Part 2 of Chapter 15

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

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

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

"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

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)

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

“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.