. The choir traveled to Mexico on an exchange program arranged through the U.S. State Department. It was during this trip that I learned the real history of the racial South.
Hodding Carter Jr. was a Pulitzer Prize winning publisher who was forced to leave Mississippi as a result of his out-spoken editorials against racial segregation. Tulane gave him refuge as a writer-in-residence. Listening to his stories, I realized the value of standing up to ignorance. This would have a profound long-term impact on my life.
Almost Killed in Mexico
I was almost killed on our sophomore choir trip to Mexico! When we arrived in each community, our hosts would parcel us out to local homes for overnight lodging. One of these visits took us to the beautiful town of Morelia, approximately 300 Km west of Mexico City. We were warned that there was communist unrest in the community, and that the U.S. Library had been burned just the week before we arrived.
My choir roommate and I were housed outside Morelia in a monastery run by Franciscan Monks. Their home monastic order was in the United States, so it seemed appropriate to house us there. I was touched by the warmth and friendliness of these wonderful monks. They prepared a modest hamburger for our dinner, and housed us in a small, remote building with a thatched roof. Our host monk advised us not to leave the monastery at night.
So what are two young college students going to do when night fell? We of course crawled over the monastery wall and wandered our way down the hill into the town. Arriving in a small plaza, I remember someone yelling: “Gringos!”
A number of rabble-rousers gathered and started yelling at us. My roommate and I turned and ran as fast as we could back to the monastery. We flung ourselves over the monastery wall taking refuge in our small cottage.
They say you become more religious when your sense danger . . . . this definitely applied to us. We only hoped the mob would respect the sanctity of the monastery. They didn’t! The yells and shouts became louder and louder as they approached the cottage. We cowered in the corner of that tiny hut.
The crowd rammed the barricaded door before throwing torches on the thatched roof. Smoke filled the one room structure. Portions of the roof were falling in. My roommate and I guessed we had only minutes before we suffocated, or burned to death. Part of the roof collapsed with flames now engulfing the wooden beds. We were trapped.
Then we head whistles and a loud commotion outside. I remember hearing thumps from what we later learned were officers using “billy clubs” to break up the protesters. Yells and screams filled the smoky night air. Two Federal troopers broke down the door, located us with their flash lights, and dragged us outside. We gulped for fresh air choking from the soot and debris in our lungs. We were saved.
The looks from the monks were less than sympathetic. We had been the instrumental force that burned down their small cottage. This was nothing like the rebukes we were to receive from our chaperones. The trip wasn’t canceled, but we found ourselves with restricted privileges. Everyone was mad at us, but also relieved that no one was killed.
None of the people involved in the trip wanted to leak details about what happened, so much of this event was smoothed over. I remember the Carters looking at me and saying: “What the hell were you thinking?” I had no answer.
Interestingly, we were to become the “Heroes of Morelia” from our fellow choir members. We didn’t sing any better, but we did have a sense of pride that we survived to talk about the experience.
Junior Year of College
Junior year was full of campus politics. I was elected President of the Student Union Music Committee which had a say about what musical events came to campus. I was president of my dormitory, and campaigned to be president of the choir. I found that I had totally lost my old shy self, and had developed an outgoing personality. It was a metamorphosis.
Never in high school would I have dreamed that I could easily make new friends. I think this was the year that I learned to truly enjoy other people. Again, if it hadn’t been for Billy, I would never have developed this gregarious personality.
I did not opt to spend my Junior Year studying abroad because I found myself falling in love with New Orleans. The trepidation I felt during my first two years of college was now dead because I learned to appreciate the value of old things. This led to my exploring everything “old” in New Orleans, including the old river road that followed the Mississippi River up to Baton Rouge.
Exploration for me focused on traveling this road investigating the antebellum homes lining the river. I loved the giant trees that formed arches over the paths leading up to these homes. They reminded me of the huge oak trees in front of my grandmother’s home in northern Louisiana.
I was not bashful. I would confidently go up to a front door of these old homes, knock on that door, and ask the person who greeted me if I could see their home. I explained my interest and that my family had been in Louisiana for 300 years. With my childish face and good humor, almost everyone invited me inside to see their home.
One Saturday found me standing in front of a monument to the Old South and the grandeur that was once New Orleans. This was the San Francisco Plantation located on the East side of the Mississippi about forty miles west of New Orleans. Although much of the house seemed in fair repair, it was obvious the current residents, Mr. & Mrs. Clark Thompson, were going to need to undertake considerable restoration. Mrs. Thompson showed me through the house as if we were first-time explorers.
Mrs. Thompson and I became good friends over the next few months. Without sufficient funding, they could not undertake major restoration, so I proposed that they should host tours of the home for people attending conventions in New Orleans. This could bring in much needed income at very little expense to the Thompsons. Mrs. Thompson explained that she just didn’t have time to give the tours . . . . so I volunteered!
With a little encouragement, Mrs. Thompson agreed to let me provide tour information to several well-known hotels in New Orleans. I “greased” the palm of the concierge at the Roosevelt Hotel and within two weeks, we had guests knocking on the door of the plantation home.
I loved giving these tours! It always amazed me how people visiting New Orleans wanted to throw themselves into the culture of the Old South. The insides of San Francisco gave them this opportunity. Guests loved learning that the artist who painted the ceiling of the New Orleans St. Louis Cathedral had also painted some of the ceilings and artwork in this grand old home.
Visitors loved the little trivia tidbits. I would ask one of the tour guests to open a door, which produced a surprise. The door knobs were six inches lower than today’s normal door knobs. My explanation: people who lived here in the 1850’s were smaller. Guests would always ask why there were no closets in the bed rooms. The reason: homes in that time were taxed based on the number of rooms in that home. Closets were considered rooms, therefore few homes had closets. They used ornate armoires.
The Ghost
By the time I graduated Tulane, the San Francisco Tours were well established and proved to be a great money-maker for the Thompsons. These tours also offered me an unusual experience: I saw a ghost.
During one of these big Saturday Tours complete with sandwiches and other refreshments, Mrs. Thompson asked me to get some additional glasses from the kitchen located on the group floor. The thick brick floor that supported the house included areas for buried pots that would keep perishables cool during the hot New Orleans summers. It always amazed me pots buried in the ground were such a good substitute for a refrigerator.
I went to the kitchen, washed a few glasses, and while drying them I noticed an elderly Negro Lady kneeling at one of these pots. I glanced her way and she acknowledged my stare with a warm, sweet smile that made my heart glow. She was dressed in a full skirt which seemed hot for this summer weather, but I didn’t pay much attention other than to say hello. She nodded.
Returning to the tour area, I asked Mrs. Thompson about the old lady. I thought I was the only “help” that day. She looked at me with a vacant expression, and then said we were the only ones there helping with the tour. I was confused. This old lady had a weathered, tired look on her face, but it was filled with character that comes with age.
When the guests left, I asked Mrs. Thompson if there were any photos showing the people who lived in San Francisco. She hurried to a bed room and produced a collection of old photos from a half-made scrapbook. Faded black and white family photos of long dead residents cascaded to the floor.
These grand early photos had so many stories to tell. The death of the original owner, the loss of life from yellow fever, and Civil War pestilence were all displayed for us to see. One of these old family photos showed some of the people that worked for the family. In that 1880’s photo, I spotted the same old lady I saw kneeling on the floor in the kitchen. How could this be?
I pointed out this sweet old Negro Lady to Mrs. Thompson who laughed at me! She smiled and quipped that this was their resident ghost. She told me that she inquired about her years before, but only could discover that she had died from yellow fever shortly after the photo was taken.
I had seen a ghost . . . a charming ghost! No scariness! Just a lost soul that seemed to love being in a place that gave her comfort. I never saw the old lady again.
Grand Canyon Adventure
One of my zoology teachers posted a notice inviting students to join him during a five day trip to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. It was to be an exploration of geology and the life forms that occupied each of the geological layers in the canyon. I immediately signed up!
The trip organized with just the professor and three students, including me! I was ecstatic about the adventure. I had traveled by burro to the bottom of the Grand Canyon when I was twelve years old, but that was a fairly tame experience except for the 117 degree temperature at the Phantom Ranch located at the bottom of the canyon.
Summer arrived and our little expedition headed for Arizona. We stopped several days in Flagstaff gathering all the gear needed for the trip. This included a small inflatable rubber boat, tents, food, and other supplies. We then headed for the South Rim of the Canyon.
Our first stop was at the Park Ranger Station. We outlined our trip plans for the Rangers complete with our expected time of arrival at Lake Mead. Now, we were off on a three-mile trudge down into the canyon carrying too much stuff. We were all exhausted by the time we got to the bottom of the canyon.
We set up a “quick camp,” ate sandwiches prepared the night before, and headed for our sleeping bags. The heavy heat was oppressive. It was a brisk 68 degrees on the South Rim, but spiked to 115 at the bottom of the canyon. We all sweated through everything we were wearing.
Morning met us with a touch of coolness, but this could have resulted from launching the inflatable boat and getting ourselves wet maneuvering it into the Colorado River. The boat rode low in the water, but this seemed to help us handle the small rapids encountered the first day. We traveled several miles down the canyon that first day making numerous stops to examine rock formations and exploring the fossil record. I was impressed with our teacher’s knowledge of the canyon’s geological record. I became fascinated with the field of paleozoology.
The Colorado River was kind to us. Water levels were low due to a drought that summer, but this worked to our advantage. There were more areas to camp, and more rocks and fossils to explore. We found a great location for our first camp site on the river, set up tents, and started dinner. We were at-home on the river!
Dinner was a success. We made a type of skillet cobbler that gave us some of the sugar we needed after such an active day. Tuna fish sandwiches plus cobbler was a great way to end an incredible day of discovery. It was not hard to go to sleep.
The next morning, our second day on the river, came very early. Our professor got us up at dawn to take down camp and get on the river. Then I heard it . . . . .a low grumbling sound. It was like a locomotive coming in our direction. I looked up stream and saw a wall of water crashing down the river ricocheting off the walls and picking up debris along the way. I estimated that the water was about 200 yards away!
The professor told us to run to the wall of the canyon. This was only 20 feet away, but seemed a horrible solution to our problem. It was a sheer cliff that rose fifty feet above us! We had seconds to respond. The professor pushed me up first onto a small ledge located about six feet above the canyon floor. I pulled the other two students up to the ledge and was in the process of hauling up the professor when all hell broke loose. The water hit us! I clung to the wall of the canyon on this 15 inch-deep ledge with thousands of gallons of water washing around us.
We were not able to get the professor up to the ledge before the water hit us. A small log hit the professor’s hip knocking him unconscious. We were finally able to get him onto the ledge, but it was hugely difficult holding him there with the water rushing feverishly around us! The water was knee-level on the ledge, which meant that it was about 10’ high on the floor of the canyon.
We remained on that cliff for hours! My student friends suggested that we launch ourselves into the river, grab one of the logs, and float down the river. I quashed this less than thoughtful idea reminding everyone that the professor was still unconscious and would not be able to take care of himself. More hours went by. The water started subsiding.
Then, as out of nowhere, ropes were being flung over the ledge above us. A park ranger was scampering down the rope and tied supportive straps onto the professor. Other rangers hauled him up to the top of the cliff. More ropes came down for the rest of us. None of us could crawl up the rope because of exhaustion. The rangers ended up pulling us all to the top. We then scaled more ledges to arrive at a small road at the top of this section of the North Rim. The professor and two students were loaded onto a jeep with the rangers. I was to be temporarily left there since there was no more room on the jeep, and I was the least injured. They said they would be back for me in 45 minutes.
After two hour of pacing, I figured it wouldn’t hurt if I started walking in the direction the jeep had traveled. The heat and soggy clothes made walking uncomfortable, but I soon dried out. It didn’t help that I lost one of my shoes during this ordeal.
I finally came to a substantial two-lane road and began walking towards the main part of the canyon. I only walked a few minutes when an old blue pickup truck pulled off the road ahead of me and an older Indian woman motioned for me to get into the truck. She told me this was no place to be walking!
It turned out this lovely 80-year old lady was a member of the Hopi tribe and was on a trip to gather blue sand. She was the ritual “sand painter” of her pueblo community and was trying to figure out how to get this blue sand. She explained that Hopi were not allowed to travel onto the Navajo reservation, but the blue sand was only located on Navajo land.
Her weary face had signs of living a hard life, but there was an intrinsic kindness in the way she spoke. She looked at me with eyes squinting in the sun and asked if I would take her truck and drive just a few miles up the road and dig some sand for her!
This was such an amazing adventure. I leaped at the opportunity. The old lady pulled over to the side of the road crawling energetically out of the truck. She repeated the directions over and over again. Travel east four or five miles and turn north when I see a certain rock out-cropping. The blue sand would be over the ridge about 100 feet off the road. I did my best to reassure her, and promised to return as soon as possible.
I was dazed by the day’s experiences. I was now driving down this road in an old blue truck after a morning of almost being killed on the river, scaling the side of the canyon, being left on the side of the road by Park Rangers, and now headed off to Navajo country on a mission for this wonderful old lady. She identified herself as Elizabeth. I found the sand without incident and returned to the spot where I left the old lady. She grinned with a smile that I would rarely see in life. She told me over and over how much she appreciated what I did for her.
I asked Elizabeth to explain the significance of the sand paintings. She pulled off to the side of the road again, took a couple of deep breaths, and set out to give me a halting explanation of sand painting. Each painting was a unique prayer to the Great Father. When complete, the painting would be left to the winds, and with every gust of air the prayer would be carried to their gods.
Elizabeth drove me to the ranger station where I learned the professor had been flown to a hospital in Phoenix. The other students received emergency first aid, and were already on the road to the airport. I was on my own to get home. All my worldly belongings had been washed downstream. Sensing my predicament, Elizabeth invited me to spend a few days on the Hopi reservation. Again, another great adventure!
Of course I went!
I was almost immediately struck by the poor living conditions on the reservation. Elizabeth, being a long time widow, had a semblance of a real home in a mud brick pueblo, but many other families lived with far fewer amenities. I observed that the men in the pueblo seemed distrustful of me. There were questions about why a “white eyes” was on the Hopi Reservation. Elizabeth gave several explanations in her native tongue. I don’t know what she said, but other members of the community seemed to respect her words and gave me “space” during the several days I spent with her.
We talked all the time. Everything that Elizabeth said was so terribly interesting to me because I never heard anyone express themselves the way she did. Not only that, her thoughts had such great wisdom that I wanted to hear everything she had to say. She seemed to enjoy my conversation, and wanted to hear about my school, my earlier life, and my family. She took particular interest in my study of Zoology because she too shared a real love for animals.
I spent hours telling Elizabeth about my Zoology focus areas: comparative vertebrate anatomy and entomology. She encouraged me to talk about my study of insects asking why I thought they were important. I shared story after story explaining how insects filled so many ecological niches, and that without them, the world would not work nearly as well! She shared her interest in insects and recounted how she used some of their images in her sand paintings.
She spent hours explaining the Hopi creation story, and how this involved ants. She explained that the ant people lived below ground, but finding a hole in the sky, they crawled up stalks of bamboo and emerged into this new world. These ant people were the Hopi’s great ancestors and were to be honored and respected. The location of the hole from their creation story was said to be somewhere near the Grand Canyon. This is one reason why the Hopi revered the canyon, and seemed to vest it with magical qualities.
I was fortunate to see Elizabeth start work on a sand painting before I left. Whereas I saw a shaky 80-year old at dinner, I saw steady hands carefully allowing a stream of sand pour through her fingers falling carefully onto a prepared sand surface. Bright colors of red, yellow, orange, green, brown . . . . and of course blue . . . . all supported her prayers.
I saw such patience and reverence! I will always remember the intensity in her eyes as she painted. Each handful of sand was meticulously placed within the slowly forming picture. Her squinting eyes paid great attention to detail . . . . careful that every grain of sand conveyed the proper meaning. Every line was straight; every curve was perfect!
The second night of my stay in the Hopi pueblo was a bit unusual. Elizabeth asked if I would like to join several of the pueblo elders and share a “sacred smoke.” I didn’t know exactly what this meant, but it seemed I was being accorded an honor by being allowed to sit with the men.
I agreed, and found myself seated along the wall of a small hut. Very little light entered this structure. I observed several men smoking small thimble-like pipes. I was not offered any, but the hut was chokingly filled with thick, odorous smoke. I remember resting my head against the wall and going off on a reverie that so relaxed me that I don’t remember moving for several hours.
I awoke to find myself alone in the hut, and returned to Elizabeth’s home. I learned years later that the men were probably smoking peyote, and it was this heavy smoke that induced my reverie. I’ve read stories that pueblo peoples often use peyote to find their “animal spirit.” If so, I never found my animal spirit, but I definitely found nausea.
Elizabeth loaned me some money to get a bus ticket back to Houston. After long hugs and the exchange of kind words, I boarded a bus and spent the next 15 hours reliving these amazing experiences. Of course when I got to Houston, my parents were alarmed by all these adventures, but seemed to calm down after observing that I seemed to have matured and grown within myself. Mom commented over and over again that this was not the same son she sent off to college.
I was no longer that uninitiated wide-eyed high school kid. I had now experienced the fear of death twice within a period of two years. Nearly burning alive in Mexico and almost drowning in Arizona, I sensed a bit more confidence in myself along with a unquenchable thirst for knowledge and adventure.
Interestingly, I learned months later that the flash flood that struck us in the Grand Canyon was caused by torrential rains miles up the river, and that a group of boy scouts had been killed several years earlier by a similar flash flood. The park rangers told me that the only thing that saved us was that we had the good sense to file a trip plan with the Ranger Station. They shared they had been looking for us after the first signs of the flash flood.
I never heard from the professor who led the trip. It was his planning that saved our lives. He never returned to Tulane. Some suggested this might have resulted from the injuries sustained on the trip. As for the other two students, I never had any interest in seeing them again.
Sadly, I never had any other conversation with Elizabeth although I tried to reach her by letters and by phone. My letters were returned. Later, I learned that this wonderful old lady had passed several months after my visit to her pueblo.
Other Tulane Adventures
When I returned to Tulane in the Fall, I joined the skydiving club. On our first outing, I had thirty minutes of training before we leaped into a small airplane and headed out over green fields and extensive marshy areas. My trainer drilled into me that I was to count to ten and then pull the rip cord! Count ten! Pull cord!
I remember the bravado that filled the students in that small plane as we cruised to the proper altitude. That all faded away when the door flew open and several of us were gently pushed out of the airplane. Falling towards Earth filled me with terror. I forgot my 30 minutes of training and just pulled the rip cord. The parachute popped out yanking me swiftly back towards the sky, slowing my sudden fall, and making the experience far more enjoyable.
Now, the words of my student trainer again gushed through my head. He coached: when approaching the ground, I was supposed to gently drop and roll. His last words were: “You don’t want to come down with stiff legs unless you don’t want to walk for eight weeks!”
I hoped I was going to survive the landing. The ground was coming up extremely fast flushing my mind with panicky thoughts because the ground was not green, but brown, wet marsh land. I pulled the rip cord too soon and was coming down in the wetlands adjoining the landing area.
Hitting the soggy marsh at seven or eight miles per hour drove my feet and legs into the mud. I was stuck up to my knees, but no bones were broken. It didn’t seem like I was going anywhere fast. I worried that I wouldn’t be able to free myself with the parachute tugging me one way and the ground holding my legs fast!
There were times in my life when luck intervened. This was one of those times. My trainer, seeing me coming down short of the landing field, had hopped into his truck and followed me down. He saw me land in the muck. Driving as close as he could to my landing spot, he jumped out of the truck, cut the parachute lines, and laughed at me! He mumbled: “Kid, I saw how you land. I think the only thing that saved your life was landing in the marsh!” He was right.
It took a few minutes to free my legs from the muck, but we finally trudged back to the truck and escaped an “afternoon of fun.” I never returned to the Sky Diving Club.
Rather than skydiving, I took up sail boats and joined the Tulane Sailing Club. Again, I received a few hours of training and was issued a Sunfish sail boat and told to take her out on Lake Pontchartrain. I placed the boat in the water, pushed off from shore, raised the sail and headed out into the lake. It was joyous. The wind was moving me rapidly over the water. I remembered to put down the dagger board as instructed.
Everything seemed like it was going wonderfully well! I was learning how to tact with the wind, and was making good progress. I soon became aware that the wind speed was rising and tried to steer the boat back towards the dock area. I have to admit that I was a bit clumsy handling the sail, but this was my first experience!
The waves were now bigger. The large swells raised my boat only to carry me into the troughs between waves. Larger waves produced deeper troughs. Then tragedy struck. As the Sunfish went down into one of these deep troughs, the dagger board stuck firm in the shallow lake bed! It was like the hand of God grabbed my boat and was not going to let me loose! The next wave swamped the boat leaving it attached to the bottom, and me swimming for shore. The Sunfish was lost.
One of my Dad’s first extra expenses at Tulane was paying for a new Sunfish. But this was not to be my Dad’s only extra expense. I got the bright idea that it would be fun to brick-up our large suite shower room and construct a small swimming pool! This was during my sophomore year when I roomed with the “jocks.” They loved the idea!
We “borrowed” bricks from a nearby construction site, made a little cement, and bricked up a small portion of the entrance to the tiled shower room. We only closed off about three feet of the doorway, but this gave us a luxurious pool to carry out our foolish fun. We built the pool over a weekend, and planned to tear it out by Monday. It was to be a weekend “lark.”
I loved my sophomore year rooming with these great guys. They were always up for a challenge. Our swimming pool was just one of these challenges, but I forgot to consider one thing: the weight of the water!
On Sunday morning, the guys in the third floor rooms directly below us started banging on our door. Their ceiling was leaking! The weight of the water was too much for the ceiling and it was slowly giving way! Around mid-morning we heard the sound of a loud whoosh as a portion of the floor gave way dumping what was left of the water, along with ceiling tiles and concrete, onto the third floor! The Dean was not impressed.
Again, it was another raid on Dad’s pocket book, but he didn’t scold me. He just said that I needed to be smarter and plan ahead! Dad and I had many good laughs about my construction and disassembly of “things.” I think he realized that I was never going to stop tinkering. He often reminded me about the times I took things apart only to have parts left over after reassembly. I would always remind him that the “thing” always worked! For instance, I took apart my portable typewriter. After reassembly, I had two springs and multiple screws left over. The typewriter worked great, and lasted me five years.
Senior Year at Tulane
With the start of my senior year at Tulane, I thought I had the “world by the tail!” I had survived a flash flood in the Grand Canyon. I was elected to be president of the senior class, the Student Union Committees, the Dormitory Council, and the A Cappella Choir. I was to be the big man on campus.
Then, I received a note from the Dean of Arts & Sciences that I needed to come to his office. I thought this was going to be a congratulatory meeting, but it turned out to be one of the biggest disappointments in my life.
Interestingly, a gypsy fortune teller told me years before that I was going to live an unusual life. The woman looked perplexed searching my hand over and over again. She wiped my palm multiple times as if each new wiping would produce a new outcome. Grasping my hand firmly and staring deeply into my eyes, she told me that I was going to have a four-year life cycle. I would have three successful years followed by one “bad year.” The high school friends who were with me told me to ignore this crazy woman, but her prediction would be accurate.
Applying this template, I consider my not achieving Battle Group Commander in 1960 was the first year of this cycle. If the gypsy’s prediction was true, I would be due for another problem year in 1964. My visit to the Dean of Arts & Science confirmed this was sadly going to be that bad year.
The Dean invited me to sit down and share a cup of coffee. So far so good! Then he brought out his copy of the student handbook. He pointed to a section that said that if a student received a grade of a “C” in a course, that student would not be eligible to hold an elected office the following year.
Despite my best efforts, my Economics teacher didn’t think I deserved a “B.” I hated the course . . . . not because of the subject matter . . . . but because the teacher drove the class into the ground with her banal utterings. I should have dropped the class, but all my efforts were focused on campus politics. Now I would face the consequences.
The Dean told me that I would have to give up being president in all four student organizations. My face was frozen. My heart was in my mouth, but I had nothing to say. I think it was shock.
I remember walking back to the dormitory. My new senior year roommate thought I had become ill. Bruce sat me down on the bed and demanded to know what happened.
One of the best things in my college life was finding Bruce as a senior year roommate. Bruce had already graduated and was entering his first year as a medical student at Tulane Medical School. I thought rooming with Bruce would help me decide whether or not I really wanted to be a doctor. Remember, all my life I had told Dad that I wanted to be a doctor. This would fulfill Dad’s ambition to have a doctor in the family.
I was pretty well committed to this line of study. I took the Medical School Aptitude Test and was accepted into Tulane Medical School, but I didn’t know if I wanted to become a doctor. I thought rooming with Bruce would help me find these answers!
So when Bruce sat me down on the bed and asked me what was wrong, I felt like I owed him an explanation! I gave him a short explanation. He seemed shocked! He knew about all my efforts to become Senior Body President.
My sophomore buddies had not returned to Tulane. Grades took a heavy toll on them. My junior year roommate had been killed in an earthquake in Nicaragua, so Bruce was fast becoming one of my closest friends.
I realized that I had to find a new focus this senior year, so I threw myself into my studies, my singing with Roberta Caper’s Madrigal Group, the A Cappella Choir, and my job with the Dean of Student Life’s Office.
My Love of Insects
I devoured my senior classes. As in preceding years, all my mornings were filled with classes; labs filled four afternoons. I particularly liked my study of insects! In a class of five students, each person helped the teacher drive the course. It was hugely demanding with a required 250-count insect collection due at the end of the semester!
Saturday mornings often found me flitting around Audubon Park Golf Course with a butterfly net trying to catch a great new specimen. On one such Saturday, the New Orleans Police called me over and asked what I was doing. Some golfer had filed a complaint about a crazy kid running after butterflies! The officers didn’t believe my story and put me in the squad car.
As the police car pulled out of Audubon Park, I saw my Entomology Professor emerging from the Science Building across the street. Luckily, Audubon Park was located directly across the street from Tulane. I begged the officers to drive over to the school and ask my professor, now standing outside the main administrative building, about my school project.
Begging and groveling worked. The officers drove over to Tulane. I distinctly remember the officer rolling down his window, sticking his head out the window, and asking the professor if he knew me! The professor took one look at me and said he had never seen me before! I uttered an audible groan! The professor laughed, explained the project, and the officers let me out of the squad car!
On another day, the Entomology class took a field trip to the Bonne Carre Spillway located North of New Orleans. The spillway had been built to protect the city from Mississippi River flooding, and provided many great grass lands ripe with insects. This was an insect collectors dream.
Each student headed out in different directions from an elevated roadway. The sunken land surrounding the roadway was filled with tall grass that stood taller than most students. I remember wandering through the grasses until I came to an open area about 20 meters in diameter.
Then I heard it! The teacher was screaming at me, followed by cries from the other students. Everyone was urging me to “run like hell” for the road! I didn’t realize they could see from their elevated location that a bull was entering the far side of the open area. The bull took one look at me, pawed the ground several times, and charged me with a gusto that took me back to the days when I dodged bulls at my grandmother’s home.
I turned and charged through the grass like a mad man. I could hear the bull running behind me; I could feel the ground shaking! I think the only thing that saved me was that the bull was having a harder time getting through the thick grass! I could hear my student friends yelling to me! Leaping over a fence, I jumped into the waiting arms of the class. Sweat poured off me, but I was safe.
Senior Class President
These senior class experiences helped me get through some sad days. My heart always hurt when I saw the new senior class president performing his official duties. This should have been me, except for my overlooking Economics, but I didn’t resent my successor. We often talked discussing student strategies.
The toughest event occurred with the traditional Senior Class Graduation Ceremony. This was not the formal graduation exercises, but an opportunity for graduating seniors, teachers, and families to get together in a less formal setting. The afternoon was filled with dull speeches followed by the singing of the School Alma Matter. The President of the Senior Class would lead the singing of the anthem.
Everyone stood up and watched the President of the Senior Class mount the stage.
He paused at the rostrum, looked at the crowd, paused again, and called my name. I was being asked to come to the stage. I walked up to the rostrum a bit dumbfounded. This fine young man said quietly to me: “This should have been you standing here. It would make me happy if you lead the Alma Mater.”
With tears in my eyes and my voice trembling, we both led the singing of the anthem followed by a roar of applause from the students. I was humbled by the generosity of this young man. I regret that I never knew what happened to him.
Assistant to the Director of the Tulane Office of Cultural Activities
My greatest fun my senior year was working as Agatha’s Assistant in the Tulane Office of Cultural Activities. This was a part of the Dean of Students Office. Agatha’s duties included contracting all cultural events brought to the campus. I got to share the fun of visiting with all of these luminaries and welcoming them to the campus. This included the likes of Bob Hope, Marian Anderson, Itzhak Perlman, The Kingston Trio, Andres Segovia, Werner Torkanowsky, Carlos Montoya, and many more wonderful entertainers of the day.
My job was to help the guests get to their special rooms on campus, and to see that they had dinner or any other needs met. This often resulted in me taking the guests out to dinner or escorting them to a reception at the University President’s Home. It was a humbling experience listening to their life stories, but they always reciprocated showing interest in me and other students at Tulane.
I was also privileged to announce all of these guests at their performances. I specifically remember announcing the great African-American Metropolitan Opera contralto Marian Anderson. You could not have gotten one more person into McAlister Auditorium. The stage was adorned with only a grand piano and a small music stand. I walked on stage, announced her, and applauded as she and her piano accompanist walked on stage. She began to sing her first song.
Then, I could see something was going wrong. The music sitting on the music stand in front of Ms. Anderson was fluttering in a breeze coming from the wings of the stage. The breeze became a draft, followed by one sheet of music flying off the stand. I rushed on stage, grabbed the music, replaced it on the music stand, and spent the remainder of the performance holding the music and turning the pages. The show must go on!
Ms. Anderson gave me hug on stage during one of the curtain calls, but I was tremendously glad that it was all over. I brought a small dinner to her room on campus. She shared hour after hour of experiences, particularly telling me stories about when things went wrong during concerts. She also loved telling the story about her performance in front of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington on Easter Sunday, 1939.
I loved introducing a real hero of mine, Bob Hope, when we brought him to the Tulane Field House. We talked together for about thirty minutes before his performance. I found this unusual since most of the performer seemed to prefer silence so they could focus on their upcoming concert. Not Bob Hope. He wanted to know all about me, while at the same time sharing stories about his USO efforts to support the troops.
Then, his theme song Thanks for the Memories started playing, and Bob pushed me out onto the stage for the introduction. I made a few gracious comments thanking him for coming to Tulane, and introduced him on stage. Hope came out, but gently grabbed my arm as I was walking off stage. He whispered to me that he needed me to stay on-stage with him for a few minutes. I was dumbfounded!
As Bob Hope opened his wonderfully humorous performance, I realized my purpose . . . . . . . . I was to be his “strait” man. I was to be the brunt of some jokes that would help personalize the performance to the Tulane audience. He joked about my height, but then noted that he only towered over me by two inches! He announced to the audience that I was one of Tulane’s famous insect hunters saying that I would be available for any emergency.
Hope was referring to the story I told him about being called by the Tulane Phone Operator to help a couple facing a large spider lodged in their living room ceiling. Large South American spiders often hitched a ride on banana boats docked along the Mississippi River. When the cargo was off loaded, the spiders would wander into the neighborhoods scaring the residents. That’s when the Tulane Operator received worried late-night phone calls seeking help . . . . and who did they call? Me!
Hope told this story to the 4,000 people seated in the field house to a roar of laughter. This was followed by other tales, but it was almost fun to be a part of the first few minutes of his performance, even though I was being the one getting poked!
My most memorable announcing experience occurred during the performance of a The Kingston Trio, a popular boys singing group similar to today’s Back Street Boys. Of course, they were crooning 60’s hits, but they were hugely popular with lots of screaming, adoring girls trying to reach them!
I had problems with my contact lenses all afternoon prior to their concert, so I decided not to wear them for the show, but use my glasses. Just as I was about to walk out on stage, Agatha (my boss) asked me why I was wearing glasses. She didn’t think the glasses looked good on me. Off came my glasses! I proceeded to walk onto the stage.
It was always my stage procedure to walk close to the edge of the stage. This helped me connect with the audience. On this night, without my glasses, I walked towards the edge of the stage and actually fell off! There was a huge gasp from the audience. The Kingston Trio immediately came on stage and started their concert.
I found myself in a pitch black orchestra pit. The performance had begun, so my task was to discretely find a way out. The regular door the allowed egress from the orchestra pit was locked! I was seven feet below the stage and locked into the pit.
After too long a period of time, The Kingston Trio finally took a mid-performance break. I did my best to leap onto the stage. I tried throwing my leg over the top of the stage and pulling myself up, but the wax on the stage floor denied me a decent grip. I kept falling back into the orchestra pit. Each time I failed, the crowd would send up a roar of laughter. They weren’t heartless! They also cheered for me every time I leaped for the stage!
I never got out of the orchestra pit until the concert was over. I was humiliated! Everyone on campus heard about my dilemma and wanted to express sympathy (and laughs) for my experience. I kept thinking to myself: if everyone was so concerned, why didn’t someone try to help me?
Then, the next morning, everything took a new perspective. Agatha gave me a copy of the Times Picayune, the daily New Orleans newspaper. The Entertainment Critic attended the concert and wrote two full columns about the Kingston Trio’s performance. Agatha had highlighted the last three paragraphs. It said: The Kingston Trio’s performance was predictable and mundane. The only thing good about the concert was watching the crowd cheer for the young announcer who fell into the orchestra pit, and spent most of the event trying to get out!