Chapter 4

Mom and Dad, the early years

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 3

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

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

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

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

What I know of Grandma Pearl’s family life would fill a space between paragraphs. Maybe she had a horrible home life, and Ed presented a way out. Maybe a truelove had cast her aside, so she grabbed Ed Hayter on the rebound. Maybe she thought she could change Grandpa into a devil-may-care kind of guy. Maybe she loved him… No, I just don’t see that.

All I know is that she turned her back on Grandpa and her young son at an early stage in the marriage. They were living in Sapulpa at the time, and were running a dry goods/grocery store. Dad was just a little shaver, an only son, who, from what I’ve seen in the photos, dressed nicely. I just can’t believe that his attire was any of Grandpa’s doing.

Grandma Pearl in a buggy with my Great Grandpa Andrew Hayter. At least that's what's on the back of the picture. The horse is "Old Blazes." That's not on the picture, I just made it up.

I couldn’t tell you the exact date that Grandma left Dad and Grandpa and headed for Texas, but I’m pretty sure I’m up on the reason she left. If you research in the archives of the Sapulpa Daily Herald, assuming there wasn’t a fire that burned up their microfiche collection, you’d see an article printed somewhere in the early thirties about a Mrs. Pearl Hayter who got tarred and feathered for having an affair with one of the town’s political figures. Doubt they did anything to the political figure. Regardless, my mom said the event was written up in the paper.

The KKK was responsible for the deed. Back in the day, the KKK not only served as the chief enforcer of the Jim Crow laws, but they were also the moral disciplinarian for the community, white or black. I can’t help but believe it was one of those “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone” kind of things. I always imagined that Pearl had known, in the biblical sense, several of those who were pouring on the tar and feathers. No evidence whatsoever, just a hunch.

I only learned of this incident a few years ago. Dad never mentioned it, and Mom only did years after Dad passed. The story flabbergasted me. It provided an answer to something that had bothered me a bit. I remember Grandma Pearl always having thin hair along the edges. I had no idea she was wearing a wig. Kids don’t pick up so much on stuff like that. My kid sister Jill, however, noticed big time one morning. Jill said she saw Grandma Pearl in bed without her wig on. She said her hair was just in blotches. I’m assuming it was hot tar that did that to her. I’m thinking it was. Again, no evidence, not even a Sapulpa newspaper article.

I know anything of how Grandpa handled the situation. Don’t really know which he thought was worse, the affair or everybody knowing about it. He probably couldn’t separate the two himself. And, I don’t know how many women were run outta town back in the day, but that had to carry some bad juju, too.

It wasn’t long before Ed Hayter and his son moved back to Bristow, where for a small time he bought another store. This one a small grocery store. As far as Grandma goes, I’m pretty sure that was the time she moved down to Texas. Conroe, if I’m not mistaken. That’s pretty much what you need to do when the KKK tars and feathers you. Move to Conroe. Well, not necessarily. That make the place pretty much like Australia in the early days. I think the message is not so much the “where you go” but “that you go.” It’s one of those unwritten things.

In Conroe, Grandma managed a beauty shop out of her house. At one time or other I saw the house, but I’m pretty sure it’s not there anymore. It was just the other side of the railroad tracks in town. Two stories and a big porch on two sides.

I don’t know where Pearl got the money for the house. Perhaps Grandpa helped her. If he had the money, he seemed that kind of guy. Or, perhaps someone she knew in town helped out. The subject just never came up when Grandma was around. – “Grandma, remember when you were tarred and feathered and moved to Conroe? Do ya? Well, where’d you get the money for the house?” – No, no one in the family brought it up, and us kids were ignorantly blissful.

I have no idea why Pearl picked Conroe to move to, other than it was a big oil town at the time. She did manage to marry someone involved in the oil business. I don’t know if she met him before, during or after her stay in Conroe. So much about Pearl I don’t know. Are you picking up on that? I’m not sure if there is anyone left who would remember.

I don’t even know where Pearl got the talent or the propensity to cut hair. What I do know is that Dad would visit her in Conroe occasionally. In fact, when he was a freshman in High School, he even went down to live in Conroe for a semester. He played football at the high school. I believe he played guard. He told me a story about a couple of guys on the team who didn’t like him much. No idea why. During a scrimage, one of the guys hit him high from the side and the other hit him low from the other side and they managed to break his leg. Or knee…a portion of one of the appendages he walked with. He said it ruined his football career. Probably his knee.

During his brief stay in Conroe, Dad managed to meet a cute young lady named Fern. She must’ve been about 13 at the time. I knew absolutely nothing about this until my wife and I moved to Georgetown, Texas, back in 1991. It was about a decade after Dad had died. Shortly after Kay and I placed membership at the Georgetown Church of Christ, a charming lady walked up and introduced herself to us. After a brief conversation she got around to asking if my Dad’s name was Faris. Do you know the chances of anyone guessing my Dad’s name? Faris? I think he’s the only Faris who ever set foot on this planet. No, you don’t guess something like that. She definitely knew my dad. She didn’t bust up crying or anything when I told her he was dead, but I could tell that the news moved her a bit.

She told me that Faris and she had been friends in Conroe. Just friends, she stressed. Dad would take her places and they’d do stuff together. She met him through acquaintances of Grandma who came to the beauty shop. I pressed just a little to find out for sure if she and Dad were not a couple, and she assured me they weren’t. “Oh, I was too young for him,” she said. We were just good friends. She told me that my dad was a perfect gentleman at all times. Said he was fun to be around. Funny, but very polite. I liked hearing that.

For whatever reason, Dad moved back to Bristow and Grandpa after a few months. I’m kind of glad he did, ‘cause if he hadn’t he would not have fallen in love with Mom and I wouldn’t have been born. What kind of travesty would that have been? It’s rhetorical, okay? I don’t need any speculation out there.

The fact that Dad met and married Elsie Teagarden didn’t set well with Grandma Pearl at all. It shouldn’t surprise you to learn that I have no idea why. After Dad passed away, Mom told a story about how Grandma had someone write love letters, pretending to be one of Mom’s lovers. She collect the letters and gave ‘em to Dad, hoping he’d think Mom was having an affair and that he’d leave her. I don’t know if Dad had any doubts at all, but the fact that he and Mom stayed together shows that he sided with his wife. It takes a cold Grandma to do something like that. I’m glad I only learned of it after Pearl passed away, ‘cause I couldn’t have pretended to be pleasant around her had I known. I don’t know how Mom ever managed civility around Grandma, but she sure never showed that she was in the least displeased with the woman. Mom’s sometimes carry just a whole bunch of stuff with ‘em.

While I didn’t know about the forged love letters, I did become aware of the time when Grandma displeased a bunch of us. Mostly me and my brother Dennis. Dad, too, for that matter. Dad just took it better than Dennis and me. You see, one day when I was just a kid, maybe 11 years old, Pearl called Dad to tell him that she was getting ready to ship him a gift that cost her $100. Back then you could do some serious buying with a C note. When dad told us the news, we went nuts. Mostly Dennis and me. I mentioned that, didn’t I. Well, we did. We were thinking pool table. Dad didn’t want to ruin anything for us, but he did let on that a good pool table would cost more than a hundred bucks… even back then. In fact, I think he even mentioned that. “Well, back now, I don’t even think you can buy a pool table that cheap.” I believe that’s what he said.

So, we thought maybe a ping-pong table, or a giant tent or ten BB guns. Yep, we pretty much went nuts. It was a week or two later when a giant box arrived. We all assembled in the living room. This was when we lived on Camille Street. That means nothing to most of you, but it puts me the correct frame of mine to finish this horror story.

I remember Dad sent one of us for the crowbar. Dad seldom fetched tools himself. He was always sending one of us. No idea why. Anyway, he grabbed the crowbar and and knocked the daylights out of the lid to that crate. After about 30 seconds, he sent one of us for a hammer. That pretty much did the trick.

It was almost like that scene in “A Christmas Story” which, incidentally, hadn’t even been on the screen at the time, so just forget I brought it up. The giant wooden box was filled with tons of those squirrelly wood shavings. Dad dug around for a bit and then wrapped his hands around something weird. His countenance did seem to fall a bit at that moment. All of us got fallen countenances immediately after Dad pulled a giant stuff fish out of the crate. It was a tarpon, not that it meant anything to us. Grandma had mentioned to Dad a month or so back that she had hooked a giant tarpon. Even sent him some photos. Dad was just about as excited about the stuffed fish as he was the photos.Grandma Pearl and the big fish, before stuffing. I'm assuming that's her fishing guide with her.

Yep, there in our house was the remnant of that poor fish. I don’t remember for sure if I cried, but I just imagine I came close. Not Dad. He laughed. Laughed right after he said, “Well, she did it to me again.” I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but he sure thought it was funny.

What do you do with a giant stuffed fish? Dad hung it in our room. I guess he figured Dennis and I needed a reminder of the pool table we didn’t get. I could’ve said, “No reminder needed, Daddy,” but that wouldn’t have gone over well. I don’t think Dad put the fish in our room to be mean or anything. He just didn’t know where else to put the thing. I imagine the hardest task he had was to call Grandma and thank her for the stupid fish. I never heard how that went.

To this day, I don’t know what happened to that fish. Just one day after I was married and moved away from home, I visited and the fish was gone. I didn’t even care enough to ask. Truth be known, the fish did serve a single purpose. Well, I take that back. Dennis and I used it to hide some of our valuable stuff. The fish had a wide mouth and we chunked our Nifty Coupons and corroded zinc pennies in there. That used to a big thing then, 1943 zinc pennies. I called ‘em cobalt pennies. Don’t know where I came up with that. I thing cobalt will melt your pocket. Something does. Regardless, whoever ended up with that stupid fish probably found some serious treasure in that mouth.

Yeah, Grandma was certainly a doodle. Of course, about now you’re no doubt thinking “Hey, enough with Grandma Pearl. I thought this was supposed to be about your dad!” Well, you’re right, so we’ll move on. However, Pearl was so… uh, out there, that I reserve the right to bring her up again in later chapters. You’ve gotta respect that.

Oops, I'm bringing her back sooner than any of us thought I would.

I was just thinking that if God is as gracious to me as I have been to Grandma... well, I'm gonna be in some serious trouble. I don't know how much evidence there is laying around about Pearl, but if this is IT, she deserves better. The number of times in this chapter when I mentioned "I don't know" is a bunch. "I don't know" indicates, among other things, that I don't know how much good the woman did.

I do know that she ended up in Tampa, Florida, where she became a well known Realtor. I don't know how many husbands she had along the way, but the name that finally stuck was Pearl Elliston.

The woman was always kind when she was around us kids. Dennis and I went with Dad and Larry once to Tampa to see Grandma. (More on that in a later chapter.) While there, the woman was real nice to us. Took us to a fancy restaurant. When Kay and I got married, Grandma sent us a silver tea service set. It looked real ritzy. We never used it ourselves, but did loan it out for a few weddings. I'm not much of a tea service set guy. You probably didn't notice.

Grandma also gave Kay and I $200 early in our marriage. We didn't ask for it, but I think Dad asked for us. Dad's can pick up on stuff about their kids. It was at a time when the rent was $105 and the car payment $70, so $200 was a chunk. As soon as I saved up enough to pay Grandma back, she refused it. Mailed the check back. Thought it a kind gesture on our part, but said she didn't intend the money for a loan. I would've insisted, but needed the money too badly. My pride can go just so far.

When Grandma died, she left her white Cadillac and a few thousand dollars to Dad. That helped 'em out more than you can imagine. Well, maybe not that much, but more than you might think.

The most important thing that Grandma did was to have Dad. That meant just a whole lot to seven of us kids... meant a lot to Mom, too. In one of David's Psalms he writes what one translation interprets, "God will fulfill his purpose for you." Another says, "God will complete what concerns me." I have enough faith to believe that God did just that with Pearl. She was not all good, not all bad... but a woman of purpose. Like each of us. Purpose is just hard to see sometimes. I'm saying that of me, not Grandma.

Okay, now we can go on to Chapter 4. I’ll tell you what it’s about when I finish it. Fair enough?

Lessons from his dad

Grandpa and Dad, July 1958

Chapter 2 (continued)

I don’t know much about the relationship Dad and grandpa had. I don’t get the picture of them sharing a great deal of their emotions with one another. Not sure many people did back then. Not on the farm, anyway. Dad said that his dad never spanked him. He did box his ears once.

I never heard of that before, but Dad demonstrated it to me. Didn’t apply any force or anything, he just took the palms of his hands and put them against my ears. Then he made rubbing motions. If he had applied force it would’ve hurt like everything. When I asked why his dad did that to him, Dad said it was because he talked back to him once. Grandpa was getting ready to do some plowing or planting in a place that was not likely to produce much. Dad told him that the idea was silly. That’s the word he used. “Silly.” Grandpa boxed his ears for that. And, then told him, “Never call a man a ‘fool.’” I could’ve argued all the way to the Supreme Court that Dad never called him a fool. Just that his action made little sense. Even really smart people do unwise things. Hey, I go to bed wearing one sock. What’s that make me? -- Beg pardon?

Regardless, Grandpa didn’t like his son telling him he did something silly. Considered it irreverent. Saw it as talking back.

I think Dad and I pretty much had the same relationship as he and his dad. I never once corrected my father, even when I knew him to be wrong. Just didn’t seem the wise thing to do. The seven of us kids seldom gave the man cause to spank us. I believe he only spanked me three times. I can only recall “the why” of one of ‘em. He spanked me for lying to Mom, when I didn’t… technically. When I yelled to Mom that I “wasn’t” wrestling with the neighborhood kids, I really wasn’t wrestling. I had been when she yelled, but I had stopped wrestling long enough to tell her I wasn’t. So, technically, I was telling the truth. And, I would’ve explained it to her had Dad not been watching the melee.

Like his father, Dad didn’t care too much for technicalities. I didn’t even bring up the fine point of “not wrestling at the moment I said I wasn’t.” I just took the spanking like a… well, like a crybaby. Like I mentioned earlier, at no time did any of us seven kids need Dad to spank us. If he said he was disappointed in us, that’s all it took. I wish I’d been brave enough to tell him that. “Dad, no need for the belt. You had me at ‘disappointed’.”

Now, Mom really needed to spank us… bless her heart. Dad, never. It was partly our fear of him and partly our desire to please him. A touchdown in the big game, a game winning homerun, a four-year scholarship… something like that. Never came close.

I would’ve done anything for my daddy. Fortunately, he never asked me for anything big. Never asked me to hit, taunt or write a mean letter to anyone. Quite the opposite. The man taught me respect by being respectful. I never remember him instructing us to say “Yes, ma’am” or “Yes, sir” or “Thank you.” We just always did. We apparently caught onto the notion that it was what Dad expected. He was always polite to other people. Even to people younger than he was. Even to mean people like that one lady at Wyatt’s Cafeteria. “Thank you, ma’am,” my dad would tell her.

Odd, but Dad never cared if we said “Yes, sir” TO HIM. I think it made him feel less close to us. We never said, “Yeah,” or “nah” or “Not me!” We’d say “Yes” and “no” and “I’m sorry.” Twice I got blamed for stuff I didn’t do, ‘cause I didn’t want to talk back to Dad. I just said, “I’m sorry, Daddy.” Dad was okay with that. Had I tried to explain that Dennis was the one who left his bike in the driveway, well, it wouldn’t have come out good for either of us… I imagine.

Dad and Grandpa, with Dennis to the left, me in the middle, and Larry in front of Grandpa

Yes, Dad seemed to father pretty much the way his dad did. Didn’t hug till the later years. He was not one who’d ever care to hear about your dream. (I’m my father’s son in that respect.) Definitely shied away from anything emotional. That’s probably why he never really shared with us a great deal about his father.

Of course, I’m pretty sure there were plenty of times in my life when I could’ve learned more about my grandpa had I just asked, but I was far from caring. The family visited Bristow, Oklahoma two weeks out of ever year, where we spent 90 percent of the time with my mom’s family. Visits just down the road to Grandpa Hayter’s house were considered real snoozefests. We’d sit in the living room and listen to Dad and Grandpa exchange stories about people and times that seemed more than a little remote to us.

Grandpa would talk in a quiet rasp. He was hard of hearing and his speech was difficult to understand. It would’ve broken my heart for him to know how boring we considered our visits were to be. I’m not sure he ever had a clue, because he always seemed genuinely pleased to see us. As the end approached, he became more and more sentimental about things. So much so, that on one occasion, when we loaded up to head back to Texas, Dad neglected to tell Grandpa that we were leaving. When Mom asked why weren’t stopping to say bye to Grandpa, Dad just shook his head and said, “I couldn’t bear to see him cry. It bothers him so much when he thinks we’re leaving.”

I was a teenager when I heard Dad say that, and it absolutely broke my heart. To think that I cared so little about the old man who cared so much. Grandpa died on my birthday, August 20, 1967. It was the summer after my high school graduation. The whole family took the trip to Oklahoma in two cars. My brother Dennis and I rode with our oldest brother Larry in his car. Our sisters Susan and Lynda came along. Dad drove Mom, Jill and Alan in the ’65 Pontiac Tempest.

Two things about the occasion of Grandpa’s funeral have stuck in my mind. I remember absolutely nothing about the funeral itself except for Uncle Fred. I had no idea I had an Uncle Fred. But, there he was at the funeral. He was Grandpa’s brother. Older, younger? I have no idea. Just an old man with a bit more hair than Grandpa. All during the preliminaries of the funeral – the day before viewing and the socializing that takes place up until the singing starts – Uncle Fred was as composed as could be. He was laughing and carrying on just like he was having a good ol’ time. But, when his time came to step up and view the casket, the man broke down. He got to sobbing so much that Daddy had to hold him up to keep him from slumping to the ground.

At the time, I thought the man was faking it. How could anybody be so jovial one second and then crack up like that? He knew he was at a funeral to begin with. The thought of his brother’s passing couldn’t have sneaked up on him.

Wasn’t a year or two ago that one of my ex-high school students died. A great kid. Teacher’s seldom admit to favorites, but Josh was one of mine. At his funeral I met one of my old teaching chums. As we stood in the long line to pay our condolences to Josh’s parents, we began talking and laughing about old times. I mentioned some great moments with Josh and some of his classmates. Finally, I made it to the front of the line where I shook hands with Josh’s dad and hugged his mom. Then I took two steps toward the casket and saw Josh. Instantly, my heart sank. I even got dizzy. Josh’s mom more or less held me up and whispered words of encouragement.

There’s just something about passing a casket that makes it… well makes the finality of it sink in. At that moment I knew exactly how my Uncle Fred felt as he stared down at his brother. It was the first and last time I saw my dad’s uncle. Couldn’t even tell you where he was from. Like I say, I had my own concerns and problems to stew on.

The second memorable happening caused by Grandpa’s passing involved the trip from Texas to attend the funeral. This will mean little of nothing to so many of you, but it turned out that Grandpa Hayter passed away the week that the first of the last two episodes of “The Fugitive” were to air. Dr. Richard Kimble was the fugitive. He was played by personalitiless David Janssen. Janssen did a super job, too. Not sure I ever missed an episode during the four year run.

When it came time to bring the series to a conclusion, I was going to be on the road to Bristow, Oklahoma for Grandpa’s funeral. I couldn’t believe it. I’d make it home in time for Part II, but Part I was going to be a miss… unless. Like I said, I was riding with Larry and my older brothers and sisters. I could talk to them about hating to miss “The Fugitive”, whereas, had I been riding with Dad I would’ve just sat in the backseat and taken my lumps. No Fugitive for me.

But, with Larry driving, I had a chance. The Fugitive aired at 9:00 p.m. We left Pasadena a little after six. We were just this side of Corsicana when we started looking for a place to stop. I told Larry that if there were a house by the side of the road that looked inviting, I’d get out and ask if we could watch TV with them. We never found such a place. Plenty of houses, but nothing looked all that inviting just after dusk.

Finally, I persuaded Larry to pull in at an old Mom and Pop motel outside Corsicana. There was a light on in the office that shown a marginally inviting aura. The brothers and sisters couldn’t believe I had enough nerve to try to force myself on others, but I jumped out of that car and headed to the office on a mission. It was totally out of character for me. Desperate I was.

When I entered the office area, I discovered that the office was no more than a part of the owners’ living room. There was a bar just inside the door that separated the customers from the rest of the open room. Just the other side of the bar was a card table with two elderly couples playing canasta. No one stood, but one of ‘em said, “Howdy.”

I gave ‘em a scattered howdy and then mentioned The Fugitive. Their TV wasn’t on Channel 13, but surely they realized that Dr. Kimble would be finding the one-armed man tonight. They had no clue. “He’s never gonna find that one-armed man,” the old lady with her back to me said. I assured here he would. And, it’d be that very night. I couldn’t get through to them. They started jumping from one topic to the next. Completely ignored the teenager in the room. I eventually thanked ‘em, and walked out. I’m not sure they ever knew when I left. Not sure they even realized I was there. They were too engrossed in cards and in small-town talk with old friends.

When I got back to the car, they could tell by my disposition that my mission had failed. “I couldn’t get through to ‘em. I gave ‘em everything I had, but they wouldn’t believe me. I don’t think they were from this world. ‘He’ll never catch that one-armed man,’ one of the old ladies said. Criminee!” Why did the only four people who knew nothing about the Fugitive have to be at that motel?

Larry, Lynda, Susan and Dennis were much less tore up about it than I was. I really believe Larry or Susan could’ve gotten through to those four pod people, but they didn’t want to try. Didn’t want to come across as pushy. Sheesh.

I never did see Episode I of the final two episodes of The Fugitive. But, I did see Episode II. They pretty much rehashed all that happened in the first episode, but it wasn’t the same. I’m just glad that my grandpa never had to learn how upset I was that his dying ruined my TV night. I eventually told Dad what I did, and he took it well.

Truth is, Dad never faulted us for being bored out of our wits during our visits with Grandpa. Mom is the one who was most put out with us. And, it wasn’t even her dad. It was one of the few times when Dad was more understanding than Mom… about anything. Try to figure.

Grandpa not too long before he passed away

Chapter 2

Dad and my Grandpa Hayter

Faris Edward Hayter was born the day before Christmas 1917, in Bristow, Oklahoma. I’m pretty sure the doctor came to the house to birth him. They did that a lot back then. Though I never heard, I’m pretty sure the doctor grabbed Dad by the hair and let him hang there a minute before he slapped his bottom. Dad’s bottom, not his own. That would be stupid. However, the momentary hang was largely responsible for Dad’s premature balding. That’s what I’m thinking. If Dad has hair in heaven, I’m not sure I’ll recognize him.

Oh, and back to where he was born. Bristow was a small farming community that became an oil boom-town, and, eventually, a smaller town with nothing to do. At least that’s the way it was when I first visited the place back in the ‘50s. And, that’s the way I left it the last time I left, which was likely the last time I’ll ever have to leave it. (Try to keep up, people. There will be more on family visits to Bristow later. Like you, I’m pretty eager.)

I don’t know if Dad’s birth year resonated at all with you. It was the same year our country involved itself in the Great War, or as some called it, “The War to End all Wars”. If you’ve seen the movies, you realize that, eventually, we had to number our World Wars. So much better than “The War after the War to End all Wars.” (Side note: We’re just up to two World Wars as of this writing… unless you consider the war against terrorism to be World War III. I don’t really care to get into that. Dad didn’t really have any big take on terrorism. Other than he was against it. I’m pretty sure. Thing is, he just wasn’t alive when we declared war on it. Enough on that.)

Truth is, my dad had little to with any wars… or their naming. His little wobbly feet had barely touched the ground when The Great War ended. That’s unfortunate, ‘cause you give that kid a pacifier and a sharp stick, and he would’ve been there. What I’m thinking.

1918 -- Picture of Grandpa holding Dad (left) and Mamie Eisenhower (right) Not certain about Mamie. Might be one of Dad's cousins.

It wasn’t long after Dad was born that his dad, Ed, decided to leave Bristow for Sapulpa, a town 20 miles east of Bristow. The man was a world traveler. It was in Sapulpa that Grandpa Hayter ended up owning a grocery store… or dry goods store. Hard to tell what kind of store it was from the picture. It just shows Grandpa and Grandma standing in front of the place, no sign in sight. The caption on the back says that it was a store that Ed and Pearl owned in Sapulpa. Dad never said much about it. Begs the question – Why don’t we ask parents and grandparents about stuff while they’re alive? When they’re dead, it’s so much harder to get a straight answer. Make a note.

1919 -- Dad while in Leningrad. Sure what it looks like.

I'm sure Dad would’ve told us a lot more about Grandpa had we ever asked. It’s absolutely pathetic how little you care about old stuff when you’re a kid. You just don’t think any information that doesn’t relate directly is ever going to be of any consequence. In truth, Dad may have told me a great deal about his dad, and I just tuned him out. I doubt it, though. I didn’t tune Dad out all that much. The guy might ask a question or two, and it would’ve hurt him had he known I wasn’t listening. You could tune Moms out. Just about had to. Not Dads, though. I don’t know who wrote the book on that, but somebody must’ve.

From what little I did picked up concerning Grandpa, the man was a carpenter and a sharecropper. That means he must have owned the store for a short while. During that while, he must have done pretty well for himself, because I found a picture or two of the guy all dressed up in a neat suit. He even had a car. That would make you pretty close to rich back then.

When Dad was just a kid, his Mom left. That would be Grandma Pearl. After she remarried, she stopped being a Hayter. That happens. First time I called her anything it was Grandma followed by her first name, Grandmother Pearl. Not, Grandmother Followed by Her First Name. That's another one of those stupid things. The story about Grandma Pearl's leaving is a doozy. The stuff of scandal. I’ll cover it in the next chapter. Pay attention, ‘cause I don’t wanna have to tell it twice. For now, it’s enough to say that Grandma Pearl was a pistol.

I’ve got a pretty good idea why Grandma didn’t take Faris with her when she left Sapulpa. You will, too, after you read the next Chapter. As it turned out, I’m glad she didn’t take him with her. I believe Dad learned better stuff from Grandpa.


Dad picked up some carpentry skills from his father. You’d have to consider both of them craftsmen. I’ve got a desk downstairs that Dad made when he was in high school. It’s more intricate and better constructed than any piece I ever saw come out of the shop class at my school. I’ve also got a small toolbox that belonged to Grandpa. It’s sitting in the corner of the study. That and two poems are the only things I have of my grandpa. The man worked hard and did well by his son. And, thoughts of him are a handful of people away from being completely lost. That’s the way of many fathers of fathers.

All I know of the Great Depression is from what I’ve read in books, seen in documentaries and movies, and heard my Dad tell on nights the family gathered to munch popcorn, drink Kool Aid and listen to stories of the old days.

During the Depression, Grandpa farmed 40 acres for a widow who lived a few miles east of Bristow near a muddy tributary called Little Deep Fork Creek. Grandpa and Dad worked the land with an old plow mule. I don’t know if the crop was split perfectly even with the landowner. All I know is that Grandpa made little of nothing. Dad said that after selling the corn crop one year and paying off the bills, Grandpa reached into his pocket and took out a five dollar bill. “Faris,” he said. “This is all we’ve got to show for a year’s worth of hard work.”

Autumn: Ed Hayter

It’s November late in Autumn, winter not far away
The fields are brown, corn long gathered at the close of a summer’s day.
We toiled through the long dreary summer, through the sweltering heat
Trying to earn our clothes and a few bites to eat.
Now I wonder in days gone by and days that are before,
The ones that work the hardest are the ones that suffer more.
It seems to me that it should not be, since the earth was made for all.
After we toil through the summer heat we should have some thing left in the fall.


Dad and Grandpa must’ve planted a small garden around the old house, located just off highway 16 east of town. I imagine that because of Grandpa’s prayer about cow-peas. I’m not sure what kind of pea a cow-pea is, but I imagine it’s from the black-eyed family. Regardless, Dad said that before one particular meal, Aunt Mary and he bowed their heads as Grandpa prayed. “Dear God,” he said, “Thank you for these cow-peas. The same today. The same tomorrow. The same forever. In Jesus’ name, AMEN!” It was the prayer of a man barely holding onto a frayed rope of faith.

It’s never wise to press a guy with a weak grip on a frayed rope of faith (say that three times.) But, press an unthinking life insurance salesman did. It was in the midst of the Great Depression. Dad said Grandpa was out plowing the 40-acre field with their mule… Bessie. (I have no idea. Just sounds about right.) As Grandpa plowed, Dad walked a distance behind and busted up clods with a hoe... uh, a stick with a chopping thing on the end.

While this drudgery was going on, Dad noticed a rather stylish car for those parts pull up and stop at the edge of the field. A nice-dressed man got out, stooped to get through barbed wire fence, and made his way to my grandpa.

My dad just kept hoeing, but he did look up a time or two to see what was going on. He said that after about five minutes of conversation, the man in the suit lit out across the field towards his car. My grandpa tossed the reins from his shoulder, let the plow drop, and took out after the man. Almost caught him, too. Had it been earlier in the day, he probably would have. The man ripped his pants on the fence, but got clean away.

When grandpa got back to the mule, my dad met him. “What was that all about, Daddy?” he asked. Grandpa righted the plow and tossed the reins back over his shoulder. “That yahoo was trying to sell me some life insurance,” he said. “When I told him I couldn’t afford it, he told me that if I gave up chewing tobacco maybe I could.”

The salesman had no empathy for a man who lived from day to day. Dad said that the only enjoyment my grandpa had in life came from his chewing tobacco. My dad said, “Yeah, that insurance salesman didn’t seem to know or care about that. Your grandpa didn’t need to be lectured by the likes of him.” No question about that.

There’s a fine line between too much insurance and not enough. Insurance is there to help when the worst comes along. Grandpa was already in the midst of the worst. No amount of insurance could get him out of the life’s storm he was experiencing.

Ed Hayter (My Grandpa) -- Always the farmer

Oklahoma Dust: Ed Hayter

Oklahoma, where the wind blows and the ground is very dry,
The dust is getting thicker everywhere up in the sky.
It sifts in the through the windows and it comes in through the door.
It settles on the chairs and beds and also on the floor.
You breathe it every breath you take, you get it in your nose.
You get it in the food you eat and it settles on your clothes.
You cough and sneeze and blow your nose and wipe it out your eyes,
And everywhere you choose to look it’s ever in the skies.
Now if it doesn’t rain, it’s a sure thing there will be nothing raised at all.
And we will be in an awful fix when our notes come due this fall.


Let’s end this part of Grandpa’s chapter with that poem. I’ll finish off with a story or two more about Dad and Grandpa, next time.