Time Still Is Marching On...

Well, what do you know? It’s the end of November 2009, and I’m still trying to get accustomed to the 21st Century. If I do not keep my mind on what I am doing, I will date something in the 1900s instead of the 2000s. Maybe there should be a phrase that goes something like, “It’s hard for an old dog to change centuries.”


But there is an exclusive reason why this November holds a special memory lobe in my old brain. Five years ago in November 2004, I submitted my first guest column to Beaumont Enterprise opinions editor, Thomas Taschinger. He is a fascinating individual. I suppose most newspaper editors do have something going on because they live constantly within that pressure of strict daily deadlines.

It’s interesting to note that the dictionary defines “deadline” as, “… a line drawn around a prison that a prisoner passes at the risk of being shot.” The secondary definition is, “…the time after which copy is not accepted for publication.” Does this mean that if an editor messes around with a deadline, he or she draws fire?

Anyway, my first column in 2004 was about working as an usher at the Jefferson Theater. That column generated a lot of response. Taschinger e-mailed me and inquired if I had more stories to share. Since I grew up in Jefferson County, primarily in Beaumont, there were indeed numerous local experiences to share.

This guest column adventure that I have enjoyed over the past five years came about because of Deana, my daughter. Deana has her college degree in journalism and for several years wrote a column for the Baytown Sun. Since moving to Arkansas, she has written for Arkansas Life, a magazine published by the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. She also writes for several business magazines.

I was always telling Deana stories of my growing up in the Beaumont area. The stories were endless to the point that often Deana referred to me as “my dad, the storyteller.” One day, Deana said, “Dad, why don’t you write up some of your stories and submit them to the Enterprise?” And so I did.

I started out writing a weekly guest column but now do one every other week. Mr. Taschinger would welcome any of your life’s stories that you would be willing to share. I know because I asked him.

You may wonder how to write a story. Just write it like you would tell it. Taschinger will smooth it up if you have some rough edges. That’s a big portion of what an editor does. Maybe you have a good story but have trouble writing it up. Send the idea to Taschinger. He just might use it.

If you have any questions on how to submit a guest column to the Enterprise, send an e-mail to Taschinger. He will be glad to assist you.

Why am I using an entire column on this topic? Because I know that there are so many untold stories out there. How many individual and local human interest experiences have gone to the grave because no one bothered to share them? Your life is a book and most of the chapters in your book would appeal to many people. “People relate to people who grew up in similar or familiar circumstances,” said Taschinger.

Almost ten percent of the 21st Century already is used up and we have barely begun. So share your experiences while you can. The Enterprise opinions page is a great platform to tell your stories. And as Taschinger reiterated, “It makes a good read.”

Taschinger’s picture and editorial appear on the opinions page. His e-mail is listed beneath his photo.

Give it a try. It’s fun.

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@gmail.com

This Is A Fishy Story...

There are several reasons why Mardell will not go fishing with me. Some of those reasons were initiated prior to our getting married in 1963. When you consider that we have been husband and wife for 46 years then do the math. It has been at least that long since her disdain for fishing began.

Mardell and I met in the Panama Canal Zone in 1959 where her dad and I were stationed in the military. One day I decided to take her fishing at the Bay of Panama (See picture).

Very soon after getting her hook into the water, something really strong got hold of her line. Her fishing rod nearly doubled over. After a few minutes of holding and tugging, guess what surfaced? A stingray. Yes, Mardell had caught a stingray. This was her very first experience with fishing. We had to cut the line as I was afraid of the stinger on that creature. I assured her that catching a stingray was a fluke—that she should try again. She agreed to give it another fling.

Soon, something else grabbed her line. Mardell pulled this one up and guess what it was? An eel. Yes, she had hooked an eel. It was long and black and had wrapped itself around her line. I was afraid of it so we cut the line. Mardell did not want to fish anymore so I took her home.

Two years later when I was discharged from the Army, Mardell and I married and set up housekeeping in Beaumont (TX).

One day I encouraged Mardell to go fishing with me. I convinced her that since we would be fishing at Pine Island Bayou, she would not have to worry about catching stingrays or eels. She agreed to go.

We fished from the bank for nearly two hours. Unfortunately we did not catch anything so we went home.

That evening Mardell exclaimed, “Honey, I’ve got redbugs all over me.” Sure enough, she was covered with the little varmints. Mardell still was unimpressed with fishing.

A few months later I convinced Mardell that if we rented a row boat out at the bayou and fished from the boat that redbugs could not bother her because we would not be in the bushes. She agreed to try fishing from a boat. Again we did not catch anything so we went home.

That evening Mardell yelled out, “I’ve got redbugs all over me.” I did not understand how but she was covered. I believe that is when Mardell lost faith in my vast knowledge of fishing.

One year later, Mardell and I went down to Crystal Beach. I wanted to do some surf fishing. Mardell agreed to wade out with me and steady the Styrofoam cooler that held my cut shrimp fish bait. The cooler floated so all she had to do was to keep hold of it.

We waded out to the third sandbar which meant the water was about chest deep. But that also meant that when the waves washed by, we had to do little hops to keep our heads above the water.

The problem arose when Mardell mentioned that the waves were washing over into the cooler and spraying her face with dead shrimp juice. Finally Mardell blurted out, “Nowhere in our wedding vows was it mentioned that I would have to stand in water over my head and allow shrimp juice to splash in my face.”

With that revelation, she tied the cooler to my waist and went ashore.

Do you know what is strange? Since that day at Crystal Beach, Mardell has never gone fishing with me again. Not once.

It’s always been hard to figure women out.


Winston Hamby

The Beaumont Enterprise
WinHamby@gmail.com

Give Me A Dow For A Boomerday...

Since moving to Arkansas, I have taken up a new hobby of reading newspaper classified ads. This always is a good way to learn about those smaller matters of life that seldom hit the major newswires. The Arkansas Democrat/Gazette is a top-notch state-wide newspaper published in Little Rock. Following are examples of some of the ads I have seen in that paper.

“Bridle Gown for sale. Cheap.” Of course we know that they mean “Bridal Gown” unless this was a bridal gown for a horse. But spell checkers on computers will not catch these types of errors. That’s why typos can be so embarrassing at times.

How about this one. “Jack Terrier Dog for sell. Very friendly. Not good with chickens.” Doesn’t this gem just seem to tell a story?

See if you can figure out the story told by this ad. “Wedding ring set worth
$ 5,100 will trade for boat, motor and trailer.”

“Will trade my Ford 1988 ambulance for a Honda 300 4-wheel drive ATV, in good shape.” Seems like it would make more sense to trade a 4-wheel drive ATV for an ambulance.

How about this? “Will trade hater mermaid for something of equal value.” My wife says that should read “halter mermaid.” Either way, I’m dumbfounded.

I have seen numerous ads from cemetery space owners wanting to sell their plots through the classifieds. This is well and good except that the paper persists in spelling the word, “cemetary.” Actually there is no such word. Look it up. The correct spelling is “cemetery. I work at a cemetery so am particularly sensitive to this miscue.

Here is one that continues to run nearly every day. “Man, 50 yrs old seeking white female between 50-100 . The coffee pot is on.” I cannot imagine what this is all about and most likely am better off never knowing.

Sometimes ads tend to mix together under the wrong categories. For example this one appeared recently under the heading “Musical Instruments For Sale.” The list included, “one clarinet, one trombone, two trumpets, one drum set and two refrigerators.” I wondered if those refrigerators came with carrying cases?

And how about this one? “Accordion for sale. Old. Works great. Has lots of buttons.” You know a full accordion has 120 buttons but I guess the seller just didn’t bother to count.

Just to be fair to the Arkansas Gazette, I recall seeing the following in the Beaumont Enterprise years ago. It stated, “Chester Drawers for sell.” I’ve always wondered if he ever sold them.

Back in the 1950s, the Circle Drive-in Theater in Beaumont ran an ad stressing casualness. But it came across as, “Don’t bother to dress…come on out for an evening of fun.” No comment.

There is a sign down the highway a piece from our house here in Arkansas that reads, “Hurricane Lake Mobile Home Park.” Now the thing about the sign is that none of the locals think there is anything unusual with this. When I joke about it, they look at me like, “why did the turnip truck dump that guy off here?” But think about it. When you have just encountered Hurricanes Ike and Rita, not to mention Katrina, you most certainly would not choose to live in a mobile home close to anything called Hurricane Lake. Ironically some two years ago, a tornado ripped right through this mobile home park. Fortunately no one was killed. But I’ll wager there’s no way they would ever name that area, “Tornado Alley Mobile Home Park.” I guess it’s all based on where you’ve been and what you’ve done.

I’ve made many more than my share of typos. But it’s still fascinating to see what can go wrong with words.

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@gmail.com

Texas, My Eyes Are Upon You...

My Dearest Texas:

Love of my heart. How are things going? Thought I would drop a line to explain why my wife and I moved to Arkansas. Certainly this was nothing personal directed toward you. You see, about two years ago, our grandkids who lived in Baytown moved to Arkansas. So for the past two years my wife has been thinking we should leave Texas and move to Arkansas. And so we moved to Arkansas.

As you know I was born in Port Arthur. St. Mary’s hospital to be exact. That was in 1935. I lived in Beauxart Gardens, Nederland and Beaumont. And when I graduated from South Park High School in 1953, I moved to Abilene and graduated from college in 1957. Never in all my born years did I think I’d be writing to tell you I migrated to Arkansas. In fact it still has not registered fully in my aging brain.

There are a lot of adjustments when moving from Texas to Arkansas. First, I find myself in what the local folks call, “Razorback Country.” Can you believe that? Most of my new friends are Hogs. I was already confused enough. My son worked on his masters degree at the University of Texas in Austin. Then my son-in-law headed off to College Station and worked on his masters degree at Texas A & M University. So we had Longhorn and Aggie banners all over the place. Now I guess I’ve got to get a Razorback flag to hang up somewhere. What an ordeal.

Having the license plates changed on the cars was not too much of a problem. They wanted to see the titles of the automobiles and that was about it.
But having our drivers’ licenses changed proved to be something else. These folks wanted to see our birth certificates and our marriage license. I had to write a letter to Good Samaritan Hospital in Watertown NY and request a birth certificate for my wife. Forget the phone and the internet. They wanted a letter with original signature.
And the marriage license? We had never seen it. I was praying that the old preacher that married us in Fayetteville NC in 1963 had indeed filed the document. Bless his heart. It was filed. I had to write a letter requesting the license. It’s sort of coincidental I suppose but these documents in New York and North Carolina cost $9.00 per copy.

Well, Texas, I did not intend to run on about the details of our moving away. I intended to say, “Thank you for being my home state.” I want you to know how much I enjoyed being with you. Our lives together were beautiful. There is nothing like being a Texan and I am so proud to tell people that “I’m from Texas.”

And you know what? Sometimes when I say that I am from Texas, a lump forms in my throat. You see, down deep I wish I still could say, “I live in Texas.” Seventy-three years in Texas and four months in Arkansas is a pretty difficult adjustment.

I’ll keep in touch. In fact, Mr. Tom Taschinger, Opinions Page Editor of the Beaumont Enterprise has assured me that I can continue to write my guest column for the paper. So I hope to do just that.

Texas, just know that I love you. I miss you. And I will try not to be jealous of my big sister. She still lives in Texas. She’s been there all of her life. And, as you will recall, she is even older than I am.

But as you know, grandkids carry a powerful punch and so now we live in Arkansas.

Keep that Lone Star burning brightly.

Love,
Winston –

To Get To The Other Side...??

Very early one morning back in the 1950s, I drove out north of Beaumont to Pine Island Bayou. The sun was not yet up but I could see the rim of dawn preparing to make her grand entrance.

I rented an old row boat and tied up to a bridge piling. That bridge crossed over a slough just off the bayou on Cooks’ Lake Road.

As the sun began to ascend, the mist covering the waters seemd to linger, not willing to let go. However, as light became more distinct, the reluctant mist began to lift, eventually fading into nothingness. The old-timers explained that the mist “burned off” as the sun became warmer.

Anyway I sat there in my boat preparing to fish. Underneath that bridge was ideal for catching sun perch and an occasional white perch. The “Suns” liked worms while the “Whites” seemed to prefer yellow-feather lures. Don’t ask me why. I just knew that different fish went for different baits. Maybe that is where I learned a meaning of the phrase, “If it works, go for it.”

But while the foregoing was taking place, something happened that still lingers in my mind. In fact it prompted this column.

A water moccasin some three feet in length slithered to the bayou bank not far from my boat. I watched him for several minutes. He was just sitting there or I should say lying there. Snakes can’t sit I suppose. After a bit, the moccasin eased into the water and swam across the bayou.

This presented a question to my 16-year-old mind. Why did that snake cross the bayou? Reminded me of the chicken that crossed the road. But this new question of the snake crossing the bayou was a new challenge.

You see, there were plenty of frogs and lizards. The snake could have had full-course meals anytime on my side of the bayou.

This started me to thinking. Why do living creatures always have to go places? Even people have to go places. We go to work. We go home. We go to church and/or to the golf course. We go shopping. At least my wife does and oh, does she ever go shopping. I think that is her mental therapy. When she gets into a shopping mall, she grows very calm. It seems to reduce her stress levels. When I go with her it seems to increase my stress levels. But I digress.

I know for a fact that every day in Houston, more than one million cars travel on Highway 59. That’s not counting the million or so that travel on I-45 and I-10. Everyone has to be someplace other than where they are.

We go to bed and hopefully go to sleep. Rarely do I get to go on a vacation but when I do get to go, I go. Numerous pages could be filled with places where everyone must go.

I am just thankful that we have the word “go” in our English vocabulary. We would have many problems expressing ourselves otherwise.

Then while mulling over all of this I saw a snake in the water heading over to my side of the bayou from the other side. It turned out to be a water moccasin about three feet in length. He slithered right back to where he had been before. Maybe he went out to eat. Or perhaps he visited with a snake friend. Could he have gone shopping? I’ll never know.

I only know that I caught a nice batch of perch then realized that it was time to go home.

I really didn’t go to write this much about an old snake swimming across the bayou.

But I did.

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@gmail.com

The Sensitive Rippp...

It was embarrassing to say the least and really there is nothing else to state. However there is one thing I need to ask and that question is, “How could such a thing have happened?” But I am ahead of the story so allow me start at the beginning.

MacArthur Junior High was a trying experience for me. Everything in life was horrendous and/or terrifying. The school year was 1947/1948. I was 12 years old and a very green 7th grader.  I was one year younger than my classmates due to starting school at five years of age and skipping the second grade due to implementation of the 12th grade system. Keep in mind that by now I was very aware of girls. I felt extremely self-conscious and almost felt guilty because girls were so beautiful. Was I the only one? Did other boys like girls? What was wrong with me? Daily there were surprises in my life of adjustments.

I have explained briefly my situation at that time so you might more easily grasp my feelings of embarrassment that I am going to share.

One day we were having a sort of “field day” at school. I suppose it was a school picnic. All the administrators, teachers and students were outside involved with various activities.
We had picnic lunches provided by the school. South Park Independent School District Superintendent Joe J. Vincent made a highly motivating speech. Prior to educational pursuits, Vincent had been a Colonel in the military. Following his rousing challenges to life, we began our softball game.

The teachers organized two softball teams. They appointed me to be the pitcher for one of the teams. Don’t ask me why…I don’t know why. Each team had girls and boys and we were scheduled to play five innings. There must have been two hundred kids bunched up along the bleachers to watch and cheer.

My team took to the field first. The pitchers were told to throw only slow easy pitches and to let the batters hit the ball. That was a relief to hear because all I could do was to throw slow and easy and anyone should be able to hit my pitches.

The first batter came to the plate. I eased the ball his way. As I released the pitch I felt something rip. Something in my clothes. Every pitch caused whatever was ripping to rip a little bit more.

Remember that there were more than one hundred girls watching from the bleachers and some were on my team. I was very aware of them and also I knew they were watching my every pitch. I began to fear that the ripping I heard and felt might be the seat of my britches. However, during one of the innings while my team was in the dugout, I had opportunity to check. My pants were not ripped at all. Thus the ripping mystery thickened.

Finally in the fourth inning, I stretched really hard to make a nice easy-flowing pitch to the batter. Whatever had been ripping made one final rip and something broke loose. Then I realized in stark horror that it was my underwear. Yes my Fruit-of-the-Loom had ripped apart. Ever so gently the underwear made their way down my right pants’ leg. I kicked my foot a little and the undergarment plopped out of my pants onto the pitcher’s mound. I attempted to act as though nothing had happened. Maybe no one would notice. Wrong. Everybody started laughing. The girls, the boys, the teachers, and even Superintendent Joe J. Vincent. So what did I do? I laughed too but I was so embarrassed.

That day I learned to laugh when life throws you a curve ball.

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@comcast.net

Communication Is A Fascinating Way To Communicate...

Driving to work (45 minutes one way) each morning affords me lots of time to think. One thing I do is to pray. It may be that more people draw closer to God while driving on Houston freeways than anywhere else. Besides praying, I formulate column outlines in my mind and later transfer those columns to paper. Also I enjoy listening to the radio.

In a previous column I told you about listening to my car radio while trying not to exceed the freeway speed limit. Remember that weird announcement I shared with you? It went something like this: “And now for some good news for all of you who are driving north on I-45. The fatality accident that blocked the north-bound lanes for more than two hours finally has been moved to the shoulder. Now you should have smooth sailing on to Conroe.” I mused over the announcer’s choice of terms. Was that traffic update good news to the family of the deceased?

There is another type of news bulletin that comes over the airways on occasion. This one gives rise to some questions. Recently I heard the following:

“We interrupt this program for an emergency weather alert from the United States National Weather Service. ‘(tone)Buuuuuuuuuu…(noise)Braaaaaaack… Braaaaaaack…Braaaaaaack.’ This is an emergency weather alert from the United States National Weather Service. ‘Buuuuuuuuu’ There are extremely high winds in excess of 70 miles per hour approaching the South Houston vicinity. You are advised to take cover immediately. Secure outside lawn furniture and pets. ‘Buuuuuuuuu’ This has been an emergency weather alert from the United States National Weather Service. We now return you to our regularly scheduled programming, ‘ Braaaaaaack.’”

First I want to commend the personnel associated with the United States National Weather Service for all of the valuable services they provide. They do a great job of keeping us updated on what is happening in our world of weather.

However, I do question the procedure of making emergency weather alert announcements on the radio. While it is great that we can have those alerts in times of danger, think about it.

Winds traveling at 70 miles per hour are covering in excess of one mile per minute. Winds traveling at such high speeds really are covering ground. I timed one of these radio weather alerts recently and here are the results. The announcement that told of the impending emergency alert, the “Buuuuuuu’s,” and the “Braaaaaaacks.” and the second announcement that the alert was now ready to be shared, took almost 20 seconds.

My question is: How many people listening to their radios were blown away in the rapidly approaching high winds? By the time the final “Braaaaaaack” sounded, the wind storm may well have rushed through injuring many who were waiting to hear the weather alert. It seems like the alert could just say, “We interrupt this program for an emergency weather alert from the United States Weather Service.” The tones and noises could be saved for a rainy day (pun intended).

Then there is that radio commercial for a popular prescription medication. The disclaimer goes so fast that it cannot be understood. But if you record that disclaimer and play it back slowly you will hear, “Side effects may include daytime drowsiness, dizziness, lightheadedness, constipation, diarrhea, dry mouth, memory loss, fast/pounding heartbeat, unusual tiredness, new or worsening depression, and on rare occasions may cause mental/mood changes, rash, itching, swelling, trouble breathing and thoughts of suicide. If you notice these or other effects not mentioned, contact your doctor or pharmacist immediately.”

I ask you, “Which is better…the malady or the cure?”

Communication is a fascinating ability of God’s creatures. Isn’t it also fascinating how we can at times get it so messed up?

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@gmail.com