WANTED: Guest writers to occasionally chime in with an article to amuse and entertain. Make your own schedule. No pay. No benefits other than to know you have amused and entertained. Please keep it to about 600 words!
In 1959, after lunch at Boude Storey, my job was to make sure students did not re-enter the hallway to classrooms until the bell rang. Seeing my shyness, Mary Gene decided to make a game of trying to convince me, trick me, get someone to distract me, or otherwise get around me. Every day it was the same -- I tried, but I was no match for her! Usually, to my relief, when we both knew she had beaten me, she turned around and walked away... After football letter jackets were given out, Mary Gene asked if she could wear mine. And, of course that was okay, even though I was very religious and kept a small New Testament in the pocket. Also, Mary Gene and her Eaglette friends, especially Charlotte Anders, found chewing gum in the pocket and gladly thought I had put it there for them! Soon, Mary Gene gave me a picture of herself, and I was so proud -- it was like an approval from her -- and I couldn't wait to show the picture to my family. Being always very smart, Mary Gene knew that before Sunday School started at her church, she could stand on the stairs outside and see my family and me drive by, on the way to my church -- and she did that, smiling and waving, almost every Sunday -- but, of course, always pretending to be surprised to see me! And later, after several dates, and after several very light good-night kisses, I wanted to give Mary Gene a ring to wear on a chain, but I did not have a ring of any kind. That lead me to start saving and, one day, after many jobs were done, I rode the bus downtown to Kay's Jewelry and bought a ring with my initial, "S" on it. I couldn't wait, and I gave it to her that night. The next week, I felt ten feet tall when I saw Mary Gene coming down the stairs at Boude Storey, so happy, and with her hand touching my ring. Yesterday, I learned on the website that Mary Gene helped Dan Green with math in their senior year at South Oak Cliff High School -- and today, so sadly, I learned that Mary Gene passed away in May of this year. Years ago, I moved to Duncanville and I went to SOC only my sophomore year. But, I owe so much more to Mary Gene Florence than words can ever express. I was so clueless when she found me in the Boude Storey hallway, but that did not seem to matter to her. SHE made me a better man, and I am so much better because I knew Mary Gene. Since those early years, I have even remembered Mary Gene's birthday, February 18th, every year, silently wished her the best, wherever she might be. Now, with you, our classmates, I will wish her Peace and Love...Always. Jimmy Stegall, Boude Storey, '57-'59, South Oak Cliff '60-'61 (I have attached a photo of me now, but it is not very good -- anyway, this is for Mary Gene!)
Jimmy Stegall, Age 66
QUITE LITERALLY, PARADISE By Janelle Kimball When life handed us a truckload of lemons last year, my husband and I stared at each other and said, "Now what?" After much contemplation, hand wringing, puffs on multiple inhalers, we made the decision to put the home that we’d lived in for over 30 years up for sale, and leave the Bay Area. A few thought we were crazy, especially when we told them where we were headed. "Chico! Do you know how hot it is there?" Others hinted that we were foolish to attempt to sell during the height of a down market. Luckily, with the help and grit of our agent, Margot, we sold our home in 10 days. Be careful what you wish for, you just may get it. We packed up our belongings, lemons and all, and headed northeast of Chico to Paradise, and we’ve never looked back. Without realizing it, by moving to the country and agricultural area, we stepped back in time, to how our Bay Area Lafayette, home had once been before the developers moved in, “forcing” us off of the land that my husband had lived on since 1947. Sadly, no longer the rural, picturesque homestead it once was. But, then again, what is these days? Seeking to regain some semblance of tranquility, we settled on a house with two acres - boonie-land. The view from our picture window provides stunningly beautiful orange sunsets. One forgets how mesmerizing the stars are at night when there’s no light pollution. We have wild life here that would make many envious. When our daughter came to see us for the first time, I overheard to asking her friend, “Do you think I should tell Mother there’s snakes here?” “Huh?” Be careful what you wish for. Well, we haven’t seen a snake yet even though we’ve been warned by the other neighbors to be careful. What has taken up residence with us, are wild turkeys. Currently, the count is 8 and let me just say that they are ugly. When we first moved here, we jumped at our own shadow. That has finally settled down and I have stopped my blood-curdling screams at the mere sight of a lizard, knowing full well that it is going to dash under my feet. However, the other evening, while stargazing outside, I heard the sound of it first - swoosh, followed by a flash of black movement, out of nowhere something flew right between us, at eye-level. “BAAAT!” I screamed and sprinted to the front door with my husband close on my heels.We bolted through the door and slammed it behind us, all the while laughing knowing how incredibly foolish we must have looked. All kidding aside and with some adjustments, it really is quite peaceful living here in what we feel is as close to “paradise” as one can get without leaving this earthly world, thereby turning our lemons into lemonade. We relish the sights of nature where deer meander through the neighborhood. We have quail, jackrabbits, a gazillion dragon flies this past spring that hovered above our lawn for some reason. Last year, a neighbor spotted a bobcat sunning itself on the boulders in her yard. There’s the coyote that we, occasionally, spot in our yard. This beautiful creature will pause, look directly at us, before he continues on his way. And, yes, bats. As a reminder to not get too cocky with all of this serenity talk, my husband was presented with a not so small gift from Mr. Turkey this morning. Standing outside, the early morning dew glistening on the lawn, we were admiring all that we’d accomplished in the yard over these past six months, my husband took one small step to the side, he paused briefly with a most unpleasant look on his face, we both looked down at his bare foot, “Yew, turkey poop!” Even I must admit that our lemonade might not be perfect yet, but that’s okay. We can deal with an occasional “squish” between the toes of life, as long as we remain forever hopeful when circumstances beyond one’s control dumps lemons on you
.
ONE PUFF, OR TWO?
By Janelle Kimball
The very first thing that comes to mind when I wake in the mornings, before my feet ever touch the floor, is, “Will this be a 1-puff, or 2-puffs, day on the ole inhaler?”
See, right now, I’m having trouble breathing. Even though my doctor tells me I really can, my brain thinks I can’t. My husband and I are going through the angst of him being laid off after 40 years of working in the same industry.
The Westaff Corporate office, that we called home for the past 13 years, resided amongst older buildings, shaded by a multitude of mature, sprawling oak trees. It was quite the serene setting and was the kind of company where the employees’ kids and grandkids were welcomed. Between you and me, even a puppy, or two, spent time under a desk.
These were simple offices, even frayed a little, but they were filled with hard-working employees. People who had been at corporate for eons, some as long as 20 years--dedicated, conscientious men and women. Sadly, corporate became victim of a sale/merger--merger being an oxymoron. The reality is, it was more of a “takeover” than anything else, where no one at corporate survived.
In all candor, once the merger was finalized, twenty-four hours later, the bloodletting began and the fallout from that was sorrowful. One day everyone was there doing their jobs and in the blink of an eye, an hour later, half the staff was gone. Just like that, just that easy. Blink!
The hysteria that erupted with the unexpected news of their immediate termination spread like wildfire throughout the building. This bombshell had some scurrying to their offices, hiding like children behind closed doors praying that they might be passed over somehow and draw income for one more day. Instead, at precisely that moment, these employees had just fast forwarded to the unemployment line. “Wasn’t it just the day before that everyone got that stupid ‘welcome to the company’ email?” I frantically asked my husband.
This was a 2-puffer, hand-wringing day for sure.
When my husband called me with the news, he was sick at heart as he shared that some were so stunned by the unexpected layoff that they roamed the hallways crying, their arms laden with their personal belongings. Four days later, after believing we had dodged a bullet, the remaining staff was informed that Westaff’s corporate offices would be shut down permanently--meaning my husband’s job just went in the crapper. Just like that, just that easy. Blink! This time called for, not only 2-puffs, but the emergency inhaler, as well. Adding to my newly developed daily neuroses, I began developing a nervous tic, of which I will spare you the details. It wasn’t pretty. Lord help me.
Knowing that my husband’s salary was short-lived, I found myself sitting with my doctor on the verge of tears, confiding in her. “What will I do on his last day? What if I need a hug?”
“Then, you’ll come see me and I’ll give you a hug. Remember, it’s just one day, Janelle. You’ll get through it.”
“Okay,” I sniffled. “Thank you, Maeve.”
And I did. On May 22nd, I kissed my husband good-bye that Friday morning, wished him well, and said a silent prayer for him as he set off for one final work day. He stopped at the bottom of the front stairs, looked back up at me, and smiled. “We’ll be ok,” he said. His day began and ended better than I could have hoped for. The atmosphere at Westaff had turned playful. As the group handed over their laptops, cell phones, keys, etc., they did so to the strains of “Pomp and Circumstance” playing in the background on someone’s boom box. This was then followed by a luncheon at Chevy’s; their final party; their final parting. It was just what I had prayed for.
As it turned out, that day became a day of “acceptance” for us, at least philosophically. Just as we have done in the past, we’ll take this next step into uncertainty together
Remembering Ben Hemphill - April 13, 2009 by John Southworth
Benny Hemphill, my former roommate (circa 1964 - The Red Lion apartments near Wee St. Andrews) and early scooter rider, died on this day in 2001.
In our Zumwalt days, his family lived on Glen Arbor near the Beckharts and Gary Strzinek and Shannon Morehouse in our neighborhood known as Glenview.
He went on to major in Marine Biology at North Texas (1972), but never worked in that field. I ran into Ben again in the early 1970's and he was married to a gal named Sheila. As I recall, Gary Deatherage ('63) was his Best Man at the wedding. Sheila was a very shapely cocktail waitress at the time I caught up with him. Later they had a son named Clint.
In the mid 1970's they divorced and in 1978 Ben married Rena Sue Hill of east Texas. She was about nine years younger than he. A very sweet gal. After Ben's death, I continued to get Christmas cards from her until she remarried a few years ago.
Ben and Rena opened a Shell station/convenience store on the northside in Athens, TX, and worked their butts off running it. Each time I tried to get him to come to a class reunion his excuse was that he couldn't leave the store that long. The business was open 7 days a week.
A leaking valve in his heart is what did Ben in at the age of 56. On the outside he looked thin and fit. Rena called to tell me he'd been sent to the hospital. Three days later he passed away. A room full of SOCites made their way to Athens for his funeral.
I never got used to calling him "Ben". In my mind, he'll always be Benny.
Revelations of Private Lives Started by New Teachers From Bear Tracks, October 20, 1953 (partial reprint of article)
...Mrs. Virginia Hurst is a new addition to the S.O.C. faculty. She is married but has no children. Mrs. Hurst attended Forest, University of California, Stanford, and S.M.U. Her favorite recreation is playing Bolivia.
Miss Betty Eskrigge is one of S.O.C.'s new teachers. She teaches Physical Education and has taught at Breneau College, Gainesville. Miss Eskrigge has attended Mississippi State University, and Peabody College for Teachers. Her favorite recreations are people, swimming, tennis, bridge and most anything.
Mr. Eugene Kribbs is married and has two children, both girls. He taught at Forest High School. He now teaches Mechanical Drawing. He attended Texas A&M. and N.T.S.C. His hobby is leather craft and wood work, and all types of sports, hunting and fishing, all good food.
Coach Hodge
One of S.O.C.'s new football coaches is Charles Hodge, who works with the ends on the A squad. Besides his football coaching, he teaches general math, and will also coach B team basketball.
Coach Hodge graduated from Sunset in 1948 and was tri-captain of the football team there. Coach Graham, S.O.C. head coach, saw Mr. Hodge in action at Sunset and therefore knew he would make S.O.C. a good coach.
After high school, Coach Hodge went to Texas A&M. He lettered three years in football. Last year he coached elementary school football in Midland, Texas. He is married and has two boys.
2A’s Elect Class Officers October 14 From Bear Tracks, October 29, 1952
Kenneth Jones, Richard Clifton, Dixie Armstrong, and Anne Chapman were elected 2A class officers in a class meeting Tuesday, October 14.Mr. Matthews presided and introduced the 2A sponsor, Mr. Erickson.
Each 2A voted for a boy for president and a girl for secretary.The people coming in second in each race were elected vice-president and treasurer.Nominations for president were Gary Earnest, Melvin Bailey, Kennith Jones, Richard Clifton and Edgar Ward.Nominated for secretary were Virginia Walker, Adelayde Williams, Betty Noles, Anne Chapman, and Dixie Armstrong.
Gypsy Appears at Pep Rally From Bear Tracks, October 29, 1952
“Let’s Make Hotdogs out of Bulldogs.”
This yell, hollered by the cheerleaders as they came down the aisles, opened Oct. 16’s Pep Assembly.
The speech class presided at the assembly, with Dixie Armstrong as M. C.Dixie played a fortune teller, Madame Got-A-Lot.She was introduced by Bobby Plyler.Looking into her crystal ball, she was able to show us the North Dallas majorettes in action (played by Shirley Reynolds and Phyllis Holup.)Among other things Madame Got-A-Lot, through her mystic powers, showed us the Burial of North Dallas on the 50 yard line.
After a few yells, the assembly was concluded by Mr. Matthews.
Sullivan, Rice, Get Radios in Magazine Contest From Bear Tracks, October 29, 1952
Bob Sullivan won the first prize of a portable radio in the magazine subscription drive sponsored by the band.Genita Rice received a radio for second prize.Other prizes won were two tickets to the Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis show at the State Fair by Genita Rice for selling the most the first day, and a flashlight camera by Bob Sullivan for the most sales last day.
Twenty dollars was offered to the person selling a subscription to the mystery person, but no one was successful.
Total sales amounted to $1,500.After paying for the prizes given away, the profit from the sale was $400.The money will go for new uniforms for the band.
Photo Club Elects Scott and Holup From Bear Tracks, October 29, 1952
The Photography Club elected Junior Scott President and Phyllis Holup Secretary.The club is sponsored by Mr. Ellsworth and had seventeen members at the first meeting.They meet every Monday afternoon and have other periods for laboratory work when needed.Meetings are held in rooms 202 and 204.
Bears to Enter AAAA Race Next Year From Bear Tracks, October 29, 1952
Next year the Golden Bears will be admitted to AAAA competition according to Rhea Williams, the Texas Interscholastic Athletic Director.
One Requirement is a minimum enrollment of 750 students; by next fall we are expecting 1200.
Mr. Matthews said, "Naturally, we are proud." Coach Fred Graham added, "We will probably get pushed around next year but we'll have an all-senior bunch in 1954." He also explained that the boys themselves are eager to plunge into the city fight.
Davis Writes Songs for SOC From Bear Tracks, October 29, 1952
Thanks to Mr. Davis, South Oak Cliff choral director, SOCites now have two new songs. Realizing we were without any school songs, Mr. Matthews suggested to Mr. Davis that he work some out.
Mr Davis started work on the songs on Monday, September 8, after gathering any information that could be used concerning South Oak Cliff. Working on the words and music simultaneously, he completed the two songs we now have, "Hail, Alma Mater" and "Beautiful Gold and White." Aided by the Tenth Grade Chorus, he introduced them to the student body and faculty Friday, September 11. He had previously rehearsed the songs with his eighth and tenth grade choruses. Incidentally, Mr. Davis has now completed a band arrangement for both songs. Each assembly is concluded by the singing of "Hail, Alma Mater."
South Oak Cliff's present need is a few more songs, among them another fight or victory song having a little more pep and spirit than the present two, and it should be out in the near future. During the year he may work on half-a-dozen songs. After several months trial the student body will be given the opportunity to select favorites.
Prior to coming to SOC, Mr. Davis was for the past seven years on the music faculty of Abilene Christian College. Before that he worked in other Texas high schools for four years.
Listed on page four are the songs now in use. (From Page 4)
Washington and Lee Swing
O when those Golden Bears fall into line. We're gonna win that game another time; And for the dear old school we love so well, And for the football team we'll Yell and Yell and Yell. We're gonna fight, fight, fight for every score; And then we'll charge again and win some more. We're gonna roll those (Leopards) in the sod, in the sod. Win, Bears, Win!
Beautiful Gold and White
Beautiful Gold and White, we love you, For you are our colors true. Ever to you we will be faithful, For the glory of our school. Carry the banner on before us; S how our colors high above. South Oak Cliff is our high school; Let's cheer for the school we love. Touchdown
-----Yea team!---Whose team! -- Our team ----- We want a touch-down hear 'em sing. We want a touch-down That's the thing. Just let some great big bruiser husky and tall -- Carry the ball -- in no time at all -- we'll have a touch-down. When it's over let us hear you make some noise -- V-I-C-T-O-R-Y -- let's have a touchdown, boys --
Hail, Alma Mater!
Hail, Alma Mater! Hail, Gold and White! We're right behind you As you go into the fight (rah, rah, rah). Loyal and faithful, Ever we'll be. South Oak Cliff, we love you; Win a victory!
(back to Page 1)
Clifton and Faulkner Chosen by Hi Y's From Bear Tracks, October 29, 1952
The Hi Y elected the following as their officers: President, Richard Clifton; Vice President, Billy Foulkner (sic); Secretary, Jerry Fewell; Treasurer, Edgar Ward; Chaplain, Leon Hallman; Sergeant at Arms, Richard Dandridge.
The objective of the club is to better develop Christian boys.
Friday, October 24, at 8:00, a dance was sponsored by the Hi Y to help raise money to send representatives to two conferences in the near future.
Mr. Brantley is the club's sponsor.
MEN AND THEIR FREEDOM TO MISBEHAVE
By Janelle Kimball
It was such a subtle gesture done under the table, out of eyesight from all the other guests. The young woman discretely slipped her hand around her husband’s wrist, restraining him, that look of angst clearly visible on her face--it was unmistakable. I’m sure she hadn’t meant for anyone to notice, but I had.
During a visit out of state, my husband and I recently attended one of those “milestone” birthday, dinner parties held at an upscale restaurant with our group of about twenty-five sequestered in a private dining room.The atmosphere in the room was loud and quite spirited as various friends, neighbors, and co-workers openly shared good-humored tales, both past and present, about the gentleman whose birthday it was. Eventually, the party began to wind down and conversations were waning.
Catching everyone by surprise, a guest suddenly scooted back in his chair and abruptly stood up raising his glass high above his head, as if in a gallant gesture. On the contrary, this raised glass was a challenge to the guest of honor to “reenact” their bygone tradition--seeing who could chug their vodka the fastest.
You could feel an awkward anticipation settle in around the room as the guests were then required to politely watch these two grown men--their heads tilted backwards--guzzle their drinks, racing one another, not once stopping to breathe, for the sole purpose of simply being “first.” Most sat there in silence while some goaded the two friends with chants of, “Chug, chug, chug.” These two reminded me of naughty children misbehaving, if one could overlook the touch of greying in their hair.
I recall staring at my husband in an attempt to telepathically convey to him, “Wouldn’t a guy have outgrown this adolescent behavior by age 40?” At the very least, save it for a more appropriate venue like the local honky-tonk? If that wasn’t enough, the friend was overly eager to go a second round. That’s when I noticed her hand as it slid under the table and grabbed hold of his wrist, a silent plea to her husband--and, my heart went out to her. The fun had come to a screeching halt signaling an immediate end to the evening and I momentarily regretted that it had ended on such an undignified note.
By no means am I implying that this was akin to some scandalous crime. It wasn’t.
See, I have never felt I had the “privilege” of such freedom--the liberty to behave without regard for the ramifications of my actions. Rarely do I venture outside my comfort zone and, candidly, admit to an occasional flash of envy at their carefree attitude so easily taken for granted and for which I have never felt privy to.
Now, don’t misunderstand me, I’m not referring to the “scratch where it itches” part, nor the “act like a buffoon” by those who eagerly rush to participate in the melee that suddenly erupts during sporting events.
The crux of this issue is that I believe there is an inherent acceptance of male behavior sanctioned by society (myself included) that would be considered disgraceful, or worse, for women. We get short-changed in the tolerance of unbecoming public behavior scene. One might think it’s a mans’ “birthright” spelled out in the fine print on their birth certificate.
Conversely, it could be nothing more than generational, as we were clearly one of the older couples in the group. Still, the behavior didn’t fit the atmosphere.
It strikes me that, in marriage, we are often out of synch as a couple as our relationship with one another shifts and changes over time. For the most part, it is the men that get away with behaving inappropriately while women, periodically, find themselves with the unenviable chore of pointing out to her mate that he’s behaving outside the boundaries of social acceptability.
Hopefully, those who had previously been so self-indulgent will mature with time for their wife’s sake, if not for themselves. At which point, they will finally become the man their wives always knew them to be.
Is this the way of marriage--I wonder?
Thankfully, my husband and I no longer have to work through that “learning curve” that all of us must go through during the early phases of any marriage. Now, after 36-plus years together, this stage of our life is the best--we’ve certainly earned it. Hopefully, so will this young couple.
FOOTBALL AFTERMATH By Katie Knight, 1959 (From The Storey Teller)
I’ll never be able to play football for my school, 'cause I am a girl and I don’t know all the finer points of the game although I’m learning, but this is the way things figure to me.
It takes a lot of something just to be a good enough player to get into a game.Every minute of playing time is serious, stern business, with no time for fooling around or showing off. Whether you get to make a cheer-raising play or not, you have to be in there plugging every second, trying your best to fill your particular position in the best manner possible.
How do I know all this?Well, I’ve sat in both the loser’s corner and the winner’s this year, and either place I could see and feel for the boys out there carrying on the game.
When we would get behind and it just looked as though we couldn’t gain over a yard or two a play, and when the opponent just seemed to be able to go right through our line, I could still see the effort being made to make a first down or to stop their break-through, and I knew that win or lose, our boys were giving it all they had and maybe even a little extra.
Then, when we did get the breaks and our team really started clicking, I knew just how the other side was feeling, and could appreciate their “keeping on” spirit and their desperate efforts to get on top.
Football is a wonderful game, an exciting game, a thrilling game, but not an easy one.For every time the score board light flicks of another second of play, twenty-two of our physically best American boys are in there doing their best to make a good record for their school and behind them stand a backing of coaches, teachers, parents, and students.Thank you, Eagles, for all you’ve done to keep Boude Storey tops.
So, this I’ve learned – and am grateful for the lesson, that a whole lot goes into this great game, and whether the score leans in our favor or the team’s we hoped to beat, each match is a real test of endurance and one of which to be proud.
SENIORS By Wanda Liford
Back in 1962-63, we were seniors.High School seniors.Were we ever proud!We had sacrificed 11 years of our lives to get to this point in our lives.We had suffered the indignity of having to walk the brown squares, being ridiculed by the upperclassmen (ooops!I mean upperclasspeople), looked down on because we were younger, and we had finally achieved the height of our life’s ambitions.We were the big dogs at SOC High.We were to be respected and reckoned with as wiser and more experienced individuals.We got to tell the sophomores to walk on the brown squares!!!We had Senior Class Rings!!Either our own on our finger or one of the boy’s class rings on a chain around our neck.We were looking forward to graduation, senior prom.Going to college or entering the workforce.We wouldn’t have to do homework, read books, solve math problems or go to bed early ever again!!We were going to be free to do whatever we wanted to do!As long as it was ok with our parents and we were home by midnight.Could it get any better than this? Here in 2008, we are, again, seniors.Worldly seniors.Are we ever proud!We’ve struggled 62 many years of our lives to get to this point.We have suffered the indignities of having to get help walking up the stairs, down the stairs; around the block…We’ve been ridiculed in the workplace because we’re “overqualified”.We get a $0.75 cent discount at restaurants if we go before 6pm to eat.We get looked down on because we are older.We are disrespected because we are wiser and more experienced individuals.We are looking forward to being able to leave the workforce, maybe go back to school, read those books we’ve been meaning to get to, balance the checkbook, and go to bed earlier.We are still free to do anything we want to do!As long as it is ok with the kids, and we are home by midnight.Can it get any better than this? God, I hope so.
Hi SOCites! From Barbara Sellers Krueger
My granddaughter, Olivia, is now 16 months old and has a habit of going through Nana's desk. The other day she pulled out an old newspaper article my mother had sent me when I was in my freshman year of college at East Texas. I cannot imagine for the life of me why my mother thought it was necessary to send this to ME, but I thought I would share it with all of you. Since I am teaching 8th grade English this year (after 38 years of teaching physical education), I have a new-found appreciation for this article from the Dallas newspaper and I have read it to my students, crying each and every time as I reach the end of the article. Hope you all enjoy it
Lucky Me — I Had A Mean Mom
The following excerpt appeared in one of Westview Church of Christ's bulletins (author unknown) we thought you might enjoy it.
"I had the meanest mother in the world. While other kids ate candy for breakfast, I had to have cereal, eggs and toast. When other kids had coke and candy for lunch, I had to eat a sandwich. As you can guess, my dinner was different from other kids, too.
"My mother insisted on knowing where we were all the time. You'd think we were on a chain gang! She had to know who our friends were and what we were doing. She insisted that if we said we would be gone for an hour, that we be gone for an hour or less. I am ashamed to admit it but she actually had the nerve to break the child labor law; she made us work! We had to wash all the dishes, make beds, learn to cook, and all sorts of odd things. I believe she lay awake nights thinking of mean things to do to us. She always insisted on us telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
"By the time we were teenagers she was much wiser, and our life became even more unbearable. None of this tooting the car horn for us to come running. She embarrassed us to no end by making our friends and dates come to the door to get us. I forgot to mention that while my friends were dating at the mature age of 12 and 13, my old-fashioned mother refused to let me date until I was 15 or 16.
"My mother was a complete failure as a mother. None of us has ever been arrested. Each of my five brothers has served in the service of his country. And who do we have to thank for this terrible way we turned out? You're right! Our mean mother.
"Look at all the things we missed; we never got to take part in a riot, burn our draft cards, and a million and one things our friends did. She made us grow up into God-fearing, educated, honest adults.
"I am trying to raise my children, and stand a little taller, and I am filled with pride when my children call me mean. You see, thank God, He gave me the meanest mother in the world. From this I would say, the country doesn't need a good five cent cigar, it needs more mean mothers and dads."
Author Unknown
Hope this makes you think of all of our wonderful parents and how they raised all of us. Thanks to all our Moms and Dads!! I hope you all realize how very much we appreciated you, but may not have told you often enough or in time before you went to be with our Father in Heaven.
With love and fondness to all my SOC friends,
Barbara Sellers Krueger
Saving Money by Eating Out By Danny Green
I have always liked Burger King’s Mustard Whopper. I think it is a fraction healthier for everyone, with a little less grease from their “Semi Charcoal Broiled” process. There is a serious battle taking place in the middle of this price increase of all foods, especially meat and vegetables.
Now Burger King has laid it on the line with notice to every one of their competitors, “We are here to stay.” Burger King has lowered the price of their full size Whopper to $1.00, every day all the time. This is not at all stores, just those not doing sufficient business. There are a lot of these $1.00 Whopper places and they all have signs in the window or on the main sign that say “Whopper $1.00.”
Whataburger, in areas near a Burger King Whopper discount store, has added Wednesdays as their response to this competition with “Buy One Get One Free.” Sonic has always had Tuesdays as half price after 5 PM. Wendy’s, McD’s and others have all tried to come up with something close with no success.
Once or twice during the week with my lovely wife, Sue, we will economically drive from Midlothian over to Waxahachie. There is a BK there with full battlefield gear on. It is a sign that says “Whopper $1.00.” For $2.17 we both can eat Whoppers. For $3.25 we get three Whoppers to eat, with one Whopper left over for tomorrow’s lunch at work. (Few have made it to my lunch the next day.)
If you want a Double Whopper or a Double WhataBurger, it will cost you over $3.00. Solution! Buy three $1.00 Whoppers and make your own Double Burger, and you get one Whopper left over. I believe this competition is great. You cannot beat it these prices for a great full size hamburger. People who want to save money on food, you can freeze these burgers. I have never done it. I am sure it will work.
Once a month or so, Sue sue I go to Texas’ most sacred Mexican Restaurant, El Fenix, the one in Downtown Dallas. We will spent about $25.00 plus the tip, and enjoy every bit of it. On the way home, the other night, Sue said, "You know you could have bought 30 whoppers for what you paid for that meal at El Fenix."
CONFESSIONS OF A POOL THERAPY BULLY
By Janelle Kimball
For those of you who remember my recent article detailing the difficulties I’ve had following knee replacement surgery, well here’s the follow-up.
Yes, I wore some semblance of a bathing suit for my pool therapy, as well as, bringing along the largest beach towel I could possibly find.
No, no one looked at me. My daughter was right.
I actually ended up enjoying my workouts in the pool even though my therapy continued to include forcing the knee downward and backward in an ongoing attempt to break up the adhesions that had formed in the knee joint. It just didn’t hurt quite as much with the knee submerged under water, and I was able to stifle my tears, for the most part.
You might not know this, I sure didn’t, but there’s a certain unspoken “etiquette” involving pool therapy--the first person “in” gets to set the direction for traversing the water. On this particular day, I was “first in.” Since I was bored with walking up and down the length of the pool, I chose to walk around in a circle and then switched to zigzagging across the pool.
There I was minding my own business, do’in my thing, when here came an older lady ready to enter the pool. Standing on the top step, ankle-deep in water, she very pointedly inquired,”Which way are you walking because I’m coming in? Get it together.”
Choosing to ignore her overt rudeness, not to mention disrupting my serenity, I glared at her with a raised eyebrow, walked over the farthest corner of the pool, and continued with my other water exercises.
Having said that, I have a confession to make.
After overhearing her discuss that she was going to be having knee replacement surgery the following week, I did something really quite mean. During the process of having my knee manipulated while still in the pool, I honestly “embellished” a shriek--solely for her benefit.
Afterwards, I fantasized about jumping in the pool with my knees drawn tightly to my chest and my arms securely wrapped around them, yelling, “Cannonball!” Problem was, no way could I have gotten my knee that close to my chest. And, I already felt guilty for having faked the intensity of my pain. I swear it did hurt, but not that badly.
Does that make me an awful person?
In an attempt to purge myself from my guilt, I felt the need to confess my ugly deed to Kent, my therapist.
“See, she was being really condescending to me and that’s why I did it.”
Shaking his head back and forth, “Janelle, Janelle, we don’t allow cannonballs in the pool.”
Well, it was just a passing thought anyway.
So, after weeks of intense physical therapy, coupled with six weeks of the impossible task of sleeping in a hinged leg splint, flat on my back with only my heel propped up on a pillow, I am much improved. Finally.
Only recently did I learn that there’s a new prosthesis designed specifically for women, referred to as “girly” knee replacement. According to the article in The Joplin Globe, even though an implant comes in different sizes such as small, medium or large, they are modeled after the male anatomy. As a result of the differences between men’s and women’s bone structures, tendons and ligaments, knee replacements could very well become “gender specific” in the very near future. Since this is news to me, I plan to discuss it further with Dr. Miranda, my surgeon. Perhaps my recovery would have been easier if I had held out for this new implant.
Hum, on second thought, I’m glad I didn’t wait for the sissy knee because I am pretty confident I can kick some serious heinie with this one.
The Ghost of Easters Past
By Wanda Scroggins Liford
How many of us remember all those great Easter Sundays of yore?
Everyone went to church on Easter Sunday, usually after having attended the sunrise services at Laurel Land Memorial Park. We’d get up in the middle of the night, load our thermoses of coffee or hot chocolate, our blankets and get in the car and go early so we could get a “good” spot. And we went, rain or shine. It was ALWAYS cold no matter whether Easter fell in March or April. That’s why we took blankets and a hot beverage. We’d sit on the roof or hood of our car or try to walk down close and sit on the ground and get wet from the dew. Till this day, a choir singing The Hallelujah Chorus brings me to tears and I break out in goose bumps when I think about how much God loves us.
Then, we’d go home and get ready for church. As little kids, our parents scrubbed our faces until they shone, combed our hair, and then helped us get into our new Easter clothes. Frilly dresses, new suits, shirts and ties and always new shoes that we could see our reflection in. The girls usually got new underwear too. I remember looking forward to wearing a new nylon slip and panties. I don’t know if the boys got new BVD’s or not. Never asked. Girls got white patent leather shoes with a strap that buckled and white socks with a rose or butterfly or something on them. Sometimes we got bonnets (we were too young to get hats) and sometimes we got gloves and/or parasols (better known as fancy umbrellas). The boys got brand new patent dress shoes that laced up. Those shoes were so new they squeaked when we walked. And our parents threatened us to within an inch of our lives if we got dirty!
Later, the girls got what was most probably their very first pair of “high” heels. Mine were 1½ inches and was I in trouble. I couldn’t then and still can’t walk across the floor and chew gum at the same time. Imagine a gangly, uncoordinated 13 year old in 1½ inch heels. It was like a giraffe (or, in my case, a hippo) in roller skates. We also got our first pair of hose. Back then they didn’t have panty hose. We got the lacy garter belts with a rose in front and hose with seams in them. Boy, did we feel grown up. Of course not one of us had straight seams, but everyone was too kind to notice. My husband used to tell me that he wished panty hose had never been invented. He thought those garter belts and seams were very sexy.
But I digress. After church, there was either a church fellowship or we went home for Easter dinner. I remember those church fellowships best of all. I’ll bet Jerry Vessels remembers going to Maryland Avenue Church of Christ and having an “all day singing with dinner on the ground” on Easter Sunday. I sure do. I think that was some of the best food I’ve ever eaten. Baked ham, fried chicken, roast beef, green beans with new potatoes, BAKED macaroni and cheese (does anyone do that anymore?), sweet potatoes, corn, and hot rolls. Then there was dessert. Dear God. Chocolate cake, chocolate pie, chocolate pudding, chocolate brownies, chocolate fudge and homemade ice cream. And last but certainly not least were the Easter egg hunts. When we were little, we had baskets to gather our goods in. When we got older, we hid the eggs for the little ones. When the sun started going down, it was back to church for evening service.
By the time we got home, our new clothes were filthy, our shining shoes were dull and scuffed and our socks were sagging. But, we were so blessed by the events of the day that we didn’t notice. We said our prayers and fell into bed blissfully happy.
No one I know celebrates Easter like this anymore and they are the poorer for it. We are so very lucky to have come from a much kinder and gentler time. God bless each and every one of you, your families and those you love. I love that I was blessed with knowing all of you
Early Springtime ’63 by Lynell Garrett Smith
As late winter/early spring fell upon South Oak Cliff High, we Big Seniors were getting pretty excited. Most of us could not wait to get that prized diploma and get on with our lives. The big day was a few months away – but first there was plenty of business to take care of.
From Bear Tracks ‘63:
Mrs. Julia Dean Simmons announced that the Concert Choir would present Guys and Dolls at the Spring Spectacular in April. It was a lively show about a gambler who is reformed by his love for a Salvation Army girl. Ah, romance!
Janet Melaun won a first division award for solo performance in a citywide competition at Thomas Jefferson. Gaylan Williams and Ginger Hearn also vocalized beautifully. In addition to these three, the award-winning Madrigal Singers were Roddy Schoenfeldt, Kenneth Nance, Mike Richmond, Bill Palmer, Sheryl Clark, Charlotte Anders and Mary McCord.
The girls’ gym decorations for the upcoming 1963 ROTC ball caused Cdt. Col. Don Wells to exclaim, “This will be the loveliest and nicest ball in the history of SOC.” (He must have seen the glitter and crape paper stacked in the hall.)
Texas Education Week coincided with Student Science Fair, which meant that parents were invited to visit SOC during the daytime and see what we were up to. Uh-oh.
March 15 was designated Career Day. This rare chance to slack off classes for a morning additionally afforded an opportunity to hear from representatives of various careers. Gary Loftis did not need Career Day. He won an encyclopedia and a shot at a portable typewriter in an editorial contest. Runners-up were Jud Caldwell, Phyllis Isaacs, Ray James, Larry Pool and Nancy Taylor.
William Akins had a battery stolen from his car while it was parked on Michigan Street on Valentine’s Day.
Baseball season was about to open. Coach Hughes remarked, “Adamson will be the team to beat.”
A banquet honoring SOC athletes, band, Debs and majorettes featured chicken, baked potatoes and pie. It took place in the nicely decorated lunchroom and was a big success. A dance followed in the boys’ gym.
Cheerleader tryouts were set for late March. Senior cheerleaders Bob Chipman, Peaches Sweezy, Robert Baker and Mary McCord were about to graduate and needed replacing,
Gold and White Band members attended various clinics at sites around town, including the public library and KERA-TV. Using a new exercise method called isometric contraction, the football boys averaged adding ¼” to their biceps in only six weeks.
We were a busy group!
Shared Experiences, Love and Laughter By Wanda Scroggins Liford
Ah, St. Valentine’s Day. The day that most men (unless, like Barney, it’s your birthday) would like to just go away, but most women dream of and dread at the same time.
When we were very young (and we were once), it was homemade “mailboxes” with construction paper hearts and flowers and crepe paper. Sometimes it was two pieces of decorated construction paper glued together on three sides. Sometimes it was a paper sack with decorations, and sometimes it was a shoe or cigar box. It didn’t matter what was on the outside (except for a name.) What really mattered was what went it the “mailbox.” Everyone went around and put cards in their homeroom classmates' boxes. Some of them were just ordinary cards, but some of them were special. I got my first special card from Ken Haas and I still remember exactly how I felt and I still have the card.
Later, it became leather jackets. If a boy really liked a special girl, he let her wear his leather jacket or carried her books, or sometimes held her hand while he walked her home from school. Mike Richmond was the first to hold my hand; first at a field trip to the Symphony, then as we walked home from school together. That is another vivid memory that always brings a smile to my face.
A little later, it was that first kiss. There were a few dances in elementary school, but the primary source of socializing was to have parties at home. We would invite as many of our friends as we could and, once for sure that I recall, a teacher (Mr. Newman, his wife and little girl from Lisbon). We listened to the Platters and Fats Domino, danced and played games. Usually, the games were kissing games. My first party kiss was from none other than the infamous Barney Kemp. That along with another very special memory of Barney is yet something else that I will have always.
Further on down the road, it was sock hops at the Jr. High. My particular Jr. High was Zumwalt which was a brand new school. The gym floor shone like a new penny and if you weren’t very careful, you would slip and fall. Hardwood will stop you real quick! It was a little different in Jr. High. In elementary school, the boys would stand on one side of the gym and the girls on the other and the girls danced more with each other than with the boys. Jr. High was a whole new ball game. Dads and/or Moms would pick up the young lady their young man was escorting. If you didn’t have a “date” you went anyway. The boys always asked the girls to dance and our boys were so well mannered that few girls went home without at least one dance. My heart throb back then was a boy named Paul Donohue. He combed his hair just like Kookie of 77 Sunset Strip and made my little heart go pitter patter. The usual Valentine's Day gift was a box of candy, a card and/or a stuffed animal.
In high school, we were getting down to business. Most had “steadies” and more class rings were on chains around the girl’s necks than on the boy’s fingers. There were dances, parties and real car dates. We were starting to look beyond our youth into a very scary world. Some of us knew exactly what we wanted to do and some didn’t have a clue. Valentine’s gifts usually were along the lines of a box of chocolates and a beautifully decorated card with a heartfelt verse. Then came friendship rings for the girls and ID bracelets for the boys. By the time we were seniors some were a little more serious, and friendship rings became engagement rings.
Regardless of how we celebrated the day of love, those are some of the sweetest memories we will ever have — even more than the candy, roses, jewelry, or other expensive gifts we have received since. That first boyfriend or girlfriend. That first dance. That first kiss. We didn’t look beyond the weekend back then, so who would have thought that we would carry those experiences with us all these years. It's a great feeling to know that we are still friends and we cherish all those irreplacable experiences and stay in touch to share stories, love and laughter.
What a wonderful gift and how lucky we are.
Our Romantic Roots By Lynell Smith
We of the Class of ’63 have much in common besides class work. Our romantic natures all sprouted about the same time several decades ago in the elementary schools surrounding South Oak Cliff High School. PTA moms made cookies for Valentine’s Day in grade school. However, every child knew that the focal point of the day was the distribution of Valentine cards at the end of Social Studies class.
Remember how we made Valentine boxes? The standard was a cigar box covered with red crepe paper and decorated with glitter. We used white library paste to hold the glitter. Besides being a quality stickum, that paste was absolutely delicious!
Here in North Texas, pre-spring days can be unpredictable. One day feels like the dark of winter, and the next day is balmy, followed by sleet and snow. Valentine’s Day seemed to go all directions, especially for a little kid carrying a box covered with bright red stretchy paper.
Transporting the box to school could be iffy. Any rain, and the dye from that paper could turn you red for the rest of the day.
The effort paid off when (and if) that special someone produced a Valentine! It was better if that person also asked you to be their square dance partner in PE class Friday afternoon! Swing your partner, do-si-do. Life was great … or not so great, depending.
Then we entered junior high, an era of still more glitter and crepe paper – this time it was decorating the gym for the sock hop. Ricky Nelson music! Talk about romance! Talk about even greater opportunity for heartbreak!
It’s a wonder we got through all that angst. We did though. We went on to experience still more gym decorations at SOC. We were privileged to be teenagers during the best era in history. We had the most romantic make-out music (even if we never made out) and the best-looking cars (even if we only witnessed them driving down the road).
Time forced us to move on to other things out in the world as the adults called it. But the world was right there all the time. And crepe paper is still very cool.
Happy Valentine’s Day! ♥
Mr. Quast, Ms. Paschall, and Me and Mary Gene Florence
By Danny Green
My senior year I had to pass Trigonometry and Algebra III. The first semester of my senior year, I took Trig. I didn't do so well in Trigonometry. There was this massive mental and physical adjustment in getting use to Ms. Rowena Paschall's teaching. I was determined to beat Ms. Paschall at her own game of math. She told me not to take her Algebra III Course. "You will fail and not graduate." This would be a do-or-die situation for me, as I had to pass the course in order to graduate.
The smartest move I ever made at that point in my life was getting Mary Jean Florence to help me with this math course. I made all A's and a few B's on all my homework and tests through the semester. Ms. Paschall never gave me a grade above a C.
I became more and more angry and determined to win this challenge. I took all my tests and homework to Mr. Quast. He wasn?t the least bit impressed. He said, "It is what you retain in your mind, not the grade that is on your report card! You keep on working hard and I'll check into it. By the way, what has made you do so much better this semester in math?"
I said, "Mary Gene Florence has been helping!" Mr. Quast said, "You need to stay with Mary! She brings the best out in you, Danny !" And she did do that to me. I made an A in Algebra III that last semester. Ms Paschall told me that she was afraid I would give up on the course if she had given me the good grades that I had earned. "Your permanent records show all A's." She told me this as Mary Gene Florence and I were lining up to walk across the stage on Senior Day. I was going with Connie Fleming at the time. Mary had asked me about walking across the stage with her on our Senior Day months earlier.
Mr. Quast, also came up to us and said to me, "You won, and so did Ms Paschall and I also win."
Mary Gene Florence. I owe you. We all want to see you again. I wish you would come to some of our luncheons and dances. We all had some great times together back then. We all want to have some more great times with you, Mary.
I THINK WITH MY THUMBS By Janelle Kimball
Give me a break. I thought witnessing someone talking on a cell phone while doing sit-ups at the gym was irritating enough. Even worse, was hearing a cell phone ring in the midst of a friend’s funeral, which, I hate to admit, did add a little levity to an otherwise very sorrowful day. Now, I have seen it all.
I have just returned from attending a writer’s workshop held at a local restaurant. I spent three hours sitting among a crowd of 50 listening to an author dispense her wisdom about writing, all the while wearing her Bluetooth headset firmly looped over her ear. Maybe she thought it made her look important.
For those of you who might not know what I’m referring to, Bluetooth is a popular hands-free device for cell phone users.
Perhaps it was the contrast of the jet black earpiece against her pale skin and light hair that made her appear particularly silly. I don’t know, but it was certainly distracting enough to the point that I couldn’t take my eyes off that “thingie” plastered to the side of her head, bobbing up and down while she spoke.
Thankfully, I was sitting at a table in the back of the room instead of being up closer. I was that sure I would have gotten the giggles, because I have to confess that, occasionally, my maturity level escapes me. Thus, I totally lost track of what she was saying.
Now, I know I can’t be the only one to wonder where all of this electronic gadgetry is headed.
Coincidentally, my husband woke the other morning, turned toward me and announced, “I had the craziest dream last night. I dreamed that I think with my thumbs.” I looked at him and immediately thought, “What a great idea for an article.” Next, I feigned my most sincere look of concern for his worrisome thought but I couldn’t get out of bed fast enough and over to my desk. I surely needed to jot that phrase down before I forgot it.
As laughable as it may be, he’s partially right. Just look around you. At some point during any given day you will see someone “hooked-up and plugged-in,” using their thumbs punching out text messages on their BlackBerries or their cell phones. Don’t forget “thumbing” away on the controls of Xbox or PlayStation. And, who hasn’t been connected to an iPod?
It was the imagery of my husband’s dream that led me to envision a day when we might discover that we’ve been lured into a “tethered” society. Our lives would be such that we won’t know how to function unless we’re attached, via a surgically implanted USB port, to some sort of gizmo.
All joking aside, I’m really not knocking technology, and readily admit to having my own guilty pleasures. Much to my husband’s annoyance, I own up to having a reputation for buying and discarding way too many cordless phones. They come in and out of our house like an assembly line. And, I can’t wait until my TiVo arrives. My idea of a super shopping spree is to cruise up and down the aisles of an electronics store. That, and finding a pair of jeans that I look good in, which is never going to happen in my lifetime.
I recognize I’m into overkill here, all because a woman simply forgot, or chose not to, remove her ear piece. However, I do think it’s indicative of the epidemic of misguided self-importance and intrusion.
All of this is a convoluted way of saying that this workshop wasted my $25 and three hours of my life.
A Lay-Off Story
By Jana Milham
As most of you already know, Milo was laid off in November after working at Associated Air Center for 40 years.This is a situation that has hit several of us, and though the powers that be will deny it, our age is a factor. There are people working all around us who were born in 1987!Yikes.
Just a couple of weeks ago, I interviewed for another position at this company.I told Milo that the guy who interviewed me wasn’t even born yet when I went to work here. Back in the 80’s, I worked in the Purchasing Department for Milo.I typed all his Purchase Orders and mailed them out to vendors.Now everything is on the computer, and no one types or sends anything by the U.S. Mail; we E mail it all.No one even HAS a typewriter anymore. Anyway, as he begins the new job search, I asked him to let me retire, but he said “NO.”I asked him if I could just put my job on hold and stay home with him for a while, but again, “NO.”He keeps reminding me that I’m “High Maintenance” and that we need health insurance and stuff.So, I continue to show up here everyday until they run me off, too. I’ve been thinking about starting an Employment Agency for Senior Citizens.
Christmas 2001
By Lynell Garrett Smith
The attacks on America affect this holiday season, just as they have affected everything else in our lives since September 11. Out-of-town visits with family and friends are more complicated than in the past. We examine our mail with a careful eye, and understand that our lives have changed forever. We realize that we have not lost this much innocence in this short a time since November 22, 1963.
But the pall that fell over our great country a few weeks ago renewed our appreciation for a nation that practices religious tolerance and freedom, a country where women can get an education if they wish, and men can choose to grow a beard or not grow one. We have a country where people can decorate for Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, or not decorate at all. Whatever we do, it's generally fine with the neighbors.
One treasure we have is a nation in which old friends can gather and laugh out loud at silly stories about high school days without fear of reprisal more serious than a "look" from a non-SOCite spouse.
We reminisce about driving through Cedar Crest and Singing Hills on cold winter nights enjoying the aluminum trees lit with blue Christmas lights.
What was greater than staring through someone's picture window as you rolled by in your best friend's "57 Chevy? Remember the beautiful decorations in Kessler Park. One house even had a car on the roof with Santa driving!
KLIF or KBOX would invariably play a nice instrumental - or something by Johnny Mathis - to make you wish you were with your steady, had a steady, had not just broken up with a steady, or would one day meet a steady.
We were an exceptionally romantic generation, or so we thought, as we pined over Nat King Cole and West Side Story.
Warm memories of loved ones, hearth, home, health, happiness - those are the important things. May this season enrich us all with warmth, happiness, fond memories of the past, and hope for the future.
Coffee: A Lesson in Life
Submitted by Barbara Krueger
A group of alumni, highly established in their careers, got together to visit their old university professor. Conversation soon turned into complaints about stress in work and life. Offering his guests coffee, the professor went to the kitchen and returned with a large pot of coffee and an assortment of cups - porcelain, plastic, glass, crystal, some plain looking, some expensive, some exquisite - telling them to help themselves to the coffee. When all the students had a cup of coffee in hand, the professor said: "If you noticed, all the nice looking expensive cups were taken up, leaving behind the plain and cheap ones. While it is normal for you to want only the best for yourselves, that is the source of your problems and stress. Be assured that the cup itself adds no quality to the coffee. In most cases it is just more expensive and in some cases even hides what we drink. What all of you really wanted was coffee, not the cup, but you consciously went for the best cups... And then you began eyeing each other's cups. Now consider this: Life is the coffee; the jobs, money and position in society are the cups. They are just tools to hold and contain Life, and the type of cup we have does not define, nor change the quality of Life we live. Sometimes, by concentrating only on the cup, we fail to enjoy the coffee God has provided us. God brews the coffee, not the cups.......... Enjoy your coffee!" The happiest people don't have the best of everything. They just make the best of everything they have."
Here's hoping you enjoy your cup of coffee this Christmas no matter what you put it in!
Happy Holidays to ALL!
Knee Replacement: The Rest of the Story
By Ken Haas
For many years, Beverly has been suffering with a bum knee. I don't know what caused the damage -- too many Golden Deb kicks, too many kicks to my shins (and occasionally higher areas,) too often "kicking the tires" on all the new cars she has purchased through the years -- or a combination of all of these activities.
Surgery in 2005 helped some (debris cleanout and cartilage repair) but as the doctor told her, "When its' bone on bone, it's just a matter of time." Beverly informed the doctor that she was one tough cookie (I seconded the statement) and that knee replacement would be the last option on her list. The doctor gave her comfort and encouragement by telling her, "When your quality of life is affected and you can't sleep at night, you will come back to see me."
Since then, Beverly has been combing the internet for information, talking to friends who have had the procedure, and thanks to the suggestion of our friend Syph (Phyllis Kelly), received second opinions from a couple of the leading knee guys in Dallas. I was pretty sure she was about to give the go ahead for early next year, when out of nowhere the Janelle Bomb exploded.
It has been brutal ever since. Beverly has been hiding under the bed since last Saturday and refuses to come out. Meals, work, grandchildren visits -- no matter. She ain't moving. I tried to convince her to consider the source -- a ditzy redhead, San Francisco hippy, west coast liberal, denizen of the land of fruits and nuts, and even worse, how can you trust someone who went to SOC but married a guy whose last name is Kimball!!!
When all of these tactics failed, I decided to play my ace in the hole. I was desperate. To discredit any shred of credibility or good judgment that might be attributed to the former Calyx Circle girl, I reminded Bev of the fact that Janelle actually dated me for a while.
Well buster, that slap-to-the-face dose of reality seemed to ring a Belle (sorry, Janelle).Yahooty!! Well, maybe. Bev is out from under the bed, but I've been afraid to broach the knee subject out of fear of a possible relapse and/or physical harm to my body.
To make a short story long, let me say this. Beverly Ann Duvall has the highest pain tolerance level of anyone I have ever known (I remind you doubters of the 41 years spent with me), but the knee replacement decision is a tough one. So, I continue to encourage her to have the --wait...wait a minute...did she say KICK BOXING classes? Hmmm -- no need to rush, Bev...maybe we need to talk about this a little more.
Don’t Let Them Fool You
By Janelle Kimball
OUCH! OUCH! OUCH!
Don’t let anyone tell you differently — knee replacement surgery really, really hurts!
Forget those TV commercials. You know, where the woman is casually strolling (presumably on her new knee) through a field of spring flowers. Clutching a handful of blooms to her bosom, she turns toward the camera and smiles at you. The music that’s previously gone unnoticed will reach a crescendo while the company’s logo splashes across the screen informing the consumer how wonderful their prosthesis is. Well, speaking from personal experience, this surgery is no piece of cake and I have yet to smile at anyone. Just ask my husband.
Three months ago, I got a new knee. This was something that I have put off for the last year or so. Once I made the decision to move forward with the surgery, I was determined to be as prepared as possible. I did research on the internet and looked at ghastly pictures depicting the actual surgery. Believe me, that was a mistake. I attended a knee replacement clinic at the hospital and took copious notes. I was well-prepared, for the most part.
Having been there before, I know that a stint in the hospital is no fun, especially when you have the great misfortune of having a roommate who was a bit of a kook, to put it mildly.
My roommate’s husband, who could have doubled for Woody Allen, repeatedly called my bed instead of his wife’s. He never once got it right even after I reprimanded him, “She’s in bed B!!”
Not to make excuses for myself, but I had already been subjected to overhearing a multitude of petty arguments conducted behind the “privacy” curtain pulled between our beds. However, when the man informed a nurse that she would need to apply his wife’s Rogaine to her scalp, I guffawed out loud unable to contain myself. Candidly, it looked like to me that she had overdosed on that stuff because she had a massive head of wild hair that reminded me of Madeleine Kahn in the Mel Brooks’ movie, “Young Frankenstein.”
Thankfully, I’d been discharged earlier that afternoon and couldn’t get home fast enough.
Recovering from the surgery and a nutty roommate was the easy part of this procedure. It’s the investment of time and the dedication to physical therapy that is the most difficult part. It is also emotionally draining.
Adding to my already unpleasant disposition is discovering that I fall into the 10% category of patients who have problems with their prosthesis immediately following surgery. “Scar tissue, or adhesions,” they tell me in physical therapy. Oh, joy!
Three days a week I faithfully go to physical therapy. Kent, my therapist, smiles so warmly at me as he forcefully pushes and bends my knee to the point of eliciting involuntary shrieks that promptly bring me to tears. He quickly goes to fetch me a box of Kleenex then patiently waits for me to stop crying. “Take deep breaths, Janelle,” he tells me. Then, we go at it again, and again. The knee just won’t cooperate.
If I could, I’d stomp my foot like a petulant child but I’m afraid it would hurt too much.
So, what’s next? I will continue on with PT for a little while longer. However, if the knee doesn’t improve soon, then I’ll return to the operating room where my surgeon will “manipulate” the knee under anesthesia. I’m not even sure exactly what that means but I know it can’t be good.
Consequently, I will do anything to avoid this procedure. So, when Kent suggested that we try pool therapy, I didn’t hesitate. Well, that’s not totally true. Being the vain person that I am, I inquired, “Does that mean I have to wear a bathing suit?”
“Yes, Janelle, you do,” he sighed.
“Oh, crap,” I thought to myself.
Rushing home, I called my daughter, Jennifer, hoping to get her sympathy. However, what I got was, “Mother, do you really think anyone is looking at you!”
“Well, I guess not,” I sniffled.
"Mother, I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I just meant that you’re there for PT and no one cares what you look like.” I could tell that she was doing some serious backpedaling here.
That’s where I am at the moment--stuck in knee limbo. I just wish the TV commercial hadn’t been so convincing. I had expected to smile, just like the lady did. Hopefully, I will by this summer. And, who knows, maybe I’ll be taking Kick Boxing classes come next year. One can only hope.
A HALLOWEEN STORY
By Jana Milham
The following story is a true event that happened to some friends of my parents in Broken Bow one Halloween night.
One particular Halloween night happened to fall on a Monday, and JB was adamant about not having the football game interrupted by Trick or Treating kids. Miki agreed that she would take care of passing out the candy to the children, and JB settled down to watch the game.
Miki answered the door until about 9:00 PM, then she told JB she was turning off the porch light and going upstairs to take a bath. He mumbled something about being relieved it was time for all children to go to bed. Miki went back to the kitchen, took off all her clothes, and put on her coat. She slipped out the back door, and ran barefooted around to the front of the house. She ran up the front porch steps and rang the doorbell. JB could not believe that someone had the nerve to come Trick or Treating that late, and with the porch light turned off! Anyway, he got up and walked to the foyer, flipped on the porch light and opened the door. Miki threw open her coat and screamed “TRICK OR TREAT”!!! JB was so shocked that he grabbed his heart and stumbled backwards several steps, falling over a large potted rubber tree plant, breaking his ankle in the process.
The next year, they left the porch light off on Halloween.
ANOTHER LESSON LEARNED THE HARD WAY.....
By Jana Milham
As some of you know, Milo and I have traveled to “CHEYENNE FRONTIER DAYS” every July for the past twenty-something years. Our 2005 journey north changed that tradition forever.
A few weeks before our trip, I saw an article in the Dallas Morning News about a famous historic train that would be going from Denver to Cheyenne on its last trip the very day that we were to arrive in Cheyenne! This sounded like an opportunity to do something different, Milo agreed, so we sent in the $300.00 for the tickets and planned to leave one day early, and rent a car in Denver. The plan was that I would follow Milo from Denver to Cheyenne – he would be driving the pickup, pulling our fifth wheel travel trailer, and I would be in the rental car. That way, we could drive the rental car back to Denver the next day and turn it in, then ride the train back to Cheyenne to our camp site. Sounds reasonable, yes?
We made the trip to Denver just fine, and located the Hertz office with no trouble. We both pulled back onto I-25 in typical Denver traffic, and we were just tooling along in the left lane, next to a concrete wall, when a large piece of steel flew out from under the pickup with a huge “BANG!” I managed to dodge it, and immediately started moving over to the right lane. Milo also moved to the right (I don’t know how he held that truck and trailer on the road). When we were both finally able to get off I-25, we were in a “V”, where 6 lanes of traffic were screaming by on the left, and 3 more lanes were merging on the right. We were smack in front of John Ellway’s Ford place, and that is not a pleasant memory. The noise was indescribable – sort of like standing next to a 767 during full engine run-up. Milo finally got the tire changed, and we were once again on our way – hot, tired, & dirty.
When we arrived in Cheyenne – at the same RV Park where we have stayed for years – they didn’t have any spaces, and our reservation didn’t start until the next day. We parked in a pasture next to the RV park. It was HOT. Now I’m high maintenance, so it was my suggestion that we go to Sam’s and buy a generator, so we could have air conditioning. Again, Milo agreed. He’s easy, yes?
Next day – back to Denver, turned in rental car, went to train station and waited 2 hours to board. Finally, we got on the train and the only seats available in the glass top cars were seats facing backwards. Personally, I prefer to see where I’m going…. (I know - high maintenance).
This was NOT the scenic trip through the Rockies that we expected, but it was a trip through thousands of wheat fields at least 100 miles east of the Rockies. We have wheat fields in Texas. Plus, there were all these “Train Fans” on board, and the train kept stopping for them to get out and stomp around in the wheat and take pictures of the train moving. We stayed on board.
Anyway, when this train finally made Cheyenne, we all had to climb up a huge hill and get in horse-drawn wagons to be taken to dinner. Yeah, right. Dinner was buffalo & emu meat (yuck) in a barn that had NO AIR at all. Thanks, but no. Needless to say, we sold that trailer upon our return to Dallas, and we went to New York City this past summer.
I know – NEW YORK CITY????? Not to worry, we’re still cowboys.
Lessons Learned the Hard Way …
by John Southworth
In a way, I blame myself for his predicament. I thought I’d covered ALL the bases before my son Matt left for Basic Training a few weeks ago. For the fifth time I reminded him “Remember, don’t be conspicuous … keep low under the radar … don’t volunteer for anything … lock up your stuff.” “Drill Sergeants are a different breed … don’t try to chat with them … don’t even make eye contact. Try to be invisible,” I counseled him.
Some of you may have met people in your life who just don’t respond to rational advice. You know the type … the guy who would stick his foot in a tree shredder just to see what comes out the other side. Or, by way of illustration, let’s say you found your own self wandering around lost in the Vatican and you stumbled into a little room where they stored the Pope’s elegant pointy headgear. Would you dare place it on your head or would it dawn on you that some things are sacred?
These thoughts ran through my mind as I read Matthew’s letter describing how he found himself standing in Company formation with 180 recruits – and somehow he was the only one wearing a Drill Sergeant’s hat! So much for my advice about “try to be invisible.”
Here is the story written in his own shaky hand: “Today the men in my platoon have nicknamed me ‘Drill Private’. The way I got it was not a very fun one. During my first few days here, things were still very confusing, and I ended up leaving my wall locker unlocked when we went out for training. When I came back, I found a Drill Sergeant’s hat in my locker.
"I made the extreme mistake of touching it, and brought it to the Drill Sgt. in our bay. He exploded, first demanding to know if I stole it, and then threatening to kill me if it was his. After double-checking his own hat, he insisted that it MUST be mine, and that I should wear it down to the next formation. Obviously, I didn’t want to, but I had little choice.
"We went down to formation with three other platoons and around ten Drill Sergeants. A group of about four Drill Sergeants saw me first, and actually had to turn their backs to us so we wouldn’t see them cracking up. After a few seconds they regained their composure and one of them, hatless, came storming over to me. He took the hat from my head, told me to never touch his hat again, threatened to punish me under the UCMJ (Uniform Code of Military Justice), and promised me some ‘personal time’ later.
As it turns out, he was in a good mood later that night and let me off the hook. The whole ordeal was a bit stressful, but turned out all right. The general consensus is that it was the drill sergeants who put the hat in my locker to make an example of me. It makes sense and nobody has made my mistake since then.”
My boy has no idea how lucky he was to get off as easy as he did. In years past, the drill sergeants would have just buried him under 50 sandbags somewhere on the rifle range and sworn he went AWOL. I warned Matthew that he would probably pick up a nickname at boot camp … something like “Tex.” I guess “Drill Private” isn’t so bad.
