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.