Mark's book blog

Chapter 21

2011-12-09T15:14:00.000-08:00

The Big Fisherman

    It’s weird how the anticipation of an event is seldom as fun, exciting, lucrative… as you expected. That’s been the case with me. Particularly as it concerned the anticipation of things Dad planned for us to do.

    Dad was going to buy a boat once. Talked about it for a couple of months. He was going to take Dennis, Larry and me to the base of the dam at Lake Houston and we were going to fill our new boat with fish. Fish congregate at the base of a dam. Big fish. I don’t know why that is, but Dad assured us that’s where they gathered.

    The thought of being in a boat at the base of a dam didn’t sound all that inviting to me. I had Niagara Falls pictured in my brain. If the boat got too close, the current would just carry us right over. I obviously had the image all wrong, ‘cause Dad never expressed any fear. Big difference between dams and falls. Apparently.

    Dennis and I thought about the boat forever. About eight weeks. We even got stuff ready for the boat outings. Spent our allowance on a couple of detachable cane poles. A rod and reel was a step beyond our ability to imagine. We were cane pole fishermen… in our imaginings.

We even bought the little fishing rigs with green line, cork and hooks attached. Used a cigar box to store our tackle.

How big would the boat be? How powerful? Do you think we could ski behind it? Would it be big enough to sleep in, or would we have to get a tent? Life jackets! Dad has got to get some life jackets. Not those hokey canvas orange ones with the soft stuff inside. Those are for losers. You never saw Mike Nelson wearing something like that.– Beg pardon? Oh, Mike Nelson. “Sea Hunt?” Lloyd Bridges? Oh, forget it. Enough to know that he wouldn’t wear an sappy orange life-preserver.

When school finally let out in the Year of the Boat, I was even more excited than usual. It takes a big thing to get you more excited than getting out of school for three months. A giant boat would do it.

It was the middle of June when Dad pulled into the driveway with it. He’d was coming home from the day shift. I didn’t even know you buy a boat where he worked. That was strange, but stranger still was the fact that no trailer was attached to the truck. Had he lost the thing in the tunnel? I bet that’s what happened. He crashed it in the tunnel. But, he was okay. Dad had survived the carnage.

But, no. I was jumping the gun. Putting the ol’ horse behind the cart. Had the bear by the horns. You see Dad never had a boat trailer attached to the truck. I just expected he would. “Bringing something big home from work” I thought meant that he was bringing our new boat. He must’ve bought it off somebody from work. A used boat. That’s okay. It was practically new. The guy’s wife didn’t want him spending so much money on a boat, so he had to sell it to Dad. I could see that happening. But, I couldn’t see the boat. It just wasn’t there.

Instead, Dad stepped out of the truck, reached in the bed and pulled out an old outboard motor. A small one. Three horsepower comes to mind. Surely it was more than that, but that’s the number that’s attached to this particular memory. Oh, and did I mention the motor was old? Old and green. I can almost see the thing now.

After supper Dad consolidated all of our trash into two of most damaged trash cans. Back then trashmen were vicious. To make their jobs tolerable, they’d pretend to be The Incredible Hulk. They’d toss trash cans around like they were rolled up socks. Bounced ‘em off the road and the curb. Tough they were. Not the cans. Oh, the trash cans were made of galvanized metal, but they were so bendable and rustable. A can bottom lasted for about a month. Two weeks in, the lids wouldn’t fit. I told you that to tell you this. We had one new can that was leakless. Dad grabbed the water hose and filled the can nearly two thirds full. He then set a two by four along the lip and attached the motor.

Dennis and I were more than a little concerned as to what Dad had in mind. The boat? What about the boat? Base of the dam, big fish, camping… Neither of us had the guts to ask Dad about the boat. The old leaky, smelly outboard pretty much told the story. I didn’t want to believe it, but it was growing more and more apparent.

As Dad was prying out the sparkplug he spilled the beans. Metaphorically speaking. “Boys, I thought I’d get this motor in running order and then rent us a boat. That way we won’t need a trailer or place to park it. This will be a lot better. You’ll see.”

Oh, we saw it all right. What a let down. Two months of dreaming about a new boat, and all of a sudden our big fishing trip takes a nose dive. I took it harder than Dennis did. I think Dennis halfway expected something like this to happen. He had spent three more years with Dad than I had. I still believed.

I didn’t cry out loud or anything, but inside I was dying. It didn’t help to watch Dad struggle with that motor. He reinserted the spark plug, poured in a mixture of gas and oil and then told us to stand back. I don’t know how many times he yanked on the starter rope. I stopped counting at 1800. The closest he got to a legitimate start was about five seconds of black smoke and a loud roaring, churning noise.

Dad tried every spent spark plug he had. And, he had a cigar box full. (We used a lot of cigar boxes back then.) The man never threw away a plug. Nor, do I ever remember him buying a new one. I may be exaggerating a bit there. You’ve got to understand that I was pretty torn up about the old boatless motor. I’m still not completely over it.

Dennis and I never got to ride with Dad in a boat. Not even a rented one. Larry says he remembers one outing with Dad in a rented boat with the old three-horsepower outboard. He said that after they shoved off from the shore there at Lake Houston, Dad started yanking on the rope. According to Larry the motor eventually kicked off and ran long enough for them to get a distance away from the put-in point. Then it died with a a loud pop and a giant black cloud. Dad then started digging into his box of sparkplugs. He never did get it restarted. Dad and Larry took turns paddling to shore with the short-handled oar. I think that’s an old Scottish song. “Paddling my Lassie to shore with short-handled oar.”

It wasn’t long after the motor debacle that Dad did go fishing below the dam. He went with Red Kerns in Red’s boat. Dad came home with a burlap bag full of catfish, too. Big ones. He cleaned them in the backyard using the water hose to turn a portion of sod into a red, soggy mess. Mom fried those bubbas up, and we almost wretched. The things tasted like gasoline… not that I’ve feasted on that much fuel.

Turns out, each time Dad and Red took a fish off the hook, they just tossed it in the bottom of the boat. Unfortunately, some spilled gasoline and oil had mixed with the water that puddled in the bottom. Mom said the fish smelled a little oily when she breaded them. Dad said he smelled something fishy while he was cleaning them. He said he figured the stuff would dissipate during the cooking. I don’t know what kept us from losing Mom that evening.

I couldn’t fault Dad for his dreams. He had great dreams and schemes of boats and tents and camping. Had his plans ever reached fruition, they would’ve been the stuff of adventure. Unfortunately, the anticipation generated by the planning provided the building blocks for disappointment. If Dad hadn’t been so set on making us happy, he would’ve tried less hard. If he had prefaced his plans with “Boys, I’ve got an idea that will probably never work, but let’s talk about it” I would’ve still gone along with it, but I would’ve been so much less disappointed at the outcome.

All of this lays the groundwork for the Texas City Jetty Fishing Experience. You may have read about it in some outdoor disaster magazine.

Before 1962 I had no idea what a jetty was, so it stands to reason that I had no idea that one was near Texas City. Dad knew, though. I’m thinking Red Kerns told him. – “Would I lie to you, Faris? They’ve got red fish, tarpon and tuna by the ton. You could tie a soup can on a line and reel in a swordfish.” -- Can you imagine what Red Kerns’ kids witnessed? Oh, the horror.

It was early August when Dad got the brothers together and told us what he’d heard about the jetties at Texas City. Seems like it was a Sunday while on our way to church. We were going to drive out Thursday morning; fish the whole day; eat what we caught; sleep on the beach that night, periodically checking our lines; get up in the morning, have breakfast and then keep fishing. Might stay an extra night or two.

It sounded good to Dennis and me. Neither of us could grasp the idea of a jetty, but our minds resonated on the water, beach, camping and fishing concepts. The four major fun factors.

We headed out Thursday morning before sunrise. Dennis and I had our gear ready since Sunday. What was so good about being a kid was the fact that you only had to worry about yourself. Food, bedding, insect repellent… that kind of stuff was left to the adults. The more responsible.

We reached Texas City just as the sun’s hairline touched the horizon. By the time its nose appeared I was looking smack dab at a jetty. What the Sam Hill was that? It wasn’t a pier. It was a long pile of jagged granite boulders strewn in a line out into the bay. Strewn a long way. It had a flat, walkable surface on the peak, but a pointy rugged side. I knew nothing about wind and water abatement or safe havens for boats. I just figured it was one weird way to provide a place to fish.

And, the beach! Oh, the beach. Forget the long stretch of sand. It was mostly gray ooze. Oh, we were going to have a blast.

For most of the morning we crawled all over the pink granite. Some of it might’ve been gray. Who can remember? Wet, slimy and slippery as eel snot. Dad and Larry had rod and reels. Dennis and I had the ol’ two piece cane poles. I don’t think we were ever taken that serious.

Normally, I’m a very impatient fisher-person. Can’t stay at one place too long. Just feel like there’s something a few feet over waiting to sink its teeth into some hooked bait. On this occasion the bait was shrimp. Old smelly, shrimp. It was the first time I fished with a crustacean bait. So, you can imagine that it was also the first time I fished in salt water. The scary thing about fishing in saltwater is the fact that a lot of what you hook might have teeth. I don’t like the thought of taking a hook out of the mouth of a toothed creature. Turns out, I didn’t have to like it. The only things that hit my line were tiny catfish. About six inches. I got a lot of hits, too. Just miserable. I tried to de-hook ‘em by throwing my line against a boulder. Sometimes it would free the fish up to… well to roll into the water and lay there. I didn’t like it any more than they did. Well, maybe a little more.

It wasn’t long before I stopped baiting my hook. You can bang tiny catfish against the rocks just so long before the fun dissipates. Dad and Larry didn’t tire so fast. They were casting their line out there to beat the band. They were using lures, too. No smelly shrimp for them. They had spoons and bombers and flashers. I couldn’t tell one from the other. Doubt they could. Most of ‘em looked like a set of car keys held together a by a giant paperclip.

The redfish weren’t biting that day, my friend. In fact nothing was biting but catfish. I think dad called ‘em drums. I couldn’t see it, but, hey, it was saltwater. Any fish that lives in the muck of that saltwater deserves a weird name. Crapfish would not be inappropriate as far as was concerned.

Lunchtime finally arrived, and, needless to say, we weren’t going to be eating our catch. Fortunately, Dad brought along some weenies and buns. That’s about it. Oh, and some Freetos. We gathered up some driftwood and built a fire with some siphoned gas. We found some thick wire planted in the mud and used it to skewer our weeners. If you’ve never skewered your weener on a hunk of wire, you just haven’t roughed it enough.

After lunch, Larry and Dad headed back out. Dennis and I walked around and eventually sprawled out in the car. It was hot, mosquitoey and… hot. After what seemed like three days, it was suppertime. More hotdogs.

Night came way late, but stayed forever. Dad hadn’t planned the camping very well. I guess he figured we’d just sleep in the car, ‘cause… well, it was either that or standing on the muddy beach. Too hot and too many mosquitoes. Every hour or two, one of us would wade through the mud to where the fishing poles were set up. The theory that something desperate might want to bite a piece of smelly shrimp tumbling around in the surf. Hey, I even contemplated the thought. No snacks. Can you believe that? We had no snacks. Still, I trudged out with Dad to check the lines. Anything to get me out of the sweltering backseat.

If you do some research about the happenings of August 3, 1962, you’ll find something about time stopping for about 18 hours in Texas City. Scientists have somehow managed to keep it a secret. Only a few witnesses are left who can attest to the anomaly. You’re reading something from one of ‘em now.

But, as you’ve probably guessed, morning did arrive. It had to. Anomalies can last for just so long before people start getting suspicious. What was sure to make this particular morning a real blessing was Dad’s mention of breakfast. While we were melting in the car, Dad said that he had thought to bring eggs and potatoes for breakfast. We could use leftover weeners for bacon. He was a genius. Oh, and he had a cook stove. I was giddy as a Miss Buffalo runner-up.

“Cook stove” turned out to be pretty much of an overstatement. What Dad pulled out of the trunk was one of those cannonball-looking kerosene road torches, with a welded metal grid for sitting a skillet on. I’m fairly sure Red Kerns invented it. I later found out that the road flare is called a Toledo Torch. I think they’re made in Santa Fe. (I still had the semblance of a sense of humor.)

Dad lit the wick of the TT and the thing started smoking like a burning steel-belted Uniroyal. Dad peeled the potatoes and diced ‘em while the skillet heated. I figured we were in trouble when I observed how long it took the Crisco to melt. We apparently had a cool flame going. Dad chunked the potatoes in and they just sat there. There was no cooking noises at all. No, crack, pop or sizzle. The potatoes just congregated in a bunch and collected particulates from the smoke. Before long the spuds were coated with a black suet. They were still raw, though. Raw and black. Dad figured he’d given ‘em long enough, so he scooped ‘em out into a couple of flimsy paper plates and then so he cracked a bunch of eggs and tossed them in a skillet. The eggs wouldn’t even cook. They would turn a smoky black, though.

Dad finally called time and spooned us each up a flimsy paper plate of rawness. As hungry as I was, I couldn’t eat it. I couldn’t even manage the cold weener.

We stood there in the wet sea mist of morning poked around at breakfast, eventually tossing it into the surf where fish and crabs scrambled to get away. Dad extinguished the road torch, while Larry cleaned the skillet in the surf. Dennis and I just stood around looking sad. Dad must’ve picked up on that ‘cause he said, “Well, what do you boys think?” We gave our usual, “I don’t know” answers. That’s always the safest thing for a kid to say. Dad nodded and then said, “Well, what do you think about going home?” Dennis and I exchanged eye-widening expressions. I believe it was Dennis who said, “Well, if we must.”

Dad grinned and said, “Okay, how about gathering up the poles and telling your brother that we’re getting out of here.

Larry welcomed the news. Welcomed it big time. “Can you believe this? Just when I didn’t think it could get any worse, he pulls out the road flare. What was he thinking?” Dad was too far away to hear anything, so Larry pretty well lit into him. It really did me good to hear him, ‘cause, during the entire experience, I thought maybe I was the only one having a miserable time. I was fairly sure Dennis was unhappy, but he could fake it so much better than I could. So, I wasn’t the only stick in the mud. In fact, maybe I was almost normal. No. I didn’t go overboard with the notion.

    I don’t think I ever felt more grubby and gross than when I climbed out of the ’60 Biscayne in the driveway on Camille Street. I was hungry, filthy, mosquito bitten, smoke-smelling grungy. The ring I left in the bathtub took a half can of Babo to remove. Mom told me that later, ‘cause I was too tired to scrub the tub myself. Mom was a peach.

    Dennis and I ate a couple of tuna sandwiches apiece and some of those cheap pink wafer cookies. Dad’s idea of a snack… a snack that he had left in the cabinet. Then we crawled into bed and slept till late evening. The outing had really taken its toll.

Even after all these years I still unwittingly conjure up the sense of misery we experienced during that outing. Can’t help it. Thoughts of bad stuff can stick like tar on shoe leather. Can with me.

This will likely come across as way too noble-sounding, but I’ve got to say that, after all we went through, I was really more worried about Dad’s disappointment than I was upset at the horrors of that trip. I knew that Dad wanted more than anything for us to have a good time. It just wasn’t in the cards.

Dad was to blame for some of what happened, but mostly it was Red Kerns. What a goobhead. How could we separate Dad from the influence of that maniac? We couldn’t didn’t think we should kill him, but we certainly discussed it.

It was after the Texas City Jetty incident that the name “Red Kerns,” when used as a qualifier to any suggestion, became anathema among the Hayter brothers. I don’t know that Dad ever picked up on that. We didn’t think it wise to make fun of one of Dad’s friends. Even the big nincompoop friend.

I don’t believe I ever met Red. I feel good about that. I always envisioned a redheaded guy who talked a blue streak. The kind of guy who would one-up you on any accomplishment. “Oh, yeah? My Buick gets 80 miles a gallon.” That kind of stuff.

And, he must’ve been a guy who Dad owed money. There was no other explanation.

Chapter 20

2011-10-04T12:36:00.000-07:00

This is the second time this photo has appeared. I'm using it as a reference as to about how old I was the time Dad rescued me from the werewolf.

Rescued by Dad

    Most psychologists will tell you that the fifth child in a seven-child family is generally the one of whom the least amount of fanfare is made. You’ll have to trust me on that ‘cause there’s no way I’m calling most psychologists back just to document it. The research is killing me on this book.

    I can count on a butcher’s mangled left hand the number of times Dad or Mom ever singled me out for anything good during my youth. Dennis? My older brother got patted on the back so many times he carries his right shoulder in a slant to this very day. Most people believe he was a pitcher for the Orioles. No, it was the constant parental back and shoulder slaps.

    Me? My rear was swatted so many times that, to this day, I have a tendency to walk on my toes. Swats to the rear affect people in different ways. Mine elevate my walk. Most doctors consider that normal. And, no, I’m not calling “most doctors” back just to verify that for you.

    One of the few “good” one-on-one moments I experienced with Dad was a fluke. Dad just pretty much walked right into it. Carried himself well during the encounter. It’s one of my cherished moments.

    It all happened because of a backyard campout. Back then Dad’s never took their sons camping. Talked about it a lot, but it just wasn’t convenient or practical to haul your kids to the woods somewhere to rough it. It was bad enough that you had to live indoors with the little twits. I’m just guessing here.

    So the neighborhood gang resorted to backyard campouts. We didn’t have tents. We built forts. Your standard fort would be constructed with sawhorses, blankets, garbage cans and fender skirts. What? Fender skirts. You’re too young to know.

    We’d each supply snacks and drinks, and combine the stash into one giant pile. All the good stuff was usually gone an hour or two into night. Some of the bad stuff never got consumed. Beg pardon? You know, crackers, liver loaf and really old Velveeta. Old Velveeta can kill you. Don’t know if you knew that.

    The only participants in this particular campout were David Stone and I. I have no idea why we were the only ones. We’d never done it before… nor since. I’m fairly sure I’ll die not knowing… and I can live with that. Were I forced to come up with a reason, I’d have to guess that it was during the big mumps epidemic of ’61 at Revlon Terrace. That was the name of our subdivision. Back then even the poor subdivisions got cool names. Revlon. Makes me feel rich just saying it.

    Regardless, it was most odd that none of our other friends cared to campout. Odder still that Dennis wasn’t interested. Every campout I ever camped Dennis was there… except for this one night. Weird how that worked. Oh, and the campout was in David’s backyard. That’ll mean more to you later. Work with me here.

    I remember that Dennis was surprised when I decided to camp without him. He thought his lack of commitment to the project would kill the whole notion. I don’t know why it didn’t. I must’ve taken all his smart allelic behavior I could handle. At one point he assured me that I would come running home early in the night. “No way you two nabobs will make the whole night. You’ll be too scared.” He said something like that. I doubt he said “nabob” though. Not sure where that came from.

    It took two trips to get all my camping junk to David’s. We didn’t even build a fort. Can you believe that? We thought it’d be cool just to lay outside and look up at the stars. Nabob is looking more and more appropriate.

    By 10:00 we had finished off all the snacks. All except for a bottle of warm Grape Nehi. If you ever down some old Velveeta with a warm grape Nehi, your stomach will explode. Hey, I’ve seen it happen. Heard about it, anyway. Pretty sure I didn’t read it.

    So at 10 David and I were stuffed to the gills. By 11:00 we were talked out. The mosquitoes were beginning to swarm and a werewolf was rattling the gate. That’s what they do before attacking. They toy with you.

    So, David up and says he wants to go in. He didn’t suggest “we” go in. Just that “he” was. So, what’s the problem? We had cancelled many a campout in mid camp. What’s the big deal on this occasion? Dennis was the big deal. Dennis was always with me on campouts, so we’d walk home together. Monsters wouldn’t mess with you if your big brother there. It’s some kind of code.

    I don’t even remember David asking me what I thought about shutting down the camp. He just up and went inside after making his announcement. He didn’t slam the door in my face or anything, but he certainly didn’t offer to help me haul my stuff home.

    So, there was just me in the backyard with a werewolf at the gate. I didn’t have my bike with me. I couldn’t ride and balance all my gear, so I walked it over. We’re talking, oh, six, seven houses down the block. About three miles in bike-less kid distance.

    I decided it best to leave all my gear in David’s backyard, and make a dash for my house. I’d come back the next day and recover my stuff. So, I crept to the gate, and announced my presence. There’s no use trying to hide from a werewolf. Those things can smell you a mile away. Besides, they know when you’re thinking about ‘em. The thought that Frankenstein’s monster could beat a werewolf is beyond fiction. They’re fast and they can jump. Have you seen their teeth? Have you? Okay, then.

    So I loudly opened the gate, crept out to the middle of the street— You don’t walk on the sidewalk alone at night unless you want something to jump out a tree and slit your throat. – No, you want to be in the middle of the street so you can see what’s coming. So, I’m in the middle of the street and I start singing. “Have gun will travel is the card of a man. A knight without armor in a savage land.”

    Then I started a slow trot. “His fast gun for hire heeds the calling wind. A soldier of fortune is the man called… Pal-a-din!” When I got to Paladin, I was full speed. I never looked behind, because that’s when they grab you from the front. I did look side to side, though. My peripheral vision is exceptional. Always has been. – Three fingers. – I thought you might test me.

    I went got parallel to my yard, I went from curb to sidewalk in one jump. From there I was a blur to the front door. I instantly tried to calm down. I didn’t want to barge in and wake people up. Mostly didn’t want to wake Dennis up. I would take his razzing in the morning, but didn’t care to hear anything when I climbed into bed. – We slept together. I believe I mentioned that. Back then it was a fairly normal thing to do. Wally and Beaver were the only brothers I knew with twin beds.

    So, I eased open the screen door, and grabbed hold of the doorknob. The thing wouldn’t turn. No way. It wasn’t happening. We never locked the doors back then. Why would Mom look ‘em on the night I—Then it hit me. Dennis. I was almost arrogant in my assurance to him that David and I would make it all night. And, he was so sure I wouldn’t. He didn’t want me sneaking into the house. He wanted me to wake everyone up, so he do the ol’ ninny-ninny-noo-noo thing to me.

    So, what was I going to do? Wake everybody up by knocking on the door or scratching on a window screen. I couldn’t scratch on Jill’s window ‘cause she would scream. Jill was a screamer. What am I saying? She still is.

Or, I was I going to man-up and stay outside till morning. I first walked around the house and peeked in the windows to see if anyone was still up. I knew Dad was working graveyards and wouldn’t be in till early morning. I was glad of that, ‘cause I really didn’t want to accidentally wake him up and have him come to the door and give me that disappointing look. I hated to disappoint that man. Just seemed like the easiest thing for me to do. Most things were hard for me, but letting Dad down was easy as being scared in the dark. I was an expert at it. It’s a gift of the number five child.

My luck was running pretty well true to form. There was no one stirring in the Hayter house. The attic fan was on, so even if I tried to scratch on a screen it’d be hard for anyone to hear me. I’d end up having to practically yell to get someone’s attention. Probably end up getting shot by the neighbor. At the time, the thought wasn’t all that bad.

The porch was uncomfortable as all get out. I had the brick pillar to lean against, but the concrete floor was like… well like sitting on concrete. I had left my blanket in David’s backyard, and there was no way on God’s green earth I was going back for that thing. It was going to be a long night.

Tears began to stream down my face. It was a weird cry. Had some anger in it. I was angry at Dennis for locking me out, but I was mostly mad at me for… for being me. I was such a loser. Scared of my shadow, uncertain of everything. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this more than twice, but I always had this feeling that I was a freak or a Martian or something, and everybody knew about it but me. Each time I exited a room or left my friends, everyone would start giggling and making fun of how stupid I was. In a sense you’d have to be rather egotistical to believe people would go to that much trouble for you, but I was too messed up to see that aspect of it.

And, I was upset at God, too. I knew he was embarrassed to have me around. No way could I be turning out the way He had planned. But, then, why would He go to the trouble of providing me with another lesson in humiliation? What good would it do? I was beat down about as far as I could go.

At one point, I realized I was not going to make it through the whole night. A non-alien would’ve bitten the bullet and gone ahead and knocked on the door. The sooner the better. But, I was going to put it off till I was about ready to crack. Didn’t think it would take all that long.

I hadn’t been on the porch for 30 minutes when a pair of headlights streaked across the street as a car rounded the corner. Who on earth? The vehicle slowed as it approached the house. It was unmistakably our 60 Chevy Biscayne. It was Dad. I thought he was working the graveyard shift, but he had worked the evening shift instead. The evening shift meant he was home by about midnight.

Why didn’t I know that? I was apparently so excited about camping out that I never noticed that Dad was at work. I just figured he was sleeping late so he could work the night shift. Graveyards. – No idea why they called ‘em that. -- Dad hated graveyards, but he did get paid about 30 cents an hour more when he worked ‘em. And, there weren’t so many foremen out and about at night, so everyone in the plant appreciated that aspect of the shift.

But, forget all that. Dad was home! I ran over and opened the garage door for him. He smiled at me as he drove in. It was a good smile. He got out of the car and handed me his lunch kit. “What are you doin’ up?” he asked.

I told him the story about camping over at David’s house and how the mosquitoes were really bad, so we decided to call it off. Who was I kidding? Dad knew we got scared and David decided to go in. “Yeah, the mosquitoes are really bad tonight, aren’t they?” he said.

Dad grabbed the doorknob to the backdoor and found it locked. “What’s this all about?” It was right then that it registered with him. I had been locked out. He asked how long I’d been there, and I told him the truth. “Well, I guess I’m gonna hafta start leaving a key in the garage for you boys. Where’s your brother?” I told him that Dennis decided not to camp with us. It made no more sense to Dad than it meant to me.

“Well, let’s get in and find something to snack on.” He shooed me into the house, where we had some milk and really cheap cookies. You know, the light, waffley wafers with the white icing in ‘em? Nothing to ‘em. When it came to cookies and candy, Dad thought cheap was best. Taste was secondary.

But, I didn’t think on that for more than a second. Dad had rescued me. And, he didn’t make a big deal – or any deal—about me being too scared to campout. It was like he almost understood what it was like to be me.

Dad asked me if I wanted to stay up awhile and watch TV with him. He said he always had trouble going to sleep when he got home from graveyards. Needed time to enjoy being home. Like an idiot, I told him I was too tired to stay up. He understood. He may have genuinely wanted me to stay up with him, but I just didn’t believe it. I thought he was just trying to be nice to me. Trying to make me feel better about myself. I way over analyze sometimes. Most times.

Before going to bed, I walked over to Dad as he sat in his chair in the living room. I walked to side of the chair and put my arms on his shoulders, hugged him and told him good night. He reached around and patted my head. When I was much younger, we would kiss Daddy goodnight. At this particular age, I usually just told him goodnight. But, this time I felt a hug was in order.

A Dad hug always had a neat feeling about it. When he got off work, his hugs smelled of cigar smoke and refinery. It was an oily, gasoline, exhaust type of smell. To this day that combination still me reminds me of Dad.

Oh, and when you hugged Dad, you could always feel his stubble on your cheek. If you hugged him right after he shaved, you’d still feel the stubble. If it wasn’t there, it wouldn’t have been Dad.

A few years back, I was asleep, dreaming about Dad. My Dad dreams were always good ones. Over the years, my dreams of Dad have all become good ones. And, each time, I’m the only one who seems to think it odd that Dad is still around. It was like I was the only one who remembered he died. Anyway, Dad hugged me in the dream and I could feel his whiskers and smell the cigar smoke. The sensation was so real that it even woke me up.

It felt so much like Dad was really there, but I know he wasn’t. I don’t think God lets people in heaven come down to visit us on earth. It wouldn’t be fair to them. It wouldn’t be heaven if you were up there worrying about how your family was doing. No, I think God decided to bless me with a Dad hug that night. Must’ve thought I could use one.

Remembering these few minutes with my Dad has made me see that a lot of things that I saw as “bad” in my life, seemed to bring “good” along with them? If I hadn’t experienced the humiliating campout event, if Dennis hadn’t decided not to join us, David had not left me and gone inside, if Dennis hadn’t locked me out of the house… well I would’ve missed out on one of the few bonding experiences I had with my dad. It was one of my favorite moments with him. While I cherish the memory, I’m still upset with myself for not staying up with him to watch TV. It was so like me.

By the way, Dennis didn’t make fun of me all that much about chickening out. He was actually awake when I climbed into bed. “I told you.” That’s all he said. I was expecting so much worse.

I don’t know, maybe he was sorry that he locked me out. Or, like I say, maybe it was God’s plan that he lock me out so both brothers could discover different lessons in a single moment.

Or, maybe I am from Mars. I still think about that.

Chapter 19

2011-08-27T20:00:00.000-07:00

“At the Movies”

   I don’t associate with all that many people who are big moviegoers. Cousin Claudia said the last time she went to the movies “Midnight Cowboy” was showing. She said that she and her husband thought it was a Western. The experience soured her on all movies.

   Hey, I saw “Midnight Cowboy” too, but I didn’t let it ruin the theatre experience fo me. When it got an Academy Award for Best Picture it did cause me to question life as I knew it, but it didn’t diminish my desire to go to the movie. I think it had to do with DNA. When I was a kid, I didn’t know much about chromosomes and stuff like that. Today, I’m practically a geneticist. I’ve got it down.

   In researching letters, diaries, memories for this book, I have determined that I got my love for the movies from Dad. I’d show you the math and diagrams, but would much rather just tell you the story.

   Among the best ideas Dad ever had in his entire life was to occasionally take Dennis and me to downtown Houston to catch a movie at either The Metropolitan or The Majestic Theatres. I don’t know what got into him. The Capitan was right down the road. Great movie house. Built in around 1950 in that old opulent ‘20s style with the balcony and weird paintings on the wall and a plush curtain. The Capitan was great… for the common man.

   But, Dad, when he was in the best mood ever, would find Dennis and me and ask us the stupidest question ever asked. “Do you boys want to go downtown to see a movie?” It was like Christmas in summer. We even wore our church clothes. We were going uptown, just Dad, Dennis and me. Of course, Lynda, Larry and Susan were grown and out of the house. When you moved out of the house, you were pretty much missed out on Dad paying for stuff.

   Downtown Houston was pretty much like I expected Mars or Venus to be. I was just completely out of my environment. A different world. Buildings so tall that I got scared when I looked straight up. And, we even parked in a building. Just bizarre as it could be. If you parked in a building in Pasadena, you had to go through a wall. Not, so in Houston. They had buildings where cars could stay.

   Before the movie Dad always took us to LC Cafeteria for lunch. LC was like a Wyatts or Luby’s or Furr’s or Piccadilly’s or— I’ve got nothing else. Please, nod like recognize one of these places.

   Dad even let us get a dessert… and it wasn’t even our birthdays. I remember once Dennis and I both got lemon pie. Somebody did something weird to it. It tasted like soap. And, I knew what soap tasted like. The weird thing about bad pie is the fact that you remember it. I remember two pie experiences in my life. One was the lemon soap pie. The other was chocolate. Landed right on top of Dad. Remind me to share later. I’ll try to work it into the next chapter.

   Dad never rushed us through lunch. Never said, “Hurry up, guys, we’ve got to get to the movie before it starts. We never heard that because Dad never knew when the movie started. We just showed up when we got there. The person in the ticket booth had no problem selling you a ticket for a movie that had been on for an hour or more. During our outings to The Metropolitan and The Majestic, we never once got to see the first of a movie first. We’d enter, Dad would get us each a popcorn and soda pop, then we’d stumble into the dark auditorium and feel our way to seats on the right side. Remember, Dad saw best out of his left eye, so we sat on the right... I suppose so he didn’t have to turn his head too far. I never really came to grips with the reasoning.

   Oh, and this was before stadium seating and steeply slanted floors. Back then, theatre seating was designed by the same people who designed church auditoriums. They apparently seldom went to church or the theatre. Just never imagined anyone mike take the seat right in front of you and block your vision. If I went back in time, I wouldn’t be able to add much to society in the way technological advances, but I could sure give ‘em lyrics to some great songs, and I could tell ‘em to slant the floors of their auditorium and set the stage or screen up higher. Jim-a-neee! That’s what Mom used to say. If it can’t be attributed to a Disney cricket, I have no idea where she got it.

   Okay, so we’re back to the movie. When we sat down, we had no idea how far into the movie we were. Could be 10 minutes are an hour. What’d we’d do is watch the end of the movie and then stay planted till it started up again. Oh, and this was a time before clean up people entered the room and swept up all the popcorn and spilled drinks. Back then they only did that at the end of the day, if at all. The movie would end, and five minutes later, the next would crank up. And, you wanna know what’s really stupid? We weren’t the only ones who came into the middle of the movie. I don’t know what the deal was back then. During a movie, there’d be people getting up and leaving all during the thing. They’d recognize the part they came in on, and then just leave. Life back then was just weird as it could be.

   Like everyone else, we generally left after catching up to the part where we came in. But, for the special movies we’d watch the whole thing from start to finish. Red River, High Noon, The Searchers… Oh, and Shane comes to mind. Dad loved that movie. We came in when Shane and all the small ranchers came into town to buy supplies, and Shane got in the fight with Ben Johnson and all the other Ryker guys. But, we didn’t leave at that point. We may have even seen it two complete times.

   I always felt bad that Jill didn’t get to go to the movie with us. It had to be because she too young and she was a girl. Being a girl was a big downer back then, especially if you had four brothers.

I never felt bad that Alan couldn’t go with us. He was just a little squirt. He wouldn’t even appreciate a movie. Oh, he’d like to go, but he wouldn’t pay attention. Dad wasn’t going to fork over money for a meal and a ticket to someone who couldn’t pay attention. Who can blame him?

Now that I think of it, there was a time when Dad took all four of us younger kids to the movie. It was on a Sunday… which was weird, because we never went to the movie on a Sunday. It was unscriptural. Bound to have been. But, sure enough, one Sunday after church Dad asked if we wanted him to take us to the movie. He said he was going to drop us off and pick us up when it ended.

At the time I was flabbergasted. We all were. A Sunday movie? Hey, don’t ask questions, just go with it. So we piled into the car and Dad headed to the Capitan. That’s where “The Ten Commandments.” During the drive, Dennis mentioned that “The Lost World was showing at ”The Longs” down the road from the Capitan. The Lost World! Dinosaurs. We loved dinosaurs. Dad didn’t care. He wanted us to see “The Ten Commandments.” Told us it would be more exciting and religious and that, it being a Sunday we should see it.

“Okay, Dad, if that’s what you want us to see.” We told him something like that. Said it in a way that let him know how disappointed we were. When we got to the theatre, we were all ready to get out of the car, but Dad stopped us. “Okay, okay. You can see the stupid dinosaurs. And, he drove us to The Longs.”

Boy, did we all wish we had gone to see the Moses movie. “The Lost World” wasn’t even a movie. It was documentary thing like might see at school. And, it lasted only a little over an hour. And, that’s all that was on. No three shows with cartoons and previews. We ended up calling Dad was sooner than we thought we would.

Dad wasn’t surprised by the call, though. No, he knew all along that the dinosaur movie was a short one. It didn’t hit me till I was married what was really going on in Dad’s mind that day. You see “The Ten Commandments” was almost four hours long. That would’ve been four hours that Dad and Mom would’ve had to themselves. No kids in the house on a Sunday. One can only imagine what they might do with their time. A young Mark couldn’t imagine, but someone else might have.

We eventually did get to see “The Ten Commandments,” but that didn’t do Dad much good. At that point he probably didn’t care one way or the other. Kids. They can really wreck stuff.

Of course, back then, all movies were not shown indoors. See where I’m going with this? You bet ya. We’re headed for the Drive-in. We’d finish supper on a Friday or Saturday evening, and Dad would say, “What would ya’ll think about going to the Drive-in?” What would we think? What would we think? Good grief, Daddy, we’re already there. I mean we’re sitting here at the kitchen table, but our minds are aat the Drive-in. Yea, Daddy! Give me five! On the downside! – No we never said stuff like that, but I sure wish we would’ve.

For a dad to pile his family into a car and head off to an outdoor theatre to see two or three movies, a few previews and some cartoons… well, he’d hafta be nuts. But, that’s what Dad did, and we loved him for it.

A visit to the Drive-in had a lot going against it. It was usually hot as all get out. And mosquitoes. You had to ignite one of those green PIC spiral things to fog away the stinging demons. The stuff was like a really bad smelling incense. And, where do you set the thing in a car? Mom usually put it on the dashboard in front of her. Oh, how that woman sacrificed.

To this day, there have been no studies done to see what inhaling PIC smoke did to your lungs. Some have said that the smoke actually served as an antidote for the tons of DDT we inhaled while chasing the bugman. Of course, I don’t remember Mom chasing the bugman all that many times. One or two, maybe. – What? The bugman? Oh, the guy in the jeep with the giant drum of DDT in the back, who would drive around the neighborhood and release a giant fog of the stuff. It was giant, I’m telling you. You couldn’t even see the hood of the parked car you just ran into. We tripped over garbage cans, bicycles, tricycles, Volvos, kid brothers… We straddled trees, telephone poles, street signs… All for the purpose of running with reckless abandon in a fog of poison. And, we’re still alive. Hey, I can’t believe it either.

By the way, back to PIC, today there are only six people in the country who know what the acronym PIC stands for. I’m not one of them. I’d be really disappointed to learn it stood for “Place in car?” That’s just not inventive enough.

So, we had mosquitoes and heat. Boy, summer drive-in outings were killers. We loved ‘em, too. Hey, it was something big to do. Some of the lousiest movies I ever saw were at the drive-in. Of course, at the time, I had no idea they were that bad. Did I mention earlier that we used to watch “The Laurence Welk Show?” Hey, we had a lot of tolerance for hooha back then.

On most drive-in nights, Dad would let us kids go to the seating area near the concession stand. Of course, we waited till we had eaten all the popcorn Mom had popped for us. A grocery bag full of the stuff. Popcorn and spilled Kool Aid was all over the backseat. You’ve got to understand that this was before floormats. Hadn’t been invented yet. The floors of every car we ever had was nothing more than black rubber glued to the metal floor. You could’ve sprayed the car out with a garden hose and not messed up much.

You’re not going to believe this, but a time or two, Mom fried up a bunch of chicken and we ate it in the car during the movies. I’m not joking. Fried Chicken, popcorn and Kool Aid. When we left the car to go up front, we were four greasy kids with purple lips. – “Hey, look! Those kids had chicken! And, grape Kool-Aid! Let’s kill ‘em!”

Most of the time Jill and Alan played on the swing set that was set up just below the giant movie screen. Occasionally, I did too, but you don’t have to spread that around. Dennis and I usually sat in the old wooden chairs that were screwed into the concrete patio. We’d sit there and watch the moths fly through the projector’s ever expanding light ray. But, most of the time we watched the movie.

If you’ve never heard the sound of a drive-in movie, you just haven’t lived. The speakers set up for the cars were connected to short, frayed wires. You’d hafta to roll your window part way up to get the little curved slot to fit on the window. The speaker was a heavy, gray, box with a dial and slits at the bottom. That’s where the sound came out. If you stuck an empty green bean can over your mouth and yelled into it, that’s pretty much the sound that came out of the speakers. I used to do that a lot. Anyway, back then, we could still understand most of the dialog that came out of the speaker. Today? I couldn’t come close.

The speakers by the concession stand were no better. Just bigger. If there was a fast talker on the screen, you might as well forget about it. “Wha, wah, wuh, wah? Wum, wum, wha, wha, wha…” Pretty cool stuff.

The biggest travesty to mankind, when I was a kid, was previews. I loved ‘em, but they were hyped beyond all reason. Did you know that the previews only showed the real exciting parts of a movie? Well they did. Every third preview had a guy in a gorilla suit. He was all over the place killing people. Didn’t bother stooping down like a real ape. He just walked around like he was a menacing thug on a visit to a hotel.

Then there were Martians and zombies and brains in fishbowls. Again, pretty cool stuff. Western previews were always good. The guy who did the voices back then didn’t talk in a low whisper like they do today. The voice of the previews was way excited. Acted like he had not only seen the movies, but was in ‘em. Made me want to come back and see what all the fuss was about.

Turned out, the previews were the only exciting part. The rest of movies were generally snoozers. And, the preview guy didn’t seem to mind at all that he was selling a load of horse hockey. I always felt that grownups should taken advantage of kids like that. Made me feel cheap.

And, speaking of feeling stuff, by the time the second movie was over, Dennis and I were pretty well spent. Jill and Alan had already headed back to the car. Dennis or me had to escort ‘em back, ‘cause they couldn’t remember where we parked. Couldn’t remember spit.

When Dennis and I finally made it back to the car ourselves, we were pretty well dead to the world. We had to shove Jill and Alan to the middle of the backseat. Mom had been ready to go home after the first movie. The second movie was generally the best one. They saved the worst for third. I’m not sure Dad ever caught onto that. He’d want to stay till the bitter end.

I don’t know. Maybe they saved the sexiest movie for last. I only remember seeing part of one. It was about guys on motorcycles riding around being mean. Not mean enough to keep me awake. Just pushing people around kind of stuff.

The next thing I knew, Dad was waking Dennis, and telling him to put the speaker back on the pole. Dennis always got to do the neat stuff. Dad would then navigate the car around the poles and over the humps in an attempt to get ahead of all the other cars. Pretty exciting stuff. If someone had invented door extensions for cars, Dad would’ve been stiff-arming drivers right and left. He didn’t wait well. Oh, and I might add that Dad never drove off with the speaker still hanging on the back window. Some people did that, you know? I never saw it happen, but I sure saw the results of it. There were always an assortment of speakerless poles. Not mute Polish people, mind you. That’d be silly.

I don’t think any of us ever arrived home awake. Any of us kids. Dad probably stayed awake for most of the drive. The sudden stop in the driveway usually woke me up. Dennis and I each had a window seat, so we’d ease the door open and stagger out of the car. Our rears would be covered in popcorn. Mom would reach into the back and grab Alan, and Dad would get Jill and they’d carry the little twerps into the house and put ‘em in bed.

Dad had a good sense of humor a lot of the time, but I was usually afraid to test it. Just once I wanted to say, “Hey, Daddy. After you get Jill in, how about coming back for me? I don’t think I’m gonna make it.” It’s one of the few hundred things I wish I had said to Dad. He would’ve probably laughed. How could he not?

The ol’ drive-in experience is one of few childhood adventures that I don’t care to relive. The thought of going was always fun. It was the “after that” part that generally stunk on ice. By the time you make it home, you’ve sworn off the drive-in… until next payday. – “Hey, who wants to go to the drive-in?” – “Yea, Daddy! Who’s the man? You’re the man. Oh, yes you are!”

Yeah, that’s something I wish I had said to him. It might’ve gotten me a stint in military school, but I wish I had tried it. I think Dad may have wished I had, too.

Chapter 18

2011-08-07T15:56:00.000-07:00

Dad and Mom church directory photo.

Mom would absolutely hate the thought of you seeing this picture.

“Lesson on a life”

    I’ve made no secret of the fact that a lot of times I was scared of Dad. You may have picked up on that. So much of my fear was uncalled for, unnecessary and all around stupid. If I had it to do over I’d try to get so much closer to him. At the time, that was not gonna happen. That’s pretty much the way it is when you’re a dumb kid with no confidence or self esteem.

    I may not have mentioned it, but I got three spankings from Dad. I can only remember details of one of ‘em, but my mind’s pretty made up about there being two others.

    The one I remember caught me all unawares. Set me to pondering a bunch about it afterwards, too. They’re the worst kind.

We were living on Camille Street and I was, oh, probably 11. Dennis, Jill and I were in the backyard with the Edgertons -- David, Diane, Debbie, Denise and Darrel. There was a pattern with their names that I never picked up on at the time. (See dumb kid reference above.)

Oh, and now that I remember, you can forget about Darrel being in on this. He was likely standing over by the chain-link gate, preoccupied. Daryl was a slightly plump 3-year-old who wore nothing but underwear…. all four seasons. Didn’t matter. The kid would prowl around with one hand down the front of his dirtied briefs and the other up to his mouth close enough for him to insert a thumb. And, I don’t really think he kept track of which hand he was putting where. All but two days of his life he had a runny nose. I don’t remember him ever saying anything. Maybe I wasn’t listening.

Regardless, I can’t blame Daryl for what happened that afternoon in the backyard. What happened was a massive wrestling match. We didn’t even choose up teams. It was just a major free-for-all. Ever had one of those? It’s been at least three years since my last one. On Camile Street our free-for-alls were relatively harmless. There was seldom any gouging or biting, but you’d see some serious arm and leg twistings, tossings and an occasional pinch. Denise. The kid was ruthless.

    It’s probably germane to the story that I had a crush on Diane Edgerton. Slightly germane. Just as sweet a girl as I ever met… next to Barbara in the first grade. Barbara was an angel. Blond hair, shy, cute voice… She moved off right after Christmas. I came back from the holidays and she was gone. It took me the rest of the—Uh, I’m sorry. Where was I?

    Oh, Diane. A crush I had. The crush was reciprocal, too. Not sure that’s proper terminology, but it sounds good. My infatuation with Diane lasted up to the time we decided to kiss over by the backside of her house. We touched lips for about a nanosecond and then it was over. For me. The crush that is. I don’t know why, but the kiss destroyed everything. I don’t know if it was a stupid sense of shame on my part or the thought that any girl who would give herself away that easily was not crush material. I don’t know. I just know I was a stupid kid. I actually hurt Diane’s feelings, too. The memory of the experience did much to build on my sense of self-loathing.

    All right, enough of that. We’re returning to the backyard where there was a massive tangle of bodies. Again, no gouging, but tossing and a few headbutts. Not like today. Back then you’d headbutt a butt or shoulder or back. If you ever butted a head, it hurt like everything, and you’d cry. Not like today. Nowadays, it apparently only hurts the headbuttee. The headbutter can do it all day without feeling a thing. Evolution.

    At some point during the melee, Mom yelled for Dennis and me to stop. I had no idea why she singled us out. Jill is in the middle of all this getting pounded. But, Mom tells Dennis and me to quit. So, we stopped for a couple of minutes. Maybe one. Then we were back at it. Dennis would keep shoving me down till I managed to trip him. I was a great tripper. Gifted.

Then I’d toss David over my shoulder. Jill would headbutt me in the back. Debbie would move in close and start squeezing and bending my arm, leg, neck… it didn’t matter. Debbie was the antithesis of her older sister, Diane. Debbie was a stocky, freckled, tomboy. I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could spit, and I was a poor spitter. Still am. That girl could fight. We even came up with saying related to her prowess as a fighter. After a tough day of play, if you looked really beat up somebody might say, “Wow! You look like you’ve been “Debbied.” (I just made that last part up.)

    We weren’t five minutes into Round Two of Wrestlemania when Mom let loose once more. “Dismark! I’m not telling you again! You kids quit that fighting!” (Back then Moms saved a lot time by running names together.) At that point I did something really stupid. Seemed perfectly normal at the time, and I’m sure I would’ve gotten away with it had Dad not stopped his tinkering in the garage long enough to see what was going on. Dad was watching. Oh, my word.

What I did was instantly let loose of Debbie’s hair and release my leg-hold on David’s neck. Then, I said, “Mother, I’m not fighting!”

    Get it? At that very moment I was not fighting. I had been fighting when she yelled, but not at the very moment I answered her yell. Apparently, Dad didn’t understand, nor was I brave enough to explain to him the intricacies of the lie dodge. Next thing I knew, everyone on the block heard my name. Dad was standing in the back doorway of the garage and yelled, “Mark!”

    It is so bizarre how a moment of frivolity can immediately give way to sheer terror. At that moment I would’ve given everything I had or could steal not to be named Mark. But, I was the only Mark in the backyard. Oh, there was little kid across the street named Mark, but Dad wasn’t calling him. I’m not saying the L’il Mark didn’t wake up from whatever he was doing when he heard his name. But, I assure you, he experience nothing like the bigger Mark on the other side of the street from him.

    By the way, the fighting stopped. You might’ve already guessed that. As I made my way to the garage, the Edgertons made their way out of the backyard. Jill and Dennis ran to the very back fence. In the corner. Guilt by association was a concern for us kids. I don’t believe there was a living soul that was happy about the situation. Oh, maybe Darrel. He’d been yelled at and spanked so much by his mom, that he probably enjoyed the thought of someone else getting some negative attention. No, I don’t believe that for a minute.

    Dad led me to his and Mom’s bedroom. I hated that. I would’ve much rather been spanked in my own room. That way I could just stay there when it was all over. I did my best crying in the closet. Dad didn’t say anything until he grabbed his belt off the peg in the closet. I’m not sure his pants would’ve stayed up had he taken off the one he was wearing. It’d be a real hoot if, while spanking your kid, your pants fell down. It’d just kind of ruin the whole moment.

    Dad doubled up the belt and then spoke his first words since yelling my name. He said, “I don’t ever want to hear you lie to your mother again.” Then he reared back and I instantly turned and jumped face down on the bed. He didn’t tell me to get in any special position, but I just thought it best to face the punishment by not facing Dad.

    He didn’t hit me all that many times. Maybe five. But, they were hard hits. I remember more from Dad’s the sound. Oddly, I don’t remember feeling them all that much. I believe I was in shock more than anything.

Dad never mentioned the spanking hurting him more than it did me. He just started swatting. And, I started bawling. Well, in truth, I was bawling from the minute I heard him call my name. One of those having-trouble-catching-my-breath cries. I was too scared to be embarrassed about Diane seeing me cry.

During the whipping, I didn’t think Dad was trying to teach me a lesson or lead me on the path everlasting. I don’t think a person as mad as he was could have any positive thought about “me.” I was fully convinced that at that moment my daddy didn’t like me anymore. He was embarrassed to even have me as a son. I was such a disappointment that he wanted to hit me. I don’t believe that now, but at the time no one could persuade me different.

Who can tell what goes through a parent’s mind when he’s mad enough to hit one of his kids with a belt. I think it would be really hard for someone to do that out of a sense of teaching a kid something. I think it would have to be more out of anger than anything else. Had he taken time to think about it, maybe he wouldn’t have done it. But, it’s hard to think when you’re really mad.

This I do know: if Dad had been as out of control as I thought he was, I would still bear the marks of that spanking. The man could’ve easily broken me in two had he not maintained a bunch of control.

The crazy thing is, Dad never had to lay a belt on me. I believe I mentioned it before that all he had to discipline me, or any of his other kids, was to say that we had disappointed him. Didn’t have to show it with a spanking. Added nothing to my shame. Added greatly to my fear, though.

    If Dad ever went to bed angry at me, he never showed it. At some point he always came close to apologizing. After my spanking, I went to my room, shut the door and sobbed. In the closet of awhile, but eventually on the bed. At some point I stopped sobbing, but couldn’t lose the little quick gasps that come from a big cry.

    Right before bedtime, Daddy opened the door and came over to the bed. “Are you okay?” he said. I looked up and tried my best to smile. I don’t think I managed it, but I did manage a calm, “Yes, sir.” Dad didn’t manage a smile either, but he did tell me that he didn’t enjoy spanking me, and he didn’t want to have to do it again. Before leaving the room he said, “Uh, it’s important that you don’t ever lie.”

    I lied and assured him I wouldn’t. I didn’t realize I was lying at the time, but I should’ve guessed it. The important thing was that I knew I would never lie to Mom when Dad was at home. I was certain of that.

    Having Dad just take a minute to talk to me, made me feel so much better. I could see that he didn’t really hate me, and, though he didn’t apologize, he was sorry he handled things the way he did. I believed that more out of wanting to believe it.

    I thought a bunch about that experience over the years. And, I’ve come to see the whole thing in a different light. I imagine you may have also. I have since realized that it was the whole wrestling-with-girls thing that upset Dad the most. Dennis was a teenager and I was only three years younger. The entire spectacle had the appearance of unacceptability. While I wasn’t placing any sexual significance to the melee, I do realize I enjoyed tumbling around with Diane. I didn’t wrestle with her all that much, ‘cause she was not that good a wrestler and I didn’t want to hurt her. But, I did enjoy being around her.

    I think Dad, knowing what he knew about once being a youngman, in a sense was just stewing over the thought that Dennis and I might have had illicit thoughts during the free-for-all. I can’t speak for Dennis, because I was too busy holding my own. That Debbie was a big scratcher. And, Denise was a real pincher. Did I mention that?

    Anyway, I believe that, before he spanked me, Dad really wanted to say, “Mark, you’re too old to be wrestling around with girls. And, not only were you wrestling with girls, but you lied about wrestling with girls! That’s the worse lie of all!”

    I’m convinced that if you shuck down the corn, that’s what you’re gonna find. Dad would’ve likely spanked me for just the lie, but it wouldn’t have gotten out of hand had the sex angle not been in the equation.

Sex. I was pretty sure it was the worst thing in the world. You get a whipping for the mere hint of it, and when you die the thought alone was enough to burn you forever. Do you now how long forever is? I don’t either. It’s so weird, the whole sex and eternity thing. I don’t get it. Never have. I’m pretty sure Dad never fully came to grips with the spiritual ramifications of the human urge. Hey, who has?

    Me? I quit trying to make sense of it. I just wish like all get out that Dad would’ve, at some point in my young life, taken me aside and said something like, “Son, you’re probably having some weird thoughts, and some odd sensations happening to you in the nethers. I don’t understand ‘em any more than you do. Wish I did. I just want you to know that you’re not the only one on the planet or even in this house who is experiencing it. Truth is, God is a wonderment. If He wasn’t, He wouldn’t be God.”

    Something like that would’ve made me feel almost normal. Of course, Dad would’ve had to have pointed to my “nethers” when he mentioned it, or I would’ve never picked up on what he was saying. It’s all moot now. Besides I don’t think Dad ever used the word “nethers” in his life. Why would he?

    And, that kind of down-to-earth, self assuring conversation with parents never took place in my neighborhood. Maybe in my world. Certainly not during my life with Dad.

Chapter 17

2011-07-18T16:14:00.000-07:00

Dad: The Great Storyteller

    Dad was the best storyteller I ever knew. I don’t know if it was the fact that he was great at spinning a yarn or the fact that there weren’t that many adults telling stories to kids. Not in our neighborhood, anyway.

The only other storyteller I knew was Dad’s nephew Dale Strickland. Dale is my cousin, but since this book is about Dad, I thought I’d describe him from my Dad’s perspective. Just bright as I can be.

Dale told a lot of good stories, don’t get me wrong. But, Dale was actually IN most of his stories, and the vast majority of ‘em were lies. As far as I know, they were all lies. You just never knew when to believe Dale Strickland.

I was about 30 before I found out that he did not train the Arabian horses for the Ben Hur chariot race. That he, in fact, did not hit one over the head with a Coke bottle just to get its attention. Nor was Dale best buds with cowboy actor Ben Johnson. He never lived on a ranch with him and helped train his horses.

What Dale did do -- and I have this on good authority – was lie like a bad dog. Could do it with a straight face, too. All the adults went along with him, so that really added credence to his lies. To this day, I don’t know why grownups feel it funny to trick kids into believing stuff. Sure, I told my nephew Clint that a water-holding cavity in the trunk of an oak tree in my backyard was in fact a place where leprechauns peed, but that was different. I never told him that I trained a leprechaun’s horse. That’s what Dale would’ve done.

Other than Dale and Dad that was it. Teachers weren’t even telling stories when I was a kid. They just made us read redundant books about dogs and cats. “See Tip run. Run, Tip. Run.” How lame is that? Occasionally Tip would do something wrong and the author would write “No” about a million times. “No, Tip! No. No, no Tip!” Give me a break. And parents wondered why we didn’t like to talk about what we did at school that day.

No, there were no stories at school worth repeating. Home was where you heard the good stuff. The non-lying-for-the-purpose-of-tricking-kids stuff. I imagine that all Dads told their kids stories. Unfortunately, they only told stories to their own kids… who told their friends, who told their friends… When a kid tells a story that he heard from his dad, it gets all turned around. By the time I told Mom and Dad what Dinky’s dad had said, the story was unrecognizable to the originator. Nowadays, kids repeat stories so much better. I might’ve read that somewhere.

I was the best listener in our family. Probably the best listener on the whole block. And I think you can forget about the “probably.” I just loved to hear stuff, and I particularly loved story-night. What made it extra special was the fact that we never knew when it would be. We’d be watching TV. Dad would be in his chair and Mom, Larry and Susan would be on the couch. The rest of us were laid out on the oak floor, our heads TV-ward. Something sappy like Laurence Welk or Arthur Godfrey would be on. Fortunately there were no loaded guns in the house.

Out of the blue, Dad would say, “Hey, y’all wanna hear a story?” Is Tip hard of hearing? Of course, we want hear a story! Story-night always meant that Dad was in a good mood. He never shared stories in a bad mood. If he had, I’m pretty sure they would’ve been stories that, for the most part, ended with “… or else you’ll be walking at a tilt for the rest of your unnatural life.”

Story-night always generated popcorn. I don’t know how that worked. It was magical. Mom would put some Crisco in the big scorched pot and shake it till her bra strap snapped. (I just made that part up. I knew nothing about bras in The Day.) Jolly Pop was the only kind of popcorn I knew about… other than movie popcorn, which was popped in Heaven. Jolly Pop was popped on our old gas stove. A third of the kernels never popped. And, it wasn’t because Mom didn’t shake the pot hard enough. Did I mention what happened when she shook it? I’m pretty sure the popcorn didn’t pop good because this was before glow-in-the-dark hybrid popcorn. It was accidentally discovered in Russia. Another story that Dale would’ve likely told.

During story-night we’d all gather around Dad’s chair. I don’t remember much about Mom, Susan and Larry gathering. Lynda, my oldest sister, didn’t gather, ‘cause she married and moved out when I still played outside in my underwear. I don’t know if mmy other older siblings had heard all the stories before, or just thought they were too old to gather around Dad’s chair. The rest of us loved to gather ‘cause that’s where the popcorn was. Right in the middle of us. We became one with the bowl. To this day I can’t eat popcorn slowly. I sit in the theatre and put fistfuls in my mouth. A grown man competing with himself for all the popcorn. I’m not proud of that, but I can’t seem to stop it.

Sometimes Mom would roast unshelled peanuts for story-night. They were the best. She’d put newspapers on the floor and a pan of nuts in the middle. It was mayhem. I can’t imagine anyone letting kids shell peanuts in a living room. It just goes against everything that’s good. By bedtime the living room floor at the Hayter house was like the floor of a barn… a peanut barn.

Eventually Dad would get around to telling us stories. You were probably wondering when that was going to happen. Dad’s stories covered a wide spectrum. A wide something. Often he would tell about some of the books he read. Just about every book Dad read was a Western. Mostly, Zane Grey Westerns. I didn’t mind that at all. Western life was the life for me. My first step was on a stickhorse.

A lot of times during the stories, Dad would get stuff mixed up. We’d hafta get him to clarify. – “Daddy, I thought Rip died during the stampede. He couldn’t have been in the shootout.” – “No, Dennis! Would you listen? Frank’s brother died in the stampede. Rip hasn’t died yet. Well he did in shootout, but--” – “Was Rip the one with the black horse?” – “Sure! Whatever. Do y’all want me to finish this or not?”

    Dad also got a lot of story ideas from some of the movies he saw. Some of them were Westerns, too, but some were about gangsters and pirates and war. Exciting stuff.

Occasionally, Dad’s stories would drift over into his personal life. In fact, some of this account of my father is tied to our storytelling nights. His early life farming with Grandpa; his tales of Grandma’s escapades; his experience as a roughneck;his job at the refinery; stuff that happened on the job at Crown Refinery… Stuff like that.

The scaredest Dad ever got was when he was an oilrig one night in Oklahoma. He was just checking on something, so he was the only one there. And, it was dark. If it hadn’t been dark, it would’ve been a stupid story. Dad said he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, even through his good eye. Dad was all but blind in his right eye. No idea why… or how. Can’t believe none of us asked.

Anyway, Dad was walkin’ up the ridge to the tool shed. No flashlight. Nothing. Didn’t even have his truck lights on. Something about batteries being real bad back then. So, he’s stumbling around in the direction of the tool shed, and practically runs into it. He opened the door and fumbled around for a match in his pocket when all of a sudden – at this part, Dad got quiet for about three seconds and looked at all of us real scary like. See what I mean about him being a good storyteller? – Where was I? Oh, yeah, he’s fumbling for a match when all of a sudden somebody puts a hand on his shoulder. Dad said that if he’d had a bad heart he would’ve died on the spot.

Turns out it was just some poor hobo who picked the oilrig site to spend the night. Dad said that the guy couldn’t talk and that was why he didn’t announce his coming. I believed that at the time, but now I’m not so sure. A deaf and dumb guy sleeping on an oilrig? Just too convenient.

And, to top it off, I didn’t really like the ending of the story. Anti-climatic if you ask me. I didn’t mention that to Dad, ‘cause I didn’t know what anit-climatic was, nor did I want to hurt his feelings. I was just expecting for Dad to say that big snake or bear or an escapee from the insane asylum was in the shed. Back then there were a lot of scary people escaping from insane asylums. Don’t know why that was. Cousin Dale knew of hundreds of them. And, everyone who lived in an insane asylum was evil mean. And, strong. Must’ve been something in the water, ‘cause crazy people are not that bad today. Hey, I used to be one. What?

I don’t remember any other scary stories that Dad told. Other than noodling. Noodling scared me. Dad used to do it, too. He’d go down on the creek bank, probably the Big Deep Fork Creek near Bristow. There was a Little Deep Fork Creek, too. Tell the truth, I never tell the difference. Both of ‘em looked medium size to me.

Big Deep Fork Creek

Anyway, Dad and Uncle AB or one or two of the other less sensible kin uncles would go into the water. Sometimes take off all their clothes before getting in. When you find out what they’re gonna be doing in the water that just makes the event that much scarier.

They’d take turns stooping down next to the bank and reaching underneath some of the washed out parts of the bank and try to grab a big ol’ catfish. Put their hand right in the thing’s mouth. That’s like a million times more scary than somebody touching on the shoulder when your at a dark oilrig.

If you knew how muddy and yucky the water at the Big and Little Deep Forks is, you’d just get sick.

Dad said they had water moccasins swim by ‘em, but they never accidentally grabbed one. He did catch some big fish, though. At least that’s what he told us. And, that’s what I told the kids at school. I don’t know how many times Dad went noodling, but I made it sound like it was every other day. He might’ve done once or twice for all I know, but the kids at school were told that Dad was the best noodler in Oklahoma. I imagine they believed me. I was a pretty convincing storyteller myself. Not as good as Dale, though. The lies that came out of his mouth were painted with multiple shades of believability.

If Dad ever told any big lies during his stories, I don’t think it was intentional. He might’ve exaggerated a little, maybe remembered stuff a little different, but he wouldn’t have out and out lied. Evidence enough is in how he ended the oilrig-nighttime-stranger story. If he was gonna tell a whopper, that would’ve been the best time for it. Wasn’t a monster or bear or insane person. It was just a deaf guy. Hey, Dale would’ve had a couple of Martians popping out of the shed. And, he would’ve been most convincing.

Chapter 16

2011-06-10T13:33:00.000-07:00

"Just shoot me, Dad"

   Science has pretty well wrapped up the notion that we each have our own personal set of fingerprints. It hasn’t been proved mathematically, but it’s pretty much a given that the print on your left hand’s pointer finger is not identical to the middle-finger on the right hand of some lady from Saskatchewan.

   So, until I’m arrested for something someone with my identical prints did, I don’t really care enough to question science. Same thing with DNA. I don’t need to know what it is, but I’m somewhat sure that mine is exclusive to me. Hate to think there were two of me.

   I say that to say this: no two people share the same personalities. I pluralized “personality” because I’m fairly sure that we each have more than one, and that one of mine could conceivably match one of yours. But no way can they all match.

Truth is most people’s personality changes – if only minutely – depending on who we’re with at a given time. I’m more like “me” with my wife than with anyone else. I’m actually kinder than “me” when I’m around strangers. It makes no sense, but that’s the way I am.

I am more patient with mean people than I am with anyone else. That’s ‘cause I would rather take a kick in the but rather than get into a confrontation with someone. I’ve got three brothers, and, when I’m alone with any one of ‘em, my personality is different than when I’m with one of the others. I’ll bet you are, too. Unless you don’t know my brothers.

    Need I continue with this? Good. I think I’ve pretty well set the ground work for the main theme of this chapter… that being my Dad had very few personalities. I saw him as always on the edge between angry and almost happy. He generally seemed to lean toward angry. And, let me tell you, the entire family did everything in its power to change his lean. Unfortunately, there was just too much working against us.

   Dad was responsible for the health and wellbeing of seven kids and a wife. He was trapped in a job he hated. The “trapped” part was linked to him being responsible for a large family. I believe I alluded to that. Dad could not shed his job at the refinery anymore than he could get rid of chewing tobacco. It was addiction that made him keep his Mail Pouch brand chewing tobacco, and responsibility that made him continue to return to his job at Crown Refinery.

   Back in The Day, the father was literally the bread-winner. Dad pretty much kept all the financial worries to himself. As much as possible. When times got really tough, though, it was apparent to all that we were in deep doo. Dad was at his lowest during those times. Most understandable. Hard to take, but most understandable.

   Regardless the financial situation, Dad was hard to read. He might be acting somewhat pleasant and all of a sudden something said or seen would set him off. It was just hard for us to figure. That’s why we would generally use Mom as a go between. “Mother, would you ask Dad when we’re going to get our allowance? I think he forgot.” Or “Mother, would you see if Dad would let us make a fort out of his sawhorses?” That kind of stuff.

   Mom knew Dad the best. There would’ve been just a whole lot more verbal spats had she not. Mom was also a person who would walk around the block to avoid a confrontation. It’s so hard to argue with a person who refuses to participate in an argument.

   So, where am I going with all this? First I’m going to a small fenced off lot at the corner of Harris and Shaver. Used to be a grocery store but was a dozed-over parking lot where people occasionally went to sell stuff out of their trucks. Watermelons, puppies, stolen hubcaps… During the summer of my twelfth year, some guy had actually leased the lot to sell pony rides for kids. He had about four or five Shetland ponies tied to… uh, I don’t know. A makeshift pony corral thing.

   Big deal, you say? Well it was one particular summer-Sunday when we were driving home from church. I was decked out in my new suit. First one I ever had. I didn’t get another till I married. The Hayters weren’t big into suits. Don’t remember the occasion that made Mom and Dad buy me my brown and black checked, dork-looking outfit, but it had to be something. They wouldn’t have just up and got me a suit for no reason. And, were it not germane to the story, I wouldn’t have even mentioned it, so can I get on with story now? Thanks.

   We’re still coming home from church and just before making a right on Harris, Dad, instead, made a right into the Shetland pony lot. I thought that odd. I looked over at Dennis and he gave me his isn’t-that-odd look. Jill and Alan were grinning big guns, but I’m sitting there completely befuddled because Dad was doing something way out of character. Sunday-go-to-meetin’ clothes, roast beef waiting at home, Shetland ponies…? The old man was tripping out on us.

   I couldn’t make eye contact with Mom to register my look of befuddledness which is said, because I’ve got a decent befuddled look. Had I given the look and Dad seen it instead of Mom, well, he would’ve killed me. – “Mark, hop out of the car and wait for me behind the truck over there. After Jill and Alan have their horse ride, I’m gonna kill you.”

   The fact that I’m writing this thing is testimony to the fact that I kept my bewilderment look to myself. It was hard to stifle, too. Especially when Dad said some of the most bizarre words to ever come out of his mouth. At least while in my presence. He said, “Okay, you kids have been after me to let you ride the horses, so go ride ‘em!”

   For the life of me I could not recall ever hinting to Dad that he should take us horseback riding. Forget about taking us to a cleared lot so we can sit atop Shetland ponies as they trod in a circle. And, on a Sunday!

Not to worry though. He wasn’t talking to me. He was talking to Jill and li’l Al, both of whom bounded out of the car and ran behind Dad who had gotten out to pay the man.

   Dennis and I staid put in the backseat. I asked Mom if she had any idea what this was all about. She didn’t. Didn’t care to comment, either. After getting Jill and Alan mounted, Dad walked back to the car, stuck his head in the window and said, “Okay, Mark, you’re next.”

   Me next? No, I don’t need a next. I’m not riding a hairy short pony. I’m 12 blanking years old! I’m wearing a suit for heaven’s sake! There is no way on God’s green earth I’m getting on that little horse and riding in a tight circle! If you want to take me out behind that truck over there and kill me, you have my blessing, ‘cause your number three son is not getting out of this car.

   Those were the words that screamed to be released from my mouth. It didn’t happen. What did come out was, “No, that’s okay, Daddy. I really don’t want to ride.” That may sound like a perfectly harmless thing to say to a dad, or to anybody, for that matter. But, to my dad it registered as back talk.

   “You’ve been whining forever about wanting to ride a horse, now, you get out there and ride!” Again with the wanting to ride a horse? Who the Sam Hill was he talking about? Was there a parallel universe he stepped out of while we were at church? Did he have another family somewhere and just got us mixed up? I just can’t make this too clear – At no time had I ever asked Dad to let me ride a horse. Maybe Jill and Alan did while I was asleep. I don’t know. But, I heard nothing of it.

   In my daydreams I’m always a brave guy. You can point a gun at me, and I won’t flinch. I would never tell the enemy where our troops were. Brave is what I be… in my mind. But when actually looking down the barrel of a gun, or in this case, peering into Dad’s stare, I crumbled. “Yes, sir” is what I told him.

   So, in my new suit and polished old leather shoes, I walked over to Li’l Pokie and let the horse-guy boost me up. How could it possibly get any worse? Easy. After I was positioned in the saddle, the guy’s daughter, a cute girl about my age, grabbed the horse by its bridle and led the animal around in a circle. I was not even allowed to steer the horse. No way was there room for that pony to do anything but walk in a tight circle, yet I was not trusted to steer the thing.

   There I was in a suit, sittin’ on a saddle, on a tiny horse, being led in a circle by a cute girl my age. And, wouldn’t you know it, everyone from San Jacinto Junior High passed by during the lifetime I sat atop that horse. “Oh, my goodness, whatta doofus! Wait a minute! Isn’t that Mark Hayter? Everybody look! It’s Hop-along Dork!”

   After my 1203rd circle of the area, the girl helped me down and led Li’l Pokie back to the makeshift stall. I dragged my buns back to the car, climbed into the backseat and looked over at Dennis. He gave me one of his famous “Whoa!” looks and then turned away. I thought sure he might say something like, “Nice ride, Roy.” But, he didn’t. We were brothers. He could see that I was completely beat down. There is absolutely no humor or gotcha moment in a brother being thoroughly humiliated.

   Crazy thing is, Dad thought Dennis too old to ride the pony. Dennis was 15. I don’t know what Dad considered the cut-off age between too old and old enough to ride a pony, but 12 wasn’t it. If it had been back in 1961 I would’ve been able to approach so many more things with an acceptable level of self-confidence. Yeah, 50 years ago and I still bear the mark.

   It was one of those massive mood changes that Dad often experienced… we all experienced. At one second he’s a proud father for letting his kids ride the ponies… at a time when he knew he couldn’t afford it. And, then all of a sudden the experience is turned into a punishment. I believe that had Xanax been invented back then and made affordable, it would’ve never happened. Dad obviously had some issues that made it very difficult for him to maintain a good mood for long. He hated that about him as much as we did. Probably more. Likely more.

Part 2 of Chapter 15

2010-12-24T09:32:00.000-08:00

Part Two of a Two Part Christmas with Dad

I think it took Dad most of the year to pay for Christmas. To keep from disappointing us too much, he went all out. Even though everything we got was put on layaway, he ended up having to borrow money to get stuff out of layaway. For the life of me, I can’t remember the name of the finance company that kept Dad on the financial leash. It was a local outfit with a coastal name. I can’t remember.

I do remember that Dad paid that outfit monthly for most of his life. Sometimes weekly. Sometimes he had to borrow money from ‘em to pay ‘em. Nowadays they call it refinancing. Back then it was legalized loan sharking. And, Dad was the mark.

I don’t know if it’s fortunate or not, but Dad kept most financial details from us. I’m not even sure he told Mom about what he was doing. It would’ve been impossible to enjoy Christmas if we knew what all he was going through to make it happen.

But, I have no intention of dwelling on the morbid side of the holiday. I’ll keep that stuff planted somewhere deep in my cranial nether regions. Good place for ‘em. After all, we had some great gift-openings at the Hayter house… depending on which house we were in at the time. Christmas at two particular houses were my favorites.

A Christmas morning with Larry, Lynda and Susan (back row) Dennis, Mark and Jill. Then Li'l Al.

The house on Pinewood Street was where we had our best Christmas. I believe I hinted at that in one of the earlier chapters. It was the year Dennis and I asked for a bicycle… apiece. We didn’t want to share. There is no good way for two brothers to share one bike. Many have tried and all have failed miserably. Dartmouth University did a survey once. I believe I read it in “Science Digest.”

Of course Dennis and I had some doubts about the bicycle. There was no foregone conclusion that Dad was going to get us the two-wheelers. So, we had to ask for other stuff, too. It was 1957, the year the “Stallion 38” came out. You’re bound to be familiar with the Stallion. If you recall, it was a revolutionary toy six shooters. It was the first gun with real-looking bullets. Instead of inserting a roll of caps into the pullout breach of the weapon, you actually put a cap inside the shell of each of the six bullets. Then you inserted the bullets into the cylinder. Just like non-TV cowboys did. TV cowboys never had to load their pistols. They must’ve had miniature machine gun clips on each gun. But, I digress… again.

The Stallion 38, though the greatest known toy gun in the world, was still no match for a bicycle. The 38 was expensive for a toy gun, but not as expensive as a bike. Dennis and I figured if we unwrapped the 38s Christmas morning, we’d know that we didn’t get the bikes. No way could Dad afford both.

The toughest part about Christmas for us was the waiting. Nowadays, you have to wake kids up to tell ‘em it’s Christmas. Some even whine that they have to get out of bed. I’m not making this up. Back in “The Day” it was a whole different ball game. A different something.

We’d always go to bed early on Christmas Eve. (Not Mom and Dad. Just the kids. Work with me here.) Logic being that we’d fall asleep earlier and Christmas would come sooner. Horrible reasoning. Stupid, too. You see, on Christmas Eve night we could not go to sleep. We were way too anxious. You’d think we were in a Turkish prison waiting to be released the following morning. – Skip that. Bad Christmas analogy.

I don’t know how many times we’d yell from our beds down to Mom and Dad, “Is it Christmas, yet?” Probably only did it about three times, but seemed like a lot. Dad wouldn’t tolerate more than three yells of the same question.

When we headed to bed there were a moderate number of gifts under the tree. They were the ones that had already come out of layaway. And, they were the ones that no one could figure out. Weighing, shaking and measuring were no help in determining what they were. Mom was about the best gift wrapper on the planet. She didn’t worry so much about the beauty of the wrap as she did the camouflage effect. She could wrap a live, quacking duck and you’d think it was a croquet set. (A much better analogy. Just came to me.)

When we were finally allowed to race to the living room on that Christmas morning in ‘57, we found wall to wall gifts. Keep in mind seven kids, big boxes and the finance company. We were not allowed to tear through the stash. No, we sat around the tree and waited for Dad to hand out the gifts… way too slowly to hand out the gifts. Dennis and I got socks and jeans and shirts and underwear. We each got a big bag of plastic soldiers, and some other small toys. Finally we opened our Stallion 38s. It was joy tied tightly to morbidity. I may have made that word up.

Stallion 38s, the best handgun ever made… not counting the Fanner Fifty. The holster to the Fanner Fifty was as authentic as you can get. Paladin would’ve loved a Fanner Fifty holster, only they didn’t come in black. The Stallion 38 was a smaller revolver, with a less rugged black holster. Paladin would’ve laughed at it.

Point is, receipt of the Stallion 38s meant we weren’t getting bicycles. Maybe next year. Yeah, right. Though we showed no disappointment to Dad, we did give Mom some pathetic whines. No one had ever whined to Dad. I’m not sure one could survive a whine to Dad. Surely I’ve alluded to that.

Dennis and I tried to buck up. Not sure what that means, but I’ve heard it enough in reference to not crying. I kept thinking, hey, we got Stallion 38s! That’s nothing to sneeze at. And underwear? Did I mention the underwear?

After the smoke cleared, Dad tried to apply the last straw to our buckingupedness, by telling Dennis and me to gather up all the wrappings and take them to the garage. Our “Yes, sirs” were but a mask of respect.

We shoved all the wrapping paper into one of the bigger boxes. I think it was Jill’s play kitchen. And, together we pushed and shoved the box into the garage. It wasn’t heavy, just bulky. As we shoved the box, I couldn’t help but notice that Dad and Larry were following a little behind us. Made no sense. I was so gullible. When we opened the garage door, there they were. -- Two ponies! A white one and a black one. -- No, that’s not right. Two J.C. Higgins bicycles. One 24-incher and one 26-incher. It would be years later before I realized the measurements had to do with the wheel size. Figured it out on my own, too. It’s amazing how much of a difference two inches adds to the height of a bicycle seat. I could barely touch the pedals on Dennis’ bike.

The bikes were black with red trim. They had fenders, side-tanks, a chain guard and even baskets for the handlebars. PeeWee Herman thought he had a bicycle. Ours were so much more rugged-looking.

Now, it was time for the cry. Dennis didn’t cry, but I was really emoting the ol’ eye water. A few seconds after the awe began to wane, we both ran over and hugged Dad. Getting a bicycle is occasion enough for a Dad hug.

Dad told us that Larry and he were up most of the night putting the bikes together. No small task. I don’t know that I ever thanked Larry. Surely I did. Best gift I ever got. Dennis and I rode the wheels off our bikes. Not literally. I was in the second grade when I got “The Lone Wolf” and I was still riding it when I was in high school. Beg pardon? Oh, Lone Wolf. I needed a name for my bike and found a little decal “The Lone Wolf” in an old model car kit. Some kind of roadster. I slapped that sticker on, and that 24-inch Higgins was The Lone Wolf from then on. I’m just glad I didn’t run across a Catwoman decal. Good decals were hard to find back then.

Best Christmas ever. Dad even got Mom a record player. Our first. He even let Mom sign up for the Columbia Record Club. The records had been delivered before Christmas. Wanna know the truth? I think Mom had a hand in getting the player. I can’t see Dad joining a record club. If you joined the club you got the first six record albums for six cents. The ones after that cost about 200 percent over retail. It took two years and two house moves to get us out of that record club deal.

The best record album was Jonathan Winters. Dennis and I memorized each routine. We’ll still use a line or two in conversation. It’s a code between us. Mom also got Bob Newhart. Another hoot. Then there was Dwayne Eddie, Perry Como, Andy Williams and Patty Page. The four of them were not all that funny, but they were sure easy listening. Except for Dwayne Eddie. The man could grove. Speaking of which, we practically played the groves off those LPs. Not on Christmas Day, though.

I can’t imagine Mom ordering more than half dozen more albums before Dad killed the deal. Or tried to kill the deal. That Columbia outfit held on like grim death. But, they didn’t know who they were up against. When Dad set his mind to something… look out.

Obviously we had Christmas in other places. The one on Belmont was the site of the second best Christmas. That’s when Dennis and I got our BB guns. You give a kid a bicycle one year and a BB gun a couple of years, and you’ve launched a kid into pre-adulthood.

One thing the least weird about the Christmas on Belmont Street was that Dad got me two football helmets. One was hard plastic and the other faux leather with a cotton interior. The fauxness of this particular leather was cardboard. A red, dimpled cardboard.

When Dad noticed the “two-helmet mistake”, he told me to pick one of the helmets and give the other to Dennis. I really wanted the white, hard-plastic one. It looked more like the helmets of the day. So, I handed Dennis the red, fake leather-thing. I don’t see God could even fault me for that. Dennis said, “Great! Man! Thanks, Mark, for giving me the best one! This is just like what Red Grange wore!” He put that helmet on and acted like it was the greatest thing since Hostess Snowballs.

I was an idiot. How could I give Dennis the best helmet? Red Grange? Dennis went on to explain that Red Grange was the Galloping Ghost. Is that not a cool name? He was the greatest player ever.

I had no idea. I immediately told Dennis that I had made a mistake. I meant to keep the red helmet. He reluctantly let me make the switch. Two nights later, I left my helmet out all night… a dewy night. By morning it had disintegrated. That’s when Dennis did the “ninny-ninny noo noo” thing. What a con kid.

Christmas morning on the couch on Belmont. That's me in my cardboard Red Grange-like helmet. Whatta dope.

He did the same thing to me after the Christmas of ’59. Only it wasn’t helmets this time. It was Fanner-Fifty holsters. The holsters were a light cowhide. Real leather, this time! Beautiful. Perfect, in fact. However, Dennis had this wild idea to make him the fastest draw ever. He soaked the holster in Havoline HD 30. That’s the oil Dad used in the Biscayne. Dennis completely drenched his holster in the stuff. It turned into a soggy mess.

This put him in a bad way. No way was Dad going to replace an overly oiled holster. Or any holster for that matter. After about a five-second think, Dennis came up with an idea. He stood outside the kitchen window drawing his Fanner-Fifty. You’d think he was Wyatt Earp. I walked through the kitchen and saw him standing in the backyard doing his fast draw. So, I went to the bedroom and got my weapon and headed out to meet him.

I took one look at his holster and asked him what happened to it. He said that with a little oil he had managed to decrease the speed of his draw-time by 50 percent. Said something like that. So, we faced one another and sure enough… he beat me. Beat me again. Not that he didn’t always beat me, but this time he seemed even faster than usual. He was so fast that I asked him to put oil on my holster. He thought for a second and said, “No, Dad’s out of oil. But, I’ll tell you what. I’ll go ahead and change holsters with you. Let you be the fastest… at least until Dad gets more oil.” How can you not love a brother like that?

I strapped on Dennis’ soggy holster and sure enough I outdrew him every time. Of course, my Fanner Fifty was getting slippery and the left leg of my jeans was soaked in oil. But, boy, was I fast. Whatta deal.

The next day when I was in the garage, I noticed a half-full can of oil. I ran and told Dennis about it. Told him he’d better take advantage and oil up his holster while the oil was still there. He gave me his ol’ grin. It was the look of one-upmanship. I believe Webster even used Dennis’ name in his one-upmanship definition.

After that, Dennis went back to beating me to the draw. His holster never saw any Havoline 30 wt. And, his jeans never got oily. In defense of Dennis, I suppose if I had a little brother that stupid, I’d likely take advantage of him, too. Maybe. Anyway, I’d like to say that was the last time Dennis ever tricked me out of something good. I’d like to say that. And would… were it true.

Yes, I realize the Saga of Dennis and Mark only marginally relates to Dad. It was just something that was riding heavy on my mind. So, let me end this chapter by mentioning something directly related to Dad. Faris Hayter was the hardest guy in the world to shop for. Don’t get me wrong. The guy could’ve used a lot of stuff, but nothing we could afford. New tires, pickup truck liner, new brakes, table saw… We just couldn’t do it. Dennis and I would either get him a couple of packs of Mail Pouch Tobacco or a few cheap cigars. King Edward comes to mind. Or, was Edward a Prince? I can’t remember. We got him some socks once and some handkerchiefs another time or two. He also received a screwdriver and a cloth nail apron from us. And, he always seemed genuinely pleased to get whatever we got him. I guess that’s the way of Dads. Mom’s, too.

I don’t know what you’ve picked up on in this Christmas chapter, but there’s something that’s captured my mind in the telling. Christmas was so special to us because we seldom got gifts throughout the year. We got one gift on our birthday, but it was usually nothing grand. But, Christmas. That was one wild time. Most of the kids back then (all of the ones I knew) were always excited as all get out at the coming of Christmas. The thought of someone having to wake us up so we could unwrap our gifts? Well, that’s is laughable.

Dad always did his best to give us a memorable Christmas. It pleased him to make us happy. I think God is the same way… wanna know the truth.

Of course, the rule for measuring greatness of a Christmas, from the standpoint of a kid, has to do with the quality and quantity of gifts received. Dad obviously sacrificed a lot in an attempt to make us happy. The man wouldn’t have gone into hock every Christmas if he didn’t hate the thought of disappointing his kids. I don’t believe any of us fully appreciated what he went through to make Christmas happen for us. I know I didn’t. I guess that’s the way of kids. Some of us, anyway.

Chapter 15

2010-12-11T10:22:00.000-08:00

Christmas time with Dad

When I was a kid, we never got our Christmas tree until about two weeks before Christmas. Dad always waited till the price went down a little. Back then you could pick up something with a confer smell, bark and sparse needles for about $2.50. The day before Christmas you could get one for even less than that. Can supply and demand be better expressed in Christmas tree sales? I think not.

As long as Dad walked the earth we always got a live tree. I don’t know if it was because he really wanted one or he realized it would break our hearts if he got one of the artificial ones. Back then artificial trees looked more like silver tapered bottle cleaners. Sweatshop workers with metal poles, wire-cutters and very little imagination assembled ‘em. Only childless old people bought ‘em. No kid in the neighborhood could handle such shame.

That being said, Dad was the worst tree picker-outer in the world. Hey, it’s recorded somewhere. Every tree is supposed to have one good side to it. Not the one’s Dad bought. Each year it looked like we got a Frankenstein tree. Some of us hid in the closet when in walked itself into the house.

The people who bought the good trees always displayed them in front of the biggest window in the house. Mom put our tree in the corner away from the window.

We usually helped Mom decorate the tree. Mostly just the icicles. She wouldn’t trust us with some of the more sacred ornaments. That’s a joke. We had no sacred ornaments. We had some old ones, but that was back when old was bad. And, I don’t mean bad in a good way.

Dad never helped with the tree. Oh, he’d saw off a piece of the trunk and attach the heavy metal holder thing. After that, he’d leave it alone. Dad wouldn’t decorate trees. You couldn’t make him.

The Hayter kids at Christmas time. A more charming group? I don't think so. Back row: Larry, Lynda, Susan. Middle row: Dennis, Mark, Jill. The scared kid: Li'l Al.

He did decorate the outside of the house. Once. I don’t know where he got the lights. I imagine he got ‘em at the airport. They were those lights with the giant bulbs attached to frayed wire that was strong enough to pull a dump truck out of a sinkhole. They don’t make Christmas lights like that anymore. Not even in China. That should tell you something.

Dad put a strand of those bubbas across the front of the house and around the door. The paint on the bulbs was chipped off in places, so you couldn’t tell what color light was supposed to be. I would’ve just as soon he not put ‘em up.

Oh, and the whole thing sagged like… well, like something saggy. Probably because there was no one to help him. Dad didn’t want anyone helping him. The job involved a ladder, wires and glass bulbs. – “Okay, everybody give me room! On second thought, get outta here!” -- “Yes, sir!” – “You got it, Dad!” – “You’re talkin’ to air, ‘cause we ain’t here!”

One thing that made our outdoor lights particularly sad were all the lights we saw on our way to church. People in other neighborhoods really knew how to put up lights. They had good ones, too. And sleds and reindeer and lit candles under lunch sacks. I never understood that.

Sometimes Dad would take us way across town to see the lights. Those were the good times. Mostly. I say that because there were from four to five of us in the backseat. One would say, “Hey, look over there!” All of sudden the car would tilt to the right. – “Mom, Jill elbowed my neck!” – “Oh, yeah, well Dennis frogged my arm!”

“I’m gonna wring your necks if you kids don’t shut-up!” Mom said stuff like that a lot. The Christmas season did little to temper her threats. “I’ll beat you with that 2 by 4 candy cane over there! Honey, make ‘em shut-up!”

Dad would say, “Quiet.” That’s all it took. Mom was upset with us all the time, ‘cause she was with us all the time. Dad? Well, his tolerance level was way down there. While Mom might have a half dozen threats in her, Dad had none. You never knew when it was coming, so you took no chances. “Yes, sir.” – “Won’t hear another word out of us.” – “We’re not even here anymore.” -- Uh, where are we Dennis?” – “Shut up, Mark.”

After we got home, we’d run to the living room and sit around the TV, eat popcorn and watch Perry Como’s Christmas show. This was back when variety shows were popular. They were the corniest, but the most fun of all… the Christmas shows.

There is one particular thing about Christmases that I don’t remember. I know that sounds stupid, but read the next sentence. I have no recollection of ever sitting on Santa Claus’ lap. You can go through the entire contents of the three dozen or so shoeboxes of Hayter photos and you will find not a single picture of one of Faris and Elsie’s kids sitting on a Santa lap.

That’s because it either didn’t happen or it happened but Mom and Dad couldn’t afford to buy the photos. I’m quite sure in my case that it didn’t happen. I’d enjoy sitting on the lap of a fat guy with a fake beard and red outfit about as much as I would sitting on the lap of a circus clown. People who have to disguise their appearance scare me. They did back then, and they do today. While Mom and Dad made me do a lot of things I didn’t want to do, I have no memory of them forcing me sit on the lap of any costumed freakazoid.

Back then there were two major places that unfortunate children could visit Santa. One was Sears. Sears always had a Santa. Well, not in July. That was cute of you to bring it up, though. Sears also had roasted cashews for $1 a pound. Dennis and I used to get a quarter’s worth. I wouldn’t have mentioned that if it hadn’t meant so much to me. Great cashews.

Sears used the same Christmas decorations year after year. Why try to improve on mediocrity? They had green lit reindeer at the top of each corner of the building. Might’ve been angels… or maybe Christmas trees. The mind is fading. In the middle, a lit up Santa was sitting in a sleigh. The display was a laugh by today’s standards, but back then it was spectacular. When Sears put up their lights it added to the excitement… as if we needed any coaxing to get excited.

While a trip to Sears excited the daylights out of us, nothing compared to Gulfgate. That’s the other place where you could find Santa. The guy is sitting in Sears, yet, at the same time he’s at Gulfgate. Just made no sense to me.

Gulfgate was the first shopping mall in the country. Probably even in the universe. Don’t know if you knew that. Not real sure it’s true, but I heard it somewhere. Gulfgate had all kinds of stores under the same pretty much the roof. We didn’t even know they could do that. It’d be like a Chevrolet dealership housing Buicks. Impossible. Uh, used to be.

Gulfgate during it's heyday. And, no, I have no idea where heyday came form.

Yet, there it was. There were shoe stores, clothing stores, drug stores, toy stores, candy stores… It was revolutionary. One of the stores was Sac’s. It had an escalator. That was the only reason we set foot in the place.

We never bought anything at Gulfgate. Sears either. But we did visit during Christmas. Mom and Dad would even let Dennis and me go off on our own. Can you believe that? We weren’t old enough to stay at home by ourselves, but we were trusted to wander around the mall. We looked at BB guns, electric football games, cowboy pistols and holsters, toy cars… We thought that heaven was Gulfgate, only, in heaven, God let you play with the stuff. At earth’s Gulfgate? Not so much.

We were all supposed to meet back at Woolworth after an allotted time. When we got there, Dad would buy us each a coke at the Diner in the store. The Coke poured right out of a fountain into a real Coke glass with a straw. And, we didn’t even have to share! I’m not making this up. One Christmas Dad even got us each a hamburger. I almost wet myself with excitement. Woolworth Diner. Does it get any better than that?

Woolworth Diner

During one Christmas trip to Gulfgate, a car dealership had displayed a bunch of autos all over the mall. While we were looking at toys, Dad was kicking tires and sitting in the driver seat of each car. I couldn’t tell you the make or model, but there were a bunch of vehicles.

After all the walking around and the Woolworth visit, we headed through the parking lot for the car. Dad was the leader of the pack. He’s the only one who could find the car. Dennis, Jill and I were lagging behind him a bit and one of us noticed that Dad had a massive rip in the seat of his pants. We looked at each other, and then Dennis gave me one of those looks that force me to laugh. I tried to hold it, but it was impossible. My attempt to camouflage it as a sneeze was no good.

Dad heard me. He stopped in his tracks and turned to look at me. He said, “What is it?” Dennis looked at me like, “Yeah, what is it, Mark?” As scared as I was I couldn’t help it. I said, “Daddy, you’ve got a big rip in your pants.” Then I started laughing again. I think it was a combination of all the fun we had at the mall, the Coke at Woolsworth, and everyone acting happy. Whatever it was I had to laugh. Dad could’ve taken his belt off right there and I wouldn’t have been able to stop until the first swat.

But, that didn’t happen. Dad turned around to Mom and said, “Honey, how bad is it?” Mom grinned real big and said, “Yep, you ripped out the whole seat.” Then Dad said something that made everybody join in the laugh. He said, “Can you believe that? There I was bending over all those cars in there, while the whole backside of my pants were gone.” Then he laughed. Dad laughed at himself. When you’re around someone you love, respect and fear, and that person starts laughing at himself… well, it can only draw you closer.

We all walked to the car in a stagger from all the laughter. All the while, Dennis, Jill and I were staring at Dad’s pants and imagining people looking at him as he bent over the cars. Dad was in a good mood the whole way home. It was like a miracle outing. What makes the memory that much more cherished is the realization that after we left Gulfgate, Dad probably didn’t have two dimes left in his pocket. Christmas was approaching, he and Mom had our toys in layaway with no real idea how they were going to make the last payment, yet, Dad gave us each a treasure that night.

I can’t remember what I got for Christmas that year, but 50 years later I do remember our trip to Gulfgate. It didn’t take nearly as much back then to get you to discover enjoyment. It’s sad that it too often takes so much more.

Well, I’ve got just a bit more before I finish the Christmas story part of the book. We’ll do it… next time. It’ll take about a week.

Chapter 14

2010-11-22T14:38:00.000-08:00

Dad trying to pose cousin Roger Dan, me and Dennis while at Lake Heyburn in Okla. You'll hafta read about it. Oh, yes you do.

“Oklahoma here we come!”

I got baptized in the summer of ’61 immediately before the family’s yearly two-week vacation trip to Bristow, Oklahoma. I’d like to say I got baptized due to my love for Jesus. But, it wasn’t love so much as it was fear of dying.

The way I was raised, without baptism you were headed straight for hell in the proverbial basket. With it, you had about a 50-50 chance of making it to heaven. Baptism just gave you a chance to earn heaven. You really had to fight hard for grace. You couldn’t earn if you committed the sins of thinking bad stuff, doing bad stuff or not doing enough good stuff. I figured my chances of heaven were more 20-80. Too many of my thoughts came straight from hell.

So, back the Oklahoma trip… a 550-mile nighttime drive mostly over a two-lane HW 75. One lane coming and one going. Hills and curves all over the place. And, did I mention that Dad was driving? Meant to throw that in. No, I figured there was a chance that the trip might kill us. Wanted to give myself a chance of not going to hell.

Dad had an eight-minute follow time for slow drivers. It’s important that you know that. There would be a hill approaching with the double yellow line down the center of the road. We could see a glow from headlights coming up the rise. At the five-minute mark, Dad would pull out just a ways to see if there was a chance he could make it. He’d gun the engine and at the last minute pull back behind the poking driver.

But, at the eight-minute mark, the man was gone… taking us with him. We could see lights just about ready to top the hill or round the curve. It didn’t matter. Dad was off to the races. We were in the southbound lane headed north, leaving a fat trail of black exhaust behind. The four of us in the back hunkered down. We shielded our eyes against what was coming. It wouldn’t do enough to just close your eyes. You had to cover your head with your arms. Oh, and you had to pray. Before the baptism, the prayer would’ve done me no good, but, in the summer of ’61, prayers might help me. That was the hope, anyway.

The near death passing experiences were really the only bad part of the Oklahoma drive. Oh, that and the cramped feeling at the four-hour period. We didn’t do much yelling at one another when Dad was in the car. We never whined to Mom, ‘cause Dad wouldn’t have tolerated it. No, we just slugged and pinched one another whenever someone infringed on our territory. Tried to do it quietly.

This was before the freeways were completed. President Eisenhower started the process, but few of the roads were complete in time for many of our trips. There were no loops around any towns back then.

If it was after 10:00 p.m. when we came to a town, most of the stop lights would be blinking yellow on 75. The town was deader than dead. Occasionally, you might see a cop car parked beside one of the redbrick buildings that were prominent in about every town we went through.

I remember one time, Dad stopped at a 24 hour dinner. You didn’t see many of those in small towns back then. There was one car parked outside of this one. Dad was getting sleepy, so he and Larry got out for coffee. Mom and us kids stayed in the car. Susan, Dennis, Jill and me in the back.

The two oldest kids got a window seat. That meant that Jill and I sat in the middle on either side of the hump. Before front-wheel drive, all cars had a big hump on the floor of the backseat. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the hump was used to allow room for the driveshaft. (the big pipe that led from the transmission up front to the rear wheels)

The hump was actually an asset if there were only two people sitting in the back. It pretty much established the border between which you couldn’t put your feet. Without it, you foot might hit the sibling next to you. That could lead to only bad stuff.

When four people sat in the back, the hump didn’t serve as anything but a massive hindrance to comfort. If you sit in the middle, you have to sit your feet on the hump so that your knees meet your chin. And, when you get real tired, you can’t kneel on the floorboard and lay your head on the backseat. Only those with window seats could do that. A trip was really the pits when you sat in the middle.

As soon as Dad and Larry left the car for the diner, we fired away at Mom. “Mom, Susan pinched me for being on her side, and I couldn’t help it. I don’t know where her side is. Mine either, for that matter!” – “Mom, would you ask Dad to stop and get us a Coke?” – “Mom, would you tell Dad to warn us before he spits tobacco out the window? We’re getting drenched back here.”

I may have mentioned that Dad started chewing tobacco at the age of seven. I never remember him sitting down somewhere without an empty bean can or coke bottle to spit in. On a trip with the whole family, it was hard to use a can or a bottle. Mom, Larry and Alan were in the front seat with him, so any time he lifted the can to his mouth, he’d elbow Mom in the face. So, he just started spitting out the window. When anyone spits tobacco juice out of a moving car the stuff forms a massive spray. If the window in the backseat was down, which it always was on a hot summer night, the two people nearest the window got sprayed.

By the time we made to Grandma’s house the side of the Biscayne was covered in tobacco juice. Just looked nasty. Dad never had to tell me not to chew tobacco. All I needed was his example to see what a filthy habit it was.

It was trips like this that really made me envy Larry. The lucky duck. I knew there would never come a time when I’d be able to sit up front with Dad, away from the tobacco spit. I’d never be able to get coffee with him in the café. And, I’d have to wait for Susan to leave home before I could graduate to window seat. The pecking order in the Hayter family was the pits. Absolute pits. I was the third kid from the bottom. I’d never achieve frontseat status. Once an Untouchable…

Eventually, Dad and Larry came back from the diner. Dad was refreshed and ready to go. Mom wouldn’t pass along any of our requests… except the one about the warning before he spit. – “I can’t talk when I need to spit, so how can I warn anybody? One of you jakelegs back there needs to stay awake to watch when I move my head to the window.” Like we weren’t already doing that. So, on we drove through the night.

I liked to study the few lights across the distant fields. It was usually so dark out that any interior light from a home would really stand out. I’d wonder what the people in the house were doing at that late hour. I couldn’t imagine anyone even living out in that desolate an area. What would it have been like if we were raised in the country? Maybe Dad would get Dennis and me horses. He’d have us help roundup the cows. We would hunt and fish and have a great time. That’s the stupid kind of stuff I’d think about on trips.

We usually made it to Bristow right at sunup. We were always one tired, sweaty crew. The ones who were fortunate enough to be able to kneel down on the floor to sleep had black legs from their knees down. We didn’t have floor mats, just a black covering on the floor of the car. We looked like we were right out of a Charles Dickens story.

The sight of the grubby lookin’ Hayter kids disembarking from the backseat of the ol’ Biscayne would bring fear and dread to most people. Normal people. But Mom’s folks always seemed genuinely glad to see us. And, you wanna know something? I’m not sure they ever knew exactly when we were coming. I asked Mom about that, and she said she never remembered calling them to let ‘em know. Maybe it was a mentioned in a letter, but she couldn’t remember. They knew it would be in the early summer and that we’d stay two weeks. And, they acted like they loved having us. Makes no sense.

If you can believe this, my cousin Marsha told me that the whole Teegarden family looked forward to the Hayter visit. They knew it would be an excuse for everyone to get together for meals and visits and short trips. For two weeks out of the year, the Teegardens and Hayters mingled big time. As I look back now, I see that we had a blast. However, there were many moments during our stay that I distinctly remember being bored to near coma.

The Teegarden family. Left to right, standing -- Bertha, Edna, Dorothy, Elsie (Mom), Paulene, Vera. Seated -- Ross, Grandpa, Grandma, Leodis (Bud)

You may not realize, but Bristow is a part of the Porch Swing Triangle. There are more porch swings per capita in the Bristow, Kellyville, Drumright triangle than at any other place on the planet. Possibly the universe.

Oklahoma society revolved around the porch swing. And, the fly swatter. You had to have a good swatter.

Have you ever seen a porch that beckoned? “Hey, you. Come here and have a sit?” Grandma’s porch was like that. It stretched over most of the front of the house, stopping only where the ground did a nosedive toward the driveway. The porch was where children and grownups alike spent most of their time.

The kids stayed on the porch a lot ‘cause of the swing. Grandpa built the best porch swing in the state. When you’ve got the best porch swing in Oklahoma, you’ve got the best swing there is.

Did you know that each porch swing makes a different sound? Has it’s own fingerprint, you might say. Grandpa’s swing didn’t squeak. It made more of a deep, round, rubbing sound as the chain skipped back and forth across the hook. It was a big hook. Had to be to handle all the abuse the swing took. (Another little tidbit you might not have known. You cannot swing high enough in a porch swing that your feet will hit the ceiling. You can do it in a computer simulation, but it can’t be done in real life. The Hayter kids would know.)

It is impossible for six kids to be anywhere near a porch swing without getting yelled at. Newton proved that. Eventually, one of the adults would holler and we’d stop. Grandma and Grandpa never yelled. In fact, they never said a negative thing to one of the Hayter kids. That’s partly because they were so nice, and partly ‘cause Mom yelled before the thought crossed anyone else’s mind.

“Mark, come here!” Whop! -- “I’m sorry, Mom! Uh, swinging too high again, right? Uh, Mom, I just lost my place. Would you tell Jill to get out of the swing?”

Yeah, Mom would do some serious swatting, but Grandma and Grandpa just stayed nice. Whether we were playing in Grandpa’s huge garden, cranking on the knife sharpening grinder on the back porch, or hiding in the coolest room connecting closet in the world, Grandma and Grandpa never told us “No!”, “Stop!”, or “Put that down!” They were androids set in the “absolute peace” mode. You had to love ‘em.

A watermelon feast at Aunt Vera's house. Standing left to right, Mom, Lynda, cousin Claudia, Uncle Laurence, Dad and Larry. Cousin Roger Dan is the standing kid to the left. Jill has her back to us and Susan is seated. Dad was in a great mood.

At night, grandma’s porch became the busiest place in Bristow. (Not saying a lot, I know.) The rest of the Teagarden family would come over and we’d sit and talk for hours. I’ll bet you could hear the laughter and the rubbing of the porch swing chain for two blocks. It was the noise of family… the way it gets when all is well.

Dad was always in the best behavior when we were in Oklahoma. When he was in a good mood, he was the best person to be around. And, in Bristow, he seldom fell into the dark funk that we readily recognized back home. He had the best sense of humor and best stories. I remember sitting on that porch and watching others look at my daddy while he joked about something, or told some old story that had never surfaced during his story telling moments back in Texas. Everyone would be smiling and watching intently at the man speak. And, laugh. Some of the best laughter I ever heard was on Grandma and Grandpa’s porch.

When it got late… real late, the cars would begin to exit the yard. Grandpa used his yard as a parking lot. People didn’t mind you driving into to their yard in Bristow. The yard was level to the dirt road, and it had grass like you would find on a putting green, only tougher. Grandpa kept it clipped with one of those engineless push-mowers like they used on “Leave it to Beaver.” You’d pull back a step and then march forward three. Grandpa let Dennis and me mow even when there was nothing to mow. Did I mention that I loved the man?

Some of the best times were had at Heyburn Dam. Heyburn was a lake near Bristow. We always called it Heyburn Dam. Don’t know that I ever saw the dam.

Heyburn had the muddiest bottom of any body of water that foot had ever tread. It’s mentioned in “National Geographics.” In most lakes, you’ll find some mushy places, but there will be solid ground in areas. Not so at Heyburn. It was muddiroo. Without an inner tube, water time was not all that enjoyable. Fortunately, Grandpa always had inner tubes for us.

The silliest I ever saw my Dad act was in an innertube. He’d sink his rear way down in the tube, so about all you could see was arms, head and legs. Then he’d get a mouth full of water and spit it out in a high stream. I don’t know how he did it, and believe me I tried. Spitting a stream of Lake Heyburn water cannot be the healthiest of fun activities. But, I think it was worth it when Dad did it. We’d laugh till we cried looking at our Daddy act silly.

At one time, he got a bunch of us kids on a big rock and told us to act like we were real muscled up body builders. Someone shot a photo of us posing with Dad. A lot of pictures taken during an Oklahoma vacation.

I don't think I ever came to grasp with what we were doing. That's me on the left, Roger in the middle and Dennis on the right. Susan is seated on the rock. Dennis was always the one who could do things right.

I do wish someone had taken at least one photo of our sleeping arrangements at Grandma’s house. It was a rectangular two-bedroom house, with the bedrooms and kitchen all lengthwise on the back half. The living room stretched all across the front. A better use of space I can’t imagine.

Mom and Dad slept in the spare room, and Grandpa and Grandma slept in the room nearest the kitchen. The weird closet I mentioned earlier separated the two rooms. You could enter the closet in one room, take a right and eventually come out in the other bedroom. Just as cool as it could be. The closet was wide enough to have a walkway with shelving and hanging rods on both sides. It was dark and scary. A perfect hiding place, if anybody ever cared to look for us. Unfortunately, no one did. Out of sight, out of mind. Just sad as it could be.

So, while the adults were sleeping in the bedrooms, the rest of us slept on pallets on the living room floor. Oh, yeah, Grandma had a fold down bed that Larry or Susan got to use. I’m thinking Susan and Jill. Could be wrong. But the rest of us were on pallets of quilts. A lot of quilts. The front door and windows were all open in the living room. Nothing but a thin screen separated us from whatever was outside. I don’t mind telling you it got pretty spooky some nights. Particularly those nights we went to bed after hearing cousin Dale tell some scary stories. Stories of an insane asylum just behind the railroad tracks. There was always a crazed killer on the loose. About once a week, so kid would turn up missing. The only thing that would slow an insane killer was a werewolf. There were plenty out there, let me tell you. Full moon? Meant nothing to them. That was so good to know.

Occasionally at night the wind would blow the porch swing and we’d hear the low grind of the chains. Dennis and I would scoot closer to Larry’s pallet. Then we’d pull the cover over our heads. Scary times, let me tell you.

Strange, but Mom never lost a kid while in Oklahoma. We survived every night. The next morning we’d have the best breakfast in the world. Grandma was a wonder with biscuits and gravy. We’d hear Mom and Dad laughing with Grandma and Grandpa as they sat around the kitchen table. The kids would be munching out on the big dinning room table. It was called the dinning room, but it was really just the far end of the living room. I never understood dining rooms that really aren’t rooms.

Most mornings after breakfast, Dad would drive over and visit his Dad. On some visits he’d bring us along with him. I wrote about that in an earlier chapter. I mentioned how Grandpa Hayter started crying when we he knew we were leaving. He didn’t do that in the earlier years. Only a year or two before he died. Maybe he was trying to embrace the moment, knowing he didn’t have many more moments to be with his son and his family. I hate like everything that we so dreaded our visits with that dear man. Not one of my better times.

By the time we did leave Bristow, I was always ready to go. I think Dad was too. You can have just so much fun. And, you can be on good behavior for just so long.

Though we looked forward to the trip back, it never was as fun as the trip up there. Weird how that works. Might be due to what we had to look forward to.

Does it get much worse than unpacking from a trip? Oh, what a dread. You feel like you’ve been coated in grainy butter. And, you’re just beat. But, you’ve got to unload stuff and pile up the dirty clothes and clean the mess out of the backseat. I don’t know how Mom did it all. I honestly don’t remember helping all that much. I remember laying on the floor or the couch and just taking a nap. Then in the afternoon, Dennis and I would touch base with the gang on the block. So much to catch up on.

And, Dad? He usually took a shower then slept for a few hours. Then he was off to work at the plant. Same o’, same o’. For the next few days, he was not a man to cross. His vacation time for the year was over. It was hard for him to see past what he had to do. Who hasn’t been there?

Epilog to Grandma and Grandpa Teegarden’s house:

Currently, there is no house at 810 South Walnut Street. The home was sold not too long after Grandpa Teegarden died in 1976. Grandma had passed in ’73. Our family drove by to view the place during the summer of ‘99. Each of us could not believe how small the house and yard looked. The wood-siding had given way to vinyl. That just took so much away from the folksiness of the place. The yard didn’t look like there was room to park half the cars that used to sit there during one of our visits. And, the porch! It was miniature. It’s like the entire place had become the incredible shrinking homestead.

A few of us visited again in ’03. When we drove by, the place was nothing more than a pile of burned wood and melted plastic. The owners had suffered a disaster. We don’t know what caused the fire, but whatever it was totaled the place. It even took out a couple of the trees that had shaded the place.

To me, it was kind of like when Richard Boone died. The news hit me hard. While he was alive I knew another “Have Gun Will Travel” episode, though highly unlikely, was not beyond the realm of possibilities. When Boone died, so did Paladin.

That’s the way I viewed Grandma and Grandpa’s house. I knew we’d never visit the place again… have family gatherings on the porch or spend the night on pallets in the living room. But, if one of us got rich we could by it and try to relive old times. The thought was not beyond the realm of belief. Well, it’s now way past the “belief” phase. The fire that took Grandma and Grandpa’s house delivered but one more dose of reality. Reality doses are never easy to take. Not for me.

Chapter 13

2010-11-13T07:41:00.000-08:00

"The shoe"

What is the most scared you’ve ever been? No, no. Please don’t tell me. That was rhetorical. I really don’t have time to hear your story. I was just leading into my scariest time. And, as Dad would say, “I’m driving this team of mules.”

There was never a question of who was leading the Hayter family’s team of mules. Dad was the muleskinner, the trail boss the head honcho. He was also the driving force behind my scariest moment.

I was nine at the time… and not just because it rhymed. We were living on 1628 Camille Street. It was a Wednesday. About 7:10 in the p.m. Larry, Dennis, Jill, Alan and I were gathered around the TV in the living room. I was on the wooden floor, stomach down, elbows propped so my hands could support my head at the chin. Got the picture?

“Wagon Train” was on. At no time in our family’s history had we ever watched an entire episode of “Wagon Train.” It came on a Wednesday night. Church night. Services started at 7:30, a scriptural time. Our church was a 20-minute drive away, so ten minutes is all we had for Wagon Train. A smarter group of kids would’ve never started a program knowing they’d miss the last 50 minutes. But, these were desperate times.

Mom started yelling at 7:04. “Okay, everybody up! Some of you aren’t even dressed yet. Let’s go!” -- Nothing. Mom usually didn’t get serious till the third, fourth yell. We knew that. Important thing was, Indians had surrounded the wagon train out on the dessert. Some of the worst land you’d ever seen. I have no idea what the Indians were even doing out there.

It’s 7: 07. “I’m not going to tell you again! You kids get up and get in the car!” Second warning. Everything was cool. Ward Bond just sent Robert Horton off to get the cavalry. The Indians continued to ride in a circle around the wagons, getting picked off one at a time. I would’ve given them more sense then that. Fortunately, there were a lot of ‘em. Some of ‘em got killed more than once. “Hey, that’s the same guy who fell off backwards a second ago!”

7:10 “Okay, that’s it! TV off!” Third call. Sounded like she might have a fourth left in her, so we didn’t budge. Well, Larry budged. He was the oldest, and apparently didn’t care all that much for “Wagon Train.”

The fourth warning never came. About 10 seconds after Mom left the room, Dad came in from… we never knew where. What was that all about? Surely Dad wasn’t going to church. He seldom went Wednesday nights. No, this was just weird. Something wasn’t right. Dad walked over to the TV and turned it off. Didn’t ask, didn’t yell… just turned it off. Then he said, “Everybody in the car. We’re going to be late church.”

Hokey Smokes! Caught us completely off balance. We were bumping into each other, tripping on the throw rug, and trying to get traction on that oak floor. Jill and Al headed outside to the car. Dennis and I ran for the bedroom. We weren’t dressed for church. I needed a shirt, pants, socks and shoes. I came out of my shorts while running down the hallway. (Shorts, not underwear) I grabbed my jeans off the bed and hopped in ‘em. Dennis was already headed out the backdoor. You would have to visit a different solar system to find a faster dresser than Dennis. He was the best.

The family was in the car waiting for only me. Dad was the worst waiter in the world. I learned from the best. I just grabbed a shirt off the floor, found two socks and my shoes and then raced to the car. The back right-side door was open, so I dove in. Dennis was struggling to get the door shut just as Dad backed out of the driveway. It was not a good time to be a Hayter kid. One-second things were calm as could be. Oh, the Indians were taking a hit, but we were doing fine. All of a sudden we’re scrambling for our lives. -- “Love is what we were born with. Fear is what we learned here.” Shakespeare is the first one to say that. He must’ve been in the backseat with me.

As soon as Dad had the car pointed churchward he started his lecture. I started getting dressed. Took me a couple of tries to get my shirt on frontward. – “I want you kids to start minding your mother. Do you hear me?” (Yes, sir. Yes, Daddy. Won’t happen again.) “Your mother shouldn’t have to tell you more than once to move.” – Okay, I’ve found both socks, and am about to—there, my feet are socked.

“If I ever catch you – any of you – pulling a stunt like you did tonight—“ Okay, right shoe on and… where’s my other shoe?” – “Your mother works her fingers to the bone trying to get you kids to—“ My shoe! Where’s my other shoe?

I didn’t want to create a disturbance while Dad was yelling at us, so I just kept feeling around on the floor. Finally, the oration ended. I looked over at Dennis. I didn’t have to say a word. Dennis recognized the “I can’t find my shoe” look. Do I need to tell you again how close we were?

I punched Jill and whispered. “Are you hiding my shoe?” She wasn’t. I looked over at Al. He was just a nubbin’. Totally useless to Shoeless Mark. -- “Shoe? You can’t have my shoe? Mother, Mark wants my shoe!” -- No, don’t even get him started.

We were five minutes into the ride when I had to face the fact that the shoe had never left the house. The last 15 minutes of the drive was three hours on the terror clock. I was doomed. There was no way out of this. Dad had just yelled at us for not minding Mom. It was our selfishness that was making us late. If I were to open my mouth and ask to go back for my shoe… well, I don’t know what would’ve happened.

I didn’t honestly think Dad would kill me. I wouldn’t have bet against it, but it just wasn’t a safe wager. What was the worst thing? He could let me out of the car and make me walk back. No, he wouldn’t do that. He could stop the car and spank me. That was a possibility. He could wait and spank me at church. Yeah, that’s the ticket. That’s what he would do. I’d be crying in the parking lot, and the preacher would dismiss people so they could go see what was happening. Realizing what my punishment would be, I opted not to say anything till we got to church. No use him having 15 minutes to yell at me before spanking.

This was bad. I had never been so frightened. Hey, that’s what started chapter, isn’t it? So, naturally, I started crying. Quietly. Only those in the backseat could tell. Jill started crying too. Dennis wasn’t real happy, but he didn’t cry. He was made of sterner stuff. He wasn’t brave or noble enough to give me his left shoe, but he was tough. This would be just one more example of Mark being the dumb one. No big shocker for Dad. Oh, yeah, I might survive this.

We eventually pulled into the parking lot of the South Houston church of Christ. A more legalistic congregation was not to be found south of the Oklahoma border. That’s not exactly pertinent to anything right here, but I just thought I’d mention it. Dad working with others on the construction of the church in South Houston.

The minute Dad switched off the key, the backseat emptied. Nearly. Dennis and Jill were already at the church house door. Alan grabbed Mom’s hand and Dad went ahead of ‘em to talk to Cecil Webb, who had also shown up a little late.

Me? Well, I decided to try out a strategy that hit me about two minutes earlier. It was brilliant. I gave it a 30 percent chance of working. Those were more than cceptable odds. What else did I have? The idea was for Dad or Mom not to notice me. I’d enter the building and limp straight to Bible Class. If anyone asked, I had hurt my foot. Sprained ankle. After class, I’d sit on the last pew, and as soon as the final “Amen” was uttered, I’d make a beeline for the car. As long as my Bible school teacher didn’t confront Mom about my gnarled ankle, it just might work. It had to work.

And, it would’ve worked had it not been for Mom. She was halfway to the building when she turned to see what was keeping me. There I was one shoe on, one shoe off. Before she could even react I let it fly, “Mother, please don’t tell Daddy. I’ll just say that I hurt my foot and no one has to know that I forgot my shoe.”

I’m asking you, what is wrong with that? No big deal. No injury, no foul. I have no idea how that relates, but it sounds almost applicable. Well, I don’t know if it was because we were at church and Mom didn’t want to lie about my foot, or it was because we had been such stinkers in not obeying her about turning off the TV. Whatever it was, it all came down like the fist of God.

“Honey! You’re going to need to come here.” Dad was “Honey.” At no time did Mom ever call him “Faris.” Not in our presence, anyway. Maybe never. I don’t know. He was just Honey. Even if she was mad at him, she’d call him “Honey.” And, he called her “Honey,” too. Not “Honey 2” That might’ve gotten him in trouble. – Oh, forget that. I was just stalling for what happened next.

By this time, I’m bawling my head off. There’s no muffled cry going on. I’m way past hiding anything. Life as I knew it was over. I was the idiot child who forgot his shoe and was too much of a baby to tell Dad about it. Does it get lower than that? I didn’t think so either.

“He forgot his shoe.” That’s all Mom had to say. Dad looked down at me and just shook his head. He didn’t yell, or slap me or grab me by the arm and hustle me to the other side of the parking lot so he could whip me. He just shook his head and said, “I’ll take him home, and come back for you when church is over. Get in the car.” The “Get in the car” part was addressed to me. The other part was for Mom.

I hadn’t planned on that. What an idiot I’d been! Dad was going to take me home and spank me so my pathetic cry wouldn’t disturb the congregation. I started bawling even louder. Up until the moment I entered the front seat… and plopped my buns right across from Dad. Had I gotten into the backseat, I don’t know what he would’ve done. I had never been in such a horrid situation before, so I really didn’t know the proper protocol. Figured the front passenger side was the most proper. Figured it’d just make him madder if he had to reach back to smack me.

As soon I shut the door, I cried less loudly. I didn’t want plant the seed for the ol’ “If you don’t shut up I’m gonna give you something to cry about!” line. I had heard it a few thousand times. Not from Dad, though. He wasn’t much of one for threats. He just more or less reacted to bad behavior. -- “I hate rude behavior in a child. Won’t tolerate it.” – One of those kind of disciplinarians.

So, I tried to keep the volume of my crying down. It turned into one of those cries where I couldn’t catch my breath between sobs. Dad said nothing. He just started the car and we left the parking lot. For a split second I wondered what Dennis, Jill and Larry were thinking. Alan thought nothing. “The creep was after my shoe, Mother. What was that all about?”

Dennis and I were in the same Bible class. What would he think when I didn’t show. Would he be scared for me? Would he pray for me? – By the way, back then we were so legalistic that we thought God too big and too busy to worry about kids being scared about forgotten shoes or about pending spankings. He was too busy getting upset over big stuff. Kids didn’t count for much.

So, I knew God was on Dad’s side. Who could even begin to love a kid as stupid and bad as I was? It was going to be justifiable homicide. And God would be cheering Dad on. I didn’t blame Him. In fact, I was halfway ready for it. For the last 20 minutes I had experienced mental hell. I was ready for a change. Physical hell? Bring it on. Anything was better than what my mind was doing to me.

We were about halfway home before Dad said anything. And, he didn’t even yell when he said it. He didn’t even look at me when he said it. I peeked over at him, though. I thought that’s what I’d better do. Like I say, it was new ground for me. The biggest thing I had ever done wrong.

Looking straight ahead, and in a voice as caring as could be, my daddy said, “I can’t believe you’re that afraid of me.” He said it more to himself than to me.

I had no answer for Dad. He had never abused us or anything close to that. We were just all scared of him when he got mad. I don’t really know why. There was just something that brought fear. Fear of disappointing him as much as anything else. I guess. For me, it seemed I could do nothing else but disappoint him.

And, sure enough, there I was doing it again. I thought I should in some way respond to his question or comment. What was it? “I can’t believe you’re that afraid of me.” What kind of response could a nine-year-old come up with? A stupid nine-year-old. I said the only thing I could think of. Between my crying gasps I said, “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

Dad looked over at me this time. He shook his head and said, “No.” That was it. No. What did it mean? For a second I almost asked him. Oh, who am I kidding? No, way was I going to ask him to explain. He wasn’t yelling at me, and I could tell he wasn’t going to spank me. Why rock the boat asking for an explanation? Besides, I was halfway thinking that Dad might cry if he started explaining to me what he meant by “No.” If I had seen my daddy cry, I sure enough would’ve been scared.

When we got home, Dad walked over to the fridge and pulled out two RC Colas. He opened one and handed it to me. A whole one. I had just stepped off onto the planet “Weird.” I hadn’t had a whole RC in… well I never had a whole RC. Dad opened the other for himself and then he said, “Okay, we’ve got a little time before church is over, so what say we watch “Ozzie and Harriet”?

“Ozzie and Harriet.” I had never seen it before, because it came on Wednesday nights during church. I had heard about it, but… wow! I was just way too young to take it all in. I kept thinking something was going to happen to bring the terror back.

Dad and I sat on the couch together and laughed together. It was my most favorite time with Dad. It was a miracle. What I thought was going to be the worst spanking of my life, ended up being a treasured moment with my father. Maybe God wasn’t too big or too busy to worry about kids. Even the really dumb ones.

After the Nelsons signed off, Dad said that we’d best go get the family. He also said, “Don’t forget your shoe, Son.” When Dad called me “Son”, I knew things were okay between me and him.

Everybody stepped gingerly to the car as we drove up. They quietly got in. Dennis and Jill checked me out to see if there were any visible scars. I just smiled and nodded. Then we all smiled big when Dad said, “What say we go to Dairy Mart for dipped cones?”

Four “Oh, boys!” erupted from the backseat. Larry just said, “Sounds good to me.” Mom, who was sitting in the middle between Larry and Dad, nuzzled up just a little closer to Dad.

I don’t guess it gets any sappier than that. But, I don’t care. Like I say, it turned out to be one of my best moments. Perhaps the closest moment I ever had with Dad.

It made no sense when I tried to explain to Dennis what happened. How could it? Somehow I had stepped off onto the planet Weird. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought that God took a break in His busy schedule to show a father and son a hint of Himself. Back then I didn’t think it important enough in the whole scheme of things, for God to mess with something as small as that. Back then.

Dad and me

Chapter 12 Finale

2010-10-30T10:26:00.001-07:00

Trip Home in a Horrid Hudson

One of our last afternoons in Florida, Grandma took us to meet one of her sisters. I couldn't come up with her name if you stuck a gun to my ear. What I do remember is that she lived with her husband in an orange orchard in central Florida.

I had never heard of Grandma sister. Truth is, she had about three. You want their names? Good. One thing about the orange orchard sister and her husband is that they were very nice. Acted as if they enjoyed our visit. I couldn’t believe it either.

One thing I didn't care so much for was the fact that they had a chihuahua. A more scared dog I have never seen. That thing shook from the moment our car door slammed to… well, I don’t know. Hard to say. We left the thing shivering.

First off we got a tour of the orchard. A lot of trees, and big, too. All of ‘em planted in perfect lines. It was like Arlington Cemetery, in that you could see trees in lines from practically every angle. The trees were large, so I assumed it was an old orchard. I sometimes mystify myself with my smarts. The one important thing I don’t remember is whether or not there were any oranges on the trees. If they had been cashew trees, I would’ve remembered.

For Dennis, Larry and me it wasn’t all that exciting a get-together. Daddy and Grandma sat at the kitchen table playing canasta with Aunt and Uncle Orchardkin. Dennis and went outside for a bit until it started getting dark. Dark and gloomy. There was a heavy set of clouds on the horizon. I could tell you which direction they were coming from, but I’d just be making it up.

When we went outside the chihuahua was barking and when we came back inside it was still barking. I couldn’t believe that yapper wasn’t driving anybody else crazy. The four adults sitting at the kitchen table were just laughing and talking about family stuff that kids have absolutely no interest in. Dad was in a great mood. He was leaning back in his chair next to the electric stove. The chair was one of those neat looking metal ones with the with naugahyde-covered seat and back. I had no idea that the look would one day be considered retro. And, I was really into stuff like that.

Larry had pulled up a chair near Uncle Orchard and was listening to the conversation just like he gave a hoot. Larry was the polite one. Dennis and I just stood around acting like we couldn’t have been happier had we been touring an ice cream factory.

Wasn’t long before the dark hit us hard. Then the wind. Then the distant thunder. Finally, the lightning. I have yet to see anything like it. It was like someone had set up a strobe light outside each window. The peals of thunder were almost spontaneous. The electricity went out after one of the big booms. Uncle Orchard quickly grabbed some candles and set them up around the kitchen. Then they settled back down for cards.

The yappy dog was going crazy. Running all over the place. That thing could make itself so small I feel sure it could’ve edged itself under a door. The wind began rattling the windows and waves from the downpour smashed against ‘em. And, the lightning. Did I mention the lightning. Uncle Orc called it an electrical storm. I’d never heard of such a thing. I had been in thunder storms and seen snow storms on TV. But, electrical storms? Made no sense.

I was as scared as I have ever been up to that time. I would like to say that I was most fearful that Dad or one of my brothers would be struck by lightning. But, I was not near that noble… yet. There’s still hope. No, I was sure I was going to be hit on the spot. They say you never hear the one that gets you, and I was going to find out. Wouldn’t be able to tell anybody, but I sure find out.

Wasn’t long I was shaking about as much as the chihuahua. Just wasn’t yapping. The adults continued to laugh and cut up like nothing was going on. It was an act with one of ‘em. After several minutes Dad leaned forward and put all four legs of his chair on the floor. “I don’t know about y’all, but I’ve had about all of this I can take.” He then stood up and walked toward the living room. He didn’t get there before there was a near deafening boom. A blue ball, surrounded by an orange aura had come bouncing in from somewhere and lit on the stove. I was looking right at it when it hit when it exploded. About wet my pants.

Immediately after the boom, you could smell whatever the smell is after you fire a rifle. Ozone or something like that. A powerful smell. The store was scorched right near the front where Dad had been leaning in his chair. The timing of his departure had been most fortuitous, and I can go for a year or two without saying “fortuitous.”

It was so bizarre to see him sitting there laughing with everyone one moment, and then all of a sudden from out of the blue, he gets real serious and moves away from the area. Had he reacted three seconds later, he would’ve died. I know we hear that a lot from people. “If he I had waited two more hours, that would’ve been me on the bridge.” Sounds so sappy. “Yeah, and if I had stopped in the middle of the road while I was crossing it, the truck would’ve hit me.”

No, this was real and unexplainable. Spiritual is what I’m trying to say. Something urged Dad to get up at that moment and leave. I knew it to be God. God liked my Dad. Had there been any doubts before, they were completely dissolved there in that house in the middle of that orchard.

Crazy thing is, it didn’t seem all that miraculous to anyone else. “Boy, that was close,” Uncle Orc said, before he directed us into the living room. Well, he directed everyone else. I was already in the living room, lying face down in the middle of the floor. Mrs. Branton, my fourth grade teacher, had told us that lightning hits the tallest object. There was no one and nothing in that living room lower than Mark. Oh, except for the dog. That bubba had slid right under the couch. A mouse would’ve had a struggle to get under there, but not that chihuahua.

We left shortly after the rain did. There were tree limbs on the porch and around the cars. But, no structural damage to anything we could see. We left my Aunt and Uncle waving goodbye on the porch. Their electricity was still off, but I didn’t see that as much of a problem. I had lost much interest in things electrical.

Does anyone out there recall what it was that brought us to Florida? No one? It was a Hudson. A 1950 Hudson that Grandma said Larry could get for $50. For some reason, we didn’t see the thing till the day before we left. Talk about disappointed. The thing was a chalk blue. An artist would call it pastel. I called it chalk, because after you rubbed your hand across it your fingertips and palm would be light blue. Just like you were rubbing your hand across a used chalked board. Weird paint.

The car looked a lot like the 1950 Ford that Larry would later get. Only it was in worse condition. Oh, and it wasn’t made by Ford. Like I’ve said about four times, it was a Hudson. Hudsons were contemporary with the first Fords. After WWII they gave Ford and Chevy a run for their money. It wasn’t until 1957 that they more or less turned into Ramblers. The company joined Nash to become Nash Rambler. After that it doesn’t get pretty. That’s a bit of a history lesson that you didn’t ask for.

Larry’s new “badly used” car was a dilapidated giant. The upholstery was a ripped and smelly mess. There was apparently no big push to sell the thing, ‘cause no one had bothered to wash it. To this day I don’t know if Grandma was selling it to Larry or was just selling it for a friend. I was a kid, and didn’t need to know such things.

Once the papers had been signed and dated, Larry jumped behind the wheel and that thing belched and smoked all the way back to the rent house. And for only $50. The big question was– well, you know the big question. – Would the thing make it back to Texas? No bets were taken, because none of us had much money at this point of the trip. I realize it doesn’t sound like we spent all that much, but then Dad didn’t really have all that much to begin with.

The next morning we said our good-byes to Grandma and her dogs and headed out. Dad didn’t even want to wait for the cool of the evening. He was ready to go. I was to ride with Dad in the Bel Air and Dennis would ride with Larry in the Hudson. Dad would take the lead... like there was any doubt.

I would like to say that the trip home was without incident. But, I don’t think the Hayters ever took one of those trips. I do remember that when we started out, Dad was in a good mood. I was playing my plastic guitar in the front seat right next to him. I was strumming that thing just like I knew how. I was actually doing one of those Spanish tunes. You know, where the guitarist picks at the strings for awhile and then strums a bunch like it’s a chorus or something. That’s what I was doing. And, I did a lot.

I was in guitar strummer’s heaven. I had never seen Dad put up with so much nonsense. He wasn’t getting mad at me or anything. I was even halfway sensing that he liked what I was doing. I was apparently a natural. I was in the groove… oh, for about 15 miles. Then Dad turned to me and said, “Okay, give it a rest.” I didn’t plunk another string. I just set the thing in the backseat, never to pick it up again until we got home.

We were in the panhandle of Florida when Dad noticed that Larry was no where to be seen. He couldn’t believe it. Had he Larry somehow passed us? Should he speed up and try to catch him before he hits Alabama. Or, was he still behind us? Lagging… the big lagger. Dad didn’t know. I had my money on Larry being a Lagger, ‘cause I couldn’t see him passing Dad even if he could.

I didn’t offer my opinion to Dad, ‘cause he never asked. Unsolicited advice was not always greatly appreciated by Dad. I could understand. I was just a dumb kid. So, Dad sped up. We headed up the road at breakneck speed. Dad was passing cars right and left. And, this was on a two-lane highway. Scary is what it was. He drove like that for about an hour. The he stopped, pulled off the road and waited. Now he was getting testy. Finally, he turned the car around and headed back. Maybe Larry had car trouble and was waiting for Dad to come to the rescue.

So, we headed back at a fast clip. Dad was passing cars right and left. I had my body flush against the door. I figured we’d either have wreck, or Dad would blow his stack right there in the car. I wasn’t sure what all that would involve, but I’d heard of people doing it. A nervous breakdown, they called it. Breakdown. That can’t be good.

I don’t know how far we went before Dad stopped and turned around. He was fuming. How long could he do this? Back and forth. If Larry was in front of us, we’d never catch him. And, if Dad started back toward home, he’d have to drive twice as fast to make up time, assuming Larry had, in fact, passed us. We sat there in the car for about 30 minutes before Dad caught a glimpse of the chalk-blue Hudson puffing up behind us.

Larry no more pull over and climb out of the car before Dad was reading him the riot act. -- Do you know how worried I was? Why couldn’t you keep up? Don’t you know how to drive that thing. – Dad never really waited for an answer. He just kept yelling. I was probably the only one crying, but I’m pretty sure Larry and Dennis felt like it. When Dad finished venting, he ordered us all back into the car and we headed homeward. Dad slowed the pace a bit.

Later I talked to Larry about the episode with Dad and he told me that he just couldn’t keep up. Something about the clutch slipping on the Hudson. And, he said he could barely make it up overpasses and such. He’d floorboard it and the car would just roar and smoke, but, all the while, poke along.

I’m imagine Dad let Larry explain that to him at some point. Probably after Dad drove the car around Pasadena a bit. Larry didn’t keep the old Hudson long. I don’t remember who he sold it to. Might’ve traded it in on the ’50 Ford. I don’t know.

All I knew… or cared about was the fact that the Hudson was responsible for our trip to Florida. My first adventure outside Texas and Oklahoma. I liked outside Texas and Oklahoma. But, I liked getting home, too. Who doesn’t? And, when we got home we had stories to tell. Sharks and fireballs and dogfish and neat tasting beans and all the stuff that I left out. There was a lot of that. You probably did realize. Hey, I was thinking of you the whole time.

Chapter 12 (first continued)

2010-10-25T16:59:00.000-07:00

Chapter 12 -- Grandma Pearl takes us for a ride.

During our first whole day in Florida, Grandma took us on a little tour of Tampa in her white Cadillac. She bought a new car every year. Always white and always a Cadillac. She was into real estate and thought it important to make an impression. I thought she was the richest lady in Florida. Hey, she even had rent houses.

Grandma looked natural behind the wheel of a swanky car. It suited her well. Her four passengers? I couldn’t help think that anyone who paid us any mind at all probably thought that the Lady of the Estate was taking her gardeners out to work at her beach house. Even as a kid I thought of stuff like that. I didn’t know the definition of “elite”, but I knew enough to know that it had nothing to do with me… or my family.

Late that evening, Grandma took us out to eat at a fancy foreign restaurant. Spanish, French, Romanian…? While Grandma was announcing our presence to a guy up front, Dad whispered to the three of us that Grandma was paying, so we could order anything we wanted. It was the first time and last time in my life that such a sentence was ever directed toward me. I was free to get anything I wanted.

Eventually, the host guy directed us to a large round table. He even helped Grandma sit down. That was just odd. Odder still was what happened next. The waiter came up and placed a menu in front of each of us. It was the first place Dennis and I had ever eaten that had menus. I’d only seen ‘em in movies. I was flabbergasted. We had a nice-dressed waiter and a tablecloth and more than one fork. And cloth napkins! And did I mention I could order whatever I wanted?

Dennis and I studied our menus. We couldn’t recognize all the weird names for food, but we could sure recognize “fried chicken.” Mom made great fried chicken, but it didn’t come from a restaurant. Restaurant fried chicken had to be the best ever. This was too good to be true… so Dennis slapped me and I woke up back in the rent house. (I’m only joking. We were still in the restaurant.)

Grandma and Dad ordered something-weird sounding. Even Larry went Bohemian on us. I don’t even think he knew what he was getting. The waiter finally looked over at Dennis and said, “And, for you, sir?” Called him a sir. We were just two underdressed kids. Probably had 50 cents between us. Dennis immediately gave me one of his looks. This one meant, “Is he talking to me?” I didn’t want to laugh in front of a super polite waiter, ‘cause I feared I might hurt his feelings. I managed to camouflage my laugh by pretending to blow my nose into my napkin.

Dennis went ahead and ordered the fried chicken with mashed potatoes and a salad. A salad! And he didn’t order the French Dressing, the kind Mom always bought. It was turning out to be one fascinating evening. I didn’t wait for the waiter to call me “Sir.” I immediately chimed in, “Me, too. What he said!”

Then the evening took a turn. Right in front of the waiter Dad let us have it. “No way! You’re here in this fancy French or Romanian restaurant and you order fried chicken? You can get friend chicken at home! What’s the matter with you two?”

Grandma instantly got after Dad for yelling at us. Then she told the waiter to get us the chicken. I should’ve felt good about that, but I didn’t. Dennis and I felt like clods. I can’t speak for Dennis here, but my sense of clodness was due to the fact that I couldn’t even order a meal right. The only bright side was the sense that I didn’t have to ever again worry about pleasing Dad. It was beyond my capabilities. I was just a stupid little kid. Fried chicken? What was I thinking?

When our plates came out, it was obvious that Dad had been right. When at a Romanian restaurant, never order the fried chicken. Maybe since the Iron Curtain came down they’ve improved a bit. But, back in the day, they cooked a vile bird. And, they didn’t cook it very long, either. That place could’ve really used Mom. Oh, and the salad was completely ruined. As bad as French Dressing is, whatever they used in that Portuguese place was worse.

At one point during the meal Dad had me get a spoonful of his freaky bean soup. Looked a little like hominy soup. I took a bite ‘cause I was too scared not to. The beans were delicious. Dad said, “See what you’re missing?”

Yes sir, I could see. Fifty years later, I can still see. I had an anything-I-wanted pass, and I blew it. I couldn’t even “want “right.

The next day we didn’t do much at all. I don’t believe we even saw Grandma. By late evening we were way bored. No television, no radio, no board games. Just a few gallons of grape juice.

We were sitting on the porch – There were no lawn chairs. We were ON the porch. – When Dad told us to hop in the car. He had seen a Drive-in theatre the day before and we were gonna go. And, we were getting popcorn and a Coke, too. I’m not making this up. Dad had gone bonkers. We lit off that porch like we were a tire crew at Indy.

Two Elvis pictures were showing that week. “Jailhouse Rock” and “King Creole.” I don’t remember much about either movie, other than Elvis found an excuse do some singing in each. Seems like “King Creole” had the better story. Didn’t matter. The popcorn was great and we didn’t have to drink grape juice.

The next morning I got my plastic guitar out and I was doing some serious Buddy Holly singing. Never was that big of an Elvis fan. Buddy Holly was the King as far as I was concerned. I didn’t even get to sing “It doesn’t matter anymore” before it was time to shove off to meet Grandma again. (“Now, you go your way and I’ll go mine. Now and forever till the end of time…” Buddy Holly rocked.)

This was to be a fun and exciting day. It was the day that Larry almost got eaten by a shark. “Almost” is such an important word. On it hangs both lost elation and avoided tragedy. What happened is that Grandma took us to the beach. Not sure where. The Gulf side of Florida. The color of the water was pretty much what you’d expect at Galveston, and the beach sand didn’t inspire me all that much. But, the waves. The sea was angry that day, my friend. Surfers would laugh at such a statement but for a kid who never saw much more than a two-foot wave, this was big stuff.

Dennis and I were a bit too scared to do much more than wade out a little ways. We’d get up to waste-deep, but that was about it. Larry was so much braver. He went way out there. So, far out that I worried for him. The worry turned to terror when a kid down the beach yelled that he saw a shark. And, he pointed to the area near where Larry was treading water. “See? Look right there. There it is again!”

Sure enough, there it was. I saw something. A big fin it was. Looked more like the fin on a sailfish to me. Of course, I didn’t know a sailfish from a mackerel. All I knew was that I heard someone yell “Shark!” and I saw a fin. Thought I did, anyway. Wouldn’t have doubted myself had that kid not yelled “Shark!” That made me see fins everywhere.

It really surprised me that Dad and Grandma didn’t get all that excited. I couldn’t get ‘em to budge. They couldn’t see anything. “Oh, Mark, it’s nothing to worry about. Now, go look for shells or wade.”

Dennis didn’t even see any fins out there, but I got him to wade out in the water with me and yell for Larry to come to shore. We did a lot of yelling, let me tell you. My big worry had to do with Larry’s bathing suit. It was red. I thought the shark might see the red and think it was blood. That would be, like, like really bad.

So Dennis and I yelled and yelled, and eventually Larry looked over and saw us jumping up and down in the water waving at him. That pretty much scared him. He probably thought Dad wanted him to come in so we could leave. So, he turned and headed in just before the shark was going to get him. Probably a nanosecond before. We saved his life. Mostly I saved it. It was like the “Invasion of the Body Snatchers.” I couldn’t get anybody to believe me. Even Dennis didn’t have his heart in it while he was yelling. I could tell. Dennis was a better yeller than that.

Shortly after Larry made it to shore, we loaded up and left the beach. That evening we ended up on a big pier where we did some fishing. Mostly Larry and this girl fished. Seems Grandma tried to match Larry up with this girl she knew. I don’t know where from. I assume it was the daughter of someone she had dated. Maybe someone she sold a house too. Regardless, Larry stood there on that pier and did his best to impress the girl. I couldn’t blame him.

Everything went pretty well up until the time the girl reeled in a dogfish. I had never heard of a dogfish until that moment. An appropriately named fish, the dog. It looked almost as gross as you can get. I saw a weird eel once on Disney that had to be the grossest. Freaked me out. But this dogfish was just nasty looking. The looks had nothing to do with its name… I don’t suppose. It was the noise that slimy creature made when Larry grabbed it. The thing let off a gargly bark. It was so unnatural for a fish to make any noise, but the sound of that gargly bark about made me sick.

And, there was Larry, trying to impress his date. The girl had caught the fish, but Larry was bound and determined to take it off the hook. So stupid. Everyone in the Free World knows that when a slimy fish barks at you, you just cut the line. Larry would have none of it. He didn’t have gloves or anything. He ended up with muck all over his hands. Eventually somebody handed him a pair of pliers and he got the hook out. I didn’t see that part, ‘cause I was a few pilings over gagging.

I don’t know what Larry’s thoughts were, but I was a bit disappointed in Dad. Thought sure he would grab the dogfish, stick his finger down the throat and de-hook the demon. Dad was a noodler for heaven’s sake! He’d swim along the muddy banks of creeks in Oklahoma ,and go under water next to a stump and come up with a giant catfish. Anybody who’s not afraid of doing that is someone I want on my team. But, the only noodler in the family didn’t lift a hand to help Larry out. I assume he was trying to teach him a lesson. Either that or the dogfish was grossing Dad out, too.

I’m left to believe that Larry’s date was not all that impressed with my oldest brother. Or maybe she was, but hated to get more involved since they lived 1000 miles apart. That’s closer to the truth, I’m sure. Regardless, we never saw the girl again. I was glad of that ‘cause I knew that I’d never be able to look at her without thinking of that slimy barking fish. Isn’t it weird how things work out?

The next day there was more fun waiting for us. The excursion would come close to killing Dad, but, all in all, it was a worthwhile endeavor. I think any adventure is good if you survive it and, in doing so, you learn something from it. There are, no doubt, a few dozen exceptions to that, but the line reads well, doesn’t it? It’s true that, at the time, I would’ve rather been noodling for dogfish than to have to go through what we did, but that was only because I thought I was gonna die along with Dad.

And, that puts us on the second “to-be-continued” portion of Chapter 12. The chapter that won’t die. In a couple of days I’ll have us home. Hope to see you then.

Chapter 12

2010-10-16T08:27:00.000-07:00

“The trip that almost wasn’t”

Chapter 12

One afternoon during the summer of ’59, Dennis and I were playing around in the front yard on Camille Street. Probably throwing the baseball around. We called it flies and grounders. – “Do you wanna catch flies or grounders?” – We did that a lot in the summer.

This particular flies or grounders was interrupted as Dad drove home from work. He was working the day shift, so it had to be around 3:30 in the p.m.

Dennis and I didn’t run over and jump in his arms or anything like that. We never did that with Dad. Didn’t know what kind of mood he’d be in, so we were a little leery of jumping on the guy. He would’ve probably greatly appreciated it, but we were just too scared to try.

We did wave to him and shout greetings. Dad waved back and then called us over. That scared us. “Something ain’t right? What’d you do, Mark?” – “Wasn’t me this time. Had to be you.”

The minute we saw Dad smile we picked up our pace. When we got there, he reached into his pocket and pulled out one of those Swiss Army knives. You know, the real thick knife with the red handle and the white cross on it? Must’ve been the insignia of Switzerland or The White Cross. And, the thing had a dozen blades. Maybe 100. There was a saw blade, can opener, screwdriver (both Phillips and flat-head), cork screw, punch, scissors, maybe a spoon or ladle, toothbrush… My mind is really digging here. Oh, yeah and about three knife blades. It was the most massive pocketknife I’d ever seen. Dennis is bound to still have it. Nobody would ever throw something like that away.

With that one knife a person would no longer need to go to the store. He could take care of his food, clothes and shelter needs with that one red-handled apparatus. And, for that one moment it was right there in Dad’s hand.

Neither of us had the guts to take grab it or to even ask to hold it. Dennis didn’t really need to. Dad held the knife for a few seconds and then handed it to my big brother. It was one of those moments where I was really proud for Dennis, but wouldn’t mind kicking him in the butt.

There was no visible sign of my kicking-him-in-the-butt thought, because I was smiling big, and acting as happy as if Dad had handed me the knife. – “Hey, Dad. You made the wise choice. Dennis is the better carrier of such a grand gift.” -- Heck of an actor.

Dad let me cry on the inside for about a minute before he reached again into his coveralls and pulled out a rectangular box. I knew it! Dennis was obviously his favorite, but I knew Dad wouldn’t completely forget me. I opened the box and found the greatest looking two bladed pocketknife I’d ever seen. Remember? Dennis had the prettiest looking more-than-two-bladed knife I’d ever seen. My knife had a faux ivory handle with an engraved picture of a deer’s head on it. Maybe an elk. The thing had a lot of horns.

I immediately thought I’d rather have the Swiss army knife, but, again, you couldn’t tell by looking. Dad told me that he thought Dennis could better handle all the tools on the Swiss knife. He was wrong as he could be, but only a death wish would’ve made me say something like that to him.

“Well, I just ran across these knives and wanted to get ‘em for you,” he said. “I guess, I’d best go and clean up for supper.” With that he turned and went inside. Dennis and I looked at one another for a fraction of a second. We knew each other so well, that it didn’t take much of an exchange of looks to know what the other was thinking. “What on earth was that all about. It’s June, a birthdayless month! We never got anything like this unless it was Christmas or our birthday. Nothing.” It made no sense at all. So, we ran into the garage to find some boards to stab.

That night Dad came into our room before bedtime. “Y’all enjoying your knives?” You bet we were. We even hugged him, which was way out of character for any of us. But, it went over well. We hadn’t pushed beyond the comfort realm of the father/son relationship. Things were spooky.

Then it hit. KaBloooey! As he turned to leave, Dad said, “By the way, boys, you’re not going to be able to go to Florida with Larry and me. Y’all had best stay home and watch after your mother.” What? What!?! Double whats.

I hate to do this to you readers, but we’re going to have to have one of those flashbacks about now. The difference between my flashbacks and the one you read in other books is that mine are pretty well announced. I tell you when I’m headed back. A lot of authors prefer you figure it out after a few pages. They’re so artsy.

So, let’s go back to March of ’59. Late evening. Dad called Dennis and me to the kitchen table. That’s where most of the serious planning took place in our house. “Boys, how would you like to go to Florida with Larry and me?” – It was one of the stupidest questions either of us had ever heard. Florida? And miss school? Okay, bro, it’s dance of joy time!!

We never said “yes”, but Dad knew right off that we were on board. He told us that come June we were all four driving to Florida. June? That’s after school. But, we were still on board. Oh, and he didn’t mean that we were actually all four going to drive separate cars to Florida. He meant that Dennis and I would ride while he and Larry took turns driving. That goes without saying to another kid, but some of you might’ve been confused.

Dad went on to explain that we’d be going to Tampa to visit Grandmother Pearl. Remember Pearl? The mother who left Dad? The tar and feather episode? Anyway, Pearl had found a good used car for Larry, and she said it was his for $50. You couldn’t beat a deal like that. So, the idea was to drive 1000 miles over there to get a cheap car, and then drive it back another 1000 miles. That’d make it cost a lot more than $50. You scratch this thing, and you’re gonna find that Dad just wanted to go to Florida. And, get this, back in March, he wanted Dennis and me along for the ride.

Go back up to June and he didn’t want us along. When we got the news we started crying. At least I know I did. I was too busy crying to pay much attention to what Dennis was doing. He probably kicked Dad in the wallies and started cursing a blue streak. (Uh, that’s a joke. That would be called “suicide by Dad.”)

Crazy thing is– You wanna know what the crazy thing is? – At no time did it register with me that Dad had given us each a knife to pave the way for him telling us we couldn’t go on the trip.

Dad just hit us with the “mom needed us” and “it was too expensive” excuse. Didn’t matter, ‘cause I had pretty well tuned him out after he said we couldn’t go. Reasons? What difference did it make? We couldn’t reason or argue with Dad. -- “Dad you’re all wet on this. Not thinking right. Now get out of here, till you start making sense.” -- This is the same man who got his ears boxed for telling HIS Dad that one of his suggestions was silly. No, Had we said that, Dennis and I would’ve had combined funerals… only because it would’ve been cheaper.

I don’t know if you’re aware, but the best part of any trip is the anticipation. I’ve been on only one excursion that turned out to be more fun than I imagined. And, I’m one great imaginer. In anticipating the Florida trip, Dennis and I had imagined some good stuff. We’d never been on a non-Oklahoma trip. This time we were going to Florida. Florida, for heaven’s sake! We would have to drive through Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama to get there. That’s three more states! Three more states that weren’t Texas or Oklahoma! We had been packed since the day we got the word of the vacation.. Now, we couldn’t go.

I cried myself to sleep that night. Hey, it would’ve been a big disappointment for me today, but back then it was one of those why-go-on-living moments. I sulked the next morning and let the sulk run into the afternoon. I would never recover from this. I decided right then and there to just runaway after junior high.

Mom got to witness our sulking… like she could’ve done something about it. Truth is, I never was real clear as to what influence Mom had over Dad. Didn’t matter. Dad was The Man. He told us we couldn’t do something, and there was no way we could even let him know how hurt we were. Strange relationship when you think about it.

We were in our bedroom when Dad came home from work that evening. We stayed there till right before supper. Before Mom yelled for us to come to the table, Dad stuck his head inside our room. “Hey, boys,” he said. We said, “Hello, Daddy,” just like we were glad to see him. Anything else might’ve led to some bad stuff.

“I’ve thought it over,” he said, “And, me and your mother think I should take you two with us to Florida.” I started crying again. Try to figure. This time I just ran right to him and threw my arms around his waist. I came up to just a few inches above his belt. I don’t believe Dennis showed quite the emotion I did, but then he was the older brother. He had to set an example of calm. – “That’s enough, Mark. You’re making a fool of yourself.” – I could still read Dennis’ look even through the big smile on his face. Like I said, we were close.

I don’t know how Jill and Alan felt about not getting to go to Florida with us. Surely they realized they were just too young to take such an awesome trip. I imagine Mom was the most disappointed that Jill and Al couldn’t go. That woman hadn’t had a break from kids in 20 years.

So, the four Hayter men loaded up and headed east in the late evening. The ’55 Chevy Bel-Air had no air conditioner, so night-driving was important. The plan was to drive the 1000 miles non-stop. I don’t mean we wouldn’t stop for gas, the restroom or a soda pop, but there would be no night at the motel. Larry and Dad would take turns driving, so one of ‘em would always be fresh. With Dennis and me, it didn’t matter if we were fresh or not. We weren’t gonna drive. However, I was determined not to let the driver be the only one awake. And, this was years before the Chevy Chase “Vacation” movie. On the road, I’d occasionally strike up a conversation with Dad or Larry to make sure there was no nodding off while driving.

Dad’s plan was for us to get to Tampa by late morning. We might’ve done it, too, if it weren’t for Louisiana. None of us knew how it happened, but we got bad lost. It was a lost that took us about two hours out of the way. I think if the road hadn’t eventually gone from paved to two ruts with grass growing between ‘em, we would’ve gone till we were swamp food.

We ended up in the second seediest place there is in Louisiana. Does it get any seedier? There were some bad looking people walking the dirt road. Bad ju ju just dripped. And, every thug we passed gave us a big once-over. No one would be driving out there unless they were lost or up to no good. Larry said it was the first time he ever noticed Dad being scared of anything. I’m glad he didn’t bring that to my attention, ‘cause the only the thing that kept me from crying was knowing that Dad was with us. Dad could take care of anything. Pity the fool who tried to mess with Faris Hayter.

At some point Dad turned the car around. It was in an area where there was no good place to turn around. Had we gotten stuck, this story, had it ever gotten told, would’ve been written by Truman Capote. It wouldn’t have had a good ending.

But, God didn’t let us get stuck, and Dad managed to get us back on to the paved road, and after a few hours later we ended up on the correct paved road. We were back in civilization and, once again, headed east.

We made it to Grandma’s house in mid to late afternoon. Grandma’s real-estate office was part of her house. And, the house smelled like cigarette smoke. Back then everyone had a greater tolerance for cigarette smoke. Dad smoked cigars and chewed tobacco all the way from Texas, but the minute we set foot in Grandma’s office/house the smell of cigarette smoke was captivating… in a bad way. It was normal cigarette smoke multiplied by three. Maybe seven. And, grandma had this cigarette cough that came out at the end of every sentence, and in the middle of every laugh.

But, before we heard the hacking cough we got to hear the yapping dogs. Poodles, peekapoos, rat terriers… I don’t remember what they were. There were at least two, though. And, they were all over us, and yappy as all get out. We weren’t used to dogs in the house, ‘cause we never had any pets at all. Outdoors or otherwise. Oh, Dad let Larry get a couple of goldfish once, but he had to really cogitate over it. But dogs or cats? No way. Any animal that wasn’t in a bowl was never gonna set foot hoof or paw in our house. It was not only wrong, it was real wrong. Worse than square dancing.

We didn’t spend the night with Grandma, nor did we stay in a motel. Instead, Pearl gave Dad directions to one of her rent houses. It was way out in the boonies. The house was empty except for a couple of mattresses on the floor. Oh, and Welch’s Grape Juice. There were a bunch of large bottles of the stuff in one of the cabinets. Nothing else, just the grape juice. About three gallons worth.

Grandmother Pearl keeping her distance from Mark, Dennis and Larry. Picture taken at side of the grape juice rent house where we stayed.

I couldn’t swear that there was even any electricity in the house। A primitive domicile is what I remember. Out front was a burn pile where the last renters had torched everything they couldn’t haul off. At the edge of the pile, I found a small, plastic toy guitar. About the size of a ukulele. Dad cleaned it up a bit, fixed the strings on it and then handed it to me. Boy, did I make use of that guitar during our stay.

After our first night, things got exciting. Dad almost died, Larry almost got eaten by a shark and Dennis and I got in trouble at a restaurant. First restaurant we had ever been in and we got in trouble. What happened was-- Well, let’s hold on a second. I think I’ll save all that for next time. – This is getting to be too much of a read for one visit. Do, I’ll see you next week.

Chapter 11 -- The forgotten chapter

2010-10-07T12:09:00.000-07:00

First TV on the block... if not the world.

Right now, I’m supposed to be telling you about some situations I had with Dad when we lived on Camille Street. It was all but a promise. But, a pre-Camille thought came up and I thought it more appropriate if I chunk it in right now. If I wait a chapter or two, it’ll be too much of a prequel and prequels just confuse the willies out of me. If you can’t write a story without sending the reader back and forth… well, you just need to think stuff out better.

With that straightened out, let me take you back a few years from the time of the family’s move to Camille Street. – Beg pardon? I thought one of you said something. Okay, then, let’s move on.

I might’ve mentioned it once or twice, but it bears repeating. The Hayters were the first on the block to get a TV. Maybe in the entire world. Let’s go ahead and say that. Certainly, the first on Randall Street. We were blessed, and we flaunted it.

I don’t think Mom or Dad ever told anyone how we got the set. Truth is Grandma won it playing Bingo. Uh, that was my Grandma Pearl. Remember? Dad’s mom. Grandma Teegarden never played Bingo in her life. Bingo was gambling, and although I don’t think gambling is directly mentioned in the Good Book, it was supposed to be. It’s that natural inference thing. If you naturally infer something because it just naturally seems to follow… then you can establish a lot of Biblical laws that just aren’t there.

I don’t so much mind the naturally inferred law against gambling, though. It’s the one on square dancing that really ticked me off. There I am in elementary school with a chance to grab Brenda Hornaday’s hand and start dosey doeing and promenading, but noooo. Brother W. said that dancing was a sin. I’d be one forth grader lusting his heart out while alamanding left and right with Brenda. She was a good four inches taller than me, but it might’ve been because she had her hair up in a bun. Like Princess Leia. Double bunned. She might’ve been Pentecostal. Brenda, not Leia. I don’t know. I didn’t care. I just wanted to hold Brenda’s hand. Never happened, because-- What? Oh, sorry. Okay, back to the TV.

Right, Grandma Pearl won the TV playing bingo. Might’ve been at the American Legion or the Knights of Columbus or Daughters of Kentucky living in Texas… I just know it was some place that was not sponsored by our church. Our church didn’t play bingo. The two legitimate reasons for getting a divorce, were if your spouse committed adultery or if your spouse ever won at bingo. Just playing wasn’t good enough. Had to be a winner. And, yes, I’m making this up.

Our TV looked like the tall one, more or less. Only, it was of a lighter wood.

Grandmother Pearl not only played Bingo, but she was proud of it. Didn’t care who knew. That woman did some wild stuff in her life. I’ve mentioned one or two things. I saved the Bingo one for this chapter, ‘cause it fits in better. You’ll see.

Of all the bad stuff that Grandma Pearl did, I was most proud of her winning the TV. That’s ‘cause she gave it to Dad. That would’ve made up for the stupid stuffed fish she gave us, but the fish came so much later that I had forgotten how great the TV gift had been.

Pearl gave Dad the TV set for two reasons. One, Grandma already had one. A better one. In fact, she was probably truly the first one in the world to get one. The second reason she gave the set to Dad was because Dad was an only child. If he had had some brothers and sisters, there would’ve been a fight like you’d never seen before. I’m sure Dad would’ve won, but he would’ve taken some hits.

I don’t really believe God minded Grandma winning the TV, ‘cause the 17-inch Philco seemed to draw us closer to the people at church… not that we needed to be any closer. We went to church three times a week, five times during Vacation Bible School or lectureships. We stayed over for potluck lunches and suppers and extra singing sessions. So, now, we were having people over to watch our unscripturally obtained TV set. We got away with it, because we called the get-togethers “fellowship.” You could do just about anything if you called it fellowshipping. Well, you couldn’t square dance or bingo, but most other things.

Yeah, after practically every evening service, some of the church brethren and sistern would follow us home. Mom would pop a grocery bag full of popcorn and mix a vat of Kool-Aid. We’d congregate around the tube and watch “Ed Sullivan” or “Ted Mack’s Amateur Hour”. I still remember the first time I saw Brenda Lee. Whatta set of lungs! She could sing pretty good, too.

I don’t remember us inviting many of our friends in the neighbors over. Don’t think Mom and Dad wanted to open that can of worms. There would’ve been 30 kids, and a slew of adults, some of whom might’ve brought along some beer. Grandma Pearl was bad enough influence.

Plus, you get a bunch of neighborhood people over on a Saturday night and what are you gonna watch? Jackie Gleason or Perry Como? Lawrence Welk or Sid Caesar? I tell you, there would’ve been some flying fur. The church people were nice, but there was no telling what the neighborhood gang would’ve done. “Faris Hayter, you touch that knob and I’ll back over your garbage cans till you can’t tell the lid from the pail.

Though never invited, I’m pretty sure the neighbors looked in through the windows. We’d see tracks in the flowerbed the next morning. A few cigarette butts. The poor saps.

We watched some great stuff on that Philco. I should probably tell you that I don’t remember if it was a Philco or a Zenith or RCA. Philco just sticks in my head. Might be cause of that Sgt. Bilco guy on the old TV show. Bilco – Philco? I don’t know. Just pretty sure it wasn’t a Toshiba.

What I remember about the set was that it had a large white wooden-cabinet. It stood tall and narrow. The bottom three feet held the speakers. They were hidden behind a wood-framed cloth mesh. When Dennis and I would lie on the floor watching, we’d prop our feet on the mesh. Eventually tore the cloth. That’s how we found out the speakers were there. I don’t even know if Dad knew. Technical stuff was pretty new back then. You actually had to manually wind clocks and watches back then. I’m not joking! Text messages were scribbles in a Spelling book. You could really get into trouble for that.

Not only did our technology stink, but so did our TV programs. We didn’t know it at the time, ‘cause… well, we just didn’t know better. Lawrence Welk? Do I really need to say anymore?

A couple of Saturdays ago I saw “The Nine Lives of Elfego Baca” on the Disney Channel. Fortunately, Kay was not in the room. I hate to cry in front of my wife.

Never, never watch an old TV show that at one time shaped your life. I’m telling you for your own good. It’s too late to help me.

When I was a kid, Elfego Baca was The Man. That first episode where all the bad guys had Elfego Baca trapped inside that collapsed house was one of the best episodes in cowboydom. They kept thinking they had killed him, but whenever they approached the house, he’d gun down a couple more.

Dennis and I must’ve acted out that episode a few hundred times in the backyard. I had to play Elfego Baca’s sidekick. Of course, he never had a sidekick, but it was the only way Dennis would let me inside the make-believe collapsed house. That and the fact that I made the best gun sounds.

We must’ve been easily entertained back then. The old Garry Moore Show used to be one of our favorites. I’m sure Durward Kirby was a real duffus, but we liked him.

“I’ve Got a Secret”, “Jack Benny”, “Arthur Godfrey”, “Bob Cummings Show”… those were just a few of the dozens of old shows we watched on Grandma’s Philco or RCA. We were proud as we could be to get to watch ‘em, too. Flaunted it, we did. Hey, we were first on the block and probably the second in the whole world to have one.

In time, other TVs were introduced to the neighborhood. And, in time, the church people quit following us home. Our times of fellowship waned to the point where they just involved the occasional covered dish social. The Hayters were still considered decent brethren and sistern, though. We were just no longer special. We were just odd. We’ve always been odd.

Since there’s no other place to put this tidbit, I think I’d best tell you that we were the last people in the State of Texas to get a color TV. Dad bought a used round-tubed job. A 24 incher it was. You had to reset the colors every time you changed channels. It always had either a green or orange tinge to it.

At one point it developed a blur. That’s because Al and Jill were running around in the house in their sock-feet and Al slid and knocked over the TV. The thing stood on these four spindly legs, and one of ‘em broke off. The set was a topple waiting to happen. Jill and Al were scared to death for Dad to find out that they had messed up the TV, so they went crying to me.

I told them they were about three hours away from death, but I’d see what I could do. So, Jill and Alan lifted the set, while I set the leg back in place. The thing ended up just balanced under the TV. We were just about finished when Mom walked into the living room.

“What are you kids doing?” I told Mom it was much worse than it looked, but there was nothing she could do. “Nothing to see here, Mother. It’s best if you move along.” We weren’t so much afraid of Mom, even though she spanked us about every day. We pretty much came to expect them. Took turns even.

Mom would’ve spanked all three of us, but figured it was something Dad should handle. When somebody busts the new, used TV, there’s gonna be a bad moon risin’.

Jill and Alan started crying, but I told ‘em that when Dad walked in to just act normal. Maybe he would think the TV just naturally went blurry. One of the tubes burned out or something.

After supper Dad and everyone but Jill and Alan found a place to sit around the TV. I don’t remember who turned it on. Probably me. I’d be the youngest in the room. Dad probably had me messing with the horizontal hold and vertical hold and contrast and all those other control knobs. Nothing could clear up the picture. At one point Dad said, “Well, I should’ve known better than to get that cheap thing.”

We had dodged a bullet. The interesting thing is that Mom never told Dad. Well, if she did, she waited till we were too old to spank, ‘cause Dad never brought it up.

Since then the Hayters were always unlucky with TVs. We never got a decent model. Everyone seemed to have an orange or green tint. I was five years into marriage before I got a nice color TV set.

I don’t think Dad ever got a good one. It’s for sure that Grandma Pearl never helped out. If she ever won one, she kept it to herself. She did give us a giant stuffed fish though. I wrote that up in one of those prequels back there. Prequels. They’re killers.

END

From best to worst to better

2010-10-02T13:30:00.000-07:00

Taken in livingroom of second house on Randall Street. Left to right: Larry, Susan, Dad and me, Mom and Jill, Lynda, Dennis... with a big wad of something in his mouth.

Chapter 10 (Continued)

Our hold on Randall Street didn’t last forever. Holds never do. In the summer of 1955 we moved. Moved up. Definitely up. We said goodbye to the poorer side of the city and moved across town. Well, that’s a lie. I don’t remember saying goodbye to anyone. We had friends almost as close as family, yet, I don’t remember ever saying goodbye. I don’t remember packing up or anything. I just remember that we weren’t there anymore.

Though we moved a couple of miles away, it might as well have been a different town in a different state. When you’re a little kid, you don’t get around all that much. A mile or two is a stretch. Wanda, Margie, Cynthia, Dinky, Marsha Jean, each a friend for life… for a small part of one’s life. Don’t remember saying goodbye. I hope I’m just too old to remember.

I do remember where we moved, though. All the way past Richey Street on to the 1200 block of Pinewood Lane. Our first garage, two bathrooms, large corner lot, gray cedar shingled exterior skirted in brick. And – get this – we were buying. I’m not joking.

It was the first and only house where we weren’t renters. I don’t know what got into Dad. We not only got the house, but Dad bought a new car. A ’55 Chevy Biscayne. Did I mention it was new? Larry ended up with the Termite Wagon. My big brother started working when he was a freshman, so he had money to maintain the old jalopy.

By the way, this was before you had to have car insurance. When something that costs a lot of money was optional, Dad always opted out. God loved us a lot, ‘cause Dad never had a driving mishap. None that was his fault. Larry, either.

We had many happy times on Pinewood. Had the best Christmas ever. Got everything we asked for. Keep in mind, the Hayter kids were not stupid enough to ask for a whole lot of expensive stuff. We only ask for— I tell you what. There will be a chapter on Christmas, so let’s just save it for that.

The family after the Christmas on Pinewood. Left to right: Larry, Susan, Li'l Al, Mom, Mark, Jill (kneeling) Dad, Cheryl (Lynda's first), Dennis, Jimmy (Lynda's husband) Lynda, Benny (the li'l goob sitting on the floor. Lynda's son)

The best thing about Pinewood Lane was the Sutton boys. Craig and Johnny. There were a bunch of other kids in the neighborhood, but Dennis and I were closest to the Sutton brothers.

You know that song by Don Williams about “… what do you do with good ol’ boys like me?” Pretend you do. The song goes, “I can still hear the soft Southern winds in the live oak trees and those Williams boys they still mean a lot to me. Hank and Tennessee.” When I sing the song I sing it with Hank and Tennessee in it, but in my mind I’m singing, “…and those Sutton boys they still mean a lot to me. Craig and Johnny.”

Though we stayed on Pinewood for only a couple of years, the Hayter/Sutton friendship lasted for a good while. Dennis and I went to college with Craig and Johnny. At the dorm we were suite mates. That writes better than it sounds.

I haven’t seen Craig in years. Johnny and I used to exchange Christmas cards every year, but even that tradition fell by the wayside. When you move away, you just naturally move apart. The parting just took longer with the Sutton Brothers. I’ll always love those two guys.

But, move we did. Might’ve been another labor strike at the plant. I’m not sure. One thing I am sure of is that we moved shortly after Big Al was born. Big Al was the last of the Hayter kids… thank goodness. He was Mom’s seventh. She was 40 when she had him. Like most of us, I don’t think he was planned. And, like with Jill, shortly after he showed up, Dad moved us. And, this move was really the pits.

We went from garage back to garage-less. The house on Finfrock was a small white structure that was supported by cinder blocks. It was located about a good rock toss and two decent spits away from the Ship Channel. Whatever Dad paid for rent couldn’t have been much. I’m sure he went through any savings he might’ve had buying the Biscayne and making the down payment on the house on Pinewood. All the good stuff we experienced on Pinewood never resurfaced on Finfrock. I’m thinking that with the new house and car, Dad had stretched things about as far as possible. Then Al shows up. Crimenee! Then, like I said, Crown likely went on strike.

The combination of those things ended to the good life for us. And, it shoved our buns to another part of town even worse than Randall Street. On Finfrock, every chemical smell along the channel made its way into our house. It was particularly bad that winter. We were just south of the Paper Mill and the refineries, so the wind out of the north would coat the walls with bad stuff. What the people in Galena Park suffered during the summer months, we got during the winter.

We weren’t at Finfrock for a year when we moved again. We didn’t move away from the Ship Channel, just further east along the ship channel. It was a move up, though. The house on Belmont was a little bigger and set on a large corner lot. And, it had a detached garage. I thought it most unique. It was conceivable that you could burn down the garage without damaging the house. I wasn’t a big fire starter you understand, but kids generally fantasize about bad stuff happening. At least this kid did.

What I remember most about Belmont were the forts Dennis and I built in the backyard and in the field across the street. Elaborate structures. We used sawhorses and some of Dad’s wood scraps for the forts at home, and reeds and some of the tall grass for the forts in the field. We’d go on hikes carrying canteens filled with a mixture of hot Club Soda, Crème Soda, Kool-Aid, root beer… Whatever we could find. We’d let it ferment in the canteens and see if we could get it to taste like rotgut liquor. We didn’t know what that was, but it always looked good when the cowboys drank it on TV. So, off we’d go off on hikes with our canteens, and hours later sttagger home tired and worn… and thirsty.

We once crossed Vince Bayou, a small creek that fed the Ship Channel, and saw the site of the Vince Bayou bridge. The site, not the bridge. It’s long gone. It’s the one that Deaf Smith burned before the Battle of San Jacinto. His daring exploit thwarted the retreat of Santa Anna’s men, and resulted in the capture of the Napoleon of the West.

I remember on our adventure Dennis and I found the skull of a long parted critter. Might’ve been a dog. Not sure. But, we removed a tooth from the skull and placed it in a bottle along with a note. We sealed the bottle and tossed it into Vince Bayou. The note read, “This is the tooth of Santa Anna.” We wrote in real squiggly lines to make it look scary. We imagined the bottle making it into the Gulf and floating out to sea. We hoped that someone overseas would find it and put it in a museum. We were real idiots.

I remember the hike to the Vince Bridge site as being quite long. Took us awhile to get there and to make our return. Quicksand was mentioned a few times, and that really slowed our pace. It was a real adventure.

But the greatest memory of Belmont is the BB guns. Dad actually got Dennis and me a BB gun our first Christmas on Belmont. I couldn’t believe it. Back then a Daisy BB gun cost $8. I didn’t dream Dad could afford to get us each one. I thought Dennis might get one and I’d have to fight him for a chance to shoot it.

I don’t think Mom was all that excited about Dad buying us the weaponry, but Dad mentioned something about how he was hunting squirrels with a 22 when he was nine. He could have as easily mentioned that he was also chewing tobacco at the age of seven, but that might’ve hurt our case.

Dad didn’t give Dennis and me any big warnings about the BB guns. None I remember. He’s bound to have told us to be careful. I doubt he had to tell us not to shoot each other. Or shoot our eyes out. You know, the typical warnings. I think he realized he had raised some fairly responsible kids. Fairly.

Dennis and I did the usual target practice with our BB guns. Shooting at cans and bottles and dirt daubers nests. We also killed a few birds. The birds never died with the first shot. They just fell to the ground and struggled till we ended it for them. I never felt good about that. Don’t know why I did it. Just some kind of urge to hunt… kill something with my new gun.

Another thing I’m ashamed of is that Dennis and I shot out the streetlight attached to the telephone pole across from the house. We did it without even thinking how wrong it was. Did it twice. It took the city a few weeks to replace the light the first time. Took us about two days to shoot the new light out. I don’t remember doing it a third time. I sure hope we didn’t. You would think some of my youthful deeds would give me more patience with young people today. You’d think.

We were about two years on Belmont, before we up and moved to what turned out to be the house with the most memories. The house on Camille Street… 1624 Camille. The house had a single car garage, a bathroom and a half, a fenced in backyard and a group of kids that Dennis and I fit right in with. That’s so important.

A lot of stuff happened while we were living on Camille. I remember my older sister Susan got married to Pete Mayo while we were living there. And, the following year, my big brother Larry married JoAnn Laird. We had a reception at the house following Susan’s marriage. Most of the people gathered in the backyard.

I remember that because Mom and Dad seemed a bit stressed, and they wanted the younger Hayters to become nonentities. Kids are pretty much a hindrance at weddings. Dennis, Jill, Alan and I realized Mom and Dad weren’t going to put up with much, so we towed the line. Barely showed our faces. Maybe we did it out of respect. No, it was fear. Pretty sure.

After Susan and Larry married, that just left Dad, Mom and us four kids. Things were beginning to appear manageable. There could be another book spring from our life on Camille. Even in the guts of this chapter I eluded more to my life than Dad’s. I’ll try to watch that.

Next chapter, I’m going to share three memorable occurrences between Dad and me that took place while we were living on Camille. All three are scary. I survived each, though. Even grew because of the experience. Hey, I’ve even got myself excited now.

Papa was no rolling stone

2010-09-24T09:54:00.000-07:00

Chapter 10

A lot of people stay planted most of their lives? People in Europe, for example. Fifty-eight percent of the people across the big lake die with-in four blocks of where they were born. I don’t know if that’s true, but it sounds most convincing. Maybe 49 percent. No, it’s gotta be 58. European houses are old, their churches older and their jobs passed along from father to son. I read that somewhere.

The Hayters trace their heritage back to Scotland. At least one of the Hayters took the time to do that. We were from the Hay Clan we were. The mighty, mighty Hay Clan. My kid sister, Jill, and I came up with a song about it. We only got the one verse. It’s a work in progress. “We are the Hay Clan, the mighty, mighty Hay Clan…” That’s it. Everything after that ended up with a “we’ll kick ‘em in the butt.” We have trouble rhyming stuff.

Point is, most Hayters in Scotland stay close to home. The men wear skirts, eat haggis and throw these giant poles around. The women… I don’t know. Don’t read much about Scotish women. Sad.

Dad’s side of the Hay Clan moved to the New World way back in there. Like maybe in the 1600s. I’m personally glad they moved. I don’t think I’d like haggis. Walking around in a skirt? Not sure.

Dad’s side of the family settled first in Virginia. Another group of Hayters moved to Pennsylvania. They got their name pronounced ‘High-ter” The Germans did that to ‘em. -- “No, it’s HAY-ter.” – “HIGH-ter” – “No! You don’t say ‘Feed the cow some high” do you? It’s HAY! HAY-ter!” – “Right. HIGH-ter” -- Oh, just forget it!”

This is Hayter Street in Nacogdoches, Texas. It's pronounced "High-ter." though. Named after one of the Pennsylvanian Hayters, I'm assuming. The street's namesake was supposed to be a big land owner (and slave owner) in Nacogdoches. The Virginia Hayters were against slavery. Pretty sure.

The Virginia Hayters didn’t let the Germans ruin their name. Probably why that “Kick ‘em in the butt” part of the song kept surfacing when we were trying to write a song about the family. Must be genetic.

After a few generations, some of the Virginia Hayters moved to Missouri, then to Oklahoma and eventually to Texas. Dad was the first Hayter I ever knew who moved to Texas. Truth is, I didn’t even know there were any other Hayters around. Maybe a cousin or so from Uncle Fred’s side of the family.

But back in 2004 the family got an invite to a Hayter reunion to be held in Abingdon,Virginia. Seems an unknown Hayter (Unknown to me) contacted me after reading my column in one of the newspapers. She said that there were Hayters all over the place, and that they were meeting in Virginia. She asked that I attend the reunion. So, my wife Kay and I went. We took Jill with us and met my brother Larry and his wife Betty there in Abingdon.

I couldn’t believe it. Hayters. They were all over the place. There was one guy standing in the doorway talking with a couple of ladies, and from the back he looked just like my Dad. Had the same stance and everything. Body at a tilt with one hand on his hip. Kind of a John Wayne look. Not only was the “Kick ‘em in the butt” lyric inherited, but so was the stance. What a find!

John Hayter is a music teacher at a Pennsylvania High School. He had the perfect Faris Hayter stance. He said he didn't even have to learn it. Just natural. Try to figure.

I would like to say that I’ve managed to stay in touch with many of the Hayters that we met at the reunion. But, I’d be lying. Met ‘em. Had a good time. The best fried chicken I’ve ever had. We listened to historical accounts, drove around the area, visited cemeteries… even drove through a community called Hayter’s Gap. I’ve got a picture somewhere. Then we came home and never contacted any of ‘em again. You ask me, the Hayters are indeed clannish. If we kept going back to the reunion, we’d probably create some lasting friendships. But the reunion is every two years, and it’s in Virginia. Did I mention that? I’d like to go back if only for the chicken, but we can’t afford it. It’s enough to know that there are others like us. Some of ‘em even look and stand like us.

Larry, Jill and Mark after leaving the reunion

I mentioned all that to mention this. The Pasadena, Texas, Hayters stayed pretty close to home. Once we made it to Pasadena, that is. We moved all over Pasadena as soon as we got there, but until college, we never moved out of town. Only, across town.

In fact, we seldom stayed in a house for more than two or three years. We were renters, we were. If we ever moved up, it wasn’t by much. And, it was generally followed by a move down. I’m talking quality of neighborhoods here. Seems each time Dad had a strike at the refinery we ended up moving across town. Moved to a poorer neighborhood. A year or two after the strike ended, we’d move to another neighborhood. Sometimes a better one. At the time I never associated the strikes with our moves. I’ve mentioned that I didn’t even know what a strike was when I was kid. I just knew we moved a lot.

In the early years, Pasadena wasn’t all that big. Oh, it was spread out all over the place, but the population wasn’t that big. Not that many schools. In the earlier days, I think we went to all of ‘em. We kept going from one side of Pasadena to another. Some of the elementary schools we went to were Gardens, South Shaver, Allen Genoa, Richey and Pomeroy. Gardens had giant pictures of Mickey Mouse, Pluto and Goofy drawn on the cafeteria walls. Those pictures and the episode with my first grade teacher where she said I’d be messy forever are the main things that stick in my mind. I doubt Dad remembered any of that stuff. He pretty much turned over all the school stuff to mom. Dad stayed busy working and getting us moved.

I’ve mentioned the first house that I can recall. It was the shack on Spencer Highway. That’s where we moved after that build-it-yourself house blew way. Remember? Well, we did. Moved just off Spencer Highway. After that we moved to a small house on Avenue A in South Houston. I remember it because the neighbor kid was an only son, and he got to buy a banana Popsicle form the Popsicle man every day. It meant nothing to him. I had to remind him. “Hey, William, isn’t that the Popsicle man? Better go get your money.” That kid would always give me half of his banana Popsicle. The most noble thing I had ever witnessed. He thought nothing of it.

After Avenue A, Dad moved us to Randall Street. Never again did I ever get a Popsicle from the Popsicle man. It was during the time when we had the Termite Wagon. It was a 1949 Ford station wagon with wood paneling on the side. I think Dale Evans drove one in Roy Rogers’ Saturday morning TV series. Somebody did. The station wagon on TV looked was much better maintained than ours. The paneling on that old behemoth was all rotted out. Just a few chunks of wood stuck to the door-bolts were all that remained.

The upholstery was a mess, too. The car had three tiers of seats. There was a step-up leading to the back tier. To a little Mark it seemed like a big stairway. It was only two small steps. On my butt (right cheek) I have a scar that I wear as a reminder of the climb to the backseat.

The Ford Termite Wagon before the termites got to it (1953). This was taken in the driveway of Grandma and Grandpa Teegarden's house during one of our summer visits to Bristow, Oklahoma. From left to right -- Larry, Dennis and Mark.

Seems the passenger side of the middle bench-seat had a protruding wire that really needed cut. That thing stuck out into the path of the step up place. It tried to grab everything and everybody that tried to climb into the back seat. One day I was in a big hurry to be one of the first ones to claim a window seat in the very back. As I jumped onto the first step that wire grabbed my little butt and tore a hunk out of it. I screamed like my butt had just been torn.

Ask me if I went to the hospital for stitches. Hayters didn’t go to the hospital. Had the wire grabbed me by my testicles… maybe. I wouldn’t have bet the farm on it, though. “Oh, it’s just a flesh wound. Might even get him into the choir. He’ll be our soprano choirboy. Won’t you, Mark. Yes you will.”

No, there wasn’t any money for hospital visits. There hadn’t been enough labor negotiations back then to guarantee health insurance. It would come. Just not in time to save my butt. Or the tip of Dennis’ thumb. You’ll have to ask Dennis about that, ‘cause I’ve got to get back to Dad moving us around Pasadena. I don’t mind taking a side trip for one of my stories, but Dennis’ thumb? Naw.

By the way, my injury was the only thing that got Dad to cut that wire off. We had been dodging it forever, but the thing just stayed there. It took a screaming Mark to get Dad to act. I thought he kept putting it off because it was a tough job. Might take a special tool. An expensive tool. Dad grabbed a pair of pliers and “snip.” The thing was gone. Wow. Sometimes dads need to sit in cars where their kids generally sit. They’ll learn a lot.

But, back to moves. One of the two weirdest moves we made was the one on Randall Street. Just out of the blue one day we moved from near the corner over to the middle of the other block. No idea why. It was a time when I played outside in my underwear. If you were in your underwear Dad would never explain stuff to you. It was a policy of his. Unwritten. Even when we were in more than our underwear, he seldom talked finances with us. Or any other real important stuff Mom and Dad just didn’t share all that much. Food, they’d share. But, information? Not so much.

Now, after thinking about it for second, I may have stumbled on the reason for our second move on Randall. As I recall, Jill was born while we were living in the second house on Randall. Maybe that’s why we moved. We either needed a cheaper or bigger house. Had to be cheaper, ‘cause I don’t remember the house having all that much room.

We did acquire a little more room, though, right after Lynda eloped. Remember our oldest sister, Lynda? Anyway, one day she drove up with her boyfriend, Jimmy Thompson. They were both all dressed up. Dennis and I were playing in the dirt in our underwear, and Lynda walked up to us and gave us each a gift. I got a metal pail with a small shovel, and Dennis got a toy helicopter. The blades actually turned. At the time, I thought he got the better deal. But I had that metal pail for years after the helicopter broke and got tossed.

Anyway, after handing us our gifts and getting our dirty sweaty kisses, Lynda walked into the house with Jimmy to give Dad and Mom the news. I thought the folks took it well. Hey, a daughter gets married; the wedding doesn’t cost a thing; more room in the house. It’s a win all around.

Jimmy had a job at the paper mill and he and Lynda had a small home built down the street from us. It was on Randall next door to Jimmy’s parents. The family stayed close. And, we practically ran Randall Street. Nothing came in our out of the neighborhood without running into or around a Hayter kid. Yeah, we ran the place.

And, I’m going to finish running this chapter, next time. I fear if I make ‘em too long on the blog, they’ll intimidate. I think most of us prefer shorter blogs. So, next time.

The Carpenter

2010-09-14T09:13:00.000-07:00

Chapter 9

It’s hard to believe that a gifted craftsman like my dad could have had a son as unskilled as I am. Each of my three brothers is more skillful than I. Dennis, the number 2 son, is the most like Dad when it comes to being able to build stuff. Dennis is good. Just no Faris.

Me? I’m the son who always got an “85” on his shop class projects. An “85” is what you got if your creation looked terrible, but the shop teacher thought you tried your best. I think my shop teachers were afraid that a “C” or lower might mar a kid for life. A “C” would’ve hurt me bad, but not marred me. Hey, I knew I was no good at building stuff. So did Dad.

I really hated that about me. Son of a carpenter, yet, I can’t build squat. I believe my “B” in shop hurt Dad more than my “D” in Trig. When he saw the “D”, he said, “Well, I never took any Trig, but I know you can do better than that.” About the “B” in shop? He didn’t say anything. Just winced a little, and went “Ummm.”

I blame most of my lack of carpentry skills on the fact that I have little confidence. My conviction of dorkness came from several occurrences in life which pushed my mind into the realm of the inadequate. (Sounds like I wrestled with that sentence, doesn’t it?) The first real push – shove, actually—came from my first grade teacher. I knew my pencilkidship was lousy and my artistic skills were about the worst in the class. True, they never had a contest for worst, but I would’ve won, and all the kids knew.

However, I was pretty sure I’d grow out of it. Everybody grows out of stuff. Don’t they? Well, during the first open house at school, with me standing right next to Mom, Mrs. Smith said, “Well, Mrs. Hayter, I can’t grade Mark like I do the other students, because he has no neatness skills. Pretty much all work he turns in is a mess.” I really don’t remember the exact words, but I was close enough to put the words in quotes. I believe she added, “And, I see no hope that he’ll ever do better. I would say that you need to forget college and gainful employment for him and just try to keep him out of prison.” I’m pretty sure that’s what she said.

Grow out of it? Didn’t look like it from where I stood in that classroom. After the comment, Mrs. Smith led Mom to a wall of crayon pictures, and pointed to mine… the one with the guy with the square body and square head, standing next to the square house with the square chimney with the crooked ribbon of smoke coming out the top. Couldn’t tell where the ground stopped and the sky started. The only thing round was the dog. Anyone with sense could tell it wasn’t a rabbit.

For a day or two I was almost proud of that picture. The open house just sucked out any semblance of pride. Have you ever known anything good to come from a school’s open house?

Something like that can really knock the daylights out of any confidence you may have stowed away. You add that to my lousy projects in shop class, my bad handwriting grades all through elementary and the vision of carnage that each of my schoolbooks took following my attempts at covering them. Book covers? A tool of the devil, I tell you.

Have I painted a good enough picture for you here? The carpenter’s son is a mess and should not be depended upon to do anything other than mess stuff up. Yet, -- and try to latch onto this notion – Dad would still take me with him on his roofing and remodeling jobs. He took Larry and Dennis, too, but they almost knew what they were doing. Me? Reread the beginning of this chapter.

Dad during a break from building an addition to the South Houston Church of Chirst building. Dad is the one looking at the camera.

Dad took on construction jobs every time Crown went on strike. Crown went on strike about seven times while Dad worked there. I believe I mentioned he was one of the union reps responsible for negotiating with management. Considering what a low opinion many people have of labor unions, I’ll not go further into Dad’s thoughts of management. It’s enough that people feel safe in the notion that if companies didn’t have to pay for overtime, health insurance and retirement programs for their workers, they could sell stuff cheaper and have more money to hire more workers who wouldn’t have health insurance, retirement programs and could work long hours with no supplemental pay. If corporate America is happy, everyone should be happy. – I lied about not going further into Dad’s thoughts.

Back in the day, I didn’t even know what a strike was. I knew what to associate them with, though. If I ever told a teacher that Dad was on strike, I always got a sympathetic smile. I liked that. Also, during every other strike, the family moved to a poorer neighborhood, and Dad would try to get jobs roofing people’s houses and doing remodeling jobs. And, his only helpers were three of his sons. He would’ve dragged Al’s butt along, but the kid was too young. Probably had more skills than I did, but he couldn’t climb a ladder in diapers. Few people can.

I wasn’t crazy about heights, but during the roofing jobs I did what I had to do. I just didn’t do it well. The shingling jobs involved Dad and Larry nailing on the tarpaper and shingles while, Dennis and I hauled up the tarpaper and shingles, and handed stuff to the Dad and Larry. I read the job description, and that’s pretty much word for word. Oh, except for the part where “Mark is supposed to be the poor sap who has to fetch whatever tool Dad needs.” Made no sense. I was the dumbest, most irresponsible person on the dadgum room, and who does Dad send down to get the chalk line or the T square or the caulk gun or the eight penny nails? -- “I think I shall send the least qualified.” So he did.

Dad was the worst describer of tools in the world. Here’s his description of a T square. “You know, that thing that you square stuff with? I need it.”

A chalk line? “It’s a chalk line, for heaven’s sake!”

A caulk gun? “It’s a squeeze thing that shoots out goop! I need it for this vent. Go! Go, already!”

I’ve never been accused of being a visionary when it comes to picturing what someone has described to me. Whether it’s how to get to the nearest Luby’s or how to fold socks. I do get an image in my brain, but it’s never the right one. Notice, I didn’t say “seldom the right one.” Never!

I would say that during each day’s carpentry work I averaged three episodes of bringing Dad the wrong tool, nail, material. -- “Son, you knew what it was yesterday. How could you possibly mess it up this time?” -- The truth was, “Dad, you give a monkey a typewriter and it’ll type out a Hardy Boys’ book, given enough time. Ask for a second edition? I don’t think so.” -- But, I never told Dad something like that. If I could go back in time, I’d do it. Do it in a minute. What’s he gonna do? – “Pasadena father throws son from roof for using sarcasm. There was no arrest made, because, according to the father, his son didn’t know the difference between a pipe wrench and a crowbar. The police called the flinging episode justifiable.” – I just can’t see that happening.

I could go on awhile longer about me not knowing stuff, but let’s get back to Dad’s role in the construction business. That other stuff was just therapy for me, and a buildup to some of Dad and Sons’ construction jobs.

One of Dad’s specialties was roofing. Compositions shingles mostly. You know, the quarter-inch layer of black tar stuff covered in some kind of fine, colored gravel. The gravel determined the color of the shingle. (I’m either really insulting your intelligence or really confusing you.) The job consisted of removing the old shingles, nailing on a layer of tarpaper to the decking and then nailing the shingles on top of the tarpaper. Dad was good at all that. He wasn’t the best-organized or safest roofer, but he was fast. His help could not keep up with him.

To support the notion that he wasn’t the safest roofer, let me tell you about the ladder incident. Dad was in a big hurry one morning during a roofing job. (I’m being redundant here. Just stick with me.) Nothing unusual about that ‘cause Dad was in a hurry playing golf, mowing the lawn, driving to church, changing a tire… The man lived to rush. But, on this particular occasion he was going faster than he should. He wasn’t going to hear it from me, but he was.

At one point, he needed something that was in his toolbox, but didn’t have time to send me down for it. He did look at me for a second as if trying to determine the chance of me coming back with what he wanted, but shook the notion off quick. Real quick. So, he jumped up and hit the ladder in a run. When he threw his right foot on the rung just above the roof’s edge, the ladder, which was situated right at the end of the roof, flipped around. It should’ve gone all the way to the ground with Dad, and would’ve had he not reached out at the last moment and grabbed hold of the corner of the eve. His feet were holding the ladder at a bad lean, and his right hand was keeping him and the ladder from crashing in a heap. From my quick assessment it was apparent that it would be a most awkward crash.

Dad hung there for several seconds. He didn’t say anything, so no one did anything. We had learned that any movement without clear instructions, would likely be the wrong thing to do. However, I finally grabbed the bull by the nards and sprang to action, while Dennis and Larry continued to stare at Dad. I think my two brothers and Dad were thinking the same thing. “Wow! This is weird.” That’s just what I was reading from their expressions.

I had the weird-look too for several seconds until I realized that something had to be done, and no one was doing it. I was getting ready to demonstrate initiative. It’s a scary thing for a klutz to do. I ran over the edge of the roof and stooped and grabbed hold of Dad’s arm. This action by a complete goober, pretty well knocked Larry and Dennis from their gaze. They ran over to assist. The three of us managed to right the ladder and get Dad safely onto the roof. Then we laughed. No laughing before that moment.

After that, we got a lecture. Dad told us that we had to take our time and be safe. He started pointing and gesturing with his hammer. I’m surprised he didn’t send me down for a yard stick. Dad told us that “we” should never set the ladder on the end of the roof like that. “We” needed to think before we acted. Mom would kill him if anything happened to one of us. So, “we” needed to all be on the same page and act responsible.

During the lecture, each of us was thinking, “Good grief, Daddy, you’re the one who about killed himself. Why are we getting the long story?”

We each nodded in agreement for a suitable time, and then waited for the appropriate time to say, “Yes, sir.” After that, Dad turned, stepped onto the ladder and on his way down, placed his hammer right there at the edge of the roof, so, if it slid off, it would knock the daylights out of him. Again, I was Johnny on the spot. (No idea where that came from. Johnny on the spot?) I reached down and grabbed Dad’s hammer and held onto it. We never scolded Dad for such a careless act, because we enjoyed breathing so much. – “Pasadena Dad throws three sons from rooftop for sassing him.” – Back then there was no doubt whose side the public would’ve been on. This was before anyone ever uttered the oft used lines, “What about the chilllren? We’ve gotta think of the chilllren!” – Back then it was more like, “They told their Father what? Well, he should’ve tossed ‘em off the roof!”

We managed to survive that particular roofing job and all the ones that followed. However, there was one job that scared me more than any other. It scared me and gave me a hope. A hope that God was not only going to look out for us in the hereafter, but that He also had His eye on us while we were treading life on earth. I had heard way too many sermons discounting that notion.

During one of the strikes at Crown, Mom’s washing machine quit working. The poor thing died of exhaustion. (The washing machine. Mom was still plugging away.) There were five of us kids living at home at the time, and life without a washing machine was more than Mom could handle. A run to the laundromat every other day would’ve taken way too much time and quarters. Regardless, there was no way we could afford a washing machine. So, Dad managed to take on another roofing job. This one involved a well-kept framed house, on the west side of Pasadena.

I’d gotten more or less used to climbing around on roofs, but I was not at all easy about climbing on Starr’s roof. That’s the name of the man who owned the house. Starr and his wife had the house with the steepest roof we’d ever worked on. That buddy scared the willies out of me. Scared Dad a little, too, ‘cause he nailed some two by fours periodically along the incline to give us footing. I had never scene him do that before, and he certainly never did it afterward.

I remember the morning we started ripping off the old shingles. It was clear, hot and humid… accent on the “clear.”Larry, Dennis and I were up on the roof, using a couple of shovels and a crowbar to take the old shingles off. All the while, Dad was below cutting shingles for the ridgeline. He called it the “ridgerow.” Said the word fast, almost like it was one syllable.

Just as soon as we had scraped off the last of the shingles, the clouds showed up. Seemed to come from nowhere. They were black with a little green mixed in. And, they boiled. The wind picked up, the trees started leaning one way than another.

Dad had one scared look on his face when he came up the ladder. He had the ends of two ropes in his hand. The other ends had been secured to a tree on the other side of the house. He and Larry threw the ropes around their waists. Dad looked at Dennis and me and said, “I need you boys to feed us tarpaper. Don’t get on the roof. Just take turns climbing up, laying the rolls at the top of the ladder. Then you wait there for one of us to come get ‘em.

I don’t know if you’ve recognized the dilemma. I didn’t recognize it at the time. When we tore off the shingles, we left hundreds of nail holes in the plywood decking. With the rain coming, the roof was going to leak big time until Dad and Larry finished covering it with tarpaper.

Well, the rain did come and it brought with it an electrical storm. One of those where there was practically no time between the flash and the boom. Dad and Larry were scurrying across that roof like a couple of crabs. Dennis and I took turns carrying up the tarpaper. I didn’t know I could ever be too scared to cry, but it happened on that day. I just knew that one of us was going to get struck by lightening on top of that roof. By no means do I mean to come across as noble, but I was mostly scared for my Dad and my brothers. I certainly didn’t want to die, but I couldn’t imagine living without my Dad or either of my big brothers. I didn’t know if God would save us, but I was sure begging him to. With each crack of thunder my spirit shrank to acorn size. Whatever that means.

Larry and Dad did manage to paper the entire roof and both came down the ladder barely hitting every other rung. I was as happy as I had ever been to that moment. We had all survived nature at it’s near worst.

Starr was standing on the porch yelling for us to get inside. I thought we were too soaked to go inside anyone’s house, but the man insisted. When we set foot inside, my heart sank. The living room and kitchen were a mess. The tarpaper had not been nailed up quickly enough. Some of the ceiling had collapsed, and water and plaster were all over the place -- on the couch, the dining room table, the cabinets… everywhere in the front part of the house. Fortunately, the bedrooms were spared.

There wasn’t a thing Dad could’ve done about this, but you couldn’t tell by his demeanor. He looked like a beaten man. He shook his head, and with a slight tremble in his voice said, “Starr, I’ll make this right. I promise I will make this right.”

When Dad said what he said, Starr -- a man I knew nothing about before this day -- said something that has stayed. The gentleman smiled big and said, “Hayter, I’m not worried about it. And, I don’t want you to. ‘God causes all things to work together for good to them that love the Lord.’”

The words hung there like the wet Sheetrock draped over one of the dining room chairs. Larry, Dennis and I exchanged glances, each of us reading the other’s expression. We were brothers. Brothers who were completely befuddled. To my shame, instead of thinking of the godliness in Starr’s comment, I thought, “Whoa! This old man is nuts! Who wouldn’t be upset at something like this?”

Well, we did finish roofing the house. And, after a couple of weeks, we had fixed up the interior. It turned into a much bigger job than any of us had anticipated. It was as much of a remodeling as a repair. Starr had to have paid for all the materials, because Dad had no money. Bottom line, Starr got his house roofed and fixed up, and Mom got her washing machine.

It took me awhile to get over the hurt I saw in my dad’s eyes on that day after the storm. It was about the first time I ever caught the notion that my father might be fallible. Strange, but the thought didn’t send me crashing. That was because of Starr.

Over the years, all four of Dad’s sons helped him on many construction jobs. But, what’s weird is that I can’t remember the names of anyone whose house we worked on. I only remember Starr.

“God causes all things work together for good…” The old gentleman was right. What looked like a disaster to me, turned into a blessing. The blessing was in the example of a man who, just like our dad, not only spoke good words, but lived them.

Over the years, I’ve needed to be constantly reminded of those words. I do believe them to be true. But, it’s the “acting” as if I believe that is tough. During some of the bad times in my sheltered life, I’ve had to pull up the memory of that day. Larry and Dad were saved form a lightning storm while skirting around on a too-steep roof. And, Dennis and I were spared while standing near the top rung of a metal ladder waiting to hand over a roll of tarpaper.

Not only that, but Dad was spared financial ruin by the kindness of a man whose first name I’ve never known. Dad just called him Starr. I don’t know what in what ways God used Starr and his charming wife during their stay on earth. But, I do know one thing He had them do. He had them show my Dad kindness, and He used them to show three boys how to best handle a storm. -- That old man was standing in the middle of a massive mess in his living room… and he was smiling big as day.

END

Chapter 8

2010-09-01T13:02:00.000-07:00

Dad went through many a golf cap in his day. This is his last. It hangs on the wall in my study.

“The plan to raise golf pros”

Dad liked to play golf. (Hey, I promised it would be more pleasant than the last chapter.) You might say that Faris Hayter was a passionate golfer. Not all that good, but passionate. He liked the game so much that he’d watch it Sunday afternoons on TV. I’m not joking. Watching people play golf is, well, not all that fascinating… for me. Oh, I preferred it to listening to one of Brother W’s “going-to-hell-in-a-basket” sermons, but then I preferred a boil on my butt to one of those. And, as a kid, I got plenty of ‘em... but boils.

But, let me steer away from “graceless” sermons and boils on butts, and get back to Dad and golf. Sam Snead was Dad’s favorite golfer. He was his favorite even after Arnold Palmer and Jack Nicklaus became big names. On Sundays, they had a show where Sam Snead would play golf with a different player each week. I don’t remember all the names of the great golfers… other than Chi Chi Rodriguez. I liked to watch Chi Chi play with Snead.

I could watch the two-man golf matches, ‘cause there was always some humor involved. Snead was not only a great golfer, but he had a super personality. You get him and Chi Chi together and it was like two comedians out on the links. I could watch that, uh, when there wasn’t anything else to do.

Dad enjoyed it when Dennis and I would sit down and watch golf with him. Sam Snead would always give golfing tips as he played. Dad wanted us to pay attention to the tips, ‘cause he envisioned us becoming professional golfers. I’m not kidding! Dad planned for Dennis and me to be good enough to get on the high school golf team, then get a college scholarship to play golf and then turn pro.

I was too scared to tell Dad that he was nuts. Thought it best to show him. Fathers and Mothers can dream way too big when it comes to their children. It can take a lot of emotional bumps and bruises for them to settle down and accept that the fruit of their loins is just as common as anyone else’s offspring. I think some people cling to the dream a bit too long.

I can’t say that Dad’s dream of Dennis and me being professional golfers was all that long lived. He had to know pretty quickly that we didn’t have the right stuff. The first time he took us to a driving range, he showed us how to hold the club all weird with over-lacing thumbs and fingers and all. I don’t mean overlapping, either. Those appendages were laced together. Most awkward.

After a couple of hearty swings and misses, I decided to go with the ol’ baseball bat grip. A grabbed hold of that club like I was gonna send one over the center field fence. I reared back and sent that club flying. That two wood must’ve gone up about a mile or two, hung in the air for about three seconds, made a narrow arc and then started down. As much as I hated the going-up part, I really hated the coming down. Sure as the world, the club was headed in the direction of the long line of people swinging clubs. I looked at Dad. It was the first time I ever recognized the look of uncertainty on his face. It wasn’t a good look for him. He looked at the line of people and then he looked up. He looked at the people one more time and yelled, “FORE!”

In golf, when someone hollers “FORE,” you’re supposed to duck and cover. However, each time I witnessed a “fore” call, the first reaction for everyone in the vicinity was to look up. Try to catch a glimpse of the thing before it smacks right in the face. When you’re at a driving range, the reaction is somewhat different, because everyone is swinging in the same direction. No way could anyone smack a ball towards spectators and participants unless they were trying to. So, when Dad yelled “FORE” most people just looked straight at him. It was like they didn’t believe what he said. It had to be a joke. A few people looked at the person right next to ‘em so they could exchange weird looks and make fun of whoever was yelling fore. A couple of people were just way too focused on what they weren’t doing and paid no attention to Dad. Turns out, the two wood came down in the direction of one of those two men.

PLUNK! That club landed two feet from a guy who was just finishing up on his back-swing. Could’ve killed him. Can’t tell you how relieved I was that it didn’t. While I always hoped to get my name in the paper for something, I never wanted it to be for terminally beaning a golfer with a two wood. So, instantly I felt a great rush of relief. I like the ol’ relief rush. Always have.

Unfortunately, the relief was followed too closely by embarrassment. That happened when Dad looked down at me with a look of ultra-disappointment and told me to go pick up my club. The walk to the club seemed to be about mile. Everybody was staring at me. I don’t remember anyone laughing out loud, but there was a lot of grinning. Hey, Dennis was even grinning, the big goob.

As I stooped to pick up the club, I apologized to the man. I could not look at him, though. I was too scared. He didn’t say anything mean… if he said anything. My hearing wasn’t all that acute at the time. I was pretty well engulfed in a fog of shame.

I always believe that God saved me from killing the man. I believe God showered me with some grace that day. And, He also gave some grace to the man I almost killed. Showered him big time. It was grace time for the both of us. For, Dad, too, I guess. That day he narrowly missed being the father of the boy who killed the golfer at the driving range. Missed it by two feet. Grace? God was just rich with it. I don’t think Brother W. noticed it all that much. And, I don’t think God liked Brother W’s sermons any more than I did. What I think.

After that experience, I never again tried to hold a golf club with a baseball bat grip. I intertwined my fingers around the club just like Dad told me. When it felt could and awkward, I knew I was holding it right. Weird sport.

Dad had the greatest golf cart in the world. His clubs were in a perfect line, and there was a place he could sit to wait while I hunted for my golfball.

After I managed to hold onto the club for a few more swings, Dad took Dennis and me out on the course. When Dad went golfing he went to one of three courses in the Houston area. One was the Texaco course, east of Houston just off Federal road. I liked Texaco. It was good and wooded and had some great-looking water hazards. We sunk many a ball in the waters of Texaco.

The Humble Golf Course was south of town just before you get to Clear Lake City. The first three holes were practically treeless, when we played there, but starting at the fourth tee, there were some magnificent trees that skirted the fairways. The course was very well kept. To me it looked like one of the courses we had seen on TV. I was always proud to go there.

Brock was another of the courses. It was located—You know, I don’t think I could find the place with a GPS. Not sure it’s still there. It wasn’t as well kept as the other two courses. Might’ve been only nine holes. Sand traps were bad, the fairway not all that glamorous, and the water hazards too fishy. I don’t like fishy water hazards.

Did I say, three courses? I forgot about the course at San Jacinto Jr. College. The San Jacinto course was the cheapest one around. And, for good reason. Whatever trees were out there, had only recently planted. Just little stubby things. There was very little variance in the terrain and absolutely no shade. It was like playing in a mowed field… except when it needed mowed.

Wherever we went, we went early in the morning. Dad wanted us to be the first golfers there, so we could zoom through our game and not have to wait on people. I liked going early, because there wouldn’t be as many people watching me. I hated for strangers to look at me swing a club. Do I need to mention the driving range incident again?

A big disadvantage to an early morning round of golf is the dew. I have never started a round of golf without the ground being soaked with the stuff. By the time I chased my first ball into the rough, my shoes and socks were soaked. I spent a lot of time in the rough.

Our golf foresome was made up of Dad, Dennis, me and either our big brother Larry or one of Dad’s friends at work. Maybe Sivel or Junior Bradley. I never knew Sivel’s first name. Can’t even be sure how to spell his last. That’s always the way I saw it in my brain. Sivel. Dad never took time to spell his name out for me. It was just Sivel this and Sivel. A nice guy. Dad had nice friends. It was the same with Junior Bradley. A perfect gentleman just like Sivel. I don’t know they were so nice to me and Dennis out of respect for our father or just ‘cause were such great kids. That’s probably it.

Both Sivel and Junior Bradley were better golfers than Dad, but, even when they smacked a ball poorly, they never used bad words. Dad didn’t either, of course, and he certainly had more cause. I’m sorry, Dad, but you did.

At no time during our golf outings with Dad did we ever rent a cart. We walked the whole 18. A time or two we played 27 holes. I was generally really beat after 13. That’s because I had to hit the ball more times than anybody else. The constant bending and lifting of the golf bag after each wayward smack or duff or skull. A skull is when you just hit the top of the ball and it takes a hop about six inches from the tee. And rolls for a few yards. A good skull can really mar a ball. Make it look like it’s wearing a frowny face. A duff is—I don’t know what a duff is. I know that a duffer is a bad golfer, so I guess a duff is what a bad golfer does to the ball.

In our early days, Dennis and I used the same clubs. We’d take turns being the caddy. Dad would pay for one green fee for us and we’d take turns playing the holes. Dennis would play the first hole and I’d play the second. Or, Dennis would play the first nine and I’d play the back. We did that ‘cause it was so expensive for Dad to have to pay for both of us. I thought it was perfectly legal to do that, but a guy got real upset at Dad when we were at Texaco. He thought Dad was trying to cheat him. After that experience Dad paid for both Dennis and me to play. An expensive sport, golf. Don’t know if you knew that. And, that’s without renting a cart!

I am such a lousy golfer that it’s pathetic. I remember on the first hole out at Brock one morning, Dad had just instructed me how I should hit my driver. He told me all about keeping my eye on the ball and how to do my swing and all that. Assured me no one was looking at me, so I was to relax and swat that bubba. Well, I came back slowly with the club and then beared-down on the swing. That ball went flying to the right towards the parking lot. It took several bounces over a couple of cars and about a dozen golf carts. Ended up on the little practice putting green. I thought Dennis never would catch his breath from laughing.

I don’t know how good at golf Dennis and I would’ve been had we had a good teacher. Dad would tell us how to play, but he couldn’t show us to save his butt. He always warned us not to try to kill the ball. “Just keep your head down, meet the ball and follow through.” Then he’d step up to the tee, rear back and try to clobber the ball. He’d swing so hard that his left leg would leave the ground during his back swing. His follow through was too often an abrupt stop. One time, during the later years, he swung so hard that his false teeth ended up on the ground next to the newly abused turf. Dennis and I knew Dad well enough to know when it was safe to laugh at something he did. In the case of the false teeth, we cast our fate to the wind and just burst out laughing. Couldn’t hold it in. When Dad realized how cracked up we were, he had to laugh too. I don’t think anybody could’ve looked and Dennis and me and not laughed. There’s something about somebody losing it that’s just funny.

Dad had a bad slice. Don’t know if you knew that. Could’ve been a bad hook. I don’t know which is which, but dad’s ball generally made a massive turn to the right. He was never able to correct the slice or hook, so he just positioned himself sideways when he addressed the ball. It would look like he was aiming 90 degrees from the pin and the ball would curve around and as often as not land in the fairway. I tell you, that man could really clobber the ball.

I never developed a permanent hook or slice or skyball (I made that one up) ‘cause I seldom did the same thing twice… or consecutively. I remember on one occasion when Dad, again, had just instructed me how to properly direct the path of the ball, he stepped over about 10 feet from me to where he was facing my face. He was going to watch as I kept my eye on the ball and sent that buddy soaring to my left… his right. Well, I reared back and swung with my eyes pointed to the stratosphere. I smacked that ball right on the edge nearest me. That sent it flying at 90 degrees from the direction of the fairway. Sent it right at Dad. It missed him by about a foot. I didn’t know it was possible to hit a ball straight ahead of you like that. I don’t think Dad did either. Larry and Dennis started laughing instantly. Then I started laughing. Eventually Dad joined it. I was so glad he did.

I’m pretty sure that was the moment when Dad gave up on me ever becoming a professional golfer. When a kid doesn’t take the sport any more seriously than that, well he’s not made of the right stuff. It was the last straw on a whole pile of bad straws.

I have saved the best golf laugh for last. It was a humdinger. After his tee shot on Number 15 at Texaco (Hey, that’s just a guess. It could’ve been any of the holes in the teens.) Dad’s ball landed about 18 inches from the edge of a huge bayou. More like a river with a real steep bank. Dad studied the ball’s position and then grabbed a five iron from his bag. He planted his left foot just at the edge of the creek’s bank, gave a couple of stomps to make sure the ground would hold. The plan was to knock the ball over the “U” of the twisting bayou and end up right on the green.

I positioned myself right behind Dad so I could keep an eye on the ball in case it went nuts on him. It did that a lot. Dad reared back and pounded that Titlest 2. . It was probably the best follow through he ever had. I noticed his follow through, because he completed it while in the air. You see, the minute Dad made contact with the ball, the shift of his weight made the ground give beneath his left foot. This sent him creekward. The bank was so steep that I lost sight of him. But I did catch sight of his left hand. Just before Dad’s feet touched water, he reached and gently laid the five iron on the lip of the steep creek. Then he was gone. All I heard was the splash. He didn’t yell, scream or struggle. He just disappeared. A second later I saw the spray.

For all I knew, Dad was dead. Dennis and Larry came running across the fairway to help save him. I walked to the edge of the creek and looked down. There was Dad standing in waste-deep water looking up at me. If he had been packing heat and ordered me not laugh, it would’ve done no good. I was on the ground. Could not catch my breath. Dennis and Larry hadn’t had as good a view as I had, so their laughter was more from imagining how Dad ended up down there. I had seen it. I’m telling you, Dad laid his club on the edge of that creek just as gently as could be. Graceful he was before passing out of sight.

It wasn’t easy getting Dad back on dry land. If we got too close to the edge, he would’ve pulled us in with him, so he was more or less on his own. When he finally surfaced, he managed to join us in the laugh. I mean he wasn’t bent over laughing or anything, but he got in a pretty good laugh. Played the last few holes half covered in mud.

The times Dennis and I spent with Dad on the golf course were among the best. Whether we were with our big brother Larry or with Syvil or Junior Bradley, we each had so much fun. And, the enjoyment didn’t end on the course. After every game, we went to the nearest hamburger joint.

Back then the Hayters only got burgers once every two weeks. That was right after payday. But once we started playing golf with Dad, a new tradition was born. After each game Dad bought us a burger, potato chips and – get this – a chocolate malt. I couldn’t believe it either. It was the only time I ever got a malt with a meal. Dennis and I knew it wouldn’t be right to order something that cost more than what Dad ordered. It wasn’t a written or spoken law, it was just sensed. As kids we did a lot of sensing. The first time Dad took us to a burger joint after playing golf, he ordered a malt with his burger, so Dennis and I followed suit. Same thing after every game. A chocolate malt, a burger and chips. It took a few years for french fries to catch on big, but when they did, we traded the chips in for the fries. Among the best of days.

If Dad was overly disappointed that Dennis and I weren’t golf pro material, he never let on. No matter how badly we played the game (I never broke a 100.) Dad still took us out for a burger. And, when our youngest brother arrived, Dad tried to make a golfer out of him, too. I think Alan even got a lesson or two. But, it didn’t matter. Al, too, turned out to be a bad golfer… just not as bad me. Turns out, I’m the only Hayter who ever sent his club into a massive stratospheric arc. About killed a guy. I think it warped my playing days forever. Warped something.

Chapter 7

2010-08-23T17:23:00.000-07:00

A cat cracker here. A cat cracker there...

On the first day of school we always had to fill out a form that gave away personal stuff about our family. You know, address, home phone number, name of your doctor, name of your Mom and Dad, how many brothers and sisters… stuff like that. Fortunately, we didn’t have to do that when we were in the first grade. I couldn’t do anything with forms back then, but maybe scribble on ‘em and put paste on ‘em. Maybe wad ‘em up and toss ‘em at somebody. I wasn’t all that bright back then. Oh, I knew my colors, a few numbers and most of the letters of the alphabet but I couldn’t write to save my rear. I think most kids today can write by the time they go to school. Problem is, too many of ‘em don’t improve a whole lot by the time they get out of high school. What’s that got to do with Dad, not much, but I’m going somewhere with the part about filling out a form.

When I was old enough to write almost legibly, the teacher let me fill out my own information form. Before school, I’d ask Mom for all the information I thought I’d need. I had to know Dr. Dawson’s phone number and my birthday and what color I was. In an emergency who were they supposed to call if Mom weren’t home? I was to either write Lynda or Larry’s name and number. If anybody at school ever called either of ‘em, they would’ve freaked.

One bit of information that I had to ask several years running was the one that went next to the question “Father’s occupation:” That was a tough one. I would’ve asked Dad, but he only told me about his job a few hundred times. -– “Anyway, Red Kearns told the shift foreman that he was all gungho to…” I seldom knew what Dad was talking about. But, rather than hurt his feelings by asking him what his job was and have him, either give me the long story or feel disappointed that I didn’t care enough to remember his accounts of work, I always just asked Mom. Mom could condense stuff pretty good. She’d say, “He’s a Jr. Stillman.” I had no idea. In fact, I spelled it “Steelman” till my senior year.

When I filled out the form, I always worried about somebody checking up on what I wrote, and having ‘em yank me outta class to go the principal’s office. – “Okay, Mark, you put ‘Steelman’ down here, and it’s really ‘Stillman.’ What have you got to say for yourself? Do you know how important these forms are, Kid? Do you?!”

Even after Mom told me Dad’s job title, I still didn’t know what he did. All I knew was that he worked at Crown Refinery, and came home smelling of chemical pollution and chewing tobacco. A horrible combination, but it was how my dad smelled, and I liked it. I had a dream a year or so ago, and Dad leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. I could feel his beard stubble and smell the refinery and the tobacco on him. I didn’t see him, but I felt him and smelled him. It was one of my best dreams. – But, I’m really getting ahead of myself.

By the way, Dad usually referred to Crown Petroleum Corporation as “The Plant.” I never knew why. “I hafta work overtime at The Plant.” – “We had trouble at The Plant.” – “I’m sick and tired of The Plant.” I think “Plant” was short for something. Factories, refineries, places where they make things are generally called “plants.” I doubt six people in the world know why.

Something else my dad threw around a lot was “control room.” There was always something happening in the control room. “Blacky walked into the control room, and he didn’t know the shift foreman was standing behind him and he said…” I was smart enough to figure out that the control room was where they controlled stuff in The Plant. A bunch of Buck Rogers’ stuff that you flip on and off, and it causes stuff to happen outside. It all happens in and around the ol’ cat cracker.

I wish I had a dollar for the number of times “cat cracker” was mentioned when I was a kid. Dad was always cat cracking this or cat cracking that. Did a lot of cat cracking.
A real live cat cracker

Like I said, the control room was mostly associated with the cat cracker. If you got a bad reading in the control room, you’d have to go outside and climb up the cat cracker to turn on or off a valve. When it was real cold you didn’t want to be on the cat cracker. When it was hot, no one enjoyed climbing the cracker to turn a valve or take a sample of gasoline or jet fuel or whatever.

Dad worked at a refinery during the time they put lead in gasoline. I don’t know why they did that. Lead obviously gave off more pollutants, but, fortunately, we were really into pollution back then. Couldn’t get enough. Gas was cheap and cars were huge. In elementary school if we had to draw a picture of a car, we’d have a swirl of smoke coming out of a pipe at the rear of the car, because every car there was had smoke trailing it. Oh, those were the days.

I do remember when they started converting over to unleaded. It cost more to not put lead into to gasoline than it cost to put it in. I never understood that. Thanks to the EPA, the newer cars used unleaded, so when you drove up to the filling station, the guy would ask you, “Leaded or Unleaded?” That doesn’t happen anymore. No one asks you what type of gas you want, because no one fills your tank anymore. “Service Stations” are as rare as non-tattooed NBA players.
A service station with leaded gas, even

Well, you let me get off topic there for way too long. You need to watch it. All of this came from a discussion about Dad working at Crown. I want you to know that I don’t blame Dad or Crown for the lousy attitude we had concerning pollution. We just lived in a society that rewarded polluters. There was no money to be hand in cutting down on pollution. Crown Refinery gave Dad a good paying job that he hated. And, that job took care of his family.

Dad showed us the cat cracker the first time we drove by Crown. It was the most distinguishing feature of the whole place. It was like the Eiffel Tower in France, only without the restaurant at the top. Both Eiffel and the Cracker are metal monstrosities. The Cracker has tanks standing up on the vertical and a menagerie of pipes running up and down and thither and yon. All of the metal stuff services a purpose. The Eiffel Tower serves a purpose, too. It’s used to hold up that restaurant on top.

Dad explained how oil goes into one of the tanks on the cat cracker and it gets heated up. Vapor goes up and some of it condenses into another tank and turns into naphtha. Naphtha is what you use to clean your hands when you get oil on ‘em. I don’t believe it serves another purpose.

The vapor keeps going up and some of it condenses into Kerosene, and then gasoline, then jet fuel… In other words, it’s like a giant still, where they make booze. Get it still? Stillman? You caught onto it so much sooner than I did. I was outta college before the “Stillman” title registered with me. What an igmo.

One thing about Dad’s job at The Plant that registered quick, real quick, was the fact that Dad hated his job. It just wasn’t what he had in mind to do for the rest of his life. But, he knew he had to take care of his kids. Once we got all grown up and out of the house, Mom and he could maybe do stuff they both liked to do. It was a dream… a dream a few 100 million people have.

“Mark, whatever you choose to do for living, try to do something where you’re your own boss.” Dad told me that a few times. He didn’t like being somewhere he didn’t want to be, doing what he didn’t want to do. It’s the stuff of life… even for a lot of bosses.

One part of Dad’s job that he hated was working shift work. I don’t mean to insult your intelligence, but “shift work” has to do with working days for a week, and then evenings for a week, and then nights for a week. Graveyards is what they called nights. Dad left for the graveyard shift at 10:00 p.m., and came home at about 6:30. When you worked graveyards you got a few cents more an hour than if you worked evenings, and if you worked evenings, you got a few cents more than if you worked days.

This kind of work schedule, too often made Dad an enigma at home. Only one week out of three was he home and awake when we got home from school. The other two weeks he was either working or sleeping. “You kids had better be quiet! You’re Daddy’s trying to sleep!” Mom yelled that in a whisper maybe 600,000 times during her life. Nobody wanted to wake Daddy up when he was home from working the graveyard shift, but we sure did it a few times. Got carried away is what we did. We got yelled at pretty heavily a few times for waking Dad up. But, he never spanked us for that. He mostly spanked for lying or for being sneaky. Dad couldn’t tolerate sneakiness in his kids. Who can blame him.

I never sympathized nearly enough about Dad and his job at Crown until I worked there for a couple of weeks during the Christmas break. I was home from Stephen F. Austin State University at the time, and Crown was trying to help out families by hiring some of the sons of employees. I thought that nice. And, heaven knows I could use the money.

What an experience. The noise, the smells, the grunge… Did I mention the noise? Furnaces and blowers (whatever they are) are roaring constantly. I was walking out by the cat cracker behind a foreman who was gonna show me what to do. When you don’t know what to do at a refinery, you can really mess something up. Like maybe a whole city. Anyway, we were walking along and this whistle went off, no idea why. It was the loudest whistle in the world. A deep whistle. Sounded like it was sitting on my shoulder. Scared the pee outta me. Literally. I’m here to tell you that the foreman didn’t even flinch. Nothing. I don’t know if he was anticipating a whistle, so was not surprised, or if he was deaf as dirt, but the guy didn’t react at all. At the moment I told myself that I never wanted to adapt so well to a place that I would never react to something that’s loud enough to make ears bleed. My dad heard that whistle everyday. I have no doubt that he barely noticed it.

When I worked at Crown, Dad was no longer a Jr. Stillman. I don’t really know what he was. All I know was that he operated the calciner. I got to visit him on the job to see how that thing worked. The calciner was a giant tumbling metal tube. Giant. They’d put some coal-like substance called “coke” (residue from the refining process) into the tube and it would tumble around until the it turned to fine powder. Black powder. Blacker than black. The kind that, if you touch, will end up all over your body. It’ll hit your nose first. I’m speaking from experience here. Anyway, Dad was the lone worker on the calciner during his shift. I think he liked that.

A calciner... not Crown's though. Can't find it.

Each day I walked around the plant, looking for something to clean up, I’d run into some employees who would ask me who I was. Everyone of ‘em had something good to say about Faris Hayter. Dad was well respected at Crown. I was not surprised.

I don’t know how much of the respect was as a result of Dad’s work with the union. He was chosen as one of the workers representatives to negotiate with the company. Seven strikes were called while Dad worked at Crown. Strikes are rare as pet sharks today. Unions have received some really bad press over the years. Seems too few realize how many gains in pay, retirement, health insurance, safety on the job, work hours… are in practice in many places today only because of the sacrifices of those in the union. I was always proud that my dad played a part in that. The strikes really knocked our family for a loop, but in the long run they seemed to help everyone… even those not involved.

A couple of years before Dad retired from Crown an incident occurred that left him quite depressed. I don’t think he ever got passed it. One day while Dad was running the Calciner a fire occurred. It wasn’t a huge fire. No one was hurt, but it did cause some damage to some of the equipment. The cause of the fire was a valve that was not opened when it needed to be. When everything got under control, Dad was asked by a company representative to go home until asked to return. That pretty well crushed him. He assured the foreman that he was not responsible for the fire, but it didn’t look that way to anyone but Dad. I’ve never seen my Dad sadder. He came way close crying a few times. I never saw him so vulnerable. So weak.

Dad had been home for two days when he got a call from the foreman at The Plant. After some investigating it was determined that Dad in fact did open the valve, but a big chunk of coke had wedged itself in such a way that the opened valve had no affect on the process. Pressure built up and the valve blew and a fire started.

I think I was more relieved than Dad was. Dad never recovered from the distrust the company had shown him. How it seemed all his co-workers, for a couple of days anyway, thought he had messed up. I believe it destroyed much of his confidence. And, it messed up his health pretty much, too. It wasn’t long after that he took disability retirement. A year after that he died of a heart attack while in ICU at Southmore hospital in Pasadena.

For too many years my dad, like so many other dads and moms, worked somewhere he didn’t want to work, doing something he didn’t enjoy doing. He lived for retirement, and he ended up dying one year after his retirement. All through Dad’s life, God knew that was going to happen. He didn’t let any of us in on it. Kept it to Himself. And, He didn’t choose to explain the why of it. When does He ever?

Dad after retirement

I think we’ll look at a happier time in the next chapter. There were a lot of them. Really were.

Dad moves us to Pasadena, Texas

2010-08-16T13:05:00.000-07:00

A view you would see if you were flying into Pasadena around the time the Hayters got there. We didn't fly, though. A family of non-fliers.

Chapter 6

Dad moved the family from Oklahoma to Texas in, oh, 1948. Late ’48. That’s somewhat of a guess, but I’m getting good at that. Dennis was just a nubbin, and, like I said, I wasn’t yet born. I never heard, but I doubt it was a multi-load trip. It was probably easy to haul everything we had in one vehicle. Mom, Dad, four kids and all their belongings in one vehicle. Sounds about right.

I imagine Dad drove straight to his mother’s house. I do hope he called first. Grandma Pearl lived in Dickenson at the time, a flat, treeless, marshy area between Galveston and Houston. Heat and mosquitoes in the spring, summer and fall. Rain and wind in the winter. “Where are the cowboys and Indians and the buffalo?” I imagine Larry asked Dad that as they drove up to Grandma’s house. Sounds just like a young Larry.

I can only imagine the discomfort Mom felt living in the same house with Grandma, the lady who forged letters in an attempt to get Dad to leave her. Desperation will make you do stuff you never thought you could. You can quote me.

To make sure the stay was brief, Dad bought a house from Sears. It was a build-it-yourself house. Sears does’t have ‘em now. I didn’t know they had ‘em then, because I wasn’t born yet. Y’all are sure making this hard for me. Dad started right off working on the house. I imagine he did it all himself, ‘cause none of the kids were old enough to do more than get his way. Along with the myriad of things I don’t know is the question of the land. I know generally where it was, but have no idea how Dad got the right to build on it. I imagine Grandma loaned him the money for the house, maybe the land was hers. Sounds about right.

Dad had the shell of the house pretty much up, and had tarpaper on the sides and the roof. It was well enough along for the family to leave Grandma’s and move in. Mom would’ve tolerated a partially built house over living with her mother-in-law. Even though the house was never completed, I still learned its location because of a comment that was made every time the family passed the place near Allen Genoa Road on our way to the South Houston Church of Christ. We’d drive by and either Mom or Dad would say, “Well, that’s the place where our house blowed away.”

Dad generally used good English. Usually did. He knew the right verb tenses and all, but he didn’t always appreciate ‘em. When he got mad, he never “came unglued.” He always, “come unglued.” – “Let me tell you, when I saw that, I nearly come unglued.” --Dad was in pieces quite a bit when I was a kid.

Fortunately, we only had one house that went to pieces. That was the one near Allen Genoa. It blowed away. Pieces of boards, tarpaper, clothes, pans, furniture where fairly evenly strewn across the area. It wasn’t a hurricane or tornado. It was just some high wind from a South Texas storm that met a wooden shack on a prairie. It wouldn’t have been enough to destroy a mobile home, but it was sure enough to mess up one of those unfinished build-it-yourself jobs.

The folks were never sure if I was around or not the year the storm took our house. I feel pretty certain I wasn’t. Even if I was just a couple of months old, I think I would’ve remembered our house blowing away. As is, I have no clear image. I have a foggy one only because Dad told the story so well. I can almost see the tarpaper everywhere and the icebox on its side. The roof ended up in a nearby pasture. The barbed wire fence caught some of the clothes. Oh, yeah, I can practically see it, but only through Dad’s eyes.

Dad never tried to rebuild on the site. When God takes away your house while you’re at church, He’s probably trying to tell you something. A man of great faith, might have thanked God for not allowing his family to be in the house when it “blowed” away. I believe my Dad’s faith was at a low point. About a year earlier, God had allowed a nickel to land heads-up ‘causing him to lose his business. Now, God had allowed a wind to take his house… making him have to move the family back into Grandma’s house. No, Dad saw little to be thankful for. However, I’m sure he took things so much better than I would have. I’m not proud to say that, but I know it to be true.

It wasn’t long after the house left us that the family moved into a small-framed, white house over on Spencer Street. Spencer, today, is a six lane major highway running east and west through Pasadena. If you go too far east, you’re in La Porte; too far West will put you on the Interstate headed for Houston to the north or Galveston to the south. Back then there were no interstates, so it’s enough that you know it was a narrow road headed east and west.

Although I have little memory of the place, it was where we lived when I was born. I’m proud to say that I was the first Hayter born in a Hospital. Pasadena General. There was a nurse present and everything. Mom’s only comment of my birth was that I was coming feet first, but the doctor turned me around. Probably used a magnet.

When we moved to Spencer, it was just two-lane narrow paved road that crossed dust in the summer and mud during most of the other seasons. While this account is mostly about Dad, I’ve gotta tell you a non-Dad story, ‘cause it’s cute as all get out. One summer’s day while we were living on Spencer, Mom was the only person in the house. She was ironing. Mom spent 30 percent of her waking hours washing and ironing. This was during the day of the old tub washers with the wringer on top, and of clothes lines strung across the back yard. Great place to hang… a clothes line pole.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, Mom was inside while her five kids were outside on the sodless yard playing, arguing, eating dirt… the usual. I believe only Dennis and I were dirt-eaters at that time. I don’t remember the experience, but I’m sure it happened. Fortunately, there are no pictures.

At some point during the ironing, Mom heard the screen-door slap a time or two, and a lady call out “Hello? Anybody home?” Mom turned to see a lady holding me away from her body. I was in a diaper and covered head to toe in dirt, hanging there just like I had good sense. I wasn’t crying or even fidgety. Didn’t even know I had done anything wrong. From what I remember, guilt never struck me till I went from diapers to underwear. When you get old enough to wear underwear, you’re always thinking you’re gonna go to Hell for something. Don’t know why that is. Rutgers is doing a study.

Fortunately for me, the part of Spencer we lived on wasn’t all that busy back then. Today, you couldn’t sit in the road if you wanted to. I really didn’t know I wanted to. That’s just where I ended up. Lynda was supposed to be watching me, but I believe she was in the Chinaberry tree at the time. I don’t blame her, ‘cause she probably thought I was sitting on the ground under the tree. I pretty much blended in with the dirt.

Mom was so embarrassed she about died. She assured the lady that her eldest was supposed to be watching me. The lady didn’t seem in the least upset. She more than understood, and was just glad to help. I think she had a bunch of grandkids and knew how stuff like that happened.

While Mom was not at all afraid that any of us would ever be kidnapped, she was a little concerned that we might wander into the street and get run over. Or, runned over. – “If you’re not careful, you’re gonna get yourself runned over!” -- We heard stuff like that a lot. It never happened, ‘cause God was looking out for us. Children and idiots. No telling how many times God has saved us.

I really doubt Mom told that story to Dad till I was much older. No telling how Dad would’ve taken that story. Seems like he didn’t really have time to mess with us much, unless we got into trouble. My first complete sentence as a child was “Please, don’t tell Daddy.”

Shortly after my road-sit experience, Dad got a job at a refinery. He had been doing carpentry work all over the area, but the work was less than consistent. Plus when you did win a bid on a place, the weather could mess you up a lot. In other words, pay checks were seldom as timely as the bills.

So, when Dad learned that Crown Central Petroleum Corporation was hiring, he applied. Crown was one of the oldest refineries on the ship channel. And, it is the place Dad would work for pretty much the rest of his life. Yep, Dad was hired on at Crown, and the job would land him onto another of life’s roads.

A coin in the dust

2010-08-03T08:40:00.000-07:00

Chapter 5

I was supposed to be born in Oklahoma. Not sure you knew that. The first four Hayter kids were born in Oklahoma, and, the way the wind was blowin’, so would any future kids. There were to be three more of us. Didn’t make much sense to me, either.

Regardless, I do believe it was Faris and Elsie’s intent that whatever kids they had would all graduate Purple Pirates from Bristow High. None of us had much say in the matter, but what kids do? Truth be known, I don’t think there were supposed to be more than two of us… three at the most. Why would any non-Catholic, non-Morman, non-pioneer couple want seven kids? It makes no sense. But, born I was. And, so were my two younger siblings, Jill and Alan. Only we weren’t born in Bristow… or even Oklahoma. Because of the toss of a coin, we ended up being birthed in Texas. And, we each graduated as an Eagle from Pasadena High. Try to figure.

While I much prefer Pasadena, Texas, to Bristow, Oklahoma, it really wasn’t my decision to make. I believe I said that. Had I gotten a vote, I believe I would’ve put in for Oregon. I’ve seen the pictures. Nice place.

Not, that Pasadena isn’t a nice place. I take that back. Pasadena isn’t. Pasadena sits just south of the Houston Ship Channel, a channel that is rimmed with refineries and chemical plants. Oh, and there’s a paper mill. It was called Champion Paper Mill when we lived there. Don’t know who owns it now. I do know it employed a good number of Pasadenians. But not my dad. Fortunately, not my dad.

The paper mill was just north of Pasadena on the other side of the channel. Don’t know if you’ve ever lived close to a paper mill, but it’s definitely a must miss experience. With the paper mill and refineries sitting both sides of the Channel, and with an occasional wind blowing from the north, east or west, Pasadena’s unofficial name became Stinkadena. Our official logo read “The grass is always greener in Pasadeener.” Wasn’t long before people passing through the city changed it to, “The AIR is always greener in Pasadeener.” People can be so cruel.

But, like I said, because of a coin toss, Dad decided to uproot the family and head south for the City on the Channel. Some would call it bad luck. Some would call it fate, bad Karma, bad juju. Years, after the fact, I tend to think it was a place God wanted the family to be. I never mentioned that to Dad, ‘cause I didn’t know what he might be mad at God. When Dad told me the story of the coin toss, he didn’t sound all that happy about the outcome. I think it’s about time I share the story.

After the war, rationing ended, and people who could, bought new homes and new cars. With the cars, they were better able to move out of the cities and into the suburbs, where they could commute to work. All of this required gasoline, which put an even greater demand on oil.

In the midst of this big oil demand, Dad and two other Oklahoma roughnecks pooled all their money and bought an army surplus truck and a well-servicing unit-- some giant monstrosity on wheels that fixes whatever is ailing a rig. Dad’s two partners were Crenshaw and Smith. I do not remember dad telling me their first names.

What I do remember is that, after a short while, two of the three entrepreneurs bought out the third. No idea why. That left Dad and Crenshaw. Or, Dad and Smith. No idea. With oil wells going up like cane across Oklahoma, “Three Ninety” was doing all right. By the way, 390 happened to be the company’s phone number. Just as quaint and helpful a name as it could be. Bottom, line, Dad was, for the first and only time in his life, his own boss. He co-owned his own business. Life was good.

There’s a reason I didn’t put a “happily ever after” near the end of that paragraph. Seems things too soon fell into the proverbial crapper. Dad told me that his partner in the well servicing venture turned out to be less than dependable. Dad ended up doing most of the work and shouldering practically all of the responsibility, while Bob (for lack of his real name) partied and drank.

One hot, steamy afternoon, Bob drove up to the rig site way late and somewhat inebriated. It was pretty much the last straw; the way Dad saw it. After a brief argument, the two men sat down at the base of the oil rig and both agreed on a parting of the ways. It was to be a very good parting… for one of them. You see, neither Dad nor Bob could afford to buy the other out. If one of them left, the company would have to be sold to an outsider to pay off the departing partner. Neither wanted that. So, after less than careful thought, Dad suggested a way to end their partnership. He recommended that they toss a coin. If Bob won the toss, Dad would turn over the business. He would end up with absolutely nothing. If Dad won, Bob would be the one losing it all.

I don’t know if a sober Bob would’ve agreed to such a ridiculous parting of the ways, but the tipsy Bob was all over the idea. So, there on that dusty Oklahoma prairie, Faris Hayter pulled a nickel out of his pocket and told Bob to call it. The nickel went spinning into the air a second before Bob called out “Heads!” When the coin hit the Oklahoma dust, Dad looked down, and, with little expression on his face, walked to the rig platform, grabbed his lunch kit and hitched a ride back to Bristow. It didn’t turn out the way Dad hoped, but I can’t help think he wasn’t all that surprised with the outcome. I always viewed my father as a man who learned not to expect.

As far as I know, Dad never told Mom that story. He didn’t tell me until my college years. Mom was told that 390 had to declare bankruptcy. That he and Bob lost all they had. I don’t know if he was trying to distance himself from Bob, or had just had all he could stand of Oklahoma, but Dad told Mom it was best if they loaded the family up and move to Texas. Maybe work in the oil fields for Pearl’s latest husband… whoever that was.

So, move they did. I don’t know how Dad acquired the transportation, but he drove something down to Texas. Dennis was maybe a year old at the time. Lynda was about 10, Larry 8 and Susan 5. Me? I was on hold, waiting to be the first Hayter to be a Texan; to be the first Hayter to be born in a hospital. And, I was waiting to be brought home to an old, wood-framed shack on a dirt road called Spencer.

The events that change our lives are so often small and spontaneous. I’ve never seen the hand of God come down and shove someone onto a different path. I believe His hand is directing, but He is obviously way subtle. If Bob had picked any other day to drive up drunk and late, maybe Dad wouldn’t have been so quick to risk losing his part of the business. Or, if Dad had tossed the coin a little lower and it’d come up tails, or maybe if Bob had over thought and called tails instead of heads. Who can know? We all reach forks in life’s road, where whichever turn we make is a life changer… for good or bad. Or, maybe for good or better. I don’t think Dad had a “for good or better” attitude. Too few of us do.

Listening to Dad tell the story, I could tell that he viewed the outcome as bad for him. He would always wonder how far he might’ve taken ol’ 390. Maybe he would’ve been happier, a better provider for his family and so much more respected. I do believe he felt that way. While I would have loved him to be happier, I didn’t see wealth as being a determining factor in the development of my respect for Dad. I don’t believe anyone who truly loves another, considers wealth to be much of a factor in a relationship. Through all the ups and downs of life, I always loved my Daddy. He provided for his family. He carried us through the good times, and tried to make the bad times a little better than they might’ve been. It’s time we now take some journey’s through some of those times.

Chapter 4

2010-07-25T15:10:00.000-07:00

Mom and Dad, the early years

Dad met my Mom on a June afternoon in 1936. Elsie Geneva Teegarden was walking home from the post office with her best friend Elnora Ford. While at the corner of Second and Main in downtown Bristow, the two of ‘em stopped to talk to Faris Hayter and Elmer Stevens. Not a normal name among ‘em.

Mom knew nothing about Dad at the time, other than he went to Bristow High where all high school-aged Bristowans went. This was way before home-schooling had been invented. I’m not sure Oklahoma has heard of it yet. A bigger mystery is why Mom and Elnora stopped to talk to two boys they didn’t really know. Brazen is what it was. And, there’s a good chance seven Hayter kids wouldn’t be around had it not been for that brazenness.

You see, Faris and Elmer were headed to a birthday party when Elsie and Elnora stopped ‘em. That’s three El’s and Faris on one street corner. What are the chances? Mom said that when asked where they were headed, she told ‘em they were just going home. That’s when Faris (the good-looking one, Mom said) asked if they cared to go to the party with them. Mom and Elnora reluctantly agreed. I’m assuming Elnora teamed with Elmer, ‘cause Elsie apparently had the hots for the goodlooking one. I’m sorry. Elsie was enamored. Girls didn’t get the hots back then. Mom’s never did. I don’t care to talk about it beyond that.

The party was for Jewell Mayfield, Dad’s girlfriend. I doubt Dad mentioned that to Elsie at the time. All during the party Dad had eyes only for Elsie. When the party was near-over, Faris asked Elsie if he could take her home. Insisted, more or less. When Faris returned to the Mayfield house, Jewell threw his hat out the door. Faris and Elsie went together from then on. I have no idea what was going on with Enora and Elmer. There may well be five middle-aged to elderly people walking around who owe their existence to that encounter on Main and Second.

Immediately after high school, Dad went to Dickinson, Texas, where he worked in the oilfield with his step-dad Shorty Mosier. The way people were being named back then, I assume Shorty’s real name was Elwood. Dad worked there just short of a month before Elsie took money he had sent her, bought a train ticket and rode to Houston. First train trip she ever took. I’m thinking her last. When Dad met her at the train station, she was bawling. She was scared; she was happy to see to Faris; she was completely out of her element. Did I mention she’d just ridden from Bristow to Houston?

Faris and Elsie were married at the house of one of Grandma Pearl’s friends on June 24, 1937. Church of Christ preacher Burton Coffman performed the service. Burton was a well-known preacher for many years. I attribute that not only to his godliness, but also to the fact he was apparently one of the few people back then who had a decent name.

Though Dad made good money in the oilfields, ($7.50 an hour. During the Great Depression!) they returned to Bristow. The decision was in reaction to Grandma Pearl’s attitude toward Mom. Grandma didn’t like Elsie, not even a little. I imagine she wanted her son to marry someone from an influential family. When you told someone back then that you were from the Oklahoma Teegarden stock, it just didn’t resonate. Nowadays it resonates like gangbusters.

This was the time that Grandma forged some letters supposed to be from a guy Mom was having an affair with. Apparently, Dad trusted his new wife more than his mom. When Oliver Windell Teegarden, Mom’s dad, got word of what Pearl had done, he said he would kill her if he ever got his hands on her. This peaceful, Godly, elder and song leader of the church, was somewhat miffed. Grandma could have that effect on you. Fortunately, Pearl didn’t die a violent death, or else the chief suspect would’ve been living in Bristow, Oklahoma.

Pearl: Does this look like a woman who would try to break up a marriage?

When they returned to Bristow, Dad did carpentry work with Oliver. It didn’t pay like the oilfields, but I doubt anything did. I have trouble believing Dad made $7.50 an hour in the oilfields during The Depression. I got the info from Mom. I think she had been hitting the juice pretty hard. That’s a joke. Elsie didn’t drink. If Dad ever did it was unbeknownst to us.

One of the earlier pictures of Mom. Her younger sister Paulene is on her right.

I know Grandpa Teegarden didn’t hit the sauce, either. He didn’t drink, cuss or carouse. That was a big plus for Faris getting work with him. In the oilfield guys did a lot of cussing and drinking and carousing. All except for Faris Edward Hayter. Hey, I’ve seen the movies.

Fourteen months after they’d been married, Mom and Dad had their first daughter. I led with the 14 months for obvious reasons. Lynda Lea Hayter became my oldest sister. Actually she didn’t become that till a little over a decade later. That’s when Mark was born. More on that scoundrel later.

Lynda, during one of the brief baby moments when she wasn't crying.

Shortly after Lynda was born, Dad went back to work in the oilfields. He apparently missed the drinking and carousing. Badumbump. He and Mom moved to Kellyville where the oil lease was. They brought Lynda along with them. They may have had to think on that, ‘cause Lynda was a colicky baby. I’ve never had a colicky baby, but I understand they’re supposed to cry a lot. It’s written somewhere. Mom said they used to put Lynda in the car and drive her around till she went to sleep. I just can’t imagine there being a smooth enough road in Oklahoma back then that would ‘cause anyone to fall asleep. Again, Mom may have been hittin’ the hootch.

Where was I? Kellyville. All right, for those of you wondering, Kellyville is a little dot along Route 66 midway between Bristow and Sapulpa. We can now put that mystery to rest. If you’ve ever been to Kellyville, you know that the place is really hopping. Life was so exciting back in 1940 that when Mom got pregnant with Larry Edward, my oldest brother, she decided to go to Bristow to have the child at the home of her parents. Mostly so Kellyville wouldn’t be on the birth certificate. I don’t know that for a fact.

Dad didn’t make it to the house before Larry was born on that snowy January day. A Dr. King and his nurse Elmira made it in time, but not Dad. The streets were icy and he was in the oilfields. Or, one oilfield. Mom and Dad were proud of Larry right off the bat, largely because he didn’t have colic; he didn’t get his first tooth till after he was weaned; and he loved to vacuum. I made up a couple of those. As I did the nurse’s name. I think it a pretty good guess, though.

Shortly after Larry was born, the family moved to Abbeville, Louisiana. Something about the gumbo. I mean the oil. Dad worked in the Louisiana oilfields… and ate gumbo. It was while in Louisiana that the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. Instantly, Dad moved the family back to Bristow. It was apparently less of a target than Abbeville.

Dad never served during the war. He first got a deferment because he worked in the oilfields. Believe I mentioned that. But, it wasn’t long before he moved the family to California where he got a job in the shipyard building Liberty Ships. That was his second deferment.

I never learned much about the family’s stay in California other than the fact that they lived near San Diego in the side of a cliff. It was actually a house that butted right up to a cliff. In fact, the back wall was actually sandstone. Living inside a California cliff was so much safer back then. Someone in the family has a photo of the place, but has yet to come forward. I think they’re waiting to see if this thing gets published. Maybe extort some money from me. Mom and Dad aren’t around anymore to keep stuff like that from happening.

Dad once told a sad happening that took place on one of the ships he was working on. He was up on one of the higher decks welding on something. For an one instant he looked down and saw a guy staring at a huge electrical outlet. The man was holding the end of a heavily insulated wire, while studying the outlet. Dad said he knew exactly what the guy was thinking and what he was going to do, but there wasn’t anything he could do to stop it. With his free hand, the man touched the outlet to see if it was hot. You know, one of those quick touches that you imagine to be faster than light? Dad said the man was knocked off his feet and died on the spot. I can’t imagine an outlet big enough to stick your finger in, or a guy being foolish enough to touch such a thing. I’m thinking intense training was waved for many of the shipbuilding jobs.

Other than that tragedy, I don’t remember Dad saying much about the family’s brief stay in California. Stories were sparse, but he did tell about the time the family went to San Francisco to visit a church whose guest preacher was a friend of theirs. Might’ve been that Burton Coffman guy. Let’s say it was. Regardless, Dad was driving some old heap across the Golden Gate at night, and unbeknownst to him there was a blackout in affect. The military was apparently leery of a Japanese assault on the West Coast. I would’ve thought that Dad might’ve recognized that there was a blackout, it being dark and all. But, he drove across the bridge with his lights on and was summarily stopped by a cop just as he exited the bridge. I’m not sure how a cop pulls you over during a blackout, but this guy managed it. Probably threw rocks at the car.

On his way to the driver’s side window, the California cop took a quick glance at the license plate on the Hayter vehicle. He then studied the occupants of the car. Don’t know if he turned his flashlight on or not. Seems like that would be against the law during a blackout. He took a few moments to study the family. Even before I was born, the Hayter family looked suspicious as all get out. Mom and Dad were in the front and Lynda and Larry were huddled in the back. The officer asked for Dad’s driver's license. He inspected the thing and then asked Dad what he was doing driving with his lights on. Dad tactfully told him that he was unaware of the blackout. Dad said that the cop just tossed him back his license and said, “Keep your lights off.” While walking away, the cop said, loud enough for all to hear, “Damn Okies.”

I think Dad would’ve rather gotten a citation than have the cop call him and his family “Damn Okies.” I’m glad I wasn’t there to see that display. The Dad I knew would not handled an insult well at all. He would’ve come out of the car and showed that cop who ate the cabbage. I have no idea what that means, but it was a Farisism. Showing someone who ate cabbage was supposed to be a pretty big deal. Try to figure. But, Dad just drove on to church. I doubt he was in a worshiping mood all that much.

I never saw Dad fight anybody, but I did see him lose his temper a few times. Several times. I’m fairly sure he wouldn’t have assaulted a police officer. It’s just that when I was a kid I couldn’t see him handling rude behavior well at all. Couldn’t see him being able to control himself. It was later that I realized that Dad was seldom out of control as much as I thought he was. Someone would have likely died had he been completely out of control. Like I said at the start of this thing, the man was 50 feet tall.

Shortly before the war ended, the family returned to Oklahoma where Dad got a job at an airplane factory in Tulsa. Shortly after the move, my sister Susan was born. Mom said Susan was her best kid. Didn’t cry much at all; didn’t care if you held her or not; changed her own diaper at four months. If you neglected the thumb-sucking thing, she was the perfect baby. Grew into the meanest babysitter you’ve ever seen. “Mom, please don’t leave us with Susan. Pleeeease!” Oh, well, that’s the stuff of another book. Perhaps Susan will might pay me to paint her early years with a more kinder stroke.

Soon the war was over and Dad had managed to stay out of the military. At the time, I don’t think he minded so much missing out on the fighting, but, later in life, I could tell that he wished he had been a part of it all. He seemed almost apologetic about his life during the war. I imagine that’s normal. All you can be sure of is that a few million lives were changed because that horrible encounter. People were born who would not have been without the influence of the war, and millions more would not be born because of the mayhem. It’s the stuff of wonderment.

About a year after the war my brother Dennis was born at the house on 8th Street. I never saw the house on 8th Street, but Mom and Dad talked about it like all of us were well familiar with it. Sometimes parents lose sight of stuff. Especially parents who end up with seven kids.

Lynda, Larry, Susan and Dennis holding Easter chicks. Obviously, someone else is holding Dennis' chick. He preferred ducks.

Dennis was Mom’s easiest birth. Might’ve been because the doctor who delivered him was a chiropractor. When my Grandpa Teegarden first saw Dennis, he said he was the prettiest baby he ever saw. There’s a picture or so here that might bear that out. But, nothing recent. You can be a pretty baby just so long.

From left: Dennis, Grandma Pearl, Lynda, Susan, Larry and Dad.

Six weeks after Dennis was born, Dad up and moved the family back to Texas. The reason for the move was one of my favorite Dad stories. Not so much his. It’s the stuff of Chapter 5.

Chapter 3

2010-07-14T14:27:00.000-07:00

Dad’s mom, the stuff of scandal... but--

Grandma Pearl’s maiden name was Pickelseimer, but when one of her ancestors landed in the U.S., some clerk at Ellis Island spelled it P’simmer. I’m assuming he felt rushed.

For the life of me I can’t figure out why Pearl married Ed Hayter. Easier to see what Ed saw in Pearl. Pearl was nothing short of enticing, I’m thinking. I didn’t know her in the beginning, ‘cause she was my grandma. I thought I made that clear. But, from what I witnessed later, I’m fairly sure she was an attractive, fun, teasing, thrilling, beguiler. A person who could turn a shy, strong, nice-looking guy every which way but loose. But, again, why would she?

Ed Hayter and Pearl P'seimer Hayter: Real close to their wedding day. Like maybe the same day.

What I know of Grandma Pearl’s family life would fill a space between paragraphs. Maybe she had a horrible home life, and Ed presented a way out. Maybe a truelove had cast her aside, so she grabbed Ed Hayter on the rebound. Maybe she thought she could change Grandpa into a devil-may-care kind of guy. Maybe she loved him… No, I just don’t see that.

All I know is that she turned her back on Grandpa and her young son at an early stage in the marriage. They were living in Sapulpa at the time, and were running a dry goods/grocery store. Dad was just a little shaver, an only son, who, from what I’ve seen in the photos, dressed nicely. I just can’t believe that his attire was any of Grandpa’s doing.

Grandma Pearl in a buggy with my Great Grandpa Andrew Hayter. At least that's what's on the back of the picture. The horse is "Old Blazes." That's not on the picture, I just made it up.

I couldn’t tell you the exact date that Grandma left Dad and Grandpa and headed for Texas, but I’m pretty sure I’m up on the reason she left. If you research in the archives of the Sapulpa Daily Herald, assuming there wasn’t a fire that burned up their microfiche collection, you’d see an article printed somewhere in the early thirties about a Mrs. Pearl Hayter who got tarred and feathered for having an affair with one of the town’s political figures. Doubt they did anything to the political figure. Regardless, my mom said the event was written up in the paper.

The KKK was responsible for the deed. Back in the day, the KKK not only served as the chief enforcer of the Jim Crow laws, but they were also the moral disciplinarian for the community, white or black. I can’t help but believe it was one of those “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone” kind of things. I always imagined that Pearl had known, in the biblical sense, several of those who were pouring on the tar and feathers. No evidence whatsoever, just a hunch.

I only learned of this incident a few years ago. Dad never mentioned it, and Mom only did years after Dad passed. The story flabbergasted me. It provided an answer to something that had bothered me a bit. I remember Grandma Pearl always having thin hair along the edges. I had no idea she was wearing a wig. Kids don’t pick up so much on stuff like that. My kid sister Jill, however, noticed big time one morning. Jill said she saw Grandma Pearl in bed without her wig on. She said her hair was just in blotches. I’m assuming it was hot tar that did that to her. I’m thinking it was. Again, no evidence, not even a Sapulpa newspaper article.

I know anything of how Grandpa handled the situation. Don’t really know which he thought was worse, the affair or everybody knowing about it. He probably couldn’t separate the two himself. And, I don’t know how many women were run outta town back in the day, but that had to carry some bad juju, too.

It wasn’t long before Ed Hayter and his son moved back to Bristow, where for a small time he bought another store. This one a small grocery store. As far as Grandma goes, I’m pretty sure that was the time she moved down to Texas. Conroe, if I’m not mistaken. That’s pretty much what you need to do when the KKK tars and feathers you. Move to Conroe. Well, not necessarily. That make the place pretty much like Australia in the early days. I think the message is not so much the “where you go” but “that you go.” It’s one of those unwritten things.

In Conroe, Grandma managed a beauty shop out of her house. At one time or other I saw the house, but I’m pretty sure it’s not there anymore. It was just the other side of the railroad tracks in town. Two stories and a big porch on two sides.

I don’t know where Pearl got the money for the house. Perhaps Grandpa helped her. If he had the money, he seemed that kind of guy. Or, perhaps someone she knew in town helped out. The subject just never came up when Grandma was around. – “Grandma, remember when you were tarred and feathered and moved to Conroe? Do ya? Well, where’d you get the money for the house?” – No, no one in the family brought it up, and us kids were ignorantly blissful.

I have no idea why Pearl picked Conroe to move to, other than it was a big oil town at the time. She did manage to marry someone involved in the oil business. I don’t know if she met him before, during or after her stay in Conroe. So much about Pearl I don’t know. Are you picking up on that? I’m not sure if there is anyone left who would remember.

I don’t even know where Pearl got the talent or the propensity to cut hair. What I do know is that Dad would visit her in Conroe occasionally. In fact, when he was a freshman in High School, he even went down to live in Conroe for a semester. He played football at the high school. I believe he played guard. He told me a story about a couple of guys on the team who didn’t like him much. No idea why. During a scrimage, one of the guys hit him high from the side and the other hit him low from the other side and they managed to break his leg. Or knee…a portion of one of the appendages he walked with. He said it ruined his football career. Probably his knee.

During his brief stay in Conroe, Dad managed to meet a cute young lady named Fern. She must’ve been about 13 at the time. I knew absolutely nothing about this until my wife and I moved to Georgetown, Texas, back in 1991. It was about a decade after Dad had died. Shortly after Kay and I placed membership at the Georgetown Church of Christ, a charming lady walked up and introduced herself to us. After a brief conversation she got around to asking if my Dad’s name was Faris. Do you know the chances of anyone guessing my Dad’s name? Faris? I think he’s the only Faris who ever set foot on this planet. No, you don’t guess something like that. She definitely knew my dad. She didn’t bust up crying or anything when I told her he was dead, but I could tell that the news moved her a bit.

She told me that Faris and she had been friends in Conroe. Just friends, she stressed. Dad would take her places and they’d do stuff together. She met him through acquaintances of Grandma who came to the beauty shop. I pressed just a little to find out for sure if she and Dad were not a couple, and she assured me they weren’t. “Oh, I was too young for him,” she said. We were just good friends. She told me that my dad was a perfect gentleman at all times. Said he was fun to be around. Funny, but very polite. I liked hearing that.

For whatever reason, Dad moved back to Bristow and Grandpa after a few months. I’m kind of glad he did, ‘cause if he hadn’t he would not have fallen in love with Mom and I wouldn’t have been born. What kind of travesty would that have been? It’s rhetorical, okay? I don’t need any speculation out there.

The fact that Dad met and married Elsie Teagarden didn’t set well with Grandma Pearl at all. It shouldn’t surprise you to learn that I have no idea why. After Dad passed away, Mom told a story about how Grandma had someone write love letters, pretending to be one of Mom’s lovers. She collect the letters and gave ‘em to Dad, hoping he’d think Mom was having an affair and that he’d leave her. I don’t know if Dad had any doubts at all, but the fact that he and Mom stayed together shows that he sided with his wife. It takes a cold Grandma to do something like that. I’m glad I only learned of it after Pearl passed away, ‘cause I couldn’t have pretended to be pleasant around her had I known. I don’t know how Mom ever managed civility around Grandma, but she sure never showed that she was in the least displeased with the woman. Mom’s sometimes carry just a whole bunch of stuff with ‘em.

While I didn’t know about the forged love letters, I did become aware of the time when Grandma displeased a bunch of us. Mostly me and my brother Dennis. Dad, too, for that matter. Dad just took it better than Dennis and me. You see, one day when I was just a kid, maybe 11 years old, Pearl called Dad to tell him that she was getting ready to ship him a gift that cost her $100. Back then you could do some serious buying with a C note. When dad told us the news, we went nuts. Mostly Dennis and me. I mentioned that, didn’t I. Well, we did. We were thinking pool table. Dad didn’t want to ruin anything for us, but he did let on that a good pool table would cost more than a hundred bucks… even back then. In fact, I think he even mentioned that. “Well, back now, I don’t even think you can buy a pool table that cheap.” I believe that’s what he said.

So, we thought maybe a ping-pong table, or a giant tent or ten BB guns. Yep, we pretty much went nuts. It was a week or two later when a giant box arrived. We all assembled in the living room. This was when we lived on Camille Street. That means nothing to most of you, but it puts me the correct frame of mine to finish this horror story.

I remember Dad sent one of us for the crowbar. Dad seldom fetched tools himself. He was always sending one of us. No idea why. Anyway, he grabbed the crowbar and and knocked the daylights out of the lid to that crate. After about 30 seconds, he sent one of us for a hammer. That pretty much did the trick.

It was almost like that scene in “A Christmas Story” which, incidentally, hadn’t even been on the screen at the time, so just forget I brought it up. The giant wooden box was filled with tons of those squirrelly wood shavings. Dad dug around for a bit and then wrapped his hands around something weird. His countenance did seem to fall a bit at that moment. All of us got fallen countenances immediately after Dad pulled a giant stuff fish out of the crate. It was a tarpon, not that it meant anything to us. Grandma had mentioned to Dad a month or so back that she had hooked a giant tarpon. Even sent him some photos. Dad was just about as excited about the stuffed fish as he was the photos.Grandma Pearl and the big fish, before stuffing. I'm assuming that's her fishing guide with her.

Yep, there in our house was the remnant of that poor fish. I don’t remember for sure if I cried, but I just imagine I came close. Not Dad. He laughed. Laughed right after he said, “Well, she did it to me again.” I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but he sure thought it was funny.

What do you do with a giant stuffed fish? Dad hung it in our room. I guess he figured Dennis and I needed a reminder of the pool table we didn’t get. I could’ve said, “No reminder needed, Daddy,” but that wouldn’t have gone over well. I don’t think Dad put the fish in our room to be mean or anything. He just didn’t know where else to put the thing. I imagine the hardest task he had was to call Grandma and thank her for the stupid fish. I never heard how that went.

To this day, I don’t know what happened to that fish. Just one day after I was married and moved away from home, I visited and the fish was gone. I didn’t even care enough to ask. Truth be known, the fish did serve a single purpose. Well, I take that back. Dennis and I used it to hide some of our valuable stuff. The fish had a wide mouth and we chunked our Nifty Coupons and corroded zinc pennies in there. That used to a big thing then, 1943 zinc pennies. I called ‘em cobalt pennies. Don’t know where I came up with that. I thing cobalt will melt your pocket. Something does. Regardless, whoever ended up with that stupid fish probably found some serious treasure in that mouth.

Yeah, Grandma was certainly a doodle. Of course, about now you’re no doubt thinking “Hey, enough with Grandma Pearl. I thought this was supposed to be about your dad!” Well, you’re right, so we’ll move on. However, Pearl was so… uh, out there, that I reserve the right to bring her up again in later chapters. You’ve gotta respect that.

Oops, I'm bringing her back sooner than any of us thought I would.

I was just thinking that if God is as gracious to me as I have been to Grandma... well, I'm gonna be in some serious trouble. I don't know how much evidence there is laying around about Pearl, but if this is IT, she deserves better. The number of times in this chapter when I mentioned "I don't know" is a bunch. "I don't know" indicates, among other things, that I don't know how much good the woman did.

I do know that she ended up in Tampa, Florida, where she became a well known Realtor. I don't know how many husbands she had along the way, but the name that finally stuck was Pearl Elliston.

The woman was always kind when she was around us kids. Dennis and I went with Dad and Larry once to Tampa to see Grandma. (More on that in a later chapter.) While there, the woman was real nice to us. Took us to a fancy restaurant. When Kay and I got married, Grandma sent us a silver tea service set. It looked real ritzy. We never used it ourselves, but did loan it out for a few weddings. I'm not much of a tea service set guy. You probably didn't notice.

Grandma also gave Kay and I $200 early in our marriage. We didn't ask for it, but I think Dad asked for us. Dad's can pick up on stuff about their kids. It was at a time when the rent was $105 and the car payment $70, so $200 was a chunk. As soon as I saved up enough to pay Grandma back, she refused it. Mailed the check back. Thought it a kind gesture on our part, but said she didn't intend the money for a loan. I would've insisted, but needed the money too badly. My pride can go just so far.

When Grandma died, she left her white Cadillac and a few thousand dollars to Dad. That helped 'em out more than you can imagine. Well, maybe not that much, but more than you might think.

The most important thing that Grandma did was to have Dad. That meant just a whole lot to seven of us kids... meant a lot to Mom, too. In one of David's Psalms he writes what one translation interprets, "God will fulfill his purpose for you." Another says, "God will complete what concerns me." I have enough faith to believe that God did just that with Pearl. She was not all good, not all bad... but a woman of purpose. Like each of us. Purpose is just hard to see sometimes. I'm saying that of me, not Grandma.

Okay, now we can go on to Chapter 4. I’ll tell you what it’s about when I finish it. Fair enough?

Lessons from his dad

2010-07-08T08:33:00.000-07:00

Grandpa and Dad, July 1958

Chapter 2 (continued)

I don’t know much about the relationship Dad and grandpa had. I don’t get the picture of them sharing a great deal of their emotions with one another. Not sure many people did back then. Not on the farm, anyway. Dad said that his dad never spanked him. He did box his ears once.

I never heard of that before, but Dad demonstrated it to me. Didn’t apply any force or anything, he just took the palms of his hands and put them against my ears. Then he made rubbing motions. If he had applied force it would’ve hurt like everything. When I asked why his dad did that to him, Dad said it was because he talked back to him once. Grandpa was getting ready to do some plowing or planting in a place that was not likely to produce much. Dad told him that the idea was silly. That’s the word he used. “Silly.” Grandpa boxed his ears for that. And, then told him, “Never call a man a ‘fool.’” I could’ve argued all the way to the Supreme Court that Dad never called him a fool. Just that his action made little sense. Even really smart people do unwise things. Hey, I go to bed wearing one sock. What’s that make me? -- Beg pardon?

Regardless, Grandpa didn’t like his son telling him he did something silly. Considered it irreverent. Saw it as talking back.

I think Dad and I pretty much had the same relationship as he and his dad. I never once corrected my father, even when I knew him to be wrong. Just didn’t seem the wise thing to do. The seven of us kids seldom gave the man cause to spank us. I believe he only spanked me three times. I can only recall “the why” of one of ‘em. He spanked me for lying to Mom, when I didn’t… technically. When I yelled to Mom that I “wasn’t” wrestling with the neighborhood kids, I really wasn’t wrestling. I had been when she yelled, but I had stopped wrestling long enough to tell her I wasn’t. So, technically, I was telling the truth. And, I would’ve explained it to her had Dad not been watching the melee.

Like his father, Dad didn’t care too much for technicalities. I didn’t even bring up the fine point of “not wrestling at the moment I said I wasn’t.” I just took the spanking like a… well, like a crybaby. Like I mentioned earlier, at no time did any of us seven kids need Dad to spank us. If he said he was disappointed in us, that’s all it took. I wish I’d been brave enough to tell him that. “Dad, no need for the belt. You had me at ‘disappointed’.”

Now, Mom really needed to spank us… bless her heart. Dad, never. It was partly our fear of him and partly our desire to please him. A touchdown in the big game, a game winning homerun, a four-year scholarship… something like that. Never came close.

I would’ve done anything for my daddy. Fortunately, he never asked me for anything big. Never asked me to hit, taunt or write a mean letter to anyone. Quite the opposite. The man taught me respect by being respectful. I never remember him instructing us to say “Yes, ma’am” or “Yes, sir” or “Thank you.” We just always did. We apparently caught onto the notion that it was what Dad expected. He was always polite to other people. Even to people younger than he was. Even to mean people like that one lady at Wyatt’s Cafeteria. “Thank you, ma’am,” my dad would tell her.

Odd, but Dad never cared if we said “Yes, sir” TO HIM. I think it made him feel less close to us. We never said, “Yeah,” or “nah” or “Not me!” We’d say “Yes” and “no” and “I’m sorry.” Twice I got blamed for stuff I didn’t do, ‘cause I didn’t want to talk back to Dad. I just said, “I’m sorry, Daddy.” Dad was okay with that. Had I tried to explain that Dennis was the one who left his bike in the driveway, well, it wouldn’t have come out good for either of us… I imagine.

Dad and Grandpa, with Dennis to the left, me in the middle, and Larry in front of Grandpa

Yes, Dad seemed to father pretty much the way his dad did. Didn’t hug till the later years. He was not one who’d ever care to hear about your dream. (I’m my father’s son in that respect.) Definitely shied away from anything emotional. That’s probably why he never really shared with us a great deal about his father.

Of course, I’m pretty sure there were plenty of times in my life when I could’ve learned more about my grandpa had I just asked, but I was far from caring. The family visited Bristow, Oklahoma two weeks out of ever year, where we spent 90 percent of the time with my mom’s family. Visits just down the road to Grandpa Hayter’s house were considered real snoozefests. We’d sit in the living room and listen to Dad and Grandpa exchange stories about people and times that seemed more than a little remote to us.

Grandpa would talk in a quiet rasp. He was hard of hearing and his speech was difficult to understand. It would’ve broken my heart for him to know how boring we considered our visits were to be. I’m not sure he ever had a clue, because he always seemed genuinely pleased to see us. As the end approached, he became more and more sentimental about things. So much so, that on one occasion, when we loaded up to head back to Texas, Dad neglected to tell Grandpa that we were leaving. When Mom asked why weren’t stopping to say bye to Grandpa, Dad just shook his head and said, “I couldn’t bear to see him cry. It bothers him so much when he thinks we’re leaving.”

I was a teenager when I heard Dad say that, and it absolutely broke my heart. To think that I cared so little about the old man who cared so much. Grandpa died on my birthday, August 20, 1967. It was the summer after my high school graduation. The whole family took the trip to Oklahoma in two cars. My brother Dennis and I rode with our oldest brother Larry in his car. Our sisters Susan and Lynda came along. Dad drove Mom, Jill and Alan in the ’65 Pontiac Tempest.

Two things about the occasion of Grandpa’s funeral have stuck in my mind. I remember absolutely nothing about the funeral itself except for Uncle Fred. I had no idea I had an Uncle Fred. But, there he was at the funeral. He was Grandpa’s brother. Older, younger? I have no idea. Just an old man with a bit more hair than Grandpa. All during the preliminaries of the funeral – the day before viewing and the socializing that takes place up until the singing starts – Uncle Fred was as composed as could be. He was laughing and carrying on just like he was having a good ol’ time. But, when his time came to step up and view the casket, the man broke down. He got to sobbing so much that Daddy had to hold him up to keep him from slumping to the ground.

At the time, I thought the man was faking it. How could anybody be so jovial one second and then crack up like that? He knew he was at a funeral to begin with. The thought of his brother’s passing couldn’t have sneaked up on him.

Wasn’t a year or two ago that one of my ex-high school students died. A great kid. Teacher’s seldom admit to favorites, but Josh was one of mine. At his funeral I met one of my old teaching chums. As we stood in the long line to pay our condolences to Josh’s parents, we began talking and laughing about old times. I mentioned some great moments with Josh and some of his classmates. Finally, I made it to the front of the line where I shook hands with Josh’s dad and hugged his mom. Then I took two steps toward the casket and saw Josh. Instantly, my heart sank. I even got dizzy. Josh’s mom more or less held me up and whispered words of encouragement.

There’s just something about passing a casket that makes it… well makes the finality of it sink in. At that moment I knew exactly how my Uncle Fred felt as he stared down at his brother. It was the first and last time I saw my dad’s uncle. Couldn’t even tell you where he was from. Like I say, I had my own concerns and problems to stew on.

The second memorable happening caused by Grandpa’s passing involved the trip from Texas to attend the funeral. This will mean little of nothing to so many of you, but it turned out that Grandpa Hayter passed away the week that the first of the last two episodes of “The Fugitive” were to air. Dr. Richard Kimble was the fugitive. He was played by personalitiless David Janssen. Janssen did a super job, too. Not sure I ever missed an episode during the four year run.

When it came time to bring the series to a conclusion, I was going to be on the road to Bristow, Oklahoma for Grandpa’s funeral. I couldn’t believe it. I’d make it home in time for Part II, but Part I was going to be a miss… unless. Like I said, I was riding with Larry and my older brothers and sisters. I could talk to them about hating to miss “The Fugitive”, whereas, had I been riding with Dad I would’ve just sat in the backseat and taken my lumps. No Fugitive for me.

But, with Larry driving, I had a chance. The Fugitive aired at 9:00 p.m. We left Pasadena a little after six. We were just this side of Corsicana when we started looking for a place to stop. I told Larry that if there were a house by the side of the road that looked inviting, I’d get out and ask if we could watch TV with them. We never found such a place. Plenty of houses, but nothing looked all that inviting just after dusk.

Finally, I persuaded Larry to pull in at an old Mom and Pop motel outside Corsicana. There was a light on in the office that shown a marginally inviting aura. The brothers and sisters couldn’t believe I had enough nerve to try to force myself on others, but I jumped out of that car and headed to the office on a mission. It was totally out of character for me. Desperate I was.

When I entered the office area, I discovered that the office was no more than a part of the owners’ living room. There was a bar just inside the door that separated the customers from the rest of the open room. Just the other side of the bar was a card table with two elderly couples playing canasta. No one stood, but one of ‘em said, “Howdy.”

I gave ‘em a scattered howdy and then mentioned The Fugitive. Their TV wasn’t on Channel 13, but surely they realized that Dr. Kimble would be finding the one-armed man tonight. They had no clue. “He’s never gonna find that one-armed man,” the old lady with her back to me said. I assured here he would. And, it’d be that very night. I couldn’t get through to them. They started jumping from one topic to the next. Completely ignored the teenager in the room. I eventually thanked ‘em, and walked out. I’m not sure they ever knew when I left. Not sure they even realized I was there. They were too engrossed in cards and in small-town talk with old friends.

When I got back to the car, they could tell by my disposition that my mission had failed. “I couldn’t get through to ‘em. I gave ‘em everything I had, but they wouldn’t believe me. I don’t think they were from this world. ‘He’ll never catch that one-armed man,’ one of the old ladies said. Criminee!” Why did the only four people who knew nothing about the Fugitive have to be at that motel?

Larry, Lynda, Susan and Dennis were much less tore up about it than I was. I really believe Larry or Susan could’ve gotten through to those four pod people, but they didn’t want to try. Didn’t want to come across as pushy. Sheesh.

I never did see Episode I of the final two episodes of The Fugitive. But, I did see Episode II. They pretty much rehashed all that happened in the first episode, but it wasn’t the same. I’m just glad that my grandpa never had to learn how upset I was that his dying ruined my TV night. I eventually told Dad what I did, and he took it well.

Truth is, Dad never faulted us for being bored out of our wits during our visits with Grandpa. Mom is the one who was most put out with us. And, it wasn’t even her dad. It was one of the few times when Dad was more understanding than Mom… about anything. Try to figure.

Grandpa not too long before he passed away

Chapter 2

2010-07-01T07:54:00.000-07:00

Dad and my Grandpa Hayter

Faris Edward Hayter was born the day before Christmas 1917, in Bristow, Oklahoma. I’m pretty sure the doctor came to the house to birth him. They did that a lot back then. Though I never heard, I’m pretty sure the doctor grabbed Dad by the hair and let him hang there a minute before he slapped his bottom. Dad’s bottom, not his own. That would be stupid. However, the momentary hang was largely responsible for Dad’s premature balding. That’s what I’m thinking. If Dad has hair in heaven, I’m not sure I’ll recognize him.

Oh, and back to where he was born. Bristow was a small farming community that became an oil boom-town, and, eventually, a smaller town with nothing to do. At least that’s the way it was when I first visited the place back in the ‘50s. And, that’s the way I left it the last time I left, which was likely the last time I’ll ever have to leave it. (Try to keep up, people. There will be more on family visits to Bristow later. Like you, I’m pretty eager.)

I don’t know if Dad’s birth year resonated at all with you. It was the same year our country involved itself in the Great War, or as some called it, “The War to End all Wars”. If you’ve seen the movies, you realize that, eventually, we had to number our World Wars. So much better than “The War after the War to End all Wars.” (Side note: We’re just up to two World Wars as of this writing… unless you consider the war against terrorism to be World War III. I don’t really care to get into that. Dad didn’t really have any big take on terrorism. Other than he was against it. I’m pretty sure. Thing is, he just wasn’t alive when we declared war on it. Enough on that.)

Truth is, my dad had little to with any wars… or their naming. His little wobbly feet had barely touched the ground when The Great War ended. That’s unfortunate, ‘cause you give that kid a pacifier and a sharp stick, and he would’ve been there. What I’m thinking.

1918 -- Picture of Grandpa holding Dad (left) and Mamie Eisenhower (right) Not certain about Mamie. Might be one of Dad's cousins.

It wasn’t long after Dad was born that his dad, Ed, decided to leave Bristow for Sapulpa, a town 20 miles east of Bristow. The man was a world traveler. It was in Sapulpa that Grandpa Hayter ended up owning a grocery store… or dry goods store. Hard to tell what kind of store it was from the picture. It just shows Grandpa and Grandma standing in front of the place, no sign in sight. The caption on the back says that it was a store that Ed and Pearl owned in Sapulpa. Dad never said much about it. Begs the question – Why don’t we ask parents and grandparents about stuff while they’re alive? When they’re dead, it’s so much harder to get a straight answer. Make a note.

1919 -- Dad while in Leningrad. Sure what it looks like.

I'm sure Dad would’ve told us a lot more about Grandpa had we ever asked. It’s absolutely pathetic how little you care about old stuff when you’re a kid. You just don’t think any information that doesn’t relate directly is ever going to be of any consequence. In truth, Dad may have told me a great deal about his dad, and I just tuned him out. I doubt it, though. I didn’t tune Dad out all that much. The guy might ask a question or two, and it would’ve hurt him had he known I wasn’t listening. You could tune Moms out. Just about had to. Not Dads, though. I don’t know who wrote the book on that, but somebody must’ve.

From what little I did picked up concerning Grandpa, the man was a carpenter and a sharecropper. That means he must have owned the store for a short while. During that while, he must have done pretty well for himself, because I found a picture or two of the guy all dressed up in a neat suit. He even had a car. That would make you pretty close to rich back then.

When Dad was just a kid, his Mom left. That would be Grandma Pearl. After she remarried, she stopped being a Hayter. That happens. First time I called her anything it was Grandma followed by her first name, Grandmother Pearl. Not, Grandmother Followed by Her First Name. That's another one of those stupid things. The story about Grandma Pearl's leaving is a doozy. The stuff of scandal. I’ll cover it in the next chapter. Pay attention, ‘cause I don’t wanna have to tell it twice. For now, it’s enough to say that Grandma Pearl was a pistol.

I’ve got a pretty good idea why Grandma didn’t take Faris with her when she left Sapulpa. You will, too, after you read the next Chapter. As it turned out, I’m glad she didn’t take him with her. I believe Dad learned better stuff from Grandpa.

Dad picked up some carpentry skills from his father. You’d have to consider both of them craftsmen. I’ve got a desk downstairs that Dad made when he was in high school. It’s more intricate and better constructed than any piece I ever saw come out of the shop class at my school. I’ve also got a small toolbox that belonged to Grandpa. It’s sitting in the corner of the study. That and two poems are the only things I have of my grandpa. The man worked hard and did well by his son. And, thoughts of him are a handful of people away from being completely lost. That’s the way of many fathers of fathers.

All I know of the Great Depression is from what I’ve read in books, seen in documentaries and movies, and heard my Dad tell on nights the family gathered to munch popcorn, drink Kool Aid and listen to stories of the old days.

During the Depression, Grandpa farmed 40 acres for a widow who lived a few miles east of Bristow near a muddy tributary called Little Deep Fork Creek. Grandpa and Dad worked the land with an old plow mule. I don’t know if the crop was split perfectly even with the landowner. All I know is that Grandpa made little of nothing. Dad said that after selling the corn crop one year and paying off the bills, Grandpa reached into his pocket and took out a five dollar bill. “Faris,” he said. “This is all we’ve got to show for a year’s worth of hard work.”

Autumn: Ed Hayter

It’s November late in Autumn, winter not far away
The fields are brown, corn long gathered at the close of a summer’s day.
We toiled through the long dreary summer, through the sweltering heat
Trying to earn our clothes and a few bites to eat.
Now I wonder in days gone by and days that are before,
The ones that work the hardest are the ones that suffer more.
It seems to me that it should not be, since the earth was made for all.
After we toil through the summer heat we should have some thing left in the fall.

Dad and Grandpa must’ve planted a small garden around the old house, located just off highway 16 east of town. I imagine that because of Grandpa’s prayer about cow-peas. I’m not sure what kind of pea a cow-pea is, but I imagine it’s from the black-eyed family. Regardless, Dad said that before one particular meal, Aunt Mary and he bowed their heads as Grandpa prayed. “Dear God,” he said, “Thank you for these cow-peas. The same today. The same tomorrow. The same forever. In Jesus’ name, AMEN!” It was the prayer of a man barely holding onto a frayed rope of faith.

It’s never wise to press a guy with a weak grip on a frayed rope of faith (say that three times.) But, press an unthinking life insurance salesman did. It was in the midst of the Great Depression. Dad said Grandpa was out plowing the 40-acre field with their mule… Bessie. (I have no idea. Just sounds about right.) As Grandpa plowed, Dad walked a distance behind and busted up clods with a hoe... uh, a stick with a chopping thing on the end.

While this drudgery was going on, Dad noticed a rather stylish car for those parts pull up and stop at the edge of the field. A nice-dressed man got out, stooped to get through barbed wire fence, and made his way to my grandpa.

My dad just kept hoeing, but he did look up a time or two to see what was going on. He said that after about five minutes of conversation, the man in the suit lit out across the field towards his car. My grandpa tossed the reins from his shoulder, let the plow drop, and took out after the man. Almost caught him, too. Had it been earlier in the day, he probably would have. The man ripped his pants on the fence, but got clean away.

When grandpa got back to the mule, my dad met him. “What was that all about, Daddy?” he asked. Grandpa righted the plow and tossed the reins back over his shoulder. “That yahoo was trying to sell me some life insurance,” he said. “When I told him I couldn’t afford it, he told me that if I gave up chewing tobacco maybe I could.”

The salesman had no empathy for a man who lived from day to day. Dad said that the only enjoyment my grandpa had in life came from his chewing tobacco. My dad said, “Yeah, that insurance salesman didn’t seem to know or care about that. Your grandpa didn’t need to be lectured by the likes of him.” No question about that.

There’s a fine line between too much insurance and not enough. Insurance is there to help when the worst comes along. Grandpa was already in the midst of the worst. No amount of insurance could get him out of the life’s storm he was experiencing.

Ed Hayter (My Grandpa) -- Always the farmer

Oklahoma Dust: Ed Hayter

Oklahoma, where the wind blows and the ground is very dry,
The dust is getting thicker everywhere up in the sky.
It sifts in the through the windows and it comes in through the door.
It settles on the chairs and beds and also on the floor.
You breathe it every breath you take, you get it in your nose.
You get it in the food you eat and it settles on your clothes.
You cough and sneeze and blow your nose and wipe it out your eyes,
And everywhere you choose to look it’s ever in the skies.
Now if it doesn’t rain, it’s a sure thing there will be nothing raised at all.
And we will be in an awful fix when our notes come due this fall.

Let’s end this part of Grandpa’s chapter with that poem. I’ll finish off with a story or two more about Dad and Grandpa, next time.

Chapter 1

2010-06-17T08:46:00.000-07:00

"My first meeting with Dad"

The first time I met my dad was at the Foley’s Christmas Parade in downtown Houston. Must’ve been the one in 1953. I wasn’t much past three years old at the time, but I remember it like it was… well, a long time ago. After all, I was only about three. Think I said that.

I do remember that downtown Houston was packed with a lot of noisy parade watchers. There were horses and horse poop and marching bands. Possibly in that order. Hard to see, because my view was mostly around and between legs. Drums were beating, horns were blaring and triangles were making those little ting ting noises. I liked triangles. Not so much the poop. Or, the clowns. (The “why” of clownery has eluded me to this day. Nothing all that funny about a person hiding behind a white, painted face, weird colored poofy hair, elongated shoes, a bulbous red nose and baggy pajamas. I just never could grasp the humor in it all. And, I’ve tried. I tried interviewing a clown once, and I went away with little more than the notion that the person didn’t want to be known. Didn’t want to stand out. The irony just drips.)

Oh, and back to the parade. It was loud. Real loud. Near the end, it got even louder. I could hear people down the street start to scream. I couldn’t see what the hysteria was about, but it was apparent that the scream was coming my way. Just scary as it could be.

The glimpses I did manage to catch were mostly of people walking and riding and marching just like they had purpose. Just like there was some kind of strategic plan behind the entire outing. I had no idea. Even those who weren’t clowns were dressed oddly. I had landed on Mars and was the only one the least bit leery of the trip.

And then it happened. The scream reached those around me. Kids were screaming mostly, but it was kind of hard to tell. When you’re real little, even most kids seem adult to you. I just remember I was standing there pretty much on my own. Oh, I was in a glob of people. Mostly Hayters. There was Mom, Dad and my two older brothers and two sisters. But, nobody was paying attention to me. Like I say, I was pretty much alone.

Without moving much, I tried to catch a glimpse of what all the excitement was. We must’ve been late comers, ‘cause we were a few layers into the crowd. If we had had to pay for our position along the street, one would say that we were in the cheap seats. Or, the standing-room-only section… a place that seemed to coincide with our lot in life.

I must’ve somehow grabbed onto Dad’s pant-leg. I don’t know. Like I say, I have no memory of any time spent with the man before this moment. But, just as the cheers got louder, I heard Dad say, “Santa Claus is coming!” And, that was the earliest memory I have of him. The first time my mind actually met my Dad. Santa too, for that matter.

But, there, in downtown Houston, with mounted horses and bands and clowns and poop, something so terrifying was about to happen that I would never be able to forget it. I didn’t want it, I didn’t ask for it, but it was coming, and I couldn’t do a thing about it. For some reason completely lost on a three-year-old, Daddy scooped me up with his two huge hands and plopped me atop his shoulders. I later realized he simply wanted to give me a better look at Santa Clause, like that was something worth scaring the daylights out of a little kid.

My dad was about 50 feet tall, as I remember. His head was massive and still had a bit of hair on top. I didn’t think that odd at the moment, ‘cause I had never focused on the tops of that many heads. Most memories after the horror of the Foley’s Parade would be of a bare-domed dad. He was bound to be wearing glasses at the time, but I don’t remember. If he had been, it seems I would’ve crushed ‘em when I clamped my arms around his head. Don’t remember the glasses or the crush.

There was a shrill scream, though. I remember ‘cause it was mine. I started screaming and crying at full volume. I held nothing back. It was one of those cries where your breathing cuts out for a few seconds. The minute fresh air hits your lungs again, it instantly pours out in an ear-busting wail. The wail keeps trying to sound, even when the air is gone. If you’ve never had one of those cries, you’re one lucky duck.

I had apparently been a fortunate mallard up to that point, because I remember nothing like it before that moment. What caused it was the view. I didn’t like it. From where I sat, I could see how many people there were all around me. And, I could see weird men and women in green outfits with green velvety shoes and green velvety caps with little white balls on the end. They were skipping and laughing, all a part of a procession that culminated in a giant moving contraption with the anomaly known as Santa Claus perched atop a massive throne with a big whip. And, it was all taking place within a deep canyon skirted a wall of buildings shooting straight up to the clouds.

I managed to assess all of this in about a second and a half. That’s how long my eyes stayed open. After that, I clamped ‘em shut… and I screamed like a baby. Too scared to be ashamed. Sheesh.

Eventually, Dad managed to pry my tiny arms loose from around his head and place me back on the concrete. This enabled me to grab hold of Mom’s leg while my sobbing continued. A more pathetic figure was not to be seen anywhere in downtown Houston. I was pretty sure of that.

I don’t know that I ruined the parade for everyone, but I surely ruined it for Dad. I don’t remember his words so much, but I’ve got the look right here in front of my mind’s eye. It was a look that I would come to know as one of embarrassment, disbelief, sadness… oh, and disappointment. It’s the most hurtful look in the world.

Seems most of my life with Dad involved me trying to behave in a way where he would never have cause to show me that look again. More than Mom, more than my peers, more than anyone on the planet, I wanted to please that man. Wanted him to be proud of me. Don’t think he ever fully recognized my quest, any more than I detected how much he hoped to be needed and loved and respected by his family. An easy hope, the way I saw it. He already had me. Hey, he was my father. The guy was 50 feet tall.

Biography of Faris Hayter

2010-06-10T11:52:00.000-07:00

A few months back I started writing a biography about my Dad. Like practically all my writing, I get bogged down rather easily. No discipline, this guy. That's why I decided to, once a week, blog a new chapter. The thought that one or ten readers might be anticipating the next installment would provide an urgency for me to continue. Sounded plausible last week when I thought it up.

There's a chance the pre-published manuscript will add to the accuracy of the story telling. Those who remember Faris Edward Hayter are most welcome to offer corrections or enhance a story by relating it from a different perspective. Do this by simply posting comments.

Apart from the few photos and letters, the research for the book involves remembrances of family and friends and me. Mostly from me... Dad's #3 son.