Papa was no rolling stone

Chapter 10

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Larry, Jill and Mark after leaving the reunion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Carpenter

Chapter 9

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

END

Chapter 8

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

“The plan to raise golf pros”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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