WinSpin

Lolo

2012-01-27T18:45:00.002-06:00

The time is at hand. Yes, 2012 is upon us. Time is ideal for confessions.

Many of you know my big sister, Ann Lowell Hamby King. Not only is she my big sister, she also is my older sister. You may recall she disdains such “big” and “older” descriptions. “If it looks like a duck …” never mind, I digress.

Confession: Ann Lowell has embarked upon her eighth decade today, this being Saturday, January 21, 2012 (don’t tell her … it’s a surprise).

The almost three-year-old in Beauxart Gardens in 1938 never dreamed he would be writing this on Sunday afternoon, January 15, 2012. The lucid memories of early life always have been a fascination.

We do not have many pictures of those days. Mama did the best she could with our old Kodak Box Camera.

Confession: My big, older sister was my babysitter and I never got around to thanking her. You know, little brothers seem at times not to think of “Thanks.” Should you see her, please inform her of my gratitude. Thank you.

Confession: I should not have written the column about Ann Lowell speeding down Elgie Avenue. Dad’s 1950 Oldsmobile Super 88 was one hot wagon. Ann Lowell enjoyed taking me for joy rides. Looking back I can see the danger of flying 60 mph through those residential areas without seatbelts. We could have run off the road and killed somebody. Ann Lowell told me I was sitting in the “death seat.” I guess that’s the side of the car that would have killed somebody had we run off the road. Anyway, she got mad at me for telling our parents.

Confession: Many of you know I never should have teased Ann Lowell about sitting in that old Ford with Sid. Pipkin Street in front of our house really was dark at that time of night. Kept joking around how they sat out there playing the radio. I had known for some time the old Ford did not have a radio. Felice and Boudleaux Bryant had not even written, “Wake Up Little Susie” till 1957. And even if they had, there was no YouTube to play it like we have today. That old Ford with no radio never had a chance. But I digress.

Confession: I have wondered somewhat in recent years as to whether or not “digression,” intentional or unintentional, is a sin? Thank you, Ann Lowell, for enduring your little brother throughout all these (Good Grief, can’t find my calculator)…

Confession: Earlier in this treatise I referred to a duck. The jury will disregard that statement. Time has a way of changing things.

Just look (Ann Lowell is the one with gray hair). Actually, we both have changed. I no longer am the little brother. You should know that for quite some time I have been the bigger brother of my older sister.

Confession: This younger brother no longer is jealous of his older sister. Now that I’m her bigger little brother, it all comes out even.

Confession: Even though Ann Lowell and I still are not far from Beauxart Gardens, we both have come a long way.

Confession: On this, Ann Lowell’s eightieth birthday, there is opportunity one more time for this taller, younger brother to impress his shorter, older sister. After all, isn’t that what a taller, younger brother is supposed to do? The following I did not know. I looked it up to impress Ann Lowell:

“open confessione is good for the soul.”
[c 1641 in E. Beveridge D. Fergusson's Scottish Proverbs (1924) no. 159]

Sid King was Ann Lowell’s faithful husband for 58 years. He passed away on April 20, 2011, four days before his 85th birthday.

Ann Lowell will be moving in a few months to Indiana to be nearer her children.

Beaumont will be losing one of her Southern Belles.

Yes, the time is at hand.

Winston Hamby

winhamby@gmail.com

CHRISTmas

2011-12-23T18:11:00.043-06:00

Merry Christmas, everyone. We said it that way because that is the way it is. Well, one thing is special about today. It is a Christmas Sunday.

Christmas continues to arrive each year, always bringing much discussion. Following are a few questions for your consideration. You would do well to read Matthew 2:1-12 and Luke 2:1-20. We are using the New International Version (NIV) translation. Feel free to use the translation of your choice. The facts remain the same regardless.

Do you know how Joseph and Mary traveled to Bethlehem?

Many conjecture various modes i.e. donkey, oxcart, etc. The answer is found in Luke 2:4-5a, “So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David, because he belonged to the house and line of David. He went there to register with Mary …”

Fact is the Bible does not share the mode of transportation. We know they went to Bethlehem. God provided for their welfare including their manner of travel.

Who did God use to tell Joseph and Mary they should go to Bethlehem in the first place?

Luke 2:1-3 tells us this plus more, “In those days, Caesar Augustus issued a decree that a census should be taken of the entire Roman world. (This was the first census that took place while Quirinius was governor of Syria.) And everyone went to his own town to register.” It is interesting to note the role Caesar Augustus had to play in the great scheme of things.

Exactly what did the innkeeper tell Mary and Joseph when they arrived at the inn in Bethlehem where Jesus was to be born?

Certainly there was communication but read Luke 2:6-7, “While they were there (Bethlehem), the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.” Nowhere does the Bible record any conversation involving the innkeeper.

Which animals were present at Jesus’ birth?

Probably you know that no animals are mentioned as being present. We can assume some things but what does the Bible say?

For example, was Jesus born in a stable?

Remember Luke 2:7, “… and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.”

Does the Bible say that Jesus was delivered in a stable? No, but the Bible does say that, “She…placed him in a manger.”

How many angels spoke to the shepherds in the field? No doubt you have heard there were numerous angels.

Luke 2:9-11 states, “An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord.’”

There were, indeed, numerous angels but they did not come along till Luke 2:13-14.

“Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom his favor rests.’”

We do not know the actual date Jesus was born. You have read and heard of this more and more with the passing of time. The fact that he was born is what matters.

Christians believe Jesus was born of a virgin. Prophecy and fulfillment deliver the message plain and clear.

Consider Isaiah 7:14, written 800 years before the birth of Jesus, “Therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign: The virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son, and will call him Immanuel.”

The fulfillment of this is found in Matthew 1:22-23, “All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had said through the prophet: ‘The virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son, and they will call him Immanuel’-which means, ‘God with us.’”

So, “This is how the birth of Jesus Christ came about…” See Matthew 1:18.

Merry CHRISTmas, everyone,
from Winston and Mardell Hamby.

****************************************************************

(winhamby@gmail.com and/or marhamby@gmail.com)

Football

2011-12-20T22:12:00.002-06:00

There are football games that I can almost remember but cannot quite recall, such as the first game ever attended by this eleven-year-old in 1946.
I did not know what a football was much less a football game. But soon I was to become a student well-grounded.

You see, my sister, Ann Lowell Hamby, was a freshman at South Park High School that same year. Ann marched, played bugle and bell lyre in the Cadets Drum and Bugle Corps. Most modern folks refer to a bell lyre as a glockenspiel. That is two German words, glocken (bell) and spiel (play). I’m glad my sister played a bell lyre because I never could have told people what she did had she played a glockenspiel.

We invited a friend of mine from church to go with us to that first game. Her name was Joyce Vick. She was one year older than I was but it didn’t matter.

My parents did not realize that I had discovered girls some three years prior to this occasion. I thought Joyce was a very interesting friend but did not know why. I digress. Back to football.

There was lots of cheering and yelling. Everyone was standing up. I could not see anything. I wondered why they were acting like that. Even my parents were standing and smiling.

I asked, “Hey Joyce, what’s everybody doing?” Joyce explained (she thought), “We just scored a touchdown.” This “we” wording confused me. I had not done anything and Joyce had not done anything. All my parents had done was stand and smile. At least they were not jumping up and down.

I did not want Joyce to realize I was in the dark thus asked her, “Whose side are you on?” She looked at me with her loving smile and said, “Quit being silly.” To this day, I have yet to understand women.

That same year, one of the football players became my hero. His name was Billy Baggett. I recall his running nearly the length of the field for a touchdown at Greenie Stadium. We were playing a tough team, the Orange Bengal Tigers. I believe Orange won that game thirty-something to 6.

Later one afternoon I was with my mother who had driven to campus to pick up Ann. I was lingering outside the car. Billy Baggett came strolling by and said to me “How ‘ya doing there fella?” I was stunned that Billy Baggett spoke to me. That’s when he became my hero.

Another year when I played trombone in the band, we traveled to Orange in a passenger car on the Southern Pacific Railroad. They parked us on a spur and we filed from the train coach into the stadium. The train track was right there.

At halftime, the band formed a big square on the field. We played music and several couples, unknown to me, square-danced. It was a fun-show although I feared that folks back in Beaumont would find out. Our church did not believe in dancing of any sort. I was relieved when no one challenged my Friday night escapade.

After returning to Beaumont from college, I saw the Greenies defeat the Port Arthur Yellow Jackets 16-14. Galena Park came over for a playoff game which we won 7-0. We traveled to Spring Branch where we lost 0-8. There were no touchdowns scored in that game but only a safety and two field goals.

Eddie Jackson, Greenie ’47, who died in the early 1950s from a rare brain disorder, had written a poem. His last verse became the Greenies’ slogan, which more than sums it up:

“The sun that sets may never rise,

But Greenie fight never dies.”

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@gmail.com

Taylor

2011-12-05T17:32:00.007-06:00

Retired Lamar Professor David G. Taylor hit a homerun when he and his wife moved to Beaumont in 1955.

Dr. Richard W. Setzer, Dean of the Lamar School of Business, hired Taylor as Professor of Marketing.

Upon arriving in Beaumont, David hit another homerun when he and his wife, Etoie, joined the First Baptist Church. They have served long and well continuing to be shining lights of faithful inspiration. Taylor is a Life Deacon and loves to talk about his church ministry. Etoie was supposed to be named Etoile, but her birth certificate was mis-spelled. So Etoie it is although their children called her “Mother.”

Prof. Taylor did not have to wait long after settling down in his new office at Lamar. The phone rang and Taylor found himself with his first consultation appointment. Yet another homerun.

That first meeting in Taylor’s office was with the three Rogers’ brothers, Nate, Ben, and Sol. Their inquiries centered on how to build and market a shopping center. From those early consultations emerged the incredibly successful Gateway Shopping Center. Of course, most of you reading this know the rest of the story.

Prof. Taylor arrived in time for the integration of Lamar State College of Technology. He hit a homerun and has many a story to tell about that historical period in time. His first black student was Alvin G. Randolph, who turned out to be one of Beaumont’s leading realtors. Taylor and Randolph developed a close friendship that lasted until Randolph’s recent death.

Taylor’s teaching career included 15 months at Baylor, 6 years at Arkansas State, and 33 years at Lamar. He retired from Lamar in 1988.

Just after Hurricane Rita, Taylor drove to the Sam Rayburn Lake area to help a friend “clean up the mess.” There were fallen trees and debris all over the cabin grounds. David reached down to pick up a piece of wood and was surprised when a copperhead snake chose to bite his finger. Taylor killed the snake and named it Rita. This amounted more to a foul ball than a homerun but it did instigate a run to the hospital.

Etoie and friends finally got David through all the brush on the road and reached the Jasper Hospital. Everything seemed fine except for the fact that there was no electricity in Jasper, including the hospital.

The doctors told David they were going to airlift him to Tyler. Taylor rode flat on his back in that medical chopper. He told me that Etoie sat up front beside the pilot and conversed with the pilot over the two-way radio. All David could do was stare straight up at the ceiling of that craft. He did note that the chopper was black and yellow. Anyway, he recovered.

Taylor has always enjoyed entering contests. Each win is a homerun and they include: A trip to Mexico City, a fur coat for Etoie, a trip to Paris, a 1964 Pontiac LeMans, and numerous appliances. His most recent win was a Gatorade Cooler with 15 Gatorade towels and 15 bottles of Gatorade.

Taylor is in reasonably good health for a man of 85 years. He explains, “I still mow my own yard for the exercise. I seem, however, to be losing my hair (what hasn’t turned gray has turned loose). But my neighbor’s Jack Russell Terrier (Max) seems to love me so it can’t be all bad.”

A tome of great dimension would be required to hold the life experiences of David G. Taylor. He should write his autobiography. This would result in another home run.

David is a prolific writer. He has been published in magazines and newspapers, including several articles in the Beaumont Enterprise.

David and Etoie just celebrated their 65th wedding anniversary.
That, my friends, is definitely a grand slammer.

Light

2011-10-16T17:44:00.006-05:00

There is a bright light shining in Beaumont and I want to share with you that light. But wait, I am ahead of the story.

Forty-five years ago at Baptist Hospital in Beaumont, a beautiful baby girl was born. Her proud parents were Daniel and Geneva Fontenot. The beaming siblings were Daniel, Jr. and Misty.

Rhonda Rochelle grew up in Beaumont and married Joseph Lewis. Currently she has one stepdaughter, Britney Lewis and a step granddaughter, Taliyah.

What turned my attention toward Rhonda can be summed up with the following:

I grew up in Beaumont and lived on Pipkin Street in South Park. Rhonda grew up in Beaumont and lived in the Pear Orchard area of town. Pear Orchard was across the tracks from Pipkin Street. This means that I grew up just a few blocks from where Rhonda grew up even though we were thirty years apart in age.

Much of my young life in Beaumont was taking place while racial tensions were at their highest. I remember while in the third grade at Giles Elementary, asking my mother, “Where are the black kids? Don’t they go to school?" Mom replied with something like, “Oh yes, they have their own schools.” I could not understand the what or why of this information.

One afternoon, I was riding in the backseat of my dad’s 1938 Plymouth. We were heading north on Park Street toward downtown Beaumont. Suddenly, at every intersection, there appeared men in green uniforms directing traffic. I learned that these were called the National Guard, called out to control pending race riots. I did not understand.

The race scene was horrific. Most of you reading this are well aware of the racial strifes throughout the years in Beaumont and surrounding Southeast Texas. I had to drink from the “white” drinking fountains, use the “white” restrooms, ride in the “white” section of the city buses. All the while, I did not understand.

Later, as a young adult in Beaumont, I made many black friends. We still could not eat together in public establishments but we were friends. I felt good knowing my light skin did not offend them and their dark color to me just meant their pigment was different from my own. God created mankind and I strongly believe that Adam and Eve were not the whitest kids on the block. Think about it. After their expulsion from the Garden, they lived in a land where white folks never walked. Perhaps they were not black but rather a pigment color somewhere between our current concepts of black and white.

Anyway, back to Rhonda Rochelle Lewis. A group showed up on Facebook carrying the name “You’re probably from Beaumont Tx. If you remember …” This group which offers open membership began in July, 2011.

Rhonda started this group and received valuable assistance from a white friend of hers, Mary Ann Petry. Mary Ann provided numerous pictures of old and new Beaumont.

Rhonda continues as administrator of the aforementioned group on Facebook. For months I have observed and participated with the group. Rhonda’s beautiful Christian countenance manages with minimal disturbance.

A product of Forest Park High School (Hebert merged with FPHS), Rhonda leads a beautiful Christian life. Here are her words to me, “I know that only through Christ have I been able to sustain. He is my source for being and I am proud to be called one of his.” Rhonda attends New Light Church on Crow Road. She is a Human service tech at Spindletop Center working with mentally disabled adults.

I learned from Rhonda that all people can get along when Jesus Christ is our common denominator.

Yes, there is a bright light shining in Beaumont.

Her name is Rhonda Rochelle Lewis.

***********************************************
(Note: Please send comments and/or responses to winhamby@gmail.com)

Winston Hamby
winhamby@gmail.com

Eyes

2011-10-12T10:49:00.012-05:00

While I was in the hospial with double pneumonia, my lovely daughter, Deana Hamby Nall, agreed to write a column in my stead ... following is similar to how the newspaper carried her column: wh

Blue Eyes

Jenna was born three years ago tomorrow. Eight-and-a-half pounds. A golden sheen to her head that promised blond hair. Blue eyes.

At least I tell people they're blue. There really isn't a word to describe the color of her eyes.

But I'll try.

I learned to scuba dive in 1993. And I learned something about it right off: scuba diving is a big hassle. So much heavy, awkward equipment is required for breathing underwater. The tank by itself weighs 80 pounds. Then there's the weight belt, which must be adjusted just right so you won't float to the surface or be stuck on the ocean floor. Then you have the BCD, the fins, snorkel, mask and wetsuit -- if the water you're diving in is going to be cold.

But once below the surface, the oppressive gear becomes your key to the underwater world. You swim around weightless, holding out fingers as curious fish swim up to them. Your teeth clench around the regulator that, on land moments before, was uncomfortable in your mouth. Now it's the only way to get air into your lungs. The sound of your constant inhaling and exhaling is a reminder that you're doing something humans weren't made to do. You are living, thriving, underwater. The hassle, for the moment, is forgotten.

It took us a long time to get Jenna into this world. I got pregnant, then miscarried. Pregnant again, then blood one morning. Pregnant a third time, but then more blood. We started thinking adoption. Then I got pregnant again, and this one held. I got very sick, was placed on home healthcare, and then developed gestational diabetes. Then, one Thursday morning, the previous year-and-a-half faded as I finally looked into her eyes.

And I remembered the circle of light.

Thirty feet under the ocean's surface, it's easy to become disoriented -- to the point that you can lose track of which way you're supposed to go to reach air. As a scuba diver, you learn to look for light. Light means surface. When you find the sunlight piercing the blue mass in which you are submerged, you slowly swim toward it, exhaling all the way. Surrounded by varying shades of watery blue, the circle of light expands and seems to pull you toward itself. You keep swimming up, up, up -- until you think your lungs can't expel any more air. But the bubbles keep coming from your mouth, and you keep moving toward the light.

Then you reach it and you burst through it into air, light, life.

That's what color Jenna's eyes are.

*************************************************
The newpaper bio of Deana:

Deana Hamby Nall grew up in Beaumont and graduated from Beaumont Christian High School in 1989. She has been writing feaures for magazines since 1994 and contributes to a number of national publications. She lives in Little Rock with her husband Chad and their daughters Julia and Jenna. This piece originally appeared in "Quills & Pixels," a nonfiction journal published by UALR.

Laws

2011-09-29T13:04:00.002-05:00

Here are some additional Dumb Laws courtesy of Aha! Jokes, http://www.AhaJokes.com (My comments are in parentheses):
* Arizona: It is illegal to hunt camels. (Seems like they would provide a permit for such. Think of the revenue they could collect from the onrush of camel hunters.)
* Iowa: One-armed piano players must perform for free. (Will this discrimination thing never end?)
* Iowa: Horses are forbidden to eat fire hydrants. (A sad day for horses.)
* Wyoming: You may not take a picture of a rabbit during the month of June. (Drat it. That’s the very month I was planning a rabbit picture-taking trip to Wyoming.)
* Kentucky: By law, anyone who has been drinking is “sober” until he or she “cannot hold onto the ground.” (What is this? Does gravity cease to function?)
* Vermont: It is illegal to tie a giraffe to a telephone pole. (Wow, how kinky can you get?)
* Natchez: It shall be unlawful to provide beer or other intoxicants to an elephant. (Guess there’s no point inviting an elephant over for a drink.)
* Nebraska: If a child burps during church, his parents may be arrested. (Is it ok for the parents to burp?)
* Nebraska: Barbers are forbidden from eating onions between 7 A.M. and 7 P.M. (My barber eats garlic constantly.)
* Ohio: Riding on the roof of a taxi cab is not allowed. (Of course you may sneak a ride on the roof without permission.)
*Lubbock: It is illegal to drive within an arm’s length of alcohol – including alcohol in someone else’s blood stream. (That’s going to make it tough on designated drivers.)
* Port Arthur: Obnoxious odors may not be emitted while in an elevator. (No Comment.)
*San Antonio: It is illegal to urinate on the Alamo. (Apparently Ozzy Osbourne didn’t get the memo.)
* Georgia: No one may carry an ice cream cone in their back pocket if it is Sunday. (No other choice but to stay home from church.)
* Detroit: It is illegal to paint sparrows to sell them as parakeets. (How about painting canaries to sell as parrots?)
* Virginia: You’re not allowed to park your elephant on Main Street. (Go south one block and park your elephant on Madison Avenue.)
* Kansas: Pedestrians crossing the highways at night must wear tail lights. (I am curious if indicator lights are required.)
* Wichita: Before proceeding through the intersection of Douglas and Broadway, a motorist is required to get out of their vehicle and fire three shot gun rounds into the air. (I’ll never need to know why this law is on the books.)
* Texas: The entire Encyclopedia Britannica is banned in Texas because it contains a formula for making beer at home. (Guess you can always charter a bus to Louisiana and find a public library.)
* Florida: It is considered an offense to shower naked. (I should say so. Can you imagine anyone trying to do that?)
* Florida: If an elephant is left tied to a parking meter, the parking fee has to be paid just as it would for a vehicle. (They might try parking their camel and hope to get away with it.)
* Florida: A special law prohibits unmarried women from parachuting on Sundays or she shall risk arrest, fine, and/or jailing. (Besides that, she ought to be in church.)
* Florida: It is illegal to wear a fake moustache that causes laughter in church. (How about a real moustache?)
* Memphis: It is illegal for a woman to drive a car unless there is a man either running or walking in front of it waving a red flag to warn approaching motorists and pedestrians. (No Comment.)
Laws are enacted for reasons. Sometimes, these reasons escape us.

Winston Hamby
winhamby@gmail.com

Labors

2011-09-02T21:33:00.003-05:00

Why do we cease from our labors on Labor Day? Seems we should call it “Non-Labor Day.” Anyway since I am 75, I feel qualified to remember the “labors” I experienced throughout life.

I was hired in 1948 at age 13, to sell cokes at Stuart Stadium during the Beaumont Exporter baseball games. I earned a penny for every Coke sold. This was good money for a boy without a resume.

I became an usher at the Jefferson Theater when I was 15. This paid a whopping forty cents per hour. I was promoted to Doorman, and was raised to fifty cents per hour. This more than covered the gasoline for my 1939 straight-eight Buick.

Then it was off to Abilene Christian College and a new segment of life. I operated the campus switchboard (PBX Board) located in the Administration Building. There were fifty rubber cables on my board. When a call came in, I plugged the caller into the proper extension. I learned that I could break my boredom by listening in on the calls to hear what folks were talking about.

I had various summer jobs:

The first summer, I worked at The Man’s Shop, located on Pearl Street, earning $30 per week. My trainer was Sylvan DuCote, who later opened his own store a block north on Pearl, near Burrell’s News Stand.

The second summer, I sold Bibles door-to-door in Dallas. I bought a 1951 Plymouth and returned to Abilene Christian with ninety dollars in my pocket.

The third summer, I worked for the U. S. Post Office, located in the Federal Building in downtown Beaumont. One day I met Congressman Jack Brooks. As he left, he told me to “Have a good suppah.”

The fourth summer, I worked in my dad’s accounting office located in the Goodhue Building. The first adding machine I ever used was black with a crank handle. The front gold lettering was the manufacturer’s name, “BURROUGHS.”

After graduation in 1957, I returned to Beaumont and went to work for my dad.

Two years later, I joined the Army and became an accounting instructor with the U. S. Army Finance Center, Fort Benjamin Harrison, Indiana, not far from Indianapolis.

One year later, I transferred to the U. S. Army Band and was assigned as a trombonist with the Pan-American Jazz Band, based in the Panama Canal Zone. We played concerts for every high school in the country of Panama and every U. S. Embassy in South America. Uncle Sam paid me $150 per month to toot my own horn.

I returned to Beaumont and went to work for First Security National Bank. Vice-President Jack Darling interviewed and hired me. His favorite slogan was, “The bank with enough difference to make a difference.”

Five years later, FSNB transferred me to the Village State Bank in the Village Shopping Center where I was named Cashier in charge of bank operations.

Three years later, my wife and I moved to New Mexico, and entered church ministry with an emphasis on teenagers. We ministered in Lovington NM, Hobbs NM, Roswell NM, Big Spring TX, and the final ten years in Beaumont where we served as Youth Minister with the Ridgewood Church of Christ.

At age 56, I began working at Forest Lawn Funeral Home & Memorial Park, in Beaumont, owned by Service Corporation International, the largest funeral home company in the world.

Two years later, I transferred to their corporate offices in Houston as a Human Resources Officer.

I retired in 2009, and we moved to Benton, Arkansas.

I enjoy writing guest columns for the Beaumont Enterprise.
Also, I drive limousines for funeral homes in Little Rock.
Three days per week, I shuttle cars for Enterprise Car Rentals, driving more than 400miles each day.

But do you know what I’ll be doing this Labor Day? Absolutely nothing…

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@gmail.com

Schools

2011-08-21T18:44:00.004-05:00

How many of your high school memories can you come up with from yesteryear? If you attended high school in Beaumont, no doubt you have numerous tales to tell. Recently, I enrolled in a very fascinating social-networking group on Facebook. The group is called “You’re Probably from Beaumont, Texas if you remember…” If you are interested in Beaumont’s “living history,” you should ask one of your Facebook friends to add you to that group.
Anyway, I entered the group and made the following request: “Since school days are with us once again, share your name, school, year of graduation, and share one memory from your high school days that stands out in your mind. I’ll share the memories in one of my guest columns.” I received 116 responses. Try putting that in your pipe and editing it.
Here are the abbreviations used for each school: Beaumont HS (BHS); Beaumont Charlton-Pollard HS (BCP); Beaumont Christian HS (BCHS); Central Catholic HS (CCHS); Forest Park HS (FPHS); French HS (FHS); Hebert HS (HHS); Kelly HS (KHS); South Park HS (SPHS); St. Anthony HS (SAHS); Touch Christian Academy (TCA); West Brook HS (WBHS);
• Elaine Kandeler, SPHS ’68, I remember the ever so popular “Juke Box” that was in the cafeteria.
• Ann Andrus, FHS ’76, Freshman year homecoming parade (aka The Pots and Pans Parade) and going to the bonfire that night. Going to the football game, homecoming mum, just a real memorable experience.
• Terry Roy, HHS ’78, Pep Rallies were some of the most spirited rallies you could ever attend. Only people that were there could tell you about them.
• Joan Crumpler Deggs-Chahan, FHS ’78, Streaking! You probably wouldn’t print some of my memories.
• Lester Dixon, SPHS ’77, the students didn’t see “black and white,” we were all “green”- that’s the mentality us guys on the football team had and it melted over to the entire school. I think I was the first black class president that came through South Park. President of the freshman class ’74, the sophomore class ’75 and the junior class ’76. Didn’t run for office in ’77 but put time into baseball to get a scholarship.
• LeRoy Feist, HHS ’76, We Panthers have an amazing sense of pride and community. School Motto “Whatever Hebert does, it must be the best!”
• Tommy Ellison, SPHS ’72, Friday morning pep rallies in the stadium, tons of school spirit.
• Lindy McAnulty, KHS ’91!! THE TWIRLERS!!
• Kim Glaze Perry, SPHS ’78, All 4 years in band were the best. “We’re so good; we’re so great; we’re the CLASS OF ‘78”
• Russ Evans, FPHS ’79, Graduation!!! lol, thank goodness I made it!
• Debra Lynd Pearson, SPHS ’86, I graduated in the last class of this wonderful high school.
• Sandra Curtis Livingston-Harper, SPHS, I remember being the only girl in the “Boys Choir” because I could sing tenor.
• Bridget Teare, KHS, One thing that has really stayed with me is the closeness that the whole school shared with each other. Most were like me. Three of my siblings graduated from SAHS, one from CCHS, and one from KHS
• Joey Schoen, SPHS ’71, Surviving Jerry Hentschel’s PE Class. To this day I have the utmost respect for the man.
• Patti Davis Trimm, SPHS, Loyalties ran deep! On Friday afternoons, my daddy, owner of “Murel’s Corner,” barber shop & filling station, would post a sign, “Closed Early-Gone to watch Greenies play.”
• Ron Berwick, SPHS, Seemed that all the girls in high school were short compared to junior high. Guess I had grown some.
• Dewayne Norris, SPHS, I remember the freshman initiation haircuts. The SP in back of the head.
• Kevin Cowen, BCP ’84, Two things I’ll never forget: My grandmother walked the same halls in 1944, and the smell of creosote from railroads during 2-a-days!
• Toni Tanner Scott, HHS, First day of school for me at Hebert meant wearing my “old” clothes. I’d wait a few months until I’d seen everybody’s new clothes and then I’d break out my new “rags” when everyone else was wearing “re-runs.”
• John C Byerly, SPHS ’72, summer band marching practice. The mosquitoes were bad, but it was standing at attention in the broiling sun for minutes on end only to realize too late that you have been standing on an ant bed. Those fire ants loved to crawl up your pants legs by the hundreds and wait for some signal to attack you all at once!
• Scott P. DeRouen, WBHS ’85, Winning state championship certainly helped the strain of the merger of FPHS & HHS. Very fond memories.
• Djwana Eldridge Butler, WB ’84, I remember this strange feeling attending a new school integration (HHS & FPHS) for the first time in 1982 after leaving Hebert High, an all African-American school.
• Marsha Davis Wall, FPHS ’72, Senior class would make the freshmen bow down to Egor, the Trojan mascot.
• Wendy Toups, FPHS, Smoking in the field while the principal watched us from the planetarium platform…BUSTED!
• Harley Rush, FPHS ’69, Mr. Stansbury, History teacher. Best teacher I ever had.
• Erica Cooper Patrick, CHS ’87, Going to the state football championship in 1984 as French High School and marching on the big star in Dallas stadium. Was part of the first graduating class of Central High Jaguars.
• DeWayne Norris, SPHS, Mr. Nevilles was our driver’s ed instructor. To pass the class, he had us drive over the Rainbow Bridge. You refused, you failed. Simple as that.
• Chris Sawyer, BHS ’67, We learned the formula for LSD in chemistry class. I seem to remember an explosion too!
• Margie Martin, HHS ’62, We had the best football team in town. Coach Ozan was one of the best.
• Stephen Blanton SPHS ’71, My favorite back-to-school activity was checking to see how much the girls had grown over the summer.
• Laura Souders, FPHS, I remember working on the school newspaper (Populi Verbum club activities editor), Journalism classes (Ms. Minerva), Trojan Marching Band (Mr. Janacek), volleyball, and hanging out with my best friends, Ann and Becky.
• Janie Sherman Alley, KHS ’80, Won State Football Championship that school year.
• Eugene Cambre, FHS ’71, The distant sound of the band practicing for a cool, fall evening of football.
• Jennifer Morris Sarah, BCH, Loved Mrs. Rao’s fall pilgrimage, dressed in character for the Canterbury Tales.
• Danny Richard, Touch Christian Academy ’87, Being the one school that almost no one knew about.
• Leah Scott, WBHS, Always loved being in band and marching into the stadium home games! We marched 308 members back then and completely took over the track.
• Elaine Kandeler, SPHS ’68, Mr. Lively made you stick your gum on your nose and stand in the trash can if you got caught chewing it in his typing class.
• Bridget Teare, KHS, I remember the closeness that the whole school shared with each other!!! I had (3) siblings graduate from St. Anthony and (1) from Central Catholic, and (1) from Kelly. Also my mother and all her siblings went to St. Anthony. A wonderful Catholic High School where friends were made for a lifetime. I loved the Bulldogs.
• Melissa Ellis Frederick, SPHS ’77, Freshman homerooms were in the west wing of MacArthur Jr. High and really hard to make it on time to class in the main building SPHS 3rd floor on time…long way in a short time.
• John C. Byerly, SPHS ’72, I don’t think they allow teachers the freedoms they once had. I’m not so sure that that is such a good thing!
As so many have proved here, our memories of school are among those favorite reruns we love to watch time and time again.

Winston Hamby
winhamby@gmail.com

BEAUMONT TEEN TURNS 40...

2011-08-06T20:54:00.008-05:00

I was seven years old in 1942, and living in Beaumont. That same year, my dad celebrated his 35th birthday. This made a significant impression on me. I thought Dad was ancient. There was just no way could one of my parents be that old.

Fast-forward to August 2, 2011. The headlines could have read, “BEAUMONT TEEN TURNS 40.” My daughter, Deana Hamby Nall celebrated her 40th birthday. Again this made a significant impression on me. How was it that my daughter could seem so young at age 40 when my dad was so ancient at 35? After all, I am only 75 and my wife, Mardell is only 66. What has changed since 1942? Don’t answer that.

Deana, who lived much of her younger years in Beaumont, agreed to sit down with me and answer a few questions:

Winston: What are your impressions of reaching 40 years of age?

Deana: When I was approaching 30, I wrote a column for the Beaumont Enterprise in which I reflected on the sadness that I was “too young not to be young anymore.” I don’t feel that way now. I still feel young and don’t think I’m too old to feel that way.

W: What is your first memory?

D: Lying in my crib on my tummy (no one knew that was dangerous back then) and Mom rubbing my back. I had to have been pretty small because I remember noticing her hand and my back were about the same size.

W: What did you think that day we visited Bottomless Lakes State Park in New Mexico? You were only five years old.

D: Like I told you and Mom that day when you asked me what I thought of that beautiful lake of green water, “God sure did do a good job.”

W: I have always wondered when it was that you became aware of boys being more than just boys?

D: Earlier than you probably think. By 4th grade, I wanted to marry Bo and Luke and Duke plus all the teenage boys at church. Boys my age, however, were just boys.

W: What have been your impressions of God and the spiritual warfare in your life?

D: I grew up with a very black and white faith and had answers to all the question. Now, the black and white have swirled into gray and I have more questions than answers. Which I think is healthier than the former.

W: How many times did you see “Back To The Future?”

D: Eleven times before it came out on video.

W: Are there any books you have read more than twice?

D: I’ve read To Kill a Mocking Bird many times since I first read it for English class at Beaumont Christian High School. I’ve read Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House series more times than I can count. I still read those books.

W: Since I was a youth minister during all those years of your growing up, how did you cope with being a PK (preacher’s kid)?

D: That was truly a blessing in many ways. It really only bothered me when the “glass house” syndrome would surface—when I couldn’t do something that was really OK, but it might reflect poorly on our family because of certain people’s beliefs. Like the way I had to beg and plead to go to West Brook High School’s homecoming dance with my then-boyfriend because our church frowned upon dancing. You didn’t think dancing would send me to hell, but you did worry about church people finding out and how they would react. You finally let me go when I promised not to dance. My boyfriend and I did dance to Bon Jovi’s “Never Say Goodbye” that night, and it’s still one of my sweetest high school memories. Sorry about that.

W: Out of all the houses where we lived in New Mexico and Texas, which one was your favorite?

D: Probably our Beaumont house (4060 Redwood Drive). We moved in when I was an awkward 11-year-old and I moved out after I got married at 22. I really feel like I grew up in that house.

W: We lived in five different towns during my 28 years of church ministry. Which of those towns was your favorite?

D: We didn’t move to Beaumont until I was 11, but it was home to me long before then. It was a great town for spending summers with my grandparents, who lived there. I remember my Meemaw taking me shopping at Gemco, Parkdale Mall and swimming at the tiny wading pool at Combest Park in Minglewood. And Beaumont was a fun place to be a teenager in the ‘80s. I used up untold gallons of gas by driving up and down Dowlen Road on weekend nights. I wouldn’t have wanted to come of age anywhere else.

W: Out of all those you dated in Beaumont and surrounding area, you ended up marrying Chad Nall. Comment on that decision.

D: Growing up in Beaumont, I never dreamed I would marry a guy from Alaska. I married very, very well. Chad’s the man of my dreams.

W: Give some thoughts regarding your two beautiful girls (our granddaughters).

D: They are Julia and Jenna, and Julia is now the age I was when we moved to Beaumont. It’s interesting to see them growing into the women they will someday be. Ten years ago, we had a high school reunion at Rogers Park on Dowlen Road. Julia was two. She kept getting away from me and I had to chase her down in the parking lot—the same parking lot where I used to hang out as a too-cool teenager on weekend nights. That was a surreal thought. I like taking them back to Beaumont and showing them where I lived and where I used to hang out, because Beaumont is such a big part of who I am now.

W: Describe your professional interests.

D: I’m a freelance writer for a number of publications. I work from home, which is a pretty sweet deal. I first became interested in writing as a kid, and I took a journalism class for teens at Lamar one summer. I don’t remember the teacher’s name, but he was the journalism teacher at French High School at the time. It was only a one-week class, but helped me realize writing might be for me. We toured the Beaumont Enterprise that week and I thought, “Wow, I want to be a part of this!” There’s just so much power in writing—so many ways to bring good into the world. Then I was on Belinda Graves’ yearbook staff my senior year at Beaumont Christian High School. That was also a great experience, and four years later, I was editor of my college yearbook at Abilene Christian University.

W: You mentioned publications. Which ones have you written for?

D: SUCCESS magazine, Success for Women, Success from Home, Your Business at Home, Empowering Women, ACU Today (alumni magazine for Abilene Christian University), Arkansas and Arkansas Life (lifestyle magazine based in Little Rock), and the Baytown Sun (newspaper in Baytown, where we lived for six years before moving to Arkansas).

W: What are your further educational pursuits, if any?

D: I’m working on my master’s in professional writing at University of Arkansas at Little Rock right now. I just wanted to learn more and be back in the academic environment. I’ve thought about a Ph.D. but we have two girls to get through college.

W: Deana, thank you for sharing your life and congratulations upon reaching 40 years of age. You are a wonderful daughter and Mom and I are so proud of you.

Note: Deana has a professional web site, www.deananall.com and you will enjoy reading her blog at http://deanaland.blogspot.com.

Isn’t it ironic how little girls grow up to be 40 years old?

Winston Hamby
winhamby@gmail.com

I Drove A Cataract...

2011-07-22T10:11:00.010-05:00

A while back, I shared a column describing my experience with prostate surgery. The date of that surgery was December 9, 2010. I’ll always remember that date as my prostate gland joined the ranks of my previously removed tonsils in 1941 and my gall bladder in 1994.

Recently, my wife quipped, “Now that you have all new parts, I won’t have to trade you in.” I smiled ever so slightly. The smile was acknowledging her worthy attempt to say something cute. The “slightly” was because in my mind, I knew that I did not have new parts. The old were removed but nothing was replaced.

The urologist who laid waste my prostate gland had an interesting name, that being Dr. Tim Goodson. Remember that name, especially the “Good” part. Being somewhat apprehensive about losing such a sensitive body part, there was indeed comfort in knowing that my surgeon’s name contained such positive implications.

Another reason I wanted to share Dr. Goodson’s name with you is because that on April 14, 2011, I was admitted to the clinic to undergo double-cataract surgery. The Ophthalmologist who performed this surgery was named Dr. Phil Suffridge.

Do you see my quandary? I had just been spoiled by an Urologist named Goodson. Now I was expected to risk my very precious eyesight to an Ophthalmologist whose name sounded to me a whole lot like “suffer.” After studying his name carefully, I decided that Suffridge was safe enough so I calmed down.

The term “double” in double-cataract surgery means simply that both eyes will be involved. The procedure, however, is performed on one eye at a time. When the first eye heals then the second surgery is scheduled. In my case, the doctor decided to operate first on my right eye.

I remember lying on my back in a brilliantly-lit room. There were a few people standing around but the only one I knew was Dr. Suffridge. I slipped into a twi-light zone and could hear clinking sounds. Little circles of color kept spinning around the room. There was uncertainty on my part as to whether I was awake or asleep.

During the surgery, a strong urge compelled me to begin telling the doctor about Beaumont and my hometown memories. These stories were extremely interesting to me and I babbled away, explaining in fine detail and with great exuberance all about growing up in the South Park area of Beaumont. I felt so refreshed at finding an audience willing to listen to the tales of my youth.

Suddenly, right in the middle of my explaining about that beautiful organ at the Jefferson Theater in downtown Beaumont, a booming, authoritative voice commanded, “Mr. Hamby, stop talking. When you talk, it makes your eyes move.” I was insulted but decided not to talk anymore. I continued to drift in and out of reality.

Soon, Doc said, “Okay, we’re all done.” I looked around and discovered my right eye sported a patch. “Come by in the morning and I’ll remove the patch.” That was good news to me because with that patch, my depth-perception was at a standstill.

May 12, 2011, I returned to the clinic and had the other eye corrected. Now, I have new glasses and can see better than since I was a kid.

Some of the symptoms of cataracts are cloudy or blurry vision, faded colors, sensitivity to light, and/or poor night vision. One good web site for additional information is MyCataractSolution.com.

Anyway, my experiences with prostate surgery and double cataract surgery were good and I didn’t suffer, thanks to Doctors Goodson and Suffridge.

My next round in early August will be something they call a “colonoscopy.” But do not expect an in-depth description of that procedure.

Winston Hamby

winhamby@gmail.com

It's A Furr Piece To Farr Point...

2011-07-10T17:05:00.006-05:00

Spellbinding! That’s the only way to describe it. All the way from “Splat!” to “Eddie, don’t you know that yet?” I have not read such an enthralling book in a long, long time. Some of you know with many of my columns, I tend to get ahead of the story. This is another one of those times. So here we go.

When I was four years old, my family moved from Nederland to South Park in Beaumont. The year was 1941 and there were not many houses in the 1300 block of Pipkin. Thus there were not a lot of kids in the neighborhood. Nearly a year later, someone moved into the house behind our house. They lived on Edwin Street and our backyards met at the hedge row.

I watched our new neighbors as they moved their belongings into the new house. There was a tall, slender lady. The first thing I noticed was her red hair. Don’t know why but I always liked red hair. Then there was a little boy about my age. All I could tell from my vantage point was that he was skinny, had slender legs with boney knees and his hair was curly. I was too shy to venture closer, so I just watched.

A few days later, a new friend on Pipkin Street came over to play. His name was J. D. Middleton. His two front teeth were missing. My mom called him “snaggled-toothed.” Anyway, J. D. told me that a new family had moved in behind our house on Edwin Street and that they had a boy named, “Thammy Heaven.” I cupped my ear closer and asked, “Thammy who?” J. D. retorted, “Not Thammy. I thed, Thammy! Thammy Heaven.”

Thus was my indirect, informal introduction to Sammy Havens. Sammy was the skinny kid I saw moving in along with the tall red-headed lady who turned out to be his widowed mother. Mrs. Havens was a school teacher. I thought school teachers were very smart. I wanted her to notice me and say nice things to my mother about me. But I digress.

One day, Mrs. Havens and Sammy came to our house. She had baked for us a delicious lemon pie. She and my mother, who was a former school teacher, sat and visited while Sammy and I walked around the house looking at pictures on the walls and stuff like that.

I liked Sammy. He was very well-mannered and didn’t tear up my toys like Don Viguet and J. D. often did. I’ll never forget one night about 3:00 a.m., when Sammy and I stood out in front of my house and watched flames leap hundreds of feet into the air. Gasoline storage tanks had exploded at Magnolia Refinery. What a sight that was…vivid memory indeed.

Then the Havens moved away. And we moved. I have not seen Sammy in more than sixty years. We have, however, reunited on Face Book and on occasion chat about those yesteryears.

Today, I am proud to know Sam Havens, Professor Emeritus in Drama at the University of St. Thomas in Houston, Texas. He founded the Drama Department and still teaches playwriting and screenwriting. He also taught playwriting and screenwriting for ten years at Rice University’s School of Continuing Studies. Some of his fifteen plays have been produced in the USA, Canada and Australia.

Recently, Sam published his first novel entitled, “Farr Point.” This is a mix of fictional non-fiction telling about a young boy’s experiences growing up with his school teaching mother. Warning! Once you pick up this book, you will not be able to put it down.

And Mrs. Havens? I’ll always love her. One day she told my mother that, “Winston is a very nice boy. I know you are proud of him.”

Winston Hamby

winhamby@gmail.com

"It Matters Not How You Play The Game..."

2011-06-26T16:09:00.004-05:00

Today would be Mildred Ella “Babe” Didrikson Zaharias’ 100^th birthday were she still living. Actually, she died at John Sealey Hospital, in Galveston, Texas, on September 27, 1956, at the very young age of 45. My lot is to write the story in 600 words…hang on…

First, let’s get this name thing down. Mildred Ella Didrikson was born in Port Arthur, Texas, on June 26, 1911, to Ole and Hannah Didricksen, immigrants from Norway. She later changed the spelling of her surname to Didrikson. She claimed to have acquired the nickname “Babe” (after Babe Ruth, Sultan of Swat) upon hitting five home runs in a childhood baseball game. The rest of her name(s) came from her marriage to professional wrestler, George Zaharias, in 1938.

Babe graduated from Beaumont High School in 1929, but did not attend college. Instead, she took her singing ability and harmonica talent on tour and ended up recording several well-known songs on the Mercury Records label. Her best seller was “I Felt a Little Teardrop.”

Babe was an avid winner in Track and Field. Her track team won the 1932 AAU Championships in spite of the fact that she was the only one on the team. Following her winning ways in the Olympics, Babe performed on the vaudeville circuit with her Babe Didrikson’s All-Americans basketball team and the bearded House of David (commune) team.

By 1935, Babe began to play golf. She may have been most famous for her prowess in this sport. In 1946-47, she won both the United States Women’s Amateur Golf Championship as well as the British Ladies’ Amateur Golf Championship. She turned pro in late 1947 and was involved with others in founding the LPGA. Her serious illness (colon cancer) ended her career in the mid-1950s. Babe won her last major tournament, the U. S. Women’s Open championship, one month after undergoing cancer surgery. She died in 1956 and is buried at the Forest Lawn Cemetery in Beaumont. She has a beautiful burial estate there and the attendants will be more than happy to give you that viewing tour. And be sure to visit the Babe Didrikson Zaharias Museum in Beaumont. This edifice also houses the chamber of commerce welcoming center.

Enter side stage: Me. I was four years old when my family moved to Beaumont in 1941. Our new FHA house was located at 1375 Pipkin St. in South Park. Within two years, I had several playmates. A few were David Matthews, Jackie Garretson, Sonny Collier, and Mike Grimes. We were the beginning of the Pipkin Street Gang (kids on that same block).

The Grimes family lived two doors from me. His mother was named Mrs. Grimes and his father was known to this five-year-old as Mr. Grimes. Mrs Grimes would not let Mike participate in our mud wars. She would not let him climb trees and jump from them like the commandos we had begun seeing at the picture shows as WW II began to unfold.

I learned later that Mrs. Grimes’ first name was Lilly and that she was Babe Zaharias’ sister. So that meant that Mike was Babe’s nephew.

I remember seeing the Grimes almost everyday. I saw Babe’s husband, George Zaharias, a few times. He was a huge man thus easy to understand his being a professional wrestler.

Although I never saw Babe, I was proud to know some of her family members. It is a shame that such a great person died so young.

The Associated Press named Babe the Greatest Woman Athlete of the first fifty years of the twentieth century. In 1999, the AP also named her the Greatest Woman Athlete of the twentieth century.

That is a great testimony for someone who lived only 45 years.

God rest her soul.

Winston Hamby

winhamby@gmail.com

Stormy Weather...

2011-06-19T15:22:00.005-05:00

Hurricane season is upon us and this begs the question, “When is a hurricane not a hurricane? But wait. I am far ahead of the story. Allow me to start anew…

The term “hurricane” goes back to Maya mythology. This includes the pre-Columbian Maya civilization’s extreme polytheistic religious beliefs meaning they had many gods. One was named Huracan, the god of storm and fire. The Spanish language picked up the word “huracan” to define and describe strong wind storms. Thus from the Spanish language, we have our word “hurricane.”

When I lived in Nederland, Texas, at age 4, I ran into my first hurricane. Rather, it ran into me. That storm was listed as Atlantic Hurricane #2, in 1940. They did not name them in those days but merely assigned a number and let them blow by.

Fast forward past several hurricanes to Katrina that devastated New Orleans in August, 2005. She caused more than 1,800 fatalities with damages totaling over 81 billion dollars. Katrina has the distinction of being one of the top natural disasters in American history. By this time, I had moved my family to Houston. The Astrodome was filled to capacity with those who left New Orleans, having lost everything. I remember Oprah Winfrey coming to Houston and contributing much-needed aid to thousands of stricken families.

A month or so following Katrina, hurricane Rita came churning ashore near the Sabine River. She made landfall boasting of wind gusts up to 225 miles per hour. This caused chaos in Texas and Louisiana. Most of you in Beaumont will recall the Rita saga.

I snapped a photo from my front yard in Houston while facing Beaumont. I saw the dark clouds over Beaumont although I was 85 miles to the west under blue skies. I named this picture “The Edge of Rita.”

And then there was Ike in September, 2008. Ike came ashore in the Galveston area causing damages from Louisiana to Corpus Christi exceeding 30 billion dollars. There were more than 112 fatalities. At this writing (2011) there are 23 listed as missing from that storm. Everyone evacuated from the Houston area. Well, not everyone. Thousands could not evacuate because of the traffic jams. My wife and I were two of these. We decided to head west through Rosenberg, intending to turn north just east of San Antonio.

The only problem was that everyone else had the same idea. We found ourselves on Highway 59 heading to Rosenberg at about one mile per hour. We never reached Rosenberg. It took us four hours to travel 10 miles. We turned around and rode out the storm at home.

In 2009, my wife and I decided to move to the Little Rock area (Benton, Arkansas) to be near our grandchildren and to remove ourselves from hurricanes.

Enter side stage: Tornado Alley! Yes, we moved into the center of a region known as Tornado Alley. We have lived in Benton for less than two years and have experienced numerous tornadoes. Several have passed within a mile or less of our home. When the sirens sound, my wife and I get into the bathtub and our cat gets in the towel closet. In fact the cat gets into the closet before the sirens sound. He senses the approaching storm. So when the cat heads for that closet, we prepare the bathtub with cushions and a mattress awaiting the sirens.

There is one difference not often noted between a hurricane and a tornado. There is several days notice when a hurricane emerges. But with a tornado, we are fortunate to have ten minutes warning, if that much.

So as far as I am concerned, when is a hurricane not a hurricane?

When it is a tornado.

Winston Hamby

winhamby@gmail.com

2011-06-05T18:04:00.003-05:00

MacArthur Junior High School in Beaumont, in 1947-1948, was my first school loyalty. I cannot recall the school colors (I think they were red and blue) but I played trombone in the band and orchestra. The band was directed by Mr. Louis F. Stumpf and Ms. Edna Brooks directed the orchestra. Also the school chorus was led by Mr. Joseph Truncale. We were known as the MacArthur Eagles and we were proud.

I entered South Park High School located in Beaumont in 1949 and graduated in 1953. During those four years, I was a South Park Greenie with unsurpassed loyalty. Our school colors were green and white. All Greenies experienced the fierce rivalry between South Park and the Beaumont High School Royal Purples. Their colors were purple and white.

I had many friends who attended Beaumont High, French High, and several who attended Hebert High School. One of my Hebert High acquaintances was Jerry Levias, who went on to S.M.U. and later played professional football. Run your favorite search engine for “Jerry Levias” for additional fascinating information on this unique individual.

After high school, I enrolled in Abilene (TX) Christian College. I transitioned from being a Greenie to being a Wildcat. And my school colors changed from green and white to purple and white. This fell into the category of being ironic.

Easily you can see that my loyalty in college had to adjust to the purple and white colors after having been a foe to those colors in high school. I made that adjustment to purple and white although my Greenie Spirit green and white was very much alive and well within my heart and soul.

Now fast forward to my son completing his undergraduate degree at Lamar University, in music composition and my wife completing her master’s degree in school administration. Since my son and wife attended Lamar and since my hometown is Beaumont, I’ve always had a bit of Cardinal blood in my veins. However I have no T-shirt or baseball cap from Lamar.

Later, my son enrolled at the University of Texas at Austin to work on his master’s degree in music composition. I became a loyal Longhorn fan and we had a lot of orange and white around the house.

Then my daughter married and her husband enrolled at Texas A&M, to work on his masters in genetics. So I became a loyal Aggie. Whew! Are you getting the drift?

Also, I worked on my master’s degree in biblical studies at Eastern New Mexico State University, Portales, NM. Even though I was a Greyhound for a couple of years, I have no T-shirt to show.

All of those years passed and in 2009, my wife and I moved to Benton, Arkansas, near Little Rock, to be near our grandchildren. My daughter, who lives in Bryant, Arkansas, about five miles from Benton, presented me with an Arkansas Razorback T-shirt. Then she enrolled at The University of Arkansas to pursue her master’s in professional writing. It dawned on me that I was destined to become a Hog.

Now, at age 75, I can tell you about school loyalties. It goes like this: I am part Eagle, part Wildcat, part Longhorn, part Aggie, part Cardinal, part Greyhound, and someday, part Razorback. I say, “Part Razorback” because I am still working on that one. Can you imagine what it must be like for a Texas Longhorn and a Texas Aggie to convert over to being an Arkansas Hog?

But there is no loyalty that can hold a torch to my loyalty for South Park High School and the Greenie Spirit. My blood runs green and white. I am proud to be a Greenie.

Greenie fight never dies and Greenie Spirit lives on…

Winston Hamby

winhamby@gmail.com

I Mean Every Word...

2011-05-30T21:16:00.002-05:00

I should preface this column by assuring you that I am no expert when it comes to writing. Probably you know this but just wanted you to know that I know it too.

There are, however, a few things in our current-day writing of the English language that disturb me to no end. I am referring to some of the misuses of words and punctuation.

For example, take “it’s” and “its.” I have seen these words traded out and misused numerous times. “It’s” is the contraction for “it is” or “it has,” while “its” is the possessive form. If you wonder whether or not to use “it’s,” remember one point and you’ll never make this mistake again: “It’s” always means “it is or “it has” and nothing else. If neither of the two foregoing passes the test, then use “its.” Notice the following two sentences: “It’s time to go.” “Its time has come.”

Two other words often misused are “your” and you’re.” I received in the mail recently an invitation from a church that read, “Your Invited…” They should have printed, “You’re Invited,” because “you’re” is the contraction for “you are.” They could have said, “Your Invitation…” and have been correct. Remember that anytime you write “you are,” you can use “you’re.” “You’re certain to have your day in court” is a proper use of both “you’re” and “your.”

Sometimes, confusion emerges with the terms, “there,” “they’re,” and “their.” “There” can be used as in, “There they are” or “They are going there.” You could say, “They’re going there,” because “they’re” is the contraction for “they are.” “Their(s)” shows ownership. This is their car, meaning the car is theirs. This sentence uses all three: “They’re near to their car because it’s right there.”

Something that has changed with the advent of computers is this: It is no longer acceptable to use two spaces following a period. When I was in high school, we were taught to double-space between sentences. No longer is that the case. Use only one space. Computers have numerous fonts that can be utilized and with some, the spacing varies. Also, newspapers and magazines save a lot of space by not using the double-space. Much space on any document can be lost by using the double-space after each sentence. So if you were taught to double-space between sentences, throw that concept out with the bathwater. By the way, “bathwater” was two separate words in the days of yore.

The “comma” often is misused. When to use a comma and when not to use one is tough because it is still in “changing” mode. In the old days, we were taught to write, “red, white and blue.” Now “they” are telling us to write “red, white, and blue.” This is to distinguish more clearly the three separate colors. Since “red,” stands alone then “white and blue” might inadvertently be blended together. But by using “red, white, and blue,” each color is its on entity.

I am a homespun writer. This means I write the same way I talk. When I began writing guest columns for the Enterprise, I asked Opinions’ Page editor, Thomas Taschinger, if he thought I should go take a college writing course. He said, “Don’t do it. It might mess up your natural homespun writing style.” In other words, he was saying that should I figure out what I was doing and why, that I might end up getting all formal and technical and folks would not read my stuff.

At any rate, the English language is convoluted. It changes daily. I am just trying to hang on and that is why I commented on some of the common misuses of our language.

Now, the ball’s in your court. You’re on your own…

Winston Hamby

WinHamby@gmail.com

"Bax" And His "Yacks"...

2011-05-05T09:41:00.004-05:00

I moved my family back to Beaumont in 1983. We bought a house on Redwood Drive, near what then was French High School.

After we unloaded our stuff, every room in the house--including the garage--was swamped with furniture and boxes filled to their brims. My wife and I got to work unloading and straightening things up.

As the afternoon wore on, Mardell and I grew weary and hungry. About 5 p.m., there was a knock at the door. We mulled over who it could be.

I opened the door and a man was standing there with an armload of hamburgers and sodas. He said, “Hello folks, my name is Gordon Baxter and you are our new across-the-street neighbors.” I invited him in and said, “Are you a Gordon Baxter or are you THE Gordon Baxter?” Turned out he was the one and only Gordon Baxter, well-known radio personality, author, pilot, and outdoorsman. In fact, he was many things to most people.

“Bax” had worked at many of the radio stations in the area at one time or another. We exchanged many stories of the days gone by. I had listened to him on the radio since I was a teenager.

Now he had married Diane and they had a beautiful daughter named Jenny. They had the home on Redwood Drive plus a cabin home up on Village Creek.

Bax liked my ham radio station (KF5D) and came over several times to play with all the equipment.

One of the funniest personal stories I recall about being neighbors with the Baxters is this: One day I went out to get into my car. Across the street was Jenny with a lemonade stand up and running. She was about seven years old and Bax was out there with her.

It seemed that Jenny wasn’t experiencing many sales. In fact, her pitcher of the good juice was still full. So I meandered over and learned that lemonade was ten cents per cup. I said, “Hey Jenny, here’s a dime. Give me a cup of that tasty-looking stuff.” So she did.

One medium sip of that lemonade presented me with more than one dilemma. First I realized that this product was the most horrible mistake that I had ever put into my mouth. Next, I was aware that both Gordon and Jenny were watching my every move, seeking to observe my every reaction to their homemade fountain drink. I knew there was nothing else I could do but to turn the cup up and chug-a-lug all of it.

Involuntarily, my eyes closed for a few seconds and when I managed to open them, Jenny and Bax were still watching my every reaction. There was nothing else to do but say, “Jenny, here’s another dime. Give me another cup.” You see, I wasn’t worried about hurting Bax’s feelings. He could take it. But Jenny’s eyes were hoping so much that I would like whatever it was I was drinking. I think it must have been one-half water and one-half lemon juice and no sugar. She poured me a second cup. I turned it up and guzzled away. However, this time my body began to quiver. I could feel my face drawing up into fine wrinkles. I turned away from Jenny so she could not witness my convulsions.

Bax walked me to the street as I was leaving for work. When we got out of Jenny’s hearing, he said, “Neighbor, that was a noble thing you did, but whatever you do, don’t regurgitate in my ditch.”

I told him not to worry and went on my way.

But you know those wrinkles I mentioned? I can still see them when I look into a mirror.

Winston Hamby

WinHamby@Gmail.com

Fallout From Good Friday...

2011-04-25T20:05:00.001-05:00

Yes, this is Easter Sunday. This day carries great religious significance for Christians the world over. Easter weekend is special. Good Friday is special to all who hold that day to be holy. In my opinion, more people think about the death, burial and resurrection of Jesus Christ during this period than any other time of the year.

But wait a minute. Something is wrong here and I am not referring to Easter or Good Friday. Rather I have in mind the fact that last year on Good Friday, the machines moved in and began knocking down the South Park High School building, one of the most beautiful edifices in all of Beaumont and surrounding region. As a result, that inspiring structure, listed as a State of Texas historical landmark, no longer exists. Since I am a SPHS Greenie ’53, this is a double insult. Moving in on a religious holiday and destroying a stately historic building that did not need to be destroyed are the leading components of my displeasure.

I am not going to dwell upon all of the shenanigans pulled by Carroll Thomas and Company, sometimes referred to as Butch and his Cronies. The main reason I stay away from joining in that fray is because I prefer to keep the tenor of this column out of the stench of underhandedness and outright fraudulent activities as evidenced by the BISD school board. Should you take offense at the foregoing comment then so do I. Let the record speak for itself. I realize that CT is an intelligent man. I will give him that. But this is what makes it so confusing. A smart man should not function as he functions. I have heard that in some cases, PhD stands for “…piled higher and deeper.” This is my opinion but also is fodder for another column. Yes, another column where I will let my hair down and write what I think.

Although I now live in the Little Rock area, I have numerous friends in and around Beaumont who keep me posted on the news and views of what I call affectionately the Plague of Beaumont. I verify information by reading the Texas Education Agency web site and the online minutes of the BISD school board meetings. Anyone disagreeing with the slant of this essay also should read the aforementioned resources.

Yet from all of this, a bright star arose from the pit of chaos. The South Park High School Heritage Association (SPHSHA) was started years ago by Pat Gilbert, Mary Frances Freeman and others interested in preserving the memories of SPHS. When the school became a ninth-grade campus, a schoolroom adjacent to the school library was dedicated to housing the memorabilia. Later, as the Good Friday demolition of the building began, others rose to the occasion. Miriam Cade Nichol, Mike Getz, Reg Garner, Gene Van Meter and others moved the SPHSHA (museum) to another location. Gene Van Meter owns a building located at 505 W Florida. Gene has dedicated the use of this building to housing the historical facts and records of SPHS.

Following are a few of the items and articles collected and housed in the new SPHSHA museum:

Graduating Gowns, band blankets, uniforms, and shirts, cheerleader jackets, choir jackets, trophies (basketball, football, tennis, track, baseball, golf, volleyball, bowling, literary, etc.), yearbooks ranging from 1915 to 1986., collection of Greenie Gushers (school newspaper), Beaumont Enterprise/Journal articles covering sporting events, social events and columns of interest to all Greenies and surrounding communities.

Then there are items for sale such as South Park T-Shirts, caps and necklaces, SP coffee mugs and cups.

Here is my new slogan:

“Brick and mortar may experience demise,

But Greenie Spirit never dies.”

Winston Hamby

Win Hamby@gmail.com

Different Generations...Same Town...?

2011-04-10T18:07:00.001-05:00

By Winston Hamby and Deana Hamby Nall

Beaumont Enterprise guest columnist Winston Hamby and his daughter,
Deana (Hamby) Nall, both have memories of teenage culture in Beaumont
from different eras. Winston is a 1953 graduate of South Park High
School and Deana graduated from Beaumont Christian High School in
1989. Recently, they sat down to talk about coming of age in the same
town—three decades apart.

D: Where in Beaumont did you live in the ’50s?

W: In South Park on Pipkin Street. Then we moved to Concord Road,
which was Voth Road back then. We only had one car. We would drive
downtown to the Goodhue Building to pick up my dad from work every
day.

D: Where did you and your friends hang out?

W: Pig Stand #10 on Port Arthur Road and Washington Boulevard. There
was another Pig Stand on Calder, but that was the Beaumont High Pig
Stand.

D: So if the South Park Pig Stand was #10, were there nine others?

W: No, just the two in Beaumont at that time.

D: Do you remember where my hangout was in the ’80s?

W: Rogers Park?

D: That was part of it. We hung out on Dowlen Road.

W: Oh, that was your drag.

D: Did you have a drag?

W: Pearl and Orleans, but after they were changed to one-way, it
became Pearl, Crockett, Orleans and College. We made a rectangle.

D: We just drove up and down Dowlen. When we got to Whataburger, we
turned around. When we got to Rogers Park, we turned around again. We
would drive up and down for hours—use up a whole tank of gas.

W: I used to worry about you out there.

D: We were just going out to see and be seen. The rule was to act
bored, but it was really a lot of fun.

W: One night I went out there in our red and gray van to see what you
were up to.

D: I called it the “Hambymobile.”

W: I pulled into Rogers Park and I saw you sitting on the hood of a
car with some friends. You were holding a Bible in your lap and I felt
bad for thinking you were up to no good.

D: Dad, I never had a Bible in Rogers Park.

W: You didn’t?

D: No. I did read the Bible, just not in Rogers Park.

W: I wonder why I remember that, then.

D: Wishful thinking, I guess.

W: We had a Bible class at South Park High School in the ’50s. There
was a huge cheating ring in there.

D: Did you learn anything in that class? I mean, you were a preacher’s kid.

W: I can’t remember.

D: What was the West End back then?

W: It was fields. Where West End is now was a town called Amelia that
was five miles from Beaumont.

D: So Amelia was its own town?

W: Yes. I didn’t go out there much. I didn’t leave town very often.

D: Oh, we did.

W: Where did you go?

D: Louisiana. A lot of us would go across the state line on weekend
nights. There were a couple of clubs in Vinton where we would go line
dancing. I didn’t even like country music, but we had a blast out
there.

W: I just took dates to the Jefferson Theater and the Pig Stand on the way home.

D: Which movies did you see there?

W: Oh… “Singing in the Rain” with… what’s his name?

D: Gene Kelly.

W: Yes.

D: How did I know that and you didn’t? I wasn’t even born until 1971.

W: What were your generation’s movies?

D: Tom Cruise was big in the ’80s. I saw “Top Gun” on opening night at
the Gaylynn a few years before it closed. I liked movies, but I liked
music more. What were you listening to in the ’50s?

W: Jo Stafford, Vic Damone, Pat Boone. Bing Crosby was phasing out but I still liked him. And Glenn Miller. There was Elvis Presley, but he
took some getting used to because he was a little weird at first. I
also liked Spike Jones and his satirical renditions of popular music.

D: I remember Spike Jones because we had a record when I was a kid.
There was a song about a horse race.

W: Oh, yeah. “Beetle Bomb.”

D: The music in the ’80s was all about pop and hair bands.

W: I didn’t like hair bands. I thought they were too “hippie.”

D: “Hippie?” When I think of hair bands, “hippie” doesn’t exactly come to mind.

W: I saw hippies wearing them in the ’70s and I didn’t like them.

D: Dad, hair bands were not something you wore in your hair. Hair
bands were rock bands in the ’80s made up of members who had lots of
big hair. Like Ratt and Poison.

W: I do remember Rat Poison.

D: Ratt and Poison. They were two different bands.

W: Oh. They probably sounded the same.

D: You know ’80s music better than I thought. Did you listen to
records or the radio in the ’50s?

W: Both. I listened to Gordon Baxter on the radio. He was hired and
fired by just about every radio station in Jefferson County.

D: He lived across the street from us on Redwood Drive in the ’80s.

W: Yes. He was quite a character.

D: Where did you eat in Beaumont in the ’50s?

W: The Golden Arrow was nice. Their worms were better than most.

D: Worms?

W: They always had worms in their salads.

D: And you kept going back?

W: Yeah. We just ate around them. We also ate at the Enterprise Café.
I loved their breaded veal cutlets and cream gravy. And I liked
Shelton’s and Motor Lunch.

D: Motor Lunch doesn’t sound appetizing in the least.

W: I ate there when the Pig Stand and Shelton’s parking lots were
full. There was also the Seven Seas restaurant toward Port Arthur. It
had the same manager as the Golden Arrow.

D: Did Seven Seas have worms in their salads, too? Since it had the
same manager?

W: I couldn’t tell. The lights were pretty dim. They kind of blended
in with the tomatoes.

D: We had Novrozky’s in the ’80s, across from the mall. That was a fun
place to hang out. I loved their hickory burgers.

W: Are they still open?

D: I don’t know. Mr. Gatti’s was right next door to it. It’s closed now.

W: In the ’50s, I liked Phelan’s Coffee because of its slogan: “Good
to the last drop.”

D: That’s Maxwell House.

W: It is?

D: Yes.

W: Oh.

D: Why do you think Beaumont was such a fun place to come of age in
the ’50s and ’80s?

W: For me, it was just where I lived. There were a lot of fun things to do.
D: The ’50s and ’80s were eras of optimism. I think that made those
decades seem more carefree. Plus both decades had the best music and
cars of the 20th Century.

W: I drove a ’39 Buick. And I never missed a driveway.

D: Oh, I put cars in ditches all over Beaumont.

W: I know. I had Bra-K Wrecker Service on my speed dial.

D: It’s hard enough learning to drive. And Beaumont has ditches all
over the place. They were unavoidable.

W: Well, you made it through your teen years alive.

D: We both did.

W: I’m glad we both spent our teen years in Beaumont.

D: It was a fun place to be a teenager. I think we are lucky.

W: I think so, too.

Hoop-de-Loop Reptiles...

2011-03-28T09:46:00.003-05:00

Last year I wrote a column about the Drop Bear. This had to do with the legend of a special type of Koala Bear in Australia. The bear would drop onto it prey from the top of a tree. That column included the statement, “Someday I want to write about other legends such as Big Foot, UFOs, Hoop Snakes, the Loch Ness Monster, Crop Circles, the Saratoga Lights, the Jefferson Theater Ghost(s) and such like. Most of these are legends but not all…”

The dictionary defines “legend” as “…a popular story handed down from earlier times whose truth has not been ascertained.” April Fools’ Day is looming so perhaps another article about one of the aforementioned legends is timely.

This essay has to do with the hoop snake, so called because of the snake’s uncanny ability to move about in a most unusual fashion. This reptile gets about by biting its tail with its mouth thus forming a circle or hoop. The snake then uprights itself and rolls along like a wheel.

Hoop snakes are extremely venomous and this may be why the creature is relatively rare. Since they bite into their tails to form a hoop, their own venom often kills them. The hoop snake has an anti-venom gland with which it can inject itself thus neutralizing its own poison. If, however, the anti-venom injection is too late, the snake may die from snakebite.

The hoop snake is a legendary creature of the United States although sightings have been reported from all over the world at one time or another. The snake is mentioned in a letter from 1784 (published in Tour in the U. S. A., Vol. 1, London), which reads:

“As other serpents crawl upon their bellies, so can this; but he has another method of moving peculiar to his own species, which he always adopts when he is in eager pursuit of his prey; he throws himself into a circle, running rapidly around, advancing like a hoop, with his tail arising pointed forward in the circle, by which he is always in the ready position of striking...”

As mentioned, this slithering, rolling reptile only rolls when attacking prey. He rolls toward his prey at great speed, usually from the prey’s blindside. At the last second, the snake’s mouth lets go of his tail and strikes the victim with the tail. Actually the tip of the tail is a stinger which injects the fatal venom.

Unlike his less venomous cousin, the pogo snake, which coils and bounces along like a old car spring, the hoop snake will attack humans. Be advised that should you become aware you are being attacked by a hoop snake, start running. At that last second when the snake straightens out to pierce you with his stinger tail, jump behind a tree. The stinger will hit the tree instead of you. Of course the tree will die immediately and crumple to the ground usually crushing the bewildered serpent. But look at it this way. “Better the tree and the snake than you.”

And remember that a hoop snake can roll downhill faster than he can roll uphill. So if you have the option when you come under attack, run uphill. Of course other problems may arise when you realize that you cannot run as fast uphill as you can downhill. It’s all relative.

Sometimes the snake may disguise himself as a hula hoop. Never disturb an unattended hula hoop. You may unknowingly pick up your demise.

Check out “hoop snakes” on your favorite computer search engine. You may be amazed to find more than 4,000,000 hits telling of this creature and its outlandish episodes.

It’s unbelievable what hoop snakes can do.

Winston Hamby

WinHamby@gmail.com

Mirror, Mirror On The Wall...Who Is The Most Famous Of All...?

2011-03-16T13:30:00.001-05:00

How many famous personalities have you met in your lifetime? You see, everybody has to be somewhere and on occasion this may bring you into contact with those who are considered famous locally, nationally or even globally. Following are a few of those notables I’ve met during my 75 years of always being somewhere:

I met Luther Nallie back in the early 1950s. He played saxophone in the South Park High School Greenie Band. I played trombone. After his graduation I did not see him until one night he showed up playing guitar with a small group on Channel 4 out of Port Arthur. Later I discovered that he had become a member of the Sons of the Pioneers, the band backing up Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. He has been with that group for more than forty years. Currently Luther, along with the Pioneers, has a show at Branson Missouri. We still communicate on occasion via Face Book.

I met Roy Rogers at the Houston Livestock Show back in the early 1950s. He shook my hand and said, “How ya’ doing partner?” I replied, “Fine.” Then he introduced me to Trigger and I got to pet the Palomino’s nose…it was wet.

Later in the 1950s I played trombone in the Abilene Christian University Wildcat Band. One day my director, Douglas Fry, asked me if I wanted to go over to Rose Field House at Hardin-Simmons University and sit in with a concert that was scheduled for that night.

A singer and his backup group were the featured event. One of the trombonists with their travelling group had fallen ill. I went over to the dress rehearsal. A young man came out for rehearsal. He was great. I leaned over to the professional trombonist beside me and asked, “Who is this guy. He sounds like Bing Crosby?” The man replied, “His name is Pat Boone. You definitely will be hearing more about him in the coming years.”

Then there was Peter Duchin, son of famous bandleader Eddy Duchin. Peter and I played in several bands during the late 1950s/early 1960s. We were together with the 79^th U.S. Army Band. He played percussion and I played Baritone horn. Also he was our “piano man” in the Pan American Jazz Band. I played bone (jazz jargon for trombone) . We played gigs all over Central and South America. Peter went on to lead his own high-society band mainly for White House functions. His girl friend was Kim Novak. And me? Upon discharge from the army, I returned to Beaumont.

I worked for First Security National Bank in Beaumont from 1963 to 1968. One day two men came in and wanted to cash a check. The check was sizeable. I asked for their identification. They gave me California drivers’ licenses. One read Alan Hale and the other, Bob Denver. I looked up and was staring into the faces of Skipper and Gilligan, the stars in Gilligan’s Island.

One day in 1976, President Gerald Ford shook my index finger at the Big Spring, TX Municipal airport. His plane landed briefly for him to give a press conference while standing on the airport’s tarmac. Then he came down the fence line to shake hands with everyone. There were so many people crowding the area that I could get only my hand up to the fence. He never saw me in the throng but he shook my right index finger. Sometimes I talk to my index finger and say, “President Gerald Ford actually held you for nearly one second.” My finger still is proud and so am I.

You as well can meet those special well-known people. Just be sure to always be somewhere and it will happen. I know because I have been there and done that.

Winston Hamby

WinHamby@gmail.com

Hometown Memories Are Made Of This...

2011-03-03T12:10:00.002-06:00

What makes a hometown a hometown? Would it not be memories? Of course a hometown is neither what it is today nor what it will be tomorrow. A hometown is what it was nearly a lifetime ago. Yes a hometown is made up of those pleasant scenes that drift into your mind when you slow down enough to reflect. Such is Beaumont, my hometown. Following are a few of my hometown memories from the 1940s.

Growing up on Pipkin Street in the South Park area of Beaumont.
Playing in the vacant lots with the Pipkin Street Gang (PSG), a group of kids who lived in the 1300 block of Pipkin.
Walking with the PSG eight blocks to the Lamar Theater on Saturday afternoons. You had to have a quarter to pay the nine cents for a ticket, five cents for a bag of popcorn, and with the eleven cents left over, buy candy and bubble gum.
Playing sandlot football on the rear campus of Giles Elementary School.
Mud fights, usually pitting the girls against the boys. Those crawfish chimneys provided the perfect ammo.
Some of us boys climbing on the roof of our house and jumping to the ground. We were practicing to become paratroopers so that someday we could join the army and fight in WW II.
Climbing the tallow trees behind the Collier’s house. Those trees bordered the backyards between the Collier’s and the Ray Asbury home.
Flying paper airplanes. Jackie Garretson and I designed and produced some of the finest paper aircraft known to man.
Attending Giles Elementary from the first through the sixth grades.
Building clubhouses out of mowed weeds in the vacant lots. One time, we set one of the clubhouses on fire from the inside so we could practice getting out of a burning building. Unceremoniously, the fire spread to the vacant lot. My mother and Mrs. Burch from next door doused the flames with their garden hoses.
Learned to love that petroleum aroma from Spindletop Oilfield and listen to those oilfield pumps that said, “Pom-Pom-Pom” in the night.
The Victory Gardens that my sister and I cultivated during WW II. She grew flowers and I grew one stalk of cotton and two stalks of corn.
Having Sunday lunch with my sister and parents at The Golden Arrow Café or at Shelton’s. On occasion, we drove into downtown to splurge at the Toddle House on Pearl Street.
The best local toy suppliers were the Kress Store and Morgan & Lindsey’s.
Going to the movies and attending the Saturday morning Kiddie Organ Club at the Jefferson Theater.
Going swimming with the PSG in that humongous Alice Keith Park Swimming Pool.
Fishing at Twin Lakes. There were plenty of fish and more than enough water moccasins to keep your day lively.
Some of the PSG would go around our neighborhood knocking down wasp nests with sticks. I used a baseball bat. Our approaches to these situations were to “hit and run.” No one in the group ever got stung.
Riding bicycles all around South Park.
Sliding down those fire escape slides at South Park High School.
David Bean and I buried a secret treasure (monopoly money in a larger match box) on the rear campus of Giles Elementary School. The spot was three paces east of the third oak tree from that bus barn located next to the caretaker’s house. Problem: They removed the bus barn, caretaker’s house, oak trees, and demolished the school building. Most likely, David and I never will find our treasure. And there were some $500 bills in the mix.

Yes, hometowns are made up of those sweet, sweet memories…memories we never shall forget.

Winston Hamby

Winhamby@gmail.com

Jim Cassady...A Success Story...

2011-02-03T11:30:00.002-06:00

Jimmy Cassady and I became the best of friends when we met in the sixth grade at Giles Elementary School in Beaumont. Our friendship remained close from then till our graduation from South Park High School in 1953. We had a great relationship because our senses of humor ran so parallel. Also we had other interests in common such as fishing, girls and fireworks. And we were Greenies ’53.

Jim and I played practical jokes on each other at every opportunity. For example, one day we rode a Beaumont City bus from downtown to South Park. I did not have any money and the price was ten cents. Jim had told me that he was going to pay for me. But when he boarded the bus he paid for himself and went to sit down. I stood there staring at the driver. I told the driver that “my friend is going to pay for me.” Jim came back up front and told the driver, “I have never seen this person in my life, but if he needs some help, I’ll be glad to pay for him.” Then everyone stared at me as though I was an urchin off of the streets.

I had my opportunity for revenge at school. Jim was in the process of changing lockers, which meant he had all of his books and stuff with him. I happened to be just outside his classroom door when he came out into the hall. The books he was carrying were stacked up higher than his head. He barely could see where he was going. I don’t know what came over me but a little voice said, “trip him.” Jim could not see my foot as it gingerly eased between his feet. Yes, Jim came crashing to the floor. Books and things slid across the hall as Jim said, “Oof.”

One time Jim, his mother and I were in a Galveston restaurant eating lunch. Jim kept begging his mother for a dime so he could go play the slot machine (which was legal at the time). His mother kept refusing his requests. Finally though she said, “Ok here’s a dime. You can keep it or you can go lose it in that stupid machine.” Jim went over, inserted the dime and won $10.00.

So what happens with a young man like Jimmy Cassady growing up in Beaumont? Well in 1954, he went to work at Jefferson County Airport as an agent for Trans-Texas Airways and in 1956, was promoted to Chief Agent. Jim told me that the airline was not big on raises but were very generous with handing out titles. He said that there were several jokes about the old DC-3 aircraft that TTA was flying. They had been called Tree Top Airlines, Try Try Again, Teeny Tiny Airlines, Take Train Always, Terrible Trouble Aloft, Tickled To Arrive, Tinker Toy Airways, Teeter-Totter Airways and Texas Threat (to) Aviation. There was quite a list but the foregoing will give you the jest.

Later in 1967, Trans-Texas changed their name to Texas International. This was facilitated by their adding a flight from McAllen, Texas to Monterrey, Mexico. Jim was transferred to Houston and kept climbing the ladder eventually becoming Senior Vice-President of Sales & Services of T. I. in 1970 and SVP of Community Services for T. I. in 1973.

Texas International purchased Continental Airlines in 1983. They maintained the name, Continental, because it was better known. Jim completed his career with Continental as Manager of Employee Services. He retired from Continental in 2005 at the ripe young age of 70. What a fascinating career spanning 51 years.

Even better than beating the slot machine that day, Jim turned out to be a big winner in life.

Winston Hamby
winhamby@gmail.com

PSA Is Greek To Me...

2011-01-19T14:34:00.002-06:00

When I turned 74, I went for my annual physical examination. The reports all came back stating that I was in extremely good health. “Especially for a man your age,” they said.

Then as I reached my 75^th birthday, I signed up for my annual physical. All of these physicals were performed by my primary physician. A few days following that last exam, the doctor’s office called. They said, “Your PSA is much too high and the doctor has referred you to a urologist.”

Well, needless to say, this all was Greek to me. I had no idea what a PSA was. I called the referred urologist and set an appointment. He ran his own tests and confirmed that “your PSA is too high. We need to do a biopsy.” And so they did.

This information ran amok through my head. All I knew about this was what I had read in brochures while in the doctor’s waiting room. The PSA brochures mentioned many things but one item in particular stood out in my mind. It referred to prostate cancer.

Also the brochures taught me that PSA stood for “prostate-specific antigen.” “What?” My totally confused mind thought, “My understanding of prostate-specific antigen is just as muddled as my understanding of PSA.” Then it occurred to me, “When in doubt, ask the doctor.” And so I did.

The doctor said, “Mr. Hamby, your high PSA and the biopsy show that you have prostate cancer in the early stages.” I stared at him while my brain raced to locate a permanent lobe for this new information to reside. Didn’t things like this always happen to other people and never to me? The doctor stared back and continued his well-informed explanations. He told me that prostate cancer generally was a slow-growing type and that most likely at my age I would outlive it. In other words, I would not die from it but rather would die with it.

Doc continued, “On the other hand…” Always be alert when the doctor says, “On the other hand.” Generally this means “the rest of the story” (Paul Harvey). Doc explained that there was no way of knowing for sure if prostate cancer was a slow type or a fast type. He also recommended that steps should be taken to eradicate the cancer.

He gave me several options including surgery to remove the prostate (nope, too old for that), radiation everyday for eight weeks (no thanks), and cryotherapy. Finally the doctor had to take a breath so I jumped in with, “cryo-what?” Doc explained how that this procedure included the freezing of the prostate thus killing the cancer and the prostate. Also, he said that the recovery time was shorter than that of surgery or radiation. I talked this over with my wife, then told Doc that I had “chosen frozen.”

This was an outpatient procedure. They knocked me out with something. The next thing I knew, I was in the recovery room thinking, “That wasn’t so bad.”

The worst thing about the ordeal was the catheter I had to wear for two weeks following the procedure. Also I was supposed to walk and attempt to maintain my strength. One thing I learned for sure was that, “catheters and afternoon walks in the park never were intended to interface.” You can put that in your pipe and quit smoking.

One serious suggestion I wish to make with this essay is all men should have a physical examination annually. Be sure to ask your doctor to include a PSA test in your blood workup. Since prostate cancer usually has no symptoms, you may never know you have it until it is too late.

Fortunately, mine was caught early, thanks to an annual physical exam, a high PSA, a biopsy, and a cancer-killing procedure. And God.

Winston Hamby

WinHamby@gmail.com

Bean Sprouts In Beaumont...

2011-01-10T09:48:00.007-06:00

Occasionally I write columns dealing with “Smarties I have known.” I wrote one about Dr. Dale Priest, Professor of English at Lamar University. Later, I wrote about Dr. William (Bill) Martin, Professor of Sociology at Rice University.

Here (pictured) is another “Smartie” I met when he was only 5 years of age. I was 4. Today, he is better known as Dr. Wendell C. Bean, Professor of Electrical and Nuclear Engineering at Lamar University, Beaumont. Wendell is one of the most humble individuals I have known. Later in this essay I’ll mention a few of his accomplishments, each one amazing in its own right.

When Wendell was 13, I was 12. We always sat together in church. You may know that churches of Christ sing a cappella meaning that they do not use musical instruments in their worship services. As a result many members develop fine singing skills. Most of our Psalms, Hymns and Spiritual Songs are in four-part harmony. One Sunday morning while we were singing, I detected that Wendell was singing bass. I sang soprano because I could not hit those low bass notes. I recall thinking how wonderful Wendell was because he could sing bass.

Another time during the 1940s, Wendell and I were playing on the rear campus of Giles Elementary School. We decided to run a race from Avenue A to the school building. I prided myself as being one of the fastest runners in school. We started our race and to my shock and horror, Wendell outran me. I recall thinking how wonderful Wendell was because he could run so fast.

I learned early on that Wendell had an extra-ordinary sense of humor. He still does. One night back in the 1940s, Wendell and I attended some sort of Operatic Review at the City Auditorium (now Julie Rogers Theater) in downtown Beaumont. We were sitting in the center of the very first row. One of the presentations consisted of a pianist at the Steinway accompanying a lady soprano who was to sing an aria. The pianist began playing quite a long introduction. I leaned over to Wendell and whispered, “She is going to start screaming any second.” Immediately she burst forth with what I am certain was beautiful music for adults. But for two kids? Not quite. The lady would scream for a while then just stand there while the pianist played every piece of music he ever knew. Then the lady would scream some more then get quiet again. After several times of this back and forth, Wendell leaned over and whispered, “She keeps forgetting the words.” I went into silent convulsive laughter with one hand over my mouth and the other holding my stomach. Said stomach was sore for several days. I recall thinking how wonderful Wendell was because of his sharp sense of humor.

Yes, Wendell was a good friend and still is even though our paths through the years have taken us separate directions.

Allow me to tell you of some of Wendell’s accomplishments since our adolescent years.

I suppose you noticed at the first of this condensed essay that Wendell’s official title at Lamar University is Professor of Electrical and Nuclear Engineering. His areas of expertise include Control Systems, Biomedical Modeling and Analysis, and Nuclear Reactor Dynamics and Control. Now honestly I do not know what all of that means. If you want to know, ask Dr. Bean. He is a down-to-earth genius and will talk with you like a Southeast Texas brother.

A scholarship has been established in Wendell’s honor for his, “dedication for higher education and passion for learning.” For additional information on Dr. Bean, see www.ee.lamar.edu/profiles/bean.html and/or Google Dr. Wendell C. Bean for even more information.

I still think Wendell is wonderful for all he has accomplished and contributed.

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@Gmail.com

Preach The Word...Be Instant In Season And Out Of Season

2010-12-26T10:05:00.000-06:00

One Sunday in December 1961 while living in Beaumont, I made a new year’s resolution. But allow me to start at the beginning.

The telephone rang one Saturday at midnight. Breaking out of sleep I answered, and Brother Petry, one of the leaders at the Sour Lake, Texas Church of Christ said, “Brother Hamby, is there any way that you can come preach for us in the morning? Our preacher is in the hospital.” I told him that of course I would be there.

You see, I was a fill-in preacher in those days. My “on-call” Churches of Christ included Saratoga, Votaw, Warren, Silsbee, Winnie, Groves, and Sour Lake along with a few congregations in Beaumont. On occasion they would call me to preach if their preacher was sick or out of town.

I remember one Sunday at the old Delaware Street Church of Christ in Beaumont. My, could they ever sing…beautifully soul-inspiring. I began my sermon. The audience began saying “Amen” every time I finished a sentence. This spurred me on to greater eloquence. I do not remember what I said but at one point, the audience stood up and began clapping. I got all the more fired up. I believed they learned not to stand up and clap realizing that I would spew forth eloquence all day. Then later, they had a meal prepared. That food was good enough to go right on to Heaven. But wait, I may be digressing.

I researched my files that Saturday night and realized I did not have a sermon available that Sour Lake had not already heard. I was so sleepy that I decided to wait till morning then I would work up a sermon.

Sunday morning rolled in. My wife reminded me that she needed to attend the South Park Church of Christ over on Highland Ave. because she was teaching a class. So I drove her to South Park then headed over to Highway 105 going to Sour Lake. Still I did not have a sermon ready.

I placed a writing pad in my passenger seat and proceeded to write notes while I drove. There was a sign that read, “Sour Lake 15 miles.” At sixty miles per hour, I had 15 minutes to complete my outline. I had to watch the road because Highway 105 at that time was a narrow 2-lane road. So I scribbled my notes without looking at the writing pad.

Upon arriving, I walked up to the church house entrance with about five minutes to spare. I planned to finish up my sermon during the song service.

However, Brother Petry met me at the door and said, “Brother Hamby, our song leader is here but he is too hoarse to lead the singing. Since you are here to preach, would you mind also leading the song service? I replied, “Of course I’ll do it.” I still had not finished my sermon.

When sermon time rolled around, I began with, “Now I want everyone to ask himself this question.” I looked down at my notes written while driving sixty miles per hour. I could not read my writing. I guess Highway 105 was a little bumpy and I wrote without looking at my pad. There was no way I could read the question I wanted them to ask themselves. Silently I asked God to take over. The question spurted forth, “Are you prepared?”

I used the events of my morning as an outline and compared being prepared for eternity. Later the congregation commented that the sermon was the best I had ever done.

My resolution that year became “Always try to prepare and always turn it over to God.”

God always will help you to do your best.

Winston Hamby
Winhamby@gmail.com

Ann Is My Big Sister and I Am Her Little Brother...

2010-12-11T10:26:00.002-06:00

Did you know that my big sister, Ann Hamby King, is terrified of Santa Claus? Well there’s a bit of irony behind this story. Permit me to start at the beginning.

First, I should explain why Ann’s age cannot be shared in this essay. The reason is that a woman does not wish for that sort of info to be made public. I intend to honor that wish. After all, she is my big sister which makes me her special little brother. Thank you for understanding.

Ann was born in January 1932. My turn to show up in the nursery at St. Mary Hospital in Port Arthur did not occur till October 1935. This means that Ann was an only child for three years and nine months. Also this means that her parents (later to become my parents) had lots of quality time to spoil their only child. I think it must have been Ann’s beauty and demure personality that prompted my parents to have another baby. Probably they said, “Ann is such a pretty baby, let’s have another one.” And they did. I was that second child. I have always wondered why they never had any additional children. Is there a message to me in that continuing saga of baby talk? But I digress.

Anyway, as stated, Ann was an only child for nearly four years. Her parents wanted the best for her in every way. So one Christmas Eve when Ann was one month shy of her third birthday, Dad thought it would be great if Santa Claus could visit the house and give Ann a thrill.

He slipped on his full-length raincoat and donned a Santa Claus mask. The mask included a little red Santa hat to make the appearance more convincing. Dad conspired with mom to consummate the plan for Santa’s visit.

Dad went outside and waited a few minutes. The plan was for mom to be sure that Ann was in the living room so that when Santa knocked on the door, Ann would be available to open the door.

Dutifully, mom had Ann situated in the living room. They were sitting on the sofa and Mom was reading a book to Ann. Dad, who was waiting outside in the dark, wanted to be sure that Ann was in the living room, so he peered through the window to check. Ann looked up and saw this “thing” as she describes it, looking through the window. The Santa mask with the attached hat failed to amuse her. She began to scream. Mom consoled her and said that it was only Santa Claus.

Then there was a knock at the door. Mom told Ann to go open the door and see who was visiting. Ann opened the door and saw the “thing” standing there and she began screaming all over again.

That may not have been Ann’s fault for not being excited about seeing Santa Claus peeking through the window and knocking on the door. You see, as the web site known as “the-north-pole.com” states, “Santa Claus as we know him is a combination of many different legends and mythical creatures.”

Thus if Ann saw Santa as a mythical creature, no wonder she screamed her little heart out. Makes me almost feel sorry for my big sister, but not quite. Big sisters need a sobering experience once in a while to keep them headed in the right direction.

At any rate, when Ann reached the tender age of 4, my parents had to tell her the, “big dark secret” about who Santa really was.

Ann still lives in Beaumont and she still may be a bit terrified of Santa Claus. If you want to know for sure, just ask her…

Winston Hamby
winhamby@gmail.com

Deer Me...

2010-11-28T17:26:00.002-06:00

I moved my family to Hobbs, New Mexico, in August of 1974. I had been called by the Taylor Street Church of Christ in Hobbs to serve as their Minister to Youth, Minister of Education, and Bus Minister. This was quite a job description, especially when the church elders decided to add on my being Minister of Personal Evangelism and Hospital Visitation. I began experiencing the feeling that my ministry was being impeded by church work.

I had a good background in church youth work and bus ministries. However, I never had been a church education director. This prompted me to set up a project that would prove my mettle and what could be more worthy than an attendance drive?

I perused the church’s attendance records over the past twenty-five years. This showed that the high attendance months each year were in March and October. Thus I set the date for our attendance drive for the last Sunday in October, 1974. What better time to set up this project than in a month where attendance historically was high?
Those records also showed that the record attendance for Sunday morning Bible classes was 684, back in October, 1965. Surely we could beat that record.

My thinking was, “If we could set a new attendance record for Sunday morning Bible study, it would be a bright feather in my cap. As you can see, my ego wanted to win a medal. Oh, did the Lord ever have a lesson in store for me.

By now, it was mid-September, 1974. There was just over a month left to promote this program. So I got started with committees, individual volunteers, advertisements, etc. Our main thrust was to ask every church family to bring at least one visitor on that designated day. Then following Bible classes and worship services, we would serve a scrumptious catered meal.

Finally, the big Sunday arrived. I was nervous since I was not working by faith but by self-acclaim. Our parking lots began filling up. Cars lined the curbs all up and down the streets around our building. We had to open a special adult class in the church auditorium (sanctuary) because the classrooms were filling up.

Yes, we set a new attendance record that morning with 786, exceeding our previous high attendance of 684 by more than one-hundred. The day went well. I was elated. People began singing my praises. “And now for the rest of the story.” (Paul Harvey)

The following Sunday morning, which was the first Sunday in November, I went down to the church building early. I did not want to miss any comments such as , “What a great job you are doing,” or “We are so glad the Lord sent you our way.” Etc…etc…etc.
But something strange occurred. Not many people were showing up. In fact, that morning only 331 members showed up for class plus three visitors to boot. What was going on? What happened?

I could not find any of the elders so I asked one of the deacons, “Where is everybody?” He replied, “Oh, deer season has opened. Most everyone has gone deer hunting.” My ego imploded. I was absolutely devastated.

I proceeded to write a bulletin article for the following week entitled, “WILL THERE BE ANY ANTLERS IN MY CROWN?” The article started out with a parody on 2 Timothy 4:2 (KJV), “Be instant in season and out of season, except of course for deer season.”

I learned that all of our elders had gone on a deer hunt together. My article caused quite a stir. I believe I came pretty close to being fired. One elder said to me, “You got away with it this time but don’t ever do that again.”

From that point on, I stood aside so that God’s Spirit could lead my every step.

Each year as deer season opens, I am reminded of that great lesson on humility the Lord afforded that young whippersnapper.

Winston Hamby
Winhamby@gmail.com

Signs of the Times...

2010-11-15T12:27:00.077-06:00

The Bible is replete with scriptures referring to mankind seeking signs that will prove that God is indeed God. Psalm 19 should suffice to soften the sincere critics. But wait a minute; this essay is not about these types of signs.

The signs I have been seeking are those that you see while hiking, shopping, or driving around. Note the following examples:

Now that the elections are over I am compelled to share with you two campaign signs, one beside the other that were implanted in a neighbor’s front lawn. The first sign was a gentleman running for office whose name is John Boozman. Next to Boozman was a sign campaigning for Frank Baptist. My question was, “Would you lean towards voting for a Baptist? Not just any old Baptist but a Frank Baptist? Or would you sway toward a Boozman?” You do not need to answer these questions publicly.

The other day, I was in Hot Springs, Arkansas seeing the sights. Deana, my journalistic daughter with a penchant for detecting detail pointed out a sign I had completely missed. It was a bench advertisement which announced in part, "Alligator Farm and Petting Zoo." I had been curious as to why so many residents of Hot Springs had just one arm.

This sign, also in Hot Springs, was on the side of an amphibious looking type vehicle. The sign read, "National Park Duck Tours." I fear this business may fail. Reason? Just how many ducks do you think will come from National Park waterways far and wide to tour the Hot Springs downtown area? This sign caused me to ponder the question, "When a duck calls in for a reservation, how does it communicate?"

Another time while hiking in Petit Jean State Park, I became hopelessly lost. Imagine my relief when I happened upon a pictorial map sort of thing. A huge arrow pointed out my location with these words of comfort, “You are here.” Feeling a peace of mind, I wandered on out into the sunset.

The recent elections ended with a lot of Democrats finding themselves out of work. They are a proud group and refuse to stand on the street corner holding signs stating, “Lost my job, please help.” Many of them are joining hands with convenience stores to promote the sale of carbonated beverages. Hopefully, this explains the sign I saw, “FREE DEMOCRAT WITH PURCHASE OF FOUNTAIN DRINK.”

This sign gives a partial warning, “ROAD UNSAFE WHEN UNDERWATER.” Wish I could get a picture of that road but it is several blocks long. What the sign does not tell you is that with the potholes and dips, the road is unsafe whether it is underwater or not.
The sign should read, “THIS ROAD IS UNSAFE, TAKE ANOTHER ROAD.” Or it could just say, “NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR HEART ATTACKS.”

When my wife and I moved to the Little Rock area just over a year ago, one of our priorities was to find a church home. Just a ways down the highway from our home was a sign that read, “WARNING, PREPARE TO MEET GOD.” We thought that would be a convenient place to worship since it was so close to our house. Even though we realized that certainly it is a fair warning to be prepared to meet God, there was something about the sign that kept us from ever entering that house of worship. As I think back, I believe it was the spirit of that sign, or rather a lack of the Spirit. Somehow we were not convinced that God was there. We ended up becoming members of a church 25 miles from our home. One of their signs read, “GOD IS LOVE.” And yes, God is there.

This sign is on the highway advertising a professional psychology clinic. They spell “Psychology” as “Psycholgy.” The question looms, do you want to go or any of your family members go to a professional Psychology Clinic that can’t spell Psychology? Hmmm.
As you travel about town and/or down the highways, remember Psalm 19. Also notice the signs along the way. Some of them will make your day.

Winston Hamby
Winhamby@gmail.com

Be Safe and Be Happy...

2010-10-27T17:39:00.001-05:00

This essay is not a history of Halloween dating back to the Pagan/Celt’s era. Rather this is a review especially for kids (and parents) to have a safe time tonight as you chase goblins around the neighborhood. This is otherwise known as trick-or-treating. By following a few simple rules, your night of drifting through your cemetery (neighborhood) should be a much safer experience.

When trick-or-treating:

• Children always should have an adult to accompany them.

• If you are an older kid, never go treat or treating alone. Have two or three buddies with you, even if they do look like monsters.

• Never enter a stranger’s house even if the occupants do not look like monsters.

• Visit only houses with porch lights burning. Unlit houses are a no-no.

• Always walk. Do not run. Eventually you’ll get to where you want to go.

• Never eat candy until you get home and your parents can inspect the goodies. Besides, they will want their share before you dig in.

• Do not walk in the street. Use sidewalks. That’s why they are there.

• Be sure that your costume is flame retardant and never stand too close to a lit jack-o-lantern or for that matter, a lit anything.

• Always use common sense. Generally this is an uncommon trait, but you can do it.

• Oh, by the way, nice goblins and monsters always say, “thank you” for their treats. Even a few ghosts have been known to express their appreciation.

• Parents, some neighborhood organizations and churches provide safer alternatives to trick-or-treating by hosting indoor parties or parking lot trunk-or- treat events.

Kids, any pranks that you may pull on Halloween night should observe the following rules:

• Do not endanger yourself or others. Otherwise stated, do not harm anyone in any manner.

• Do not vandalize or damage property. This is naughty and could cost you a Merry Christmas.

One Halloween night, Jimmy Cassady and I were walking down a sidewalk bordering Highland Ave. in the South Park area of Beaumont. We had in hand a ball made up of paper cups and napkins leftover from Cokes recently purchased and consumed at a convenience store. On a whim, I threw the paper ball at a passing car, hitting it on the back window. The glass did not break but it did make a pretty loud “whomp” sound. Jimmy and I laughed thinking we had pulled off a really cute stunt. In a couple of minutes, that same car having made the block pulled up to the curb where we were walking. The driver identified himself as Detective “Somebody.” It seems that we had selected an off-duty police officer’s car to swat with that ball. He proceeded to chew us out including threats of taking us downtown to the Main Street jail. My knees were shaking all the way from my feet to my ears and my heart began beating in reverse. Anyway, Jimmy and I headed home forever grateful for our narrow escape from the hands of judicial processes.

The following Halloween, James Ward and I decided to hide my neighbor’s lawn furniture. The time was 10:00 p.m. The Tommy Heartfield family lived next door. Their house was all dark. James and I ventured to their front porch and lifted a white wrought iron table and took about two steps. A voice spoke from the darkness of the porch window, “Ok boys, put the table back where you found it.” We did and I was so embarrassed because I was certain Mr. Heartfield must have recognized me.

The rules listed herein were formulated from personal experience. And that is how I learned to be safe and to respect other peoples’ property.

Winston Hamby
winhamby@gmail.com

Age Is Beneficial When You Least Expect...

2010-10-14T21:35:00.002-05:00

Something is going too fast around here. I suspect we all know what it is but just this week it nearly slammed me to the floor. You see, “time” is speeding all over the place. And to top it all off, it is just about time. But wait. I am getting ahead of myself.

Seems like just a couple of months ago I was fifteen. I remember going down to the Jefferson County courthouse to take my driver’s license test. I passed the written portion of the exam. Then a Beaumont police officer went riding with me in my 1939 Buick Special. That was one more long black car with a straight-eight engine. The hood was so long that on a foggy day, I would forget what the hood ornament looked like.

Perhaps that last sentence was enhanced somewhat but that’s how my mind works, or doesn’t work depending upon your point of view. Anyway, the only real concern I had was the parallel parking. The old Buick seemed to be almost as long as the parking space where I was required to park.

After some back and forth with the steering wheel along with several first and reverse gears, I parked that old aircraft carrier. The policeman opened his door and looked down at the curb. Then he looked toward the front tire and then the rear tire. He closed the door and said, “Guess if this was real life, I could take a taxi to the curb.” I thought he was trying to be cute but I didn’t laugh in case he was serious.

As I mentioned, seems like this and other memories happened just two months ago. But that was in 1950. Here it is 2010. This means that I received my driver’s license sixty years ago.

Again, it is just about time, but I will wait before getting into that.

When I was a lad growing up in Beaumont in the early forties, people would say, “You are a fine boy. You’ve got a great future ahead of you.”

Later, as a young teenager, people would say, “You are a fine teenaged man. You’ve got a great future ahead of you.”

Even later, as a college graduate and working in Beaumont, people would say, “You’re a fine young man. You’ve got a great future ahead of you.”

Then at middle age, people would say, “You’re a fine man. You’ve got a great future ahead of you.”

But now do you know what? People are not saying that anymore. I am wondering where my future went? Certainly it is not ahead of me. It must be behind me. These thoughts are circulating around in my head because on Thursday of this week, October 21, 2010, I will “celebrate” my 75th birthday.

Seventy-five years is three-quarters of a century. How could all that time transpire in two months? It is unreal. The New Testament contains an interesting concept in James 4:14, “…What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes…”(NIV)

Again in the New Testament, Acts. 2:17, “…your young men will see visions; your old men will dream dreams.” (NIV). I take this slightly out of context but the principle remains. The younger generations will build on new ideas (visions). The older generation with no earthly future will have a lifetime of memories (dreams).

Since my future is behind me, I enjoy writing memory columns of growing up in southeast Texas. I dream dreams.

So on Thursday of this week when I turn seventy-five, I will know it is time? What do I mean?

I mean that it will be time for this old kid to grow up.

Winston Hamby
winhamby@gmail.com

Saga of the Ringing Bell...

2010-10-03T15:17:00.001-05:00

I left the field of accounting in 1963 and embarked upon a career in banking.

My new work home was First Security National Bank, in downtown Beaumont. Jack Darling, a close friend of mine used to proclaim, “The bank with enough difference to make a difference.”

Earl Jones taught me to count currency with accuracy and speed. Then I was transferred to the Collections and Exchange Department managed by Emil Weaver. I was trained in that department by Paul Cain and G. A. Wimberley, Jr. The job description for that department was far too long to include within this space. I’ll just say that Emil was an outstanding manager and it was a pleasure working with him.

After two years with Emil, I transferred to the auditing department located on the third floor. I had thought that I might be going to the trust department to work with Guinn Busbee. Anyway I was glad to work with Bob Finley who was manager of the auditing department. Never were there two days alike. Most of the time, I enjoyed not knowing what to expect next. Kept me from getting bored. My co-workers in auditing included Tommy Leicht, Rex Taylor, Mary Jane Boyette, and in the proof department, Murrie Morgan.

An unusual event transpired during my first week in auditing. I was at my desk dutifully reconciling our bank’s accounts with other banks. Suddenly there was the soft floating tone of a bell. Not a series of rings but just one soft “Boinnng.” I looked up and saw nothing unusual. Everyone else was busy with their tasks at hand. I dismissed the occasion and went on with my reconcilements.

Ten minutes later another soft tone said, “Boinnng.” Again I looked up and saw nothing. I asked the lady sitting next to me if she had just heard a tone. She did not know what I was talking about. This puzzled me because the bell seemed to be coming from nowhere. This bell thing happened occasionally but not consistently.

Another event took place a few days later. I was in the men’s room washing my hands. I just happened to notice the restroom door ease open and a hand slide in and turn off the light switch. There I stood in the dark. Did I mention that I was washing my hands? If you believe that then I want to sell you a lease to hunt whales in Oklahoma.

Anyway I recognized the coat sleeve of the hand that turned off the light as belonging to Tommy Leicht. It was at that moment I came to know that Tommy was full of mischief.

Later that afternoon I told everyone in the department that I planned to work late and get caught up on some busy work. What I really had in mind was locating the source of that tone. Tommy had tipped his hand by turning off the restroom light. Once everyone left, I went over and sat at Tommy’s desk. I was convinced that he had something to do with the soft tone that had begun occurring on a more regular basis. I began touching stuff on his desk. I knew that he always was sitting at his desk when the event happened. I crawled under his desk looking for anything that might make a tone such as “Boinnng.”

Then I discovered that toward the bottom of his chair there was a little rim of metal. I sat back in the chair and pushed my foot against that rim. “Boinnng.” I had solved the Saga of the Ringing Chair.

You have just read a story about Tommy and his Leicht Brigade. Allow me to assure you that there are hundreds more just waiting to be shared.

Winston Hamby
Winhamby@gmail.com

This Column Is A Crop...

2010-09-17T21:57:00.000-05:00

I was discharged from the army in 1961 and returned to Beaumont and began working as a staff accountant with the C.P.A. firm of Maschek, Hamby, Miller, Miller, Funchess and White. My favorite area of accounting was auditing. I sat for the Texas C.P.A. exam and passed law and auditing. I never retested for the other two segments.

One day my dad, Woodie J. Hamby who also was one of my six bosses, sent me out to a local crop dusting service to do a visual audit of their crop dusting airplanes. He gave me a list of the planes including their respective registration numbers.

The air service owned 42 Stearman biwing single engine aircraft. Each one had been converted to crop dusting capability. My assignment was to verify the registration number of each plane and check that each plane was still in active inventory.

I drove to the small private airport and met one of the managers. He gave me a tour of the aircraft which were lined up alongside a narrow dirt runway.

All of the planes checked off against the list with the exception of four. So I asked the manager where a certain plane was. He replied that the craft was in Mississippi on a crop dusting contract and would not be back till the following week. Then I inquired about one of the other missing planes. The manager said, “Oh, we sold that plane last January.” This required a lot of info as to sales price, adjusting the projected depreciation, and writing off the plane from assets.

The next missing plane presented a more complex accounting problem. A problem I had never encountered in a college accounting textbook.

I asked, pointing to my list, “Where is this plane?” The manager said, “Oh yeah, that one crashed.” I inquired as to how that had happened. He said, “Well, the plane ran out of gas and the pilot tried gliding to a landing on a little two-rut dirt road. However, he ran between two trees and tore the wings off.”

“So we need to write off this one, right?” He replied, “Well not all of it. The fuselage was still good. Just so happens that a few months ago our mechanics dropped an engine on another plane, destroying the fuselage. The wings were good so we connected those good wings to the good fuselage of that earlier crash.”

I mumbled, “Where is the plane that was made from the two wrecks?” He motioned, “It’s right over here.” There it was. A plane that had one registration number on the fuselage and a different number on the wings. I said, “You can’t do that, can you?” “Don’t know if we can do it or not but we did.” I explained that I thought we would have to remove the two wrecks from inventory and obtain a new registration number for the newly constructed craft. He retorted, “I don’t see why we have to do that. The fuselage has a valid number and the wings have a valid number. Putting the two together makes a plane that has already been registered. In fact, it has been registered twice.”

That’s where the last two planes were. They were wrecked but were merged into another plane that wasn’t registered even though it had two different valid registration numbers.

I asked to borrow a phone and called my dad. “Dad, I need some help out here at the crop dusting place. There is a plane that does not exist but has been registered twice and then there are two registered planes that halfway exist and halfway do not exist.”

Then I said, “Dad, I have decided that I am going into banking.” And I did.

But that’s another story for another day.

Winston Hamby
winhamby@gmail.com

The First Day In My Seventeen Years Of Education...

2010-08-30T20:32:00.004-05:00

My first day of school at J. L. Giles Elementary in Beaumont was most memorable. The year was 1941. I was five years old. That day is as fresh in my mind as if it all happened last week. Mrs. Ruth Hill was my fantastic first-grade teacher.
One of the first events that impressed me was when Mrs. Hill began to call the roll. She said, “When I call your name, say ‘here’ so I can mark you as being present.” Then she started calling the names. There must have been at least twenty-five of us pupils in the room. What amazed me is that Mrs. Hill knew our names. I did not realize as a “too-young five-year-old” that she was reading the names from her roll book. I thought she was calling our names from memory. She was just wonderful.
Another thing Mrs. Hill initiated on that first day was what I’ll refer to as her “clean fingernails’ program.” She explained that each morning she would appoint a fingernail monitor to walk the classroom aisles and inspect everyone’s fingernails. Anyone with dirty fingernails would have their name put on the blackboard. Even though no one could read, it still was an embarrassment to be listed on the blackboard as the owner of dirty fingernails. I implemented a “safety program” to ensure that I would never have my name on the dirty fingernail portion of the board. When the monitor started down the aisle, I would clean my fingernails with my teeth. I got a lot of grit in my mouth but I never got my name listed on the board for having dirty fingernails.
Then Mrs. Hill asked each pupil their address and phone number. When she asked which street I lived on, I told her that I didn’t live on a street but that I lived in a house “real close to a street.” I knew that my address was 1375 Pipkin St. and that my phone number was 10472-W. Where I got a little confused was I didn’t know if I lived in Beaumont or Texas. It did not make sense that I could live in both places at the same time. Also, Jackie Garretson, one of my Pipkin Street playmates, already had convinced me that Houston was bigger than Texas. So my young mind had several issues to resolve.
The final mind-boggling adjustment I had to make occurred at 3 p.m. when the bell rang to end that first day of school. Keep in mind that the only public place I had frequented was church services. My parents were faithful members of the South Park Church of Christ, located at the intersection of Elgie and Irving Streets. We attended Sunday mornings, Sunday evenings, Wednesday nights, and any special occasions such as gospel meetings. Sometimes those gospel meetings ran every night for two weeks. At the close of each church service, whenever they were, everyone always mixed and mingled. Since my folks always seemed to be the last ones to leave the church building, I managed to do lot of fellowshipping. Generally this meant chasing Donald Rao through the crowd of adults as they visited. But I digress.
As that first day of school came to a close, I assumed all the kids were going to stand around the classroom and visit for awhile. After all, isn’t that what we did at church? So, when the final bell rang, Mrs. Hill told the class to stand. I understood why we did not have a dismissal prayer but at the same time, I did think that we would not be leaving very soon. I turned around and tried to shake hands with the girl behind me. About that time, the girl said, “Go, Winston.” I looked ahead and saw the other kids leaving the classroom in a single file. This really confused me. I thought, “What about the fellowship?”
I guess you might call this my first lesson on the separation of church and state.

Winston Hamby --
winhamby@gmail.com

Be Nice To "Smarties." They Make Good Friends...

2010-08-18T11:58:00.004-05:00

I am thinking of two smarties I have known nearly all my life.

One of those smarties is Bill Martin. We met at Abilene Christian College in 1954 and became fast friends. Immediately I became aware that he was a highly intelligent individual. But allow me to start at the beginning.

Patricia, the other smartie I have in mind, was the first of six children in the M. I. Summerlin family. Ike and Dorothy Summerlin lived in the Griffing Park addition in Port Arthur. Patricia was a Thomas Jefferson High School Yellow Jacket in Port Arthur during the early 1950s and graduated from there in 1955.

Patricia’s brother, Tim Summerlin, who taught at Lamar for a number of years and now is president of Schreiner University in Kerrville, is married to Mary Ellen Summerlin, former mayor of Port Arthur.

Anyway, my parents had been friends with Ike and Dorothy for years, mainly through church involvements. I was aware that Patricia existed but as a teenager I rarely left the confines of Beaumont to go out on dates.

During my high school senior year, however, I did have a date or two with Patricia. I would drive to her home in Port Arthur, pick her up and head back to Beaumont to see a movie at the Jefferson Theater. Then after a Coke at the Pig Stand, we would return to Port Arthur. I realized early on that Patricia was brilliant. She did not flaunt her intelligence but just being around her made the fact self-evident. The entire Summerlin family was intellectually gifted and they were a joy to visit. But that’s another story for another time.

I enrolled in Abilene Christian in 1953. Bill came along in 1954 and Patricia showed up on campus in 1955.

As mentioned at the outset, Bill was very intelligent. He had finished high school at Devine, Texas in 3 years and enrolled in college at age 16. There was one common element that drew us to be such close friends. Our senses of humor were very similar. Largely because of that, we became dorm roommates my junior year.

To make a longer story shorter, during my junior year Patricia and I resumed dating occasionally. She was aware that Bill was my roommate. He was making quite a name for himself in campus politics and general popularity. His humor column in the school newspaper fed all the more into his being well known by students and faculty alike.

I noticed that on my dates with Patricia, she always would get around to talking about Bill. In my mind I knew that Bill and Patricia closely matched intellectually. Finally I told Bill that Patricia would like to meet him. That bit of information seemed to pique Bill’s curiosity so then I told Patricia that Bill would like to meet her.

Finally they met and I was best man at their wedding a little over a year later. They were married in the old Procter Street Church of Christ building in Port Arthur.

Bill went on to earn his PhD from Harvard Graduate School of Arts and Sciences. In 1968, Bill and Patricia moved to Houston where Bill began teaching at Rice. He retired teaching at Rice in 2005 but remains as the Harry and Hazel Chavanne Senior Fellow in Religion and Public Policy at the Baker Institute. He has written for Atlantic Monthly, Harper’s, Esquire, Texas Monthly and in professional journals. He has written 7 books including “A Prophet with Honor: the Billy Graham Story” which is regarded as the authoritative biography of Billy Graham.

Patricia received her PhD in History from Rice in 1982. She subsequently worked with the School of Continuing Studies at Rice, and then became director of Academic Advising, then Dean, then Associate Vice-President of Academic Advising and Student Affairs. She instituted the Rice Student Volunteers Program, which involves huge numbers of Rice students, and she took a special interest in study abroad, raising the number of students who spent at least a semester abroad from two or three a year to several hundred.

I learned that you can make good friends with smarties. But the big lesson here is never to introduce your girlfriend to your roommate.

Winston Hamby
winhamby@gmail.com

Lady Jane Was A Beautiful Model...

2010-08-08T19:47:00.001-05:00

Lady Jane was indeed a lady. She had all of the attributes of refinement and gentle manners. She was beautiful. She was gracious. She was looked upon in great admiration by all who were privileged to know her.

One day Jimmy Cassady, my best friend at South Park High School in Beaumont during the early 1950s, introduced me to Lady Jane. She was so elegant and surreal. Never in my entire life had I met such a charming 1938 Chevrolet Coupe. By special order, she had her gear shift installed on the steering wheel column and not on the floor as mere common cars of her era. Lady Jane had not a scratch on her curvaceous body. She was in reality a pure dream.

Lady Jane was a deep green in color and that meant she truly was a South Park Greenie. Her previous owner was Ethel Jo Simkins, that most popular biology teacher/person at SPHS. Lady Jane’s license plate number was 101 because that was Ethel Jo’s room number at school.

Ethel Jo decided it was time to update so she bought a new Chevrolet Coupe. She named this one Lady Jane II. There are some stories that should be shared about this new vehicle but at another time.

Jim bought the original Lady Jane from Ethel Jo for a few hundred dollars. Jim and I had met back in the 6th grade at Giles Elementary School. We remained best friends till graduation from high school in 1953. When he bought Lady Jane in 1952, we began cruising in style. We loved to drag Pearl and Orleans Street in downtown Beaumont. Actually back then, there were no other drags. Downtown is all there was.

Anyway, Jim was holding down three jobs at this time. He rewound and edited film for the Terrell Public Library, worked in the accounting department for Hall’s Truck Lines, and he operated the merry-go-round at Playground Park located on College Street/Highway 90 near the Circle. Retired Lamar Professor David Taylor told me that, “Jimmy Cassady was one of the finest young men he ever taught.”

Jim’s shift with the merry-go-round ran everyday from 6 p.m. till 10 p.m. One evening, we drove to Playground Park in Lady Jane. The plan was that while Jim worked, I would drive the lady back to my house, then return to the park at 10 p.m. to pick him up. We intended to do some late-night cruising.

While driving home, I stopped at a red light on 11th Street in front of the Gaylynn Theater. Then a strange thing occurred. Smoke came drifting into the passenger cab of Lady Jane. I mumbled, “Oh no, we’re on fire!” I jumped out and opened the hood. Gray smoke billowed up. I ran over to a service station and found a mechanic. He came out and said, “Your brake lights have a short.” He proceeded to rip out the brake light wiring. He then charged me fifty cents for “saving your car from burning up.” Then he added, “Now be careful, you don’t have any brakes at all.” So I drove on home using every precaution.

As 10 p.m. loomed, a glum heart returned with me to the park. I was driving my dad’s Oldsmobile since Lady Jane had no brakes. I didn’t tell Jim anything at this point. But when we walked out to the parking area and Jim saw the Oldsmobile, he blurted out, “Where’s Lady Jane?” Then I revealed all just as it had transpired. Jim’s face reminded me of a dad whose daughter had been injured.

Anyway, following surgery, Lady Jane was as good as ever. And so she remained a lady indeed.

Winston Hamby
winhamby@gmail.com

I'm Sorry Officer...I Didn't Know...

2010-08-01T19:50:00.001-05:00

Old laws on the books of cities and states around the U.S. are a fascinating read. Following are a few examples. These are used by permission courtesy of Aha! Jokes, http://www.AhaJokes.com. (My comments are in parentheses):

*Texas “…requires criminals to give their victims 24 hours notice, either orally or in writing, and to explain the nature of the crime to be committed.” (Example: Dear Mr. Jones, this is my official notice to you that tomorrow at 10 a.m., I will come to your office with a gun and demand your money. Please have cash available. I do not accept checks.)

*Also in Texas, “When two trains meet each other at a railroad crossing, each shall come to a full stop, and neither shall proceed until the other has gone.” (Maybe this explains why that sometimes trains just sit while traffic backs up for blocks.)

*In Texas, “It is illegal to shoot a buffalo from the second story of a hotel.” (Loophole: request a room on the third story.)

*In Houston, “Beer may not be purchased after midnight on a Sunday, but may be purchased on Monday.” (Wouldn’t it just be simpler to drive to Beaumont to purchase beer?)

*“The Arkansas River can rise no higher than to the Main Street bridge in Little Rock.” (Maybe they can arrest the river for violating this statute, but how are they going to put it in jail?)

*In Fayetteville, Arkansas, “Dogs may not bark after 6 p.m.” (Is this ordinance enforced by a watchdog committee?)

*Also in Fayetteville, “It is unlawful to walk one’s cow down Main Street after 1 p.m. on Sundays.” (Loophole: You can “run” your cow down Main Street anytime you wish.)

*Again, in Fayetteville, “You may not have a sleeping donkey in your bathtub after 7 p.m.” (If this presents a problem, just wake up your donkey.)

*In Oklahoma, “People who make ‘ugly faces’ at dogs may be fined and/or jailed.” (I suppose the dogs have to file a police report.)

*Oklahoma: “Dogs must have a permit signed by the mayor in order to congregate in groups of three or more on private property.” (I’ll bet this encourages dogs to meet underground.)

*Oklahoma: “Whaling is illegal.” (This law must have been made following public outcries to ‘Save the Oklahoma Whale.’”

*Oklahoma City: “No one may walk backwards downtown while eating a hamburger.” (Hide the hamburger in your armpit till you have a chance to walk frontwards.)

*Tennessee: “It is legal to gather and consume roadkill.” (I can hear my wife now, “Back up honey, that was a fresh ‘possum.”)

*Memphis: “It is illegal for frogs to croak after 11 p.m.” (Does this mean that frogs should make every attempt to die during the daytime?)

*Alabama: “Boogers may not be flicked into the wind.” (Why flick them at all when you could wipe them on the roadkill?)

*Florida: “It is illegal to have sexual relations with a porcupine.” (My wife told me not to use this one but I could not resist. Sorry, Hon.)

*“Citizens may not enter Wisconsin with a chicken on their head.” (Hide the chicken in your armpit along with the hamburger.)

*Massachusetts: “No gorilla is allowed in the back seat of any car.” (Guess my gorilla has got to ride on the hood.)

*In Baltimore, “It is illegal to take a lion to the movies.” (There goes my lion’s Saturday afternoons.)

*“All bees entering Kentucky must have a certificate of health.” (This statute reeks with discrimination and should be repealed immediately.)

*Virginia: “Whistling underwater is prohibited.” (Singing underwater is better?)

May God bless all of those whose job it is to write laws, statutes, rules, regulations, ordinances and any others such as these.

Winston Hamby

WinHamby@gmail.com

South Park High School, Beaumont, Texas

2010-07-09T20:01:00.004-05:00

Yes, the picture shows my four yearbooks (annuals) from my four years as a Greenie at South Park High School in Beaumont. When I graduated in 1953, I never dreamed of setting up a display of those four books plus four bricks from the recently demolished school building. Miriam Cade Nichol sent me a brick as did Starlet Deaton Smock. Reg Garner sent me two bricks. Reg also sent me a Greenie baseball cap. Thanks to each one of you.

Following are a few memories of events that happened during my four years at South Park:

*Late one Friday night while riding on the band bus from Goose Creek to Beaumont following a football game, some upperclassmen invited me to the rear of the bus for my band initiation. Actually they were having a problem accepting me as a band member. I was only in junior high school but Mr. Louis Stumpf, our director allowed me to play with the high school band. I realized this caused a problem. I did not want to go to the rear of the bus because I was afraid of those older guys. So I offered them a plea-bargain. I said, “If you will leave me along on the bus, I’ll let you take my pants off when we reach the school building. You can hang my pants on one of the porch light poles on the front main entrance of the school.” They accepted the offer. I was hoping they would forget but they didn’t. When we arrived at the building, they removed my pants and draped them over one of the porch light poles. I had to march up the steps wearing my waist-length uniform coat, hat, white shoes, white socks and my white Fruit-of-the-Loom. At that same time, two flatbed trucks hauling loads of kids on hayrides were returning to campus. That front campus was filled with fellow-Greenies. They all applauded as I marched up the porch to retrieve my pants.

*Arthur was a good friend. Often he made gun powder out in his family’s garage because he loved to make his own fireworks. But one day in the high school chemistry lab, Arthur put together something that exploded. This unceremoniously removed Arthur’s eyebrows and left a big red blotch on the ceiling of the lab. Later he told me that he was trying to make a large firecracker that he planned to set off the following July 4. All Arthur achieved was to spend a week in detention hall. Also for the following weeks, he resembled a zombie.

*Miss Katherine Bailey was my freshman algebra teacher. I tended to be high-strung and also very talkative. My favorite quote from Miss. Bailey was, “Winston Hamby, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, ‘GET QUIET!!’” She had a special quality in her voice that could be heard all the way down to the other end of the hall.

*I worked in the school cafeteria. One day I dropped a 24-bottle case of milk. The case hit the floor and every one of those little glass bottles broke. The milk ran up under the faculty lunch table. Several teachers got milk on their shoes. I was so embarrassed that to this day I cannot bear to think about it.

*Tony Palumbo, a night manager with Taystee Bread used to give us kids some wax paper bread wrappers. They contained just the right texture of wax to give you a screaming ride down the school building’s fire escape slides. Usually a crash landing ensued.

Here is a slogan I wrote several years ago: “They are not making anymore Greenies. That makes us collectors’ items.” I am proud to be a Greenie ’53.

“Greenie Fight Never Dies.”

Winston Hamby

WinHamby@gmail.com

Somewhat Tired In My Retirement

2010-06-25T17:53:00.001-05:00

I retired this past March 1. The very next day, my wife Mardell bought me a lawnmower, weed eater and a pressure washer. It had not yet become apparent to me that in reality I had not retired at all. But these purchases (on my card) should have made very clear just what was taking place.

Since Mardell is still working, I have learned several things. In addition to yard work, I now do the vacuuming, laundry, dishes and most anything else that comes up to do around the house. Mardell still does the grocery shopping. She does not like for me to go to the store because she says, “You always buy extra things that we do not need.” Recently I accompanied her to buy groceries and just as I feared, she spotted the Boston cream pie that had mysteriously ended up in our shopping cart. But I digress.

There is one thing I still am trying to learn about this new order. That thing is the proper procedure for using the dishwasher. I had always helped Mardell unload the washer. But what I had to learn once this retirement schedule went into effect was to clear the table, get the dirty dishes ready and load them into the washer.

Now I have a thing about dishes and the dishwasher. I feel like I need to completely scrub every dirty dish with soap and hot water. All the foodstuff needs to be removed. The dishes need to be sparkling prior to my loading them into the washer.

Mardell tells me that it is not necessary to scrub the dishes prior to loading, that I should just load them in and let the washer do the work. I cannot bear to do that so I continue to shine them up before loading them up.

My daughter was visiting the other day and she saw me cleaning the dishes in the sink. She said, “Dad, you don’t have to wash the dishes twice. If you are going to get them squeaky clean, just dry them and put them on the shelves.” I told her that I just remove the stuff, and then the dishwasher removes the germs.

As a side note, I should reference the fact that my daughter loads her dishwasher with all the stuff clinging on the dishes. Then she lets their West Highland White Terrier rear up on the open door and lick all the stuff off of the dishes. Now, my question is: Would you prefer to eat at my daughter’s house or at our house?

Ed, my brother-in-law, learned that I was having a little problem dealing with all of this. He said, “The proper name should be ‘dish sanitizer’ as the dishwasher sanitizes, but fails to wash. You must wash the crud off first, then place them in the dish sanitizer.” For years, Ed was a health and safety inspector for Albertson’s. I call the foodstuff “stuff” but Ed calls it “crud.” Since he is a professional, I know he knows what he is talking about.

Nowadays, there is more time for writing. I love to write essays and poetry. I just finished writing a booklet on the New Testament book of Galatians in rhyming poetic form based on the New International Version. And I really enjoy writing guest columns for the Beaumont Enterprise. Guess I’ll keep on doing this as long as opinion page editor Thomas Taschinger puts up with me.

Another thing about retirement is I can sleep in every morning. That is something I haven’t done since starting 17 years of school in 1941 and working for an additional 52 years.

That is unless Mardell decides it’s time for me to mow, weed eat, and/or pressure wash something.

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@gmail.com

For Goodness Snakes...

2010-06-17T21:07:00.001-05:00

She was one of my favorite teachers at South Park High School in Beaumont back in the early 1950s. The strange thing about this is that I never took any classes from her.

Several have suggested that I write a column about her. Most recently I received a note from Julian Galiano, retired copy editor from the Beaumont Enterprise. Julian wrote, “Ethel Jo Simkins should be in the Biology Teachers’ Hall of Fame.”

Ms. Simkins taught biology at South Park for many, many years. I used to stop by her classroom after school to visit with her. At first I did this because I was fascinated with her snakes. She had two snakes in separate glass cases. Later, I began stopping by her room to visit with her because she was such a fascinating person.

The biology classroom was #101. When you entered the building from the north door ground floor, that room was the first one to your left. Incidentally, that room no longer is there. The reason for that is because five clowns working in a five-ring circus under a Thomas Tent demolished that entire historic building. But certainly I digress.

One afternoon I stopped by to visit with Ethel Jo. She said, “Winston, as you know in about two weeks school will turn out for the summer. I need someone to keep my snakes and watch after them till school reconvenes. Would you be interested in doing that for me?” Immediately I agreed.

When school turned out, I went to Ethel Jo’s room and picked up the two snakes in two separate cardboard boxes. I carried them to my house. The rear entrance to our house was the one we used as it was near our carport. This entrance was a small screened in area. You entered through a screen door and then entered the house through a regular wooden door. The screened entryway was about six feet by six feet square.

I spread pine straws and leaves over all the concrete floor of this entryway. Then I placed the two snakes into their new summer quarters. One of the snakes was a feisty water snake about two feet in length. He was not very friendly. Mainly he did a lot of hissing. The other snake was four feet in length and was known as a mud snake. His back was a shiny black and his underside was red. He had a boney, pointed tail. The old timers called this type a “stinging snake” because the tail looked like a stinger. But actually the tail was used simply to hang onto things such as tree limbs and suchlike.

Now then, during that summer, my parents and I used the rear entrance as usual. We just had to be careful not step on one of the snakes. But Ann, my big/older sister was another story altogether. She would walk from our carport all the way around our house to the front entrance.

One day I decided that if she was officially introduced to one of the snakes that she would act more cordial toward the creatures. I draped the mud snake over my shoulders around the back of my neck and went into the house. Ann was in her bedroom reading a book. I walked in. Ann looked up, saw the reptile hanging around my shoulders, screamed, threw her book to the floor, and ran out of the house. I was dumbfounded. You know, it seems like there always is a thing between big sisters and little brothers.

Anyway, when summer ended, the snakes and I slithered back to school. Ms. Simkins said, “Thank you.”

I hissed with gracious air, “You’re welcome.”

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@gmail.com

I Am Myth-tified; Are You...?

2010-06-08T16:25:00.001-05:00

Do you remember as a kid your world of “make believe?” It was great fun to pretend. Fact is that we adults still love to pretend. We tend to reach for the unreachable. Does this have anything to do with why our literature includes collections of fairy tales and/or myths?

The dictionary defines “myth” as, “…a traditional story of ostensibly historical events that serves to unfold part of the world view of a people or explain a practice, belief, or natural phenomenon...” Sounds impressive doesn’t it? But wait, there’s more. I understand the following somewhat better: “…or an unfounded or false notion.”

Myths are neat in that they can and do change over the years. One generation might take a myth and enhance it somewhat thus improving the story. Or it could go the other way. One may omit a portion of the story making it shorter or more palatable.

Someday I want to write about such things as Big Foot, UFOs, Hoop Snakes, the Loch Ness Monster, Crop Circles, the Saratoga Lights, the Jefferson Theater Ghost(s) and such like. Most of these are myths but not all. For example, I have had personal experiences with the Saratoga Lights and ghosts of the Jefferson. So I cannot define these two as “myths.”

There is an interesting myth, assuming it is a myth, of the “Drop Bear” that has its roots in Australia. I was researching “hoop snake” when I stumbled across this “Drop Bear” thing. Here is my paraphrase from information gleaned from uncyclopedia.wikia.com.

A drop bear is a member of the Koala Bear family, only much more aggressive. Basically, a Drop Bear will attack its prey by dropping from a treetop onto its intended meal. This surprise attack catches the victim defenseless. It has been reported from down under that Drop Bears can and do injure or kill humans. Thus the following rules should be noted if ever you go hiking in Australia:

· If for some bizarre reason you feel like lying under a tree and spitting upward, Drop Bears typically will spit back at you. If this happens, move quickly before the Drop Bear drops.

· Rub toothpaste (non-gel type) behind your ears. Drop Bears cannot stomach the smell of toothpaste.

· Drop Bears seem to be allergic to submachine guns. Always carry a submachine gun in plain sight at all times, even in cities and around pigs.

· Try not to walk under any trees that growl at you.

· If you find yourself trapped by a drop bear, try talking to it. The bear may think you are an idiot and lose interest.

· If you suspect an encroaching attack by a Drop Bear, walk on your hands. This can so confuse the Drop Bear as he begins to wonder if he is actually below you looking up through the ground. This stressful confusion often can trigger the onset of loneliness. No Drop Bear can attack when it is lonely.

· For some weird reason, Drop Bears never eat Aussies. Pretending to be Australian does not help. Drop Bears are always suspicious of accents which remind them of Texans.

· There have been instances of Drop Bears moving into the city. One confirmed case states that a Drop Bear dropped from the 40th floor of an office building. This resulted in not much being left of the victim or the bear. Identification was next to impossible.

· Leave Australia! For some reason, 99% of attacks are on that continent. If you leave the Southern Hemisphere, your chance of being involved in a Drop Bear attack drops by 87.6783%.

So here you have a myth, that wonderful world of make believe.

Winston Hamby
The Beaumont Enterprise
winhamby@gmail.com

I'm Proud of My Humility...

2010-05-15T17:27:00.000-05:00

The dictionary sums up “vain pride” as an undesirable trait while “humility” is desirable.

After thinking this over I am ready to announce that, “I am proud of my humility and I’ll tell you why.”

I am proud that I grew up in Beaumont. I am even more proud that I grew up in South Park. In the 1940s and 1950s, South Park was a great place to live. Even though I am proud of this, I view it with humility.

I am proud that I took swimming lessons at the downtown Y.M.C.A. on Calder Ave. I ended up becoming a lifeguard and I took pride in that.

I am proud that I sold Cokes at Stuart Stadium for the Beaumont Exporter baseball games during the late 1940s. I met so many famous athletes including, Joe DiMaggio, Stan Musial, Jackie Robinson, Gil McDougald, Rogers Hornsby, Pee Wee Reese, and Roy Capanella. It never occurred to me to seek their autographs.

I am proud that I played outfield for Beaumont Motor Company’s (Chevrolet Dealer) summer league team. Our team won the city championship. Our championship game took place on the South Park High School baseball field. The final out of that game was a fly ball into left field which I caught. I pocketed the ball and now it sits on my home office desk. Our regional playoff game in Stuart Stadium was played against a Houston championship team. Houston beat us 4 to 0. I was proud, but humbled.

I am proud that I attended the Saturday morning Organ Club at the Jefferson Theater. One time, Bruce Fairchild with his clarinet along with me and my trombone performed as a jazz duo in a talent contest. We won first place and earned 3 passes each from the theater manager.

I am proud that the Pipkin Street Gang and I saw “picture shows” on Saturday afternoons at the Lamar Theater.

I am proud to have been an usher at the Jefferson Theater during the early 1950s.

I am proud of hanging out with my buddies and girlfriends at the Pig Stand No. 10, located on Washington Blvd. at the Port Arthur Road. In fact I have a print of that Pig Stand drawn by Beaumont artist, Randy Welborn.

I am proud to have attended the South Park Church of Christ, first located on the corner of Elgie and Irving Streets and then in 1948 moving over to our new building on Highland Ave. and Threadneedle. You may know that music in the Churches of Christ is a capella. On occasion we would have religious organ music chime in over our public address system, compliments of the Highland Avenue Baptist Church that was located one block south of our church building. We teenagers would snicker when that happened. Our elders did not snicker.

I am proud to have started my educational pursuits at Giles Elementary, then MacArthur Jr. High School and finally graduating from South Park High School in 1953. I have so many memories to share and so many stories to tell about my beautiful days in Greenie Land. I am thankful that Greenie Spirit will never die. Shallow thinking can cause the demolition of a beautiful historic building but you cannot demolish a Spirit.

I am proud of a slogan I made up years ago, “They are not making any more Greenies. That makes us collectors’ items.” Since then, several have used this expression in their writings.

I am proud to have smelled Taystee Bread baking, Tex-Joy/Seaport Coffee roasting, the Sulphur Plant, Magnolia Refinery, and Spindletop Oil Field. All at the same time.

I am proud of so many things about growing up in Beaumont, but foremost…

I am proud of my humility.

Winston Hamby
Winhamby@gmail.com

Ad It Up...

2010-05-01T15:40:00.000-05:00

A few months ago I wrote about my new hobby. In case you missed that article, I wrote about collecting unusual classified ads and news items. Since moving from Houston to Little Rock, I read the daily Arkansas Democrat – Gazette, a fine state-wide publication printed in Little Rock. This newspaper has the largest classified ad section in all of Arkansas. This fact alone is why I read mainly the classifieds.

My favorite ad from that first column was, “Jack Terrier for sale. Very friendly. Not good with chickens.” I still wonder what must have taken place between this dog and those chickens. Whatever it was probably is why the Jack Terrier was for sale.

Since that first column printed, I have saved up additional new ads to share with you.

“Roosters (5), free, 6 mos old. Just bring something to put them in.” I can just envision someone going out to pick up those roosters without something to put them in. Can you see some guy driving along in a car with 5 frantic roosters spreading feathers and perhaps other substances all over the interior?

How about this gem, “Wanted, FREE goat, female, needed to keep lonely horse company.”
Perhaps you know something that I don’t. But how is a free goat going to help a lonely horse feel more in touch with society? This bears some research.

I still am puzzled by this one, “For Sale, Donkies, all sizes and colors.” I do not mind that the ad misspelled “Donkeys” but I do worry about those donkeys. Does the seller spray them the color you request? I thought about going to buy one with a red head and chartreuse legs.

Here’s another one I question, “Elderly man in need of Quartz canning jar, free or cheap.”
Now my question is this, “Is this elderly man in need of a free or cheap Quartz canning jar or is he looking for free or cheap Quart canning jars?? I know that if I had some Quartz canning jars, I would not part with them for free or cheap.

Then there’s this one, “House, you can have it if you tear it down.” Does this puzzle you like it does me? Think about it. A free house. That sounds great but wait a minute. If you tear it down, you don’t have a house. What you will have is a pile of stuff that you have agreed to haul away for free.

And what does this mean? “(2) nice white suburban passengers, doors, 1999 model, reasonable.” I think he wants to sell two nice white doors for a 1999 model suburban. Or could he be selling two nice white suburban passengers like the ad reads? And I guess he is just throwing in the doors.

Now here is an interesting note. “Join us on May 5 for Cinco de Mayo.” I wonder what the date is for this event.

Here is a puzzling news item: “I was very careful after we arrested Mr. Fitzpatrick not to say that we were out looking for a second suspect,” Chief Danny Bradley said Monday during an interview in his office. “I said we were out looking for a second suspect. Some of the news media—on television, on the Internet—reported that we were out actively looking for someone, but that’s not what I said. I felt we had to identify this person because I didn’t want the public to be misled about what’s going on.” Now then, either the Chief mis-spoke or the newspaper misquoted the Chief. At any rate, I think I was misled.

As Alexander Pope said, “To err is human, to forgive is divine.”

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@gmail.com

This Column Is A Stretch...

2010-04-15T13:54:00.001-05:00

The story you are about to read is true. No names have been changed to protect the innocent. You see, we all were guilty. I am referring to the Pipkin Street Gang in 1946. But I should start at the beginning.

Most Saturday afternoons during the 1940s found the Pipkin Street Gang walking eight blocks to the Lamar Theater. I’ll not reintroduce the PSG except to mention that we were playmates growing up in the 1300 block of Pipkin Street in the South Park area of Beaumont.

One Saturday, all of the other PSG members were elsewhere with their families so I decided to walk to the theater alone. As I passed by a vacant lot at the intersection of Pipkin and Chaison Streets I saw what appeared to be a rusty iron box. The box was at least 75 feet from the road and nearly hidden by tall weeds in the field. Curiosity kept asking me what that rusty “thing” was. And really, I did not want to go to the Lamar by myself so I ventured out into the vacant lot.

The rusty object turned out to be the lower portion of an old wood burning heater or stove. There were several little doors. There was the main opening where you insert the wood to burn. Then there were two little doors off to one side. This looked like great fun for an eleven year old boy so I sat down and began opening and closing the doors.

When I opened one of the smaller side doors I noticed a little orange cardboard box. I retrieved the box and read the print on back. It said something about “prophylactics.” I didn’t know what that was so I opened the box. There was a row of little white things. Pulling one out I discovered that it could unroll. This really was weird. It looked like a white balloon but not quite like any balloon I had ever seen. I decided to inflate it. This procedure made the thing inflate to a nice-sized balloon. Then I released it. The escaping air propelled the balloon up in the air. It performed several circles and loops in the process. Wow, that was fun. It dawned on me that there were enough balloons in the box to furnish one to every kid in the PSG. So I pocketed my find and went home.

Later that afternoon most of my playmates were home and they were milling around the neighborhood. I took my box of balloons outside and gave one to each kid. We had great fun blowing up the balloons and letting them go. There was quite a little breeze that helped the balloons go through some neat aerobatics.

Jackie got the great idea to inflate his balloon and tie off the end. He batted the balloon up in the air and the strong breeze took it from there. We never saw it again.

Mr. Heartfield, my next door neighbor came over and asked me if I knew what those things were. I replied, “No, but they make great balloons.” Mr. Heartfield told me to go ask my dad about them. And so I did just that. Dad sat me down and told me some impressive stuff. Also, he told me not to tell the other kids.

I announced to the PSG that my dad told me a big secret about our balloons. I said, “Dad told me that I should not tell you what these are. So go home and ask your mom and dad and let them tell you the secret.”
And so they did just that.

Most probably those parents wished that all of us kids had just gone to the movie.

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@gmail.com

Where The Water Meets The Shore...

2010-04-01T17:41:00.003-05:00

In the past, my columns such as this one have been termed “confession time.” And time dictates that this top-secret memory now be released.

During the summer of 1957 I completed the requirements to become a private pilot. A portion of those requirements called for several hours of solo cross-country flying. This meant that I needed to fly from one town to another town and land at an airport other than the one I left.

So for several weeks, I flew out of Jefferson County Airport located across the highway from Nederland to places such as Lafayette, Kirbyville, Houston, and Galveston. My favorite outing included flying over to Hobby Airport in Houston and then down to the Galveston airport and returning to Jefferson County. I was required to have my logbook signed by someone at each stop to verify the flight.

OK, now for the confession. One sunny morning I rented a green Champion Tri-Traveler from Van’s Flying service at Jefferson County Airport. This plane was very comfortable. It carried a 90 horsepower engine and cruised about 85 mph. I took off and headed toward Houston. Assisting me in my navigation was U.S. highway 90, the Old Spanish Trail. Of course this was before I-10 was anywhere around.

I was flying into a headwind of some 15 mph which meant that my actual groundspeed was only 60 mph. The cars on highway 90 were outrunning me. I preferred flying the more powerful Cessna 172 but it was more expensive to rent so the Tri-Traveler met my needs just fine.

I landed at Hobby Airport. They had an area near the terminal where light aircraft could park (tie down). I went into the control tower to get my logbook signed. After a cup of coffee, I took off and headed down to Galveston. I landed, got the log signed then headed back toward Beaumont. This is where things went a little awry.

The shoreline was beautiful and also served as a reliable navigation tool. My altitude was 1000 feet. There is an interesting phenomenon about the shoreline. Where the water meets the shore, a wall of rough air is created. So when you fly down the beach you need to stay more over the water or more to the land side. That rough air wall in a light airplane feels like riding down a bumpy road in an old car with no shock absorbers.

Just beyond the Gilchrist area I spotted some girls apparently enjoying a beach party. I did a 180 (turned around) and adjusted my altitude to 5 feet and flew toward those girls. Of course I pulled up before I reached them but they scattered in all directions. That was fun so I did it again. This time as I headed at them, a ripple of rough air caused my wheels to bounce off the ground. This startled me so I regained flight altitude and headed on to Jefferson County Airport.

I landed and taxied to the gasoline pump. Van was standing at the pump waiting on me. He told me someone reported that a green airplane with three wheels buzzed a beach party. Then Van asked why there was sand and grass blades in the tire treads. I shrugged and said, “Did they get the registration number of the plane?” Van said that they did not.

Then I told Van, “The weather was beautiful and so were the girls. It was a great day for flying.”

Van’s face showed a slight grin as he said, “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.” But his eyes glared as though to say, “Don’t ever do that again.”

So I never again tried such a foolish and dangerous stunt. No one should.

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@gmail.com

I Do...As Long As We Do Not Kiss...

2010-03-19T08:16:00.001-05:00

My family moved to Beaumont in 1940 and we lived at 1375 Pipkin Street in South Park. All of our neighbors were cordial folks. Our next door neighbors east of us were Tommy and Anna Dee Heartfield. They had a daughter named Deanna who was a member of the Pipkin Street Gang. You may remember from previous columns that the PSG was made up of 12 kids that lived in the 1300 block of Pipkin.

Anyway one afternoon when I was about 8 years of age I decided it was time to get married. I asked Margaret Ann Burch who turned me down. I asked Kay LeBlanc but she was not interested. Then I proposed to Deanna Heartfield who was 7 and she accepted. Many of the Pipkin Street kids were present for the marriage ceremony which took place in the ditch in front of our house. Jackie Garretson was one of my favorite playmates so he was asked to perform the ceremony.

Everything went smooth till it was time to kiss the bride. I shied away which was a good thing because Deanna turned her back on me. Seems neither of us wanted anything to do with the kissing part. Jackie informed us that we could not get married if we did not kiss. I told Jackie to go ahead because the kiss was not something people had to do. So Jackie proceeded to marry us without the kiss. He introduced us to the group as, “Winston and Deanna and they are married.”

Some ten minutes after the wedding ceremony my dad called me to come eat supper. I went inside the house and told my parents that Deanna and I had gotten married and that I would like to invite her to eat with us. My mother and dad chuckled and told me to go ask her parents. So I did. When I knocked on Deanna’s front door, Mrs. Heartfield answered. I proceeded to explain to her that since Deanna and I were married that Deanna needed to start eating her meals at my house.

Mrs. Heartfield seemed amused and invited me in so that I could chat with the entire family. I explained to Mr. and Mrs. Heartfield how that Jackie had performed the ceremony with most of the neighborhood kids present. Hastily I added, “…but we didn’t kiss.” Then I made up the following: “Besides my parents think it’s a great idea and sent me over to bring her to my house.”

Mr. Heartfield congratulated us but advised us to hold off for a few years. He said, “When you finish up with school and if you still want to get married, we’ll talk about it then.” The Heartfields sent me home empty-handed.

When I got back home to eat supper (without Deanna) my mother told me that I was too young to be thinking about marriage and should not be going around trying to marry the neighbors’ girls. I learned later that Mrs. Heartfield had telephoned my mother. They had talked for 10 minutes. I never knew the content of their conversation but I suspect that they annulled the marriage.

Later on in life at age 27 I married Mardell, my wife of 46 years. We have enjoyed a storybook marriage through all those years. Once in a while I wonder if I have two wives? Mardell may be my second wife since Deanna and I never divorced.

On the other hand I know that Jackie was not authorized to perform weddings. Another way I know that my wedding to Deanna was not valid is that at the close of the ceremony, we did not kiss.

But sometimes I still wonder…?

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@gmail.com

There's Music In The Air...

2010-03-06T14:01:00.006-06:00

When I was a third grader at J. L. Giles Elementary School in Beaumont, something happened that has stayed with me all my life. I had just gone to bed one night and began hearing music. The song I heard was “Somewhere Over The Rainbow,” by Harold Arlen and Yip Harburg. I had become aware of this song some months earlier at the Jefferson Theater when my family took me to see The Wizard of Oz starring Judy Garland. The song was beautiful and today at age 74 still is one of my all time favorites.

But the unusual thing about hearing the song in bed that night is there was no radio or record playing. I was trying to sleep. When the song began playing in my head I got up and double-checked that we had turned the radio off. Ever since that night in 1943, I have enjoyed hearing music in my head almost anytime.

Some people who hear music have been treated by specialists for mental disorders. Not me. I have always liked the music. In fact I consider it a gift from my Maker.

My musical mind can tune in whatever kind of music I want to hear. A good march by a great band is special. Particularly when the band is in your imagination.

Sometimes I prefer listening to classical music so I tune my mind to an unseen orchestra. Other times I can flip my mental tuner over to country music. Also I love to listen to the old church songs that my mind retained from when I was a kid. Another of my favorites is jazz because it allows for improvisation. I can listen to old popular tunes or new original ones. In fact my mind’s ear can bring in original compositions with all forms of music. Many times while driving down a highway I will not turn on the radio because the tires on the pavement play such beautiful music.

There is an interesting aspect of this activity that shows up when I want to write a song. First I write a poem. Then I share that poem with the grand chorus that resides somewhere in my brain. The chorus sings the poem. I notate the melody that the chorus gives to me. Many times I can write the harmony from the same source. In other words, all I have to do to come up with a song is to write the lyrics (poem) and call on my chorus to do the rest.

One day I explained to my sister, Ann, that I can hear two tones simultaneously. One tone is a melody and the second tone harmonizes with the first one. Ann then explained to me that she can hear three harmonizing tones and currently is working on a fourth tone. I teased her that a fourth tone might be the final stage.

Ann said she always has heard music in her head. She never mentioned it because she assumed that everyone could hear imaginary music. I researched this and learned that many people hear music when there is none. Run a computer search engine on “hearing music that is not there.” You will find an abundance of really fascinating information on this phenomenon.

An interesting side note to this story is that the other day, Jenna, my five-year old granddaughter said, “Paw Paw, I hear music in the air.” I said, “That’s wonderful Jenna. Learn to write it down and someday you may become a famous composer.” So I know that my “mind music” will live for at least another generation.

I can hear it now. “Birds fly over the rainbow. Why then, oh why can’t I?”

Beautiful. Just beautiful.

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@gmail.com

My Trip Had A Hitch...

2010-02-20T21:26:00.002-06:00

During the summer break from college in 1954, I sold Bibles door to door in Dallas. Since I did not have a car, I did a lot of hitchhiking which was considered safe in those days.

Soon the summer passed and it was time to go home. My parents lived on Voth Road (now Concord Road) at Redwood Drive in Beaumont. This was just a few blocks from 11th Street near the Minglewood Addition.

I began hitchhiking home one morning about 10 o’clock. My intentions were to travel south on US 75 to Houston and then head over to Beaumont on US 90. The Interstate highway system did not yet exist. The first car that picked me up went to Ennis. It was there that I decided to take US 287 right into Beaumont thinking it would be quicker.

The next car that picked me up went for about ten miles then let me out as the driver needed to turn onto another road. Then I caught a ride with a car that went all of fifteen miles. Then I got a ride that lasted about 12 miles.

It dawned on me that the people driving on highway 287 were not traveling very far. They were making more local-type runs. It took seventeen separate vehicles to reach Beaumont. Three of those rides are unforgettable.

One of those three was a route delivery man taking bread to area country stores. He said, “I’ll give you a lift but you will have to make my stops with me on my route.” I agreed and climbed aboard his bread van. Soon he turned off of the highway and made his way down a country road to a small grocery store. He carried some bread into the store. Then we drove to another little store and went through the same routine. It became apparent to me that I was not getting anywhere. The next time he got to the highway, I thanked him and told him I thought I’d try to find a ride that was going on through the area.

The next memorable moment happened when an old couple driving a pickup stopped. There were only two seats in the pickup so I had to ride in the back with a bunch of loaded down feed sacks. I leaned up against the sacks as I was fairly close to the open tailgate and did not want to fall out of the truck. Those sacks smelled pretty strong and I recall thinking, “That feed sure must have a lot of chemicals.”

Eventually the couple had to turn off so they stopped to let me out. I told them, “Thanks and by the way, what’s in those feed sacks?” The old rancher replied, “Oh that’s cow manure for our gardens.”

My last ride is memorable as it was the one that brought me into Beaumont. By now it was about 10 ‘clock that night. The man asked me what I had been up to. I told him that I had left home a couple of months ago and had decided to return home. He said with emotion in his voice, “I think that’s wonderful. Your parents will be so glad to see you.”

I realized the man thought I was a runaway teen coming home like the prodigal son. He dropped me off on 11th Street just a few blocks from my house. I never told him any different. I suppose to this day that he remembers the night he helped a penitent teenager to return home.

If ever you hitchhike from Dallas to Beaumont, do not take US 287. In fact these days I say, “Don’t hitchhike at all.”

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@gmail.com

I Am Bowled Over...Or Rather, Over-Bowled...

2010-02-04T19:09:00.004-06:00

Perhaps they should have it but they don’t. I was going to propose it but probably won’t. The interest in such a thing might be great but likely not. Sound like going around in circles? It is because I am fed up and here is why.

Last year about this time I wrote a column about bowl games. The column explained why I was bowled over with these endless competitions. It was centered on bowl games at the college level.

This current column has to do with the professional level of bowl games such as the Pro Bowl and the Super Bowl. However let’s back up a little bit. There were AFC and NFC championship games to determine which two teams would meet in the Super Bowl. Then the Pro Bowl stayed in the mix for whatever reason. You see, the Pro Bowl was made up of champion-level players who happened not to be on one of the Super Bowl teams. The Super Bowl team players who were named to play in the Pro Bowl did not want to risk injury playing in the Pro Bowl so they just stood on the sidelines and watched the next to the best players vie for the same whatever.

My proposal is that there should be a Pooper Bowl. Why not? With all the other bowl games played each year, surely a Pooper Bowl could find a place.

You may ask, “What is a Pooper Bowl?” A Pooper Bowl would be a football game between the two worst teams in the NFL and here is how it would work.

The AFC would have a loser playoff game between the two worst teams in their division. The loser of that game would advance to the Pooper Bowl. Of course the NFC would do the same thing. This way, you could be sure that the Pooper Bowl was played between the two worst professional football teams in the country. The referees could be chosen from those men who blew the most calls during the regular season.

Think about it. This would be an opportunity for losers to excel in losing. You see, the team that lost the Pooper Bowl actually would get the trophy for their excellence in losing. The winners would go home empty-handed.

And the players would compete for that coveted MUP Award. MUP stands for “Most Unvalued Player.” How would you like to be voted the MUP on the worst team in the NFL?

And the half-time show? That would be a riot. The entertainment would be made up of those who failed their auditions for American Idol. You would not need a sound system and most likely not even a stage. After all, no one is going to pay attention to a bunch of losers.

The cheerleaders would consist of those ladies who were voted out first in The Biggest Loser debacle. I can’t wait to see them in their skimpy outfits. Especially when they do a pyramid.

One of their cheers could be,

“Two, four, six, eight,
Who do we appreciate?
All for the losers
Stand up and bellyache.”

Then everyone could stand up and boo and bellyache to their hearts’ content. The players would love it knowing they had the crowd behind them.

What really irks me about all of this sporting frenzy is that those behind the scenes continually are grabbing for money. That is not all bad. It’s just that they pretend to be interested in sports while actually milking the public of all the dollars they can. Our nation is just freaked out on sports.

So why not have a Pooper Bowl? It might make money. And now you know why I am fed up.

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@gmail.com

Before and After...A Beautiful Relationship...

2010-01-20T10:37:00.007-06:00

Can you believe it? My sister Ann just had another birthday which means that she is even older than she was already.

You know the main problem with a big sister getting older is that it follows that a little brother also is getting older. But I am not writing about being a little brother. I’m writing about Ann, my big and/or older sister. So forget the little brother aspect for now.

Ann was born in the last century. January 21, 1932, was the day Ann was born to the proud parents, Woodie and Annie Hamby. Now I will not reveal Ann’s age. When a lady reaches 78, she does not want it broadcast to the whole wide world. Thank you for understanding.

Back in those olden days, parents tended to name their children after famous successful personalities. Ann was named after my mother Annie. Ann’s middle name is Lowell after author James Russell Lowell.

By the same token I was named Winston Jennings Hamby. Winston was after Winston Churchill. Jennings, after William Jennings Brian. My dad was named Woodie Jefferson Hamby. Woodie, from Woodrow Wilson and Jefferson from Thomas Jefferson. My mother did not want me to have a strange name like Woodie Jefferson but she did want me to keep the same initials so she came up with Winston Jennings (not strange?) This theory did not work out for me as I have as yet to be a famous personality. But I digress so back to my big sister Ann.

Ann was my first baby sitter. At least I found a picture of her when she was five years old sitting with me when I was a one year old. So the proof is in the pudding or rather in the picture.

Actually while growing up I thought Ann hung the moon. However the Bible says that God made the sun, moon and stars so it is likely that Ann did not hang the moon. But I did look up to her and thought her to be a fine big sister.

I remember one time when I was selling Cokes and ice cream at the ball games at Stuart Stadium in Beaumont back in the 1940s. I had saved up about six dollars from my labors. Ann sneaked into my bedroom one day and hid the money. I knew she had hidden it but she would not tell me where it was. It seems that I had bragged a bit too much about how much money I had saved. I think that her hiding the money was her gentle way of telling me to “cool it.” But I got even. After she made her bed each morning, I would sneak into her bedroom and mess her bed up. This maneuver was designed to get Ann into trouble with our mom who wanted our beds made up every morning. However, mom was wise to my finaglings and put a stop to it. But I did get my six dollars back. Also I quit bragging about how much money I had saved.

Anyway I always used my money to buy Christmas presents for mom and dad and yes, even Ann. Ann like stuffed animals so usually I would get her one on appropriate occasions.

Ann and I have enjoyed a really great relationship over the years. I venture to say that not many siblings get along as well as Ann and I do.

Anyway Ann just turned 78 and it has occurred to me that most of our future is behind us. But allow me to say that having Ann as my big sister for all those years has prompted my fondest memories.

Ann, I love you and happy birthday.
Winston --

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@gmail.com

No Longer New To Neuropathy...

2010-01-10T18:40:00.004-06:00

January 1999 was a significant month for me. I was diagnosed with peripheral neuropathy (nerve damage). I had never heard of PN. I could not pronounce it. I could not spell it. But I had it.

Symptoms included numbness in my feet, sometimes tingling or sometimes burning like walking barefoot on a hot sandy beach. Once in a while my calves got into the act, feeling numb, etc. Then tired feet and calves emerged. I felt like I had just walked 15 miles slightly uphill on pins and needles.

I first wrote about this on my web site in November 1999. You can find a lot of neuropathy information on the site at www.winoverpn.com. More than ten years since that diagnosis, I can state that the symptoms persist. However, I feel better because my medication is working.

I first began noticing numb toes in 1996. I told my wife that the 2nd and 3rd toes on each foot felt numb. I thought no more about it, figuring encroaching old age (I was 61) might be the culprit.

Then in 1998, the numbness eased from just toes to the entirety of both feet. Sometimes I could detect numbness in my fingers and even on my face, including the tip of my nose. We assumed I was experiencing pinched nerves in my back.

Off to the doctors I went, one at a time. My primary physician referred me to a neurologist who ordered a barrage of tests. I had a CAT scan, MRI and an EMG in addition to more routine tests to see if I was alive. The neurologist recommended back surgery as soon as possible even though he said my symptoms did not match his diagnosis. I went for a second opinion.

This next doctor was a neurosurgeon. I wasn't sure what a "neuro" was but I knew this doctor could remove it if I elected to go that route. I went through another series of tests including "iodine in the spine." This is my affectionate term for another "more distinct" MRI.

These doctors could find nothing wrong with my back. So I started over. I went to a brand new neurologist, but one that my family had known in years past.

This doctor did his own nerve conduction test (EMG) and told me that I had peripheral neuropathy. I told him that my first and only language was English. He explained about nerve damage due to numerous causes. Several additional tests ruled out diabetes and other common causes for PN. This left me diagnosed as having idiopathic peripheral neuropathy. Idiopathic means, “cause unknown.”

This doctor put me on a medication called Neurontin. I worked up to 800 mg four times per day. Dosages vary from case to case so PN patients should check with their doctors as to medication and dosage.

I located a great Neuropathy Support Group in Houston. We met every other month. We had speakers who were experts in areas of neuropathy. Then I joined the National Neuropathy Association. You can learn more about this organization at http://www.neuropathy.org/.

I also found a great book on PN written by John A. Senneff. The title of his book is “Numb Toes and Aching Soles: Coping With Peripheral Neuropathy,” published by Medpress. I learned a great deal about PN from this book. See http://www.medpress.com/.

I want to add that spouse support is vital. My wife has been by my side all the while. She has been a great help in so many ways.

In the past ten years I have learned a lot about peripheral neuropathy. And yes, I can spell it and pronounce it. And yes, I still have it.

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@gmail.com
http://www.winoverpn.com/

Chuggin' Right Along...

2010-01-03T00:00:00.001-06:00

Here’s a bit of advice to the younger generations from this rather old man. I am only 74 and refer to that as “rather old” although I do not feel a day older than 73.

If you own a car that is in good shape, try keeping it for the next fifty years. Of course it does not need to be your basic vehicle. However, if you will keep it for half of a century, you should be able to sell it for a really good price. How do I know? Read on…

When I was a teenager living in Beaumont during the 1950s, there were old good-running Model A Fords for sale all over town. The going price averaged $75.00. I could have bought several. If I had kept them, I could sell them today for $25,000 to $50,000. In fact I could sell them for enough to retire.

One day in 1951, I saw a Model A pickup truck on sale for $75.00. It was located at a small business located on Railroad Avenue. That’s the street that had a train track running right down the middle.

I pulled into the parking area driving my dad’s old 1936 Dodge. You had to hold that Dodge’s floor gear shift in third gear with your hand. Some cogs were missing from third gear so if you did not hold it in place, it would jump into neutral.

Anyway, the owner of the Model-A said that I could drive it home to show my dad. You see, I was 15 years old and had a driver’s license but my dad would have to purchase the car as I was too young to transact the purchase of an automobile.

The windshield was cracked but when I started it up, the motor sounded good like an old Ford should. I pulled out to enter Railroad Avenue. There were some cars coming so I applied the brakes. Guess what? No brakes. I rolled right out into traffic with no hope of stopping that old car.

Actually the car had mechanical brakes but they were out of adjustment. Mechanical brakes were small cables that slowed the rear axle when you applied the brake pedal. The cables could be adjusted to work properly. However, if they were out of adjustment then it was like driving with no brakes at all. This incident is when I learned about mechanical brakes.

When I rolled out into the street, traffic stopped for me. I breathed a sigh of relief but was fearful of driving all the way to my house. I lived at 1375 Pipkin Street in South Park which was more than two miles away with lots of intersections and stop signs. So, carefully I made the block and returned to that parking area. I told the owner that I did not want to drive the old car home with no brakes. He said, “Well, for $75.00, what do you expect? It’s not a new car.” I climbed into my dad’s old 1936 Dodge and backfired out of there.

But recently I saw an ad on the internet. It read something like, “Model A Ford pickup truck for sale, $55,000. Runs like a top. Needs windshield.”

Could that have been the old Ford I tried to test drive? Probably not. Most of those old cars had cracked windshields because they did not have adequate shock absorbers. If you hit a well-defined pothole, the windshield would crack. In many instances you would have a flat tire as an added bonus.

So again, to the younger generations: Keep your cars. Someday you may be able sell them for in excess of $100,000.

I know because I did not do that.

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@gmail.com

Merry Christmas To All...

2009-12-24T16:33:00.000-06:00

Christmas Should Be a 24/7 Event...

2009-12-11T09:15:00.002-06:00

Christmas is just around the corner. In fact, it’s half way down the block headed toward your house. It’s that time again. December 25 has been a popular celebration for many, many years.

In December, 2007, I wrote a column about Christmas. Among other things I wrote, “…no one knows the exact date Jesus was born.” I received several responses from that column. Most agreed that the birthday of Jesus is unknown. However, other responses were what I would term, “flak.” Some asserted December 25 was indeed the birthday of Christ.

First, allow me to state that nowhere in the Bible is a date given for the birthday of Jesus. All of the various conjectures of Christ’s birth are made by various historians and/or early church leaders.

It is interesting to note that when you research this topic, you will find theories and postulations that taken as a whole give nearly every month of the year as a possible month of Jesus’ birth.

To most of us, Christmas and December go together like a solved puzzle. However, for the first three centuries of Christianity, Christmas was not in December nor even listed on the calendar.

Some church leaders objected to a celebration of Christ’s birthday. Origen Adamantius, who was an early Christian scholar and theologian, spoke out that it would be in error to honor Christ in the same way that the pagans honored their gods. Many of Origen’s contemporaries did not agree with this assertion and began attempts to determine exactly which month and day Jesus was born. Apparently the actual records of his birthday were lost.

One of the early Greek theologians. Clement of Alexandria, favored May 20 for the birthday of Jesus. But he noted that others had argued for April 18, April 19, and May 28. A contemporary of Clement, Hippolytus figured out that the birth date had to be January 2. Others spoke out for November 17, November 20, and March 25. One document stated that the special day fell on March 21. Polycarp, who was bishop of Smyrna concluded that Christ’s birth most likely occurred on a Wednesday because the sun was created on the fourth day.

Christians first observed Christmas on December 25, 336, after Emperor Constantine declared Christianity to be the empire’s favored religion. But another problem developed in the 16th century when Pope Gregory devised a new calendar. The previous Julian calendar observed Christmas 13 days later than the Gregorian.

Pagan origins of the Christmas date and many pagan customs including gift-giving, merrymaking, greenery, lights, Yule logs and various foods have always heated up debates against the holiday.

An article by writer Elesha Coffman gives a more complete compilation of this topic at www.christianitytoday.com/ch/news/2000/dec08.html.

One of the main points of Christ’s birth is found in the New Testament, Matthew 1:20-21. An angel appeared to Joseph in a dream and said, “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife, because what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will give birth to a son and you are to give him the name Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins (NIV).” You can read more of this story in the New Testament book of Matthew, Chapters 1 and 2 and also, in Luke, Chapter 2. By the way, the name Jesus means “Jehovah is salvation.”

While the opposition argues that Christmas is just, “paganism wrapped with a Christian bow,” others have determined as one theologian stated in 320, “We hold this day holy, not like the pagans because of the birth of the sun, but because of him who made it.”

In my opinion, Christians should celebrate the birth of Jesus daily.

Winston Hamby
The Beaumont Enterprise
WinHamby@gmail.com

Time Still Is Marching On...

2009-11-27T01:18:00.001-06:00

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...

2009-11-08T14:23:00.004-06:00

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...

2009-10-28T21:17:00.002-05:00

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...

2009-10-14T20:22:00.001-05:00

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...??

2009-10-11T16:00:00.002-05:00

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...

2009-10-05T09:26:00.005-05:00

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...

2009-09-17T23:05:00.002-05:00

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

Aunt Cora Was A Danger Zone...

2009-09-04T22:03:00.001-05:00

Cora was my favorite aunt. She had three sisters. Their names were Hazel, Nora and Annie who was my mother.

The Whittington’s raised their four daughters in Glenmora, Louisiana. This was a small town you passed through on your way to Alexandria from Lake Charles. If you want it more precise, it was between Oakdale and Forest Hill.

Cora married Bynum Nelson and they lived just outside of Glenmora. I remember visiting my cousin there when I was a boy. I recall that Glenmora had a train depot, a water tower, a general store and a picture show.

The Nelsons bought additional land and built a new house. That land included an old cemetery that had long before been closed. Their front yard consisted of ten acres. A portion of this acreage had sink holes every so often. One day I asked Cora about those dips in her land. She replied, “Oh that’s the old graveyard. The sinkholes are where they buried somebody.” Later the Nelsons had everything all leveled out. They thought that in time to come it might hurt the value of their property if word got out that their front yard used to be a cemetery.

Cora was good at telling scary yarns to my cousin and me. She would not help us get sleepy by coming to our bedroom at night and telling creepy tales. Often she used that graveyard to good advantage in her eerie descriptions.

My cousin and I talked of going out and digging in the graves. He told me, “Folks back then buried gold coins with their deceased family members for good luck.” We thought we might dig up a fortune. However, we never did any digging. Cora got wind of our idea and threatened to blow us away with her old 12-gauge shotgun. I don’t think she would have gone that far but then again, there was no point in getting her riled up.

I had seen Cora in action and knew that if she ever said something, she meant it. One day when I was there, Cora went out to the barn behind the house. They owned seventeen head of cattle and she knew each one by name. She would go out to feed them every afternoon when they came home from the pasture.

It turned out that one of the cows was in heat. When Cora walked out to do the feeding, this frisky cow ran at her and butted her, knocking her to the ground. I was horrified at witnessing this from the back porch. What happened next was amazing. Cora got up and walked over to that cow. She cussed and hauled off and punched that cow right on the nose with her fist. The cow’s front legs buckled to the ground. That old cow got up and scampered away. I could not believe that Cora actually knocked down that cow with her fist. That incident plus others I could relate are why I never again mentioned digging in the old cemetery.

One day back in the 1940s Cora came to visit us for a week. That’s when we lived on Pipkin Street in Beaumont. She had our front bedroom to use during her visit. One day I saw her take something out of a little box and eat it. Later, when I had the opportunity, I sneaked into her bedroom to get a little of whatever Cora was eating. I thought maybe it was candy. When I popped the top off the little box, a cloud of dust filled the air. I had just burglarized Cora’s snuff box.

None of the other Whittington girls were like that. Cora marched to her own drumbeat.

Maybe that’s why Cora was my favorite aunt.

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@gmail.com

Most Favorite Things Ever (and then some)...

2009-08-10T19:32:00.000-05:00

An old song stuck in my head the other day and I don’t know why. The title of that song was, “My Favorite Things,” composed by Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein. The 1960s saw this song merit world-wide acclaim in that fabulous movie “The Sound of Music.”

Remembering this song got me to thinking. All of us have favorite things. In my memory bank are more memories than I can list. Most of these are among my favorite things. Allow me to share some with you.

• The South Park High School building. So beautiful the year it was constructed and now our memories enhance that beauty even more?
• The Lamar Theatre that was on Pipkin Street at Highland Avenue in the South Park area of Beaumont. This old movie house provided exciting Saturday afternoons for hundreds of kids back in the 1940s.
• The Jefferson Theatre located in downtown Beaumont. Saturday mornings meant going to the Jefferson and enjoying The Organ Club. My, could Al Sacker ever play that beautiful organ.
• Stuart Stadium over on Avenue A in South Park. The Exporters were my favorite Texas League baseball team. I sold cokes at the games for two seasons. I met some of baseball’s notable greats such as Joe DiMaggio, Stan Musial, Jackie Robinson, Gil McDougald, Rogers Hornsby, Pee Wee Reese, and Roy Capanella. It never occurred to me to seek their autographs.
• Pig Stand No. 10 located on the intersection of Washington Blvd and the Pt. Arthur Highway. This was a favorite hangout for the Greenies. Anyone who attended South Park High School in the 1940s and 1950s can tell you about the great fellowship we enjoyed there. Beaumont Police Officer Sylvester Garbo did a masterful job of keeping us in line.
• Carnation Ice Cream on Calder Avenue. Greenies and Purples alike congregated there to enjoy those luscious sundaes and milkshakes.
• The Tyrrell Public Library. I learned to love books in that grand old structure.
• The Alice Keith swimming pool at A.K. park on Highland Avenue. The water was so green and the girls were so lovely.
• Downtown Beaumont during the Christmas season. Pearl and Orleans Street were adorned with ferns and Christmas lights. There were no shopping centers so the entire area population came to town for their Christmas needs. Christmas carols blared forth from speakers mounted on the light poles.
• Colliers’ Ferry on the Neches River down at the end of Pine Street. We loved to ride that motorized barge across the river and enjoyed picnics and swimming.
• Willard’s Lake on Village Creek. A beautiful paradise of God.
• Fireworks. These were readily available at numerous distributors around town. I’ve got more than a few stories about those Cherry Bombs but they will have to wait.
• The Tyrrell Park Stables. Usually I was assigned a horse to ride that would turn around and head back for the stable against my will. Oh well, it still was fun.
• New Years in Beaumont. When midnight rolled around ushering in the New Year, every whistle at Magnolia Refinery blasted for a full minute announcing the event. I remember so vividly the distinctive tones and pitches of those various whistles.
• Spindletop Oilfield. This was a race track, a lover’s lane, a haven for snake hunters, a place with several swimming holes, and of course the pride we felt knowing the history of the oilfield that helped to build Beaumont and to energize the world.

I cannot believe that I am out of space and just getting started. I thank God for preserving my memory into old age enabling me to look back to the good old days and remember some of my favorite things.

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@gmail.com

Snake Eyes And The Rest Of The Story

2009-07-10T23:04:00.000-05:00

The other morning my wife hollered as only a wife can when urgently demanding her husband’s attention, “There’s a snake on our front porch!” I gathered in this news alert with a measure of relaxed panic.

My first thought was, “I never met a snake I liked.” Moving right along found me rushing toward the front porch to verify the urgent news alert and also to identify, if possible, the make and model of our sociable slithering reptile.

It turned out to be a little garter snake about 2 feet in length. Note that I refer to “it” because there was no clue as to its gender. This was due in part to my vast void of snake awareness, Beautiful brown and yellow stripes ran down its body from head to toe…make that from nose tip to tail tip. There was a little lump in its belly. This told me that most probably a small frog had served the snake breakfast that morning. Those little frogs really put themselves into it when they serve meals to snakes. In fact, that’s why the snake was on our porch. Lots of frogs hang out in that area although their number may be diminishing.

Having assured myself that our skinny visitor was non-poisonous, I stepped out onto the porch. The little “it” was very frightened by my presence. It tried to climb the brick wall of our house. This made it easier for me to reach out and grab the snake in hand.

One of my favorite things not to do is to grab a snake with my hand. Somehow it just is not natural. At least for me. I hurried over to our front garden and released the critter. Quickly it vanished in the undergrowth.

This episode prompted several snake memories to flashback simultaneously. I have in the past shared some of these with you. If ever I should write a book on my encounters with these dreaded crawlers the title would be, “Snakes I Have Known.”

The first memory flashing to mind was from 1938. A king snake lived in our chicken house at Beauxart Gardens. I was 3-years-old and can remember vividly the yellow lines drawn erratically over his shiny black body. I called it my “pet snake.” Mom was fearful of my becoming too chummy with even a good snake. She did not want me to think that all snakes made nice pets.

Then when I was 4-years-old, there was that copperhead in the vacant lot beside our house in Nederland. When my mother found out I had chased a red-headed snake into a coffee can, she set the entire field on fire trying to eradicate the beast. However, the copperhead lived. At least we found no charred snake.

Later, as a teenager in Beaumont, my friends and I frequented Twin Lakes. This was a small lake south of Beaumont between the highway and the Neches River. The perch fishing was terrific and the water moccasins were prolific. We became so accustomed to the moccasins that we paid them little attention. We just made sure we did not step on one. No snake likes the bottom of a foot.

My big sister stomped a water moccasin to death one afternoon out at Pine Island Bayou. It all was one big accident. When she stepped on the snake, it started jumping. My sister persisted in screaming and jumping up and down. The snake died of injuries caused by blunt forces to the head and body. Then my big sister threw up.

I have more snake stories than space allows. I just know that when my wife yelled out that there was a snake on our front porch I just knew that it was…

Another day; another snake story.

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@comcast.net

Pssst...I Have A Secret...

2009-06-27T14:38:00.000-05:00

I have decided at this time to release confidential information pertaining to the W.B. and the J.T., both of which were undercover operations of the P.S.G. during the 1940s.

Allow me to remind you that “P.S.G.” was the Pipkin Street Gang which I have mentioned numerous times in past columns. This organization was composed of twelve kids. All of us lived in the 1300 block of Pipkin Street located in the South Park area of Beaumont. Additionally, we inducted two guys from Church Street and one guy from Edwin Street.

You may recall that the guy from Edwin Street was David Matthews. His house was behind my house and down a few lots east toward Chaison Street. David had a vacant lot next to his house and that area made a good playground. Also he owned a football. Thus David was a shoo-in for membership in the P.S.G.

Anyway, the P.S.G. primarily was a group of playmates. We played hide and go seek, baseball, football, basketball, played with modeling clay (we called it “molding clay,”) and when the girl members were around, we played Jacks and Jump Rope. The girls loved for Jackie Garretson and me to swing a 12-foot rope in what they called “hot pepper.” Margaret Ann Burch was the “hot pepper” champion. I hate to admit it but those girls always beat the boys at Jacks and Jump Roping. But I digress.

Within the P.S.G. were smaller groups with special missions. One mentioned earlier was the W.B. This was the Wasp Brigade and we were proud. Only the fearless could be in this group. There were five guys in the Brigade. None of the girls wanted any part of it. This elite group was composed of Jackie Garretson, Sonny Collier, Malcolm Ward, Donald Ray Kidd and me.

Our self-appointed mission was to carry out house patrols in the 1300 block of Pipkin Street. When we found wasp nests, we would attack. Wasp nests on the eaves of houses or in vegetation such as hedges did not have a chance. We used mop handles with globs of mud on one end to “clop” over the nests. The nests would end up embedded in the mud along with any wasps that happened to be home at the time. We developed great expertise in keeping wasps out of our block. And the thing that amazes me to this day is that no one ever got stung.

I was proud of the W.B. Why? Because it was my idea. Do you think that someday the history books and encyclopedias will discuss how that Winston Hamby, when just 10-years-old, conceived and developed the Wasp Brigade of Pipkin Street?

Another interesting side note is that if we could find no wasp nests while on a mission, we would end up in a mud war. When the mud wars began then all of the P.S.G. would join in. Great fun.

Then we had the J.T. This was a small group of us who were Jump Troopers. Influenced by daily news of WW2 that was in progress at that time, we decided to practice for the day we might be paratroopers. So we climbed on the roofs of our houses and jumped off. That was quite a jump but not so bad when you consider we always made sure we were jumping into a patch of soft saint augustine grass. Again, no one ever got hurt jumping off of houses. But then the war ended in 1945, so we never were called to duty.

I’m proud that I was in the P.S.G. and the W.B and the J.T. Do you know why I kept this information to myself all these years?

Nobody ever asked.

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@comcast.net

"Time The Change May Bring..."

2009-06-12T21:12:00.001-05:00

Dear Greenie:

Just want to express my deepest gratitude to you for being such a significant part of my life.
So many times I have reflected on our relationship.

The first time I met you was in 1946. I’ve got to confess that I did not know who you were. Do you remember the big football game that Friday night? That was my first football game ever. My parents took me to the game because my sister was a member of the South Park High School Greenie Cadets, that fabulous drum and bugle corps. They performed at halftime. We were playing the Goose Creek Ganders. I remember thinking that was an unusual name for a football team.

When time came for the game to start, our high school band played the National Emblem. Then we sang a song which I learned later was our alma mater. A portion of those words were, “Time the change may bring.” I am wondering now if that song was prophetic with all the changes we are seeing. Anyway, following the alma mater, someone led a prayer over the public address system. Remember how that no one made a fuss because we prayed? Do you think we took school prayer for granted?

Then the cheerleaders led, “Two bits, four bits, six bits, a dollar. All for the Greenies stand up and holler.” Everyone around me stood up and hollered so I did too. I asked my friend, Joyce Vick which team she was rooting for. She thought I was joking. But that is when and how I began to know you.

A few short years later I reached high school and became a Greenie in my own right, I was proud to wear your name. All Greenies proudly waved the green and white. All Greenies knew about you. We called you “Greenie Spirit.”

Greenie, it seems strange that from time to time people wonder what you look like. These same people seem to think that you are a thing. Do they not know a spirit when one is around? I knew a family whose son wrote the following:

“The sun that sets may never rise,
But Greenie Spirit never dies.”

He understood that you are spirit and not a thing. You live in everyone who attended South Park High School. And believe me, Greenie, I have been around many a school in my lifetime. My wife was a school educator for 30 years. I’ve been in and around the public and private education arenas all my life. Never have I witnessed anything like you. Your spirit in our student body was unparalleled.

As you well know, they want to demolish our old school house. That is one of the most beautiful buildings in Beaumont. Isn’t it unusual how that sometimes progress dictates destruction? Is that really progress? But I digress.

Greenie, you are an indomitable spirit and never will you be degraded to mere brick and mortar. Never can you be confined to narrow hallways and slamming locker doors. You will continue to live in our souls. Even progress cannot take you away.

By the way, what ever happened to your beautiful pendulum clock that graced the wall just above our trophy case? Mr. Floyd used to wind up that lovely timepiece every morning. I wonder how many seconds ticked away on that old clock through the years. As the news reels used to say, “Time Marches On.” I guess time dictates change. And change is what we are seeing.

Greenie, the ending phrases of our alma mater sum it up so well:

“South Park, South Park, dear old South Park,
Time the change may bring.
Still the name of South Park High School
Evermore we’ll sing.”

Winston Hamby
Greenie ‘53
WinHamby@comcast.net

Got Rid Of Those Little Suckers...

2009-05-31T09:53:00.000-05:00

Those southeast Texas mosquitoes do not like me and that is all right because I do not care for them either. When a mosquito alights on my arm, it stays for a second or two then flies away. I have not experienced a mosquito bite in more than fifty years. I wonder why but I do have a theory. Allow me to explain.

When I was a teenager growing up in Beaumont, my buddies and I often would drive over to Galveston for a day at the beach. Generally we stayed in Galveston late enough to eat supper at one of those fabulous seafood restaurants. Then after supper we enjoyed riding on the Bolivar ferry. In fact we enjoyed the ferry so much that usually we rode it back and forth several times. Since the ferry ride one way between Galveston and the Bolivar Peninsula lasted about thirty minutes, we on occasion spent 2 to 3 hours riding the boat.

Now back to the mosquitoes and why I think that they do not like me. Since we guys spent so much time on those return trips riding the ferryboat, we would not arrive back to the intra-coastal canal bridge till around 11:00 P.M. And at a rule, the bridge would be open allowing tugs and barges to pass.

On this one particular evening, Jimmy Cassady and I were driving back to Beaumont from Galveston. Sure enough, when we reached the bridge, it had opened for some canal traffic. I decided that rather than wait in the car I would walk down to the water’s edge to get a better view of the transiting vessels. I always was fascinated by boats, ships and the like.

No sooner had I stationed myself at the canal’s bank than a humongous swarm of mosquitoes selected me for their late-evening snack. They covered both of my arms. I could see well enough from lights on the bridge that my arms were covered black with blankets of the buzzing invaders.

I slapped and slapped both arms with both hands. I brushed off the smashed little blood suckers and for a moment my arms appeared white. But then immediately they turned black again with a fresh wave of the vermin. Again I would slap and slap then rake off the mortally wounded.

This went on for a good 5 to 6 minutes. There is no telling how many hundreds of mosquitoes I slaughtered. But I grew weary of this game and returned to the car. Jimmy and I had to sit there for another 15 minutes for the vessels to pass and for the bridge to close so the automobile traffic could proceed.

When I arrived home that night and went into the bathroom to wash up, I saw a most startling sight. My arms were purple; not red but purple from literally hundreds of mosquito bites. I became alarmed and awakened my mother to show her my plight. She rubbed my arms with calamine lotion. She told me that the lotion would help to “tone things down.” I slept fitfully that night and the next day I felt all ragged out.

This experience as shared with you is the basis for my theory as to why mosquitoes have not bitten me in more than 50 years. Do you think it is feasible that the scent of destroyed ancestors still may be embedded in my flesh? If so, then this is why no sensible mosquito is going to bite me and run the risk of demise.

If you can come up with a better explanation, then let me hear from you.

Who knows? One of these nights, I may just “buzz off.”

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@comcast.net

Beautiful Is She Who Graces My Home...

2009-05-15T22:01:00.002-05:00

OK, I confess. She did it. Yes my wife married an older man. Before you jump to any shaky conclusions, allow me to state that she married me and yes, I am older than she is. Ten years older, to be exact.

Mardell and I married in 1963 and moved into the married apartments at Lamar University in Beaumont. Mardell was in school at Lamar and I was working in my dad’s accounting firm. That first year in the Lamar apartments was exciting. There never was a dull moment living in the same building with 100 other couples. Our one-room apartment was on the first floor which was convenient. Only problem was that we had our very own peeping Tom. We reported the guy on several occasions only to be told, “Aw that’s just ‘Jake,’ and he is harmless. Don’t worry about him.”

Soon we moved over to Cheek Street where we rented a bedroom from P.D. and Joyce Brown. They lived in a large two-story house. That was interesting in that all four of us shared the same bathroom.

In 1965, we bought a two-bedroom house at 1065 Harriot Street in South Park about one block from Daniel’s Bakery. Talk about sweet smelling savor. We didn’t have to worry about odors sifting over from Magnolia Refinery as the bakery provided plenty of aromas with their doughnuts, cakes and pies.

One day a book salesman knocked and Mardell answered the door. The man asked, “Is your mother here?” Mardell was quick to reply, “No, my mother lives in Italy.” Then the bungling saleman asked, “Well, then is the lady of the house in?” Again Mardell explained, “I am the lady of the house.”

You see, when we married I was 27 and Mardell was 18. She looked every bit of 15. Several times this caused a bit of confusion if not embarrassment.

Why am I sharing all of this with you? Well, Mardell just had a birthday and I was thinking of her and…well, here you have it.

In 1971, Mardell and I decided to enter into church ministry full time and so we moved to Lovington, New Mexico. For several years we served churches in eastern New Mexico and west Texas.

Finally in 1983, we moved back to Beaumont where I served as Youth and Family Minister with the Ridgewood Church of Christ. Mardell taught first grade and later she served as elementary principal of Christian Schools of Beaumont.

In 1994, we moved to Houston. Mardell was called there to serve as principal of Westbury Christian Elementary School. I became a Family Service Counselor with a large funeral home company.

What I am trying to convey, while realizing that 45 years of happy married life is difficult at best to condense into a 600 word column, is that I am so blessed to have Mardell as my wife. She has been by my side and supported me totally in every way.

Proverbs 31, beginning with verse 10 in the Old Testament of the Bible reads, “A wife of noble character who can find? She is worth far more than rubies.” Later in that same chapter verse 28 reads, “Her children arise and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praises her…” That Proverb so describes Mardell.

And truly I concur with the analogy stated in the New Testament in Ephesians 5:25 “Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her…”

I will do anything for Mardell and I know that she, as she has proved continuously for 45 years, will do anything for me.

It’s called love.

Happy birthday, my Love.

Winston --

Winston Hamby
The Beaumont Enterprise
May 15, 2009

Jefferson Theater...For The Living and the Dead...?

2009-05-01T22:49:00.002-05:00

I never met them nor did I ever see them although I did feel them. At least I sensed their being or sensed their having been. Are you as confused as I may be? Read on…

In 1952 when I was employed as an usher at the Jefferson Theater in downtown Beaumont, I was ushered into a wonderland of days gone by. So vivid and so plentiful are my memories of that grand old vaudeville/road show opera house that I do not know where to begin. So I’ll start at the beginning of my employment with that establishment.

The first thing my manager showed me was the dressing room area. These rooms were located on the second floor backstage. This is where I went to change from my street clothes to my usher’s uniform.

In my dressing room, mirrors behind makeup counters lined the walls. There were light sockets surrounding the mirrors. The bulbs were missing but one easily could see how the room must have looked back in the 1920s and 1930s when things were in full swing. Road shows and vaudeville acts performed regularly at the Jefferson. By the way, The Jefferson got its name from Beaumont’s being the Jefferson County Seat.

Old wooden straight-back chairs still lined the makeup counter. Many times I sat in one of those chairs and looked at myself in the mirror. I sensed the presence of those performers who in the past sat in that same chair looking in that same mirror. The feeling was uncanny. Never before had I experienced such sensations as making contact with those generations who preceded me in that room.

I mentioned this to other ushers. They too had experienced the same sensations. Some even went as far as to say they believed the spirits of the old vaudeville performers still frequented those dressing rooms. I cannot dispute their opinions. I only know what I felt.

One day I needed a coat hanger to hang up my street shirt while working my shift. I could not find one. Just as I turned away from the closet to drape my shirt across one of the chairs, a coat hanger hit the floor behind me and bounded my way. I picked up the hanger and said, “thank you” not knowing for sure if I was speaking to anyone or not. If there are spirits in that dressing area, they seem friendly and willing to help out.

Thus springs a question, “Are those dressing rooms in the Jefferson Theater haunted?” Certainly I am not one to suggest anything bordering on the supernatural.

But wait. Here’s more. There was an old marquee mounted on the front of the building. In fact it’s still there. The marquee was composed of three sections. The front main section faced Fannin Street. Then there were two smaller side sections. One of these faced Orleans Street and the other faced Pearl Street.

One of my assignments was to change out that marquee every time the movie changed. One movie ran from Friday through Monday. Another one ran from Tuesday through Thursday. This meant that I changed the marquee on Monday and Thursday nights of each week.

Dragging out that 16-foot step ladder was an experience in itself. Every time I climbed that rickety old ladder and inserted those old letters into those old marquee slots, I sensed the spirits of those who in years gone by had climbed that same ladder and handled those same old letters. Once again, the feelings were uncanny.

Spirits or no spirits, working at the Jefferson was an experience that I treasure. Yes, I never met them nor did I ever see them.

But I surely enjoyed working with them.

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@comcast.net

J. L. Giles Elementary, Floor 2...

2009-04-26T08:49:00.000-05:00

Two years have passed since we toured the first floor of J. L. Giles Elementary School located in the South Park District of Beaumont. The dismissal bell interrupted us. At that time I promised you that we would return and tour the second floor. And remember that the school building is not there literally. They tore it down years ago to construct a Postal Service Center.

This means that the tour will be in my memory. And, as last time, I must ask you to step lightly and talk softly as I have a bit of a headache. Thank you.

As we leave the gymnasium and head up the steps we are coming out onto the second floor. The door to the right leads to the balcony of the school auditorium.

Across from that door is Miss Murrah’s classroom. She is the homeroom teacher for me and all the other 4th graders. The first floor is for first, second, and third grades. The second floor is for fourth, fifth, and sixth grades.

Miss Murrah is one of my favorite teachers. Even though I am a year younger than my classmates, she is going to let me have a lead part in the school Christmas play. This one act gives me more self-confidence than you would ever have guessed. I think she knows that I feel like a little runt compared to all of my older classroom peers.

OK, look across the hall. That is Miss Moore’s art class. They are busy working with all sorts of projects. Miss Moore is a good artist in her own right. Oh by the way, whatever you do, don’t make her mad. She has a very capable voice and when she gets upset you can hear her all the way down to the other end of the hall. Believe me. I have been there and done that and heard that.

Across the hall from Miss Moore’s room and down a bit is Mrs. Pietzsch’s room. She is my fifth grade homeroom teacher. I love her. She encourages me to write poetry.

One day while she was teaching us in her World History class, she saw me writing what should have been notes on our class lesson. She eased by my desk and saw that I was writing short poems. She took up my notes and told me to see her privately after class. I was scared to death. Would she have me kicked out of school or what?

After class I went to her desk. She looked over my notes and said, “Winston, these poems are wonderful and I hope you will write more of them. But I don’t want to see you writing poems again during my class time.” The way she handled the situation gave me great motivation to continue writing poems. But not during World History class.

Across the hall from there is the school library. Our librarian is Miss Syler. She is a quiet and fascinating person. See over there on the shelves along side the books? Those are coconuts. Her hobby of collecting coconuts always amuses me.

Then across the hall is Mrs. Reynolds’ classroom. She is my sixth grade homeroom teacher. Also, she teaches us arithmetic. Not bragging but I was the only one in class to make 100 on our multiplication tables. During that test I was stumped on the correct answer for 12 x 12 so I guessed 144 and got it right. That one guess got me the perfect score.

I regret that we have had to rush through our second floor tour but the dismissal bell is about to ring. We want to head downstairs before that stampede of kids gets turned loose.

Thank you for stepping softly…my headache is gone.

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@comcast.net

More Truth Than Fiction...

2009-04-05T13:03:00.000-05:00

A wordsmith is defined as, “a person who works with words.” Certainly I make no claims to being an expert wordsmith.
There are so many words I do not know and so many words that I cannot pronounce. Yet words make for a very fascinating study.
The extensive process of studying words and their history is called etymology. Etymology is a new hobby of mine so allow me to apologize should I attempt too many references as to how we derived our words.

For example, look at the word “gospel.” Literally this term means “good news.” Primarily the word refers to the gospel (good news) as found in the New Testament portion of the Holy Bible. Sometimes if a person is driving home a point religious or otherwise with great emphasis, he or she may say, “That’s the gospel truth.”

“Gospel” made its way into our current usage from Old English.
In those days the expression was “god spel.” Good was spelled “god” from the German “gut” or “guten” and spel was a word meaning “communication.” Thus “god spel” meant “good communication.”

Another interesting word used largely in religious circles is the word “atone.” If you want to be “at one” with God, just combine the terms “at” with “one” and you get “atone” If you are seeking “at onement” with God then you are seeking “atonement.”

The word “list” is interesting. If you look this one up in a good dictionary be prepared to see definitions of at least nine different words denoting “list.” Being from the Beaumont area I think of ships that carry an unbalanced load. They will tilt to one side or the other. In other words they will “list.” When I “list” my ear to your conversation it is the act of “listening.” Sound far-fetched? Don’t answer that.

When you “think” then you will find a solution to your problem. And that comes from Old English which was two words, “then can,” later becoming “thenken,” and finally to our current “thinking.”

Sometimes we make up our own words that have little or nothing to do with etymology.

Julia, my 9-year-old granddaughter came up with a word that makes a lot of sense. Of course Julia is brilliant. Whoever had a granddaughter that was otherwise? Her word came from the term, “vegetable oil.” To her, this was more syllables than necessary so she settled for the term, “vegetaboil.” Pretty clever, huh?

My wife contrived a word. At least we think it is original. She navigates while I drive. Houston traffic is horrendous at times and she has to talk fast. Rather than say “next exit” when we need to get off of the freeway, she will announce “nexit.” This is not an official word to my knowledge but it certainly works for us.

And I think that I have contrived a word. “Bitterful” is a term I use at times. When I have one of those good/bad days at the office I’ll tell my wife that today I experienced both the beautiful and the “bitterful.” She pretends to know what I mean.

Perhaps you have a family word that you have coined. By the way, “coin” means, “made up or invented.” If so, e-mail me and I’ll collect the “new” words and print them in a future column (keep them nice).

Words are interesting and mysterious. Each word has a fascinating story to tell. The dictionary seems to strain for a definition of the “written word” that being, “… a speech sound or series of speech sounds that symbolizes and communicates a meaning without being divisible into smaller units capable of independent use.”

And that’s the gospel truth.

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@comcast.net

Spring Again...

2009-03-22T08:01:00.000-05:00

Another way I knew when spring had arrived is that Mama would say, “Well, it’s time for our spring cleaning.” That term has not been used in our home since I was a boy living on Pipkin Street in Beaumont. I am certain that folks still do spring cleanings but they just don’t talk about them.

Usually this cleaning time meant that we were going to “sun” the mattresses and our pillows. I used to wonder why we sunned our bedding because Mama always told me to stay out of the sun during the hot part of the day. “You don’t want to catch polio,” she warned.

Also as part of the cleaning we had to move our furniture away from the walls and do some serious dusting of the baseboards. This was a good time to pick up any misplaced toys and perhaps remove any left over dead roaches.

During my formative years, this spring cleaning ritual meant that I had to clean up my room. My parents always were telling me to clean up my room but this spring cleaning time carried with it some special assignments. Mama would say, “Take everything out of your closet so we can put it all back.” This used to confuse me. Why take it all out just to put it back.

Then Mama would take down all of the living room curtains. I never knew why. Later she would put them back up. I guess it made her feel better knowing that the curtains had participated in our spring cleaning.

Another question I had back then was why we didn’t have fall cleanings, winter cleanings or summer cleanings. I never asked my parents about this because I did not want to give them any ideas. Cleaning up my room once per year was about all one boy could take.

There were occasions when the drudgery of spring cleaning became so hard that I would ease outside, climb the tallow tree by our bathroom window and get onto the roof of our house. I could stay on the roof for up to two hours and no one would know my where-a-bouts. Or so I thought. A few years later, Mama told me she knew I was on the roof because she could hear me walking around. She figured that if I stayed on the roof then I would stay out of her way while she was cleaning. So she never bothered telling me to get down. Not a bad trade out, I suppose.

Sometimes, if the sun was too hot for me to get onto the roof, I would go into our attic. Dad had torn the top out of our hall closet and made a steep staircase. It was pretty neat climbing those stairs. Almost like climbing a stepladder. But generally I couldn’t stay in the attic for very long because it was just too hot up there. We had an attic fan that pulled in air through our screen windows and blew it out through the roof vents. But I was afraid of the fan. Those blades looked like they could really chop up a boy so I stayed out of that breeze while in the attic.

One good lesson I learned from those experiences was I decided that it was simpler just to stay downstairs and get with the program. Cleaning up my room and dusting furniture were much easier than climbing up onto the roof in the hot sun or hiding out in a hot attic.

And even today, at age 73, I know that the most efficient way to get a task done is just go ahead and do it.

Although my wife would give anything if I would clean up my office.

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@comcast.net

A Kite HasThe Right To Flight At Great Height..

2009-03-07T10:37:00.000-06:00

Back in the 1940s as a boy living on Pipkin Street in the South Park area of Beaumont I made a bunch of kites. Now “bunch” really isn’t as refined as saying “many” or “several.” But you see, I did not make just “many” or “several.” I made a bunch. There were kites all over my bedroom and even some lying around on the floor throughout the house. Mama said they were “messy.” You see, she simply did not understand about kites. All kites have to be somewhere so it wasn’t my fault.

The most interesting kites I ever made that actually flew were about 7 inches high by 5 inches wide. They would not survive outdoors because the March winds were too gusty. However, they would fly inside the house in a breeze produced by my dad’s Emerson electric fan. Dad had one of those old oscillating fans that normally sat over in the corner of our dining room. It would turn back and forth and blow three speeds of air depending on how the switch was set. In fact that is how and when I learned the definition of “oscillate.”

Anyway, I used light-weight tissue paper along with leftover balsa wood strips from my model airplane hobby. Regular kite string was too heavy for the mini kites so I used thread from my mother’s sewing machine. Mama gave me a spool of thread so I would quit appropriating needed ingredients from her machine bobbins.

I have not tried making a mini kite since the late 1940s but I know it should still work if you want to give it a try. Following are the instructions:

• Obtain two small balsa wood sticks and trim to desired lengths.
• Tie the sticks together forming a cross.
• Run an additional thread around the ends of the sticks to stabilize the
cross.
• Place the framed cross against some tissue paper and trim around the outer
edges of the thread frame.
• Fold the paper edges over the thread of the frame and glue the folds in
place.

You now should have a two-stick mini kite (if you don’t then email me for clarification).

As for the kite’s tail, I found that two small paper clips attached to the bottom of the vertical stick worked just fine. This will depend upon the size of your kite and the velocity of your breeze.

Now find your indoor breeze. Usually electric fans are easy to come by. At least they were common in pre air-conditioner days.

One afternoon I made a mini kite. I set my dad’s fan so that it would not oscillate. I tied one end of some thread to the center of the fan cage and affixed the other end to the kite’s bridal (use thread for the bridal and fashion similar to those on regular two-stick kites). I turned the fan on at the lowest speed. The kite attempted to fly but began looping. I added a paper clip as a tail. The kite still looped so I added another paper clip. Then the kite flew. The thread from the fan to the kite was about three feet in length. The little kite would fly for up to 30 seconds before falling off to one side. A larger fan might have worked better.

I loved kites as did most of my friends. In fact this 73-year-old kid has six kites out in the garage that have never been flown. I have collected them over the years but just never have had the time to go out and fly them.

But if anyone ever tells me to “go fly a kite,” I’ll be ready.

Winston Hamby
WinHamby@sci-us.com