OK, I Confess...They Did It...

A year or so ago, I wrote a column of confessions telling of things I did in my youth that few if any ever knew.

For example, I told about drag racing a Beaumont Police Officer up Pearl Street in downtown Beaumont one afternoon. When we got to the end of the course, he looked over at me and said, “Hope you got it out of your system. I don’t ever want to catch you drag racing again.” He didn’t because I didn’t.

I ended that column by asking others to confess some things that they got into as a youth. Following are a few of those responses I received:

Bill English and Linton Cowart sent me this and I am quoting their letter:

“Hello, I don’t know if this is the kind of thing you are looking for, but one night in 1955, (we) took a ‘We Give Black Gold Stamps’ sign from in front of a gas station and put it in front of the Dixie Hotel, which was a well-known house of ill repute. As (we) recall, it made the Enterprise.”

Bill Fox, an old South Park Greenie classmate, sent me a 900-word confession of something he did early one morning in 1951. Take note, Bill. My entire column allows for only 600 words so next time, write with your scissors.

Bill told how that he and some other Enterprise paperboys were sitting on the porch of Raymond Eddie at the corner of Harriot and Kenneth Streets in Beaumont awaiting their papers. Bill wrote, “There was some discussion about how to dramatically dispose of a five-shot aerial bomb that just happened to be in possession of one of the guys that he had left over from the recent July 4th celebration.”

They elected Bill to be the honored one to ease across Harriot St., climb the water tower that was situated beside the small one-truck fire station, and then set off that bomb atop the tower. The vote on that decision was 8 to 1 (guess who voted against it).

Bill climbed the tower, lit the fuse and began his descent. He heard the first round go off. “It was loud,” Bill recounted. Then he saw a police car. He hid in the reeds that were growing beside the fire station while the police stopped and lectured the others who still were gathered on the front porch. Bill kept this story to himself until now.

Then I received a tome from retired Lamar University Professor David G. Taylor.
Professor Taylor writes from time to time and occasionally we talk on the phone. I have never met the man but I like him. I am persuaded that he is the most prolific story teller in Jefferson County and most likely a greater expanse than that. I called him the other night to ask him if I could share his “snake bite” story. One hour later, he said, “Sure, go ahead and use that story any way that you want.” The reason it took one hour to get a reply from the professor is that he interjected 15 to 20 stories in addition to the one I called about.

Anyway, Taylor was helping a friend, Leo Johnson, clean up his property at Lake Rayburn following hurricane Rita. He reached into a pile of wood and was bitten by a small copperhead. David killed the snake and appropriately named it, “Rita.”
A helicopter flew him to East Texas Medical Center, in Tyler. This is not exactly a confession. It’s more like a University professor admitting that he should not have been working bare-handed around poisonous snakes.

Confession times are interesting. Look for a sequel coming soon in a newspaper near you.

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@sci-us.com