Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Sam Rayburn -- a great leader -- a kind man.

Are you a history buff?  You'll like this story.In 1961, right after we lost our home to hurricane Carla on the Gulf coast of Texas, my dad was in a dilemma.  We had just lost our home and had no flood insurance (no such thing existed back then).  We lost everything we owned, and we didn't own much.  Dad had worked hard for the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers in Galveston, TX., which was not 20 miles from La Marque, Texas where we lived.  We didn't have a lot of money, and saving money was not possible in the job that dad had, as a photographer for the Corps.

After we lost our home, Dad didn't know what we would do.  We didn't have the money to start all over.  In a desperate move, Dad decided to call in a favor.  Dad's Mom, Tennie Hortense Childers was, as a child, a sandbox playmate in Tennessee, of a boy named Sam Rayburn.  Sam grew up and settled in Bonham, Texas.  Tennie grew up and moved to Sherman, Texas, just west of Bonham.  The two of them stayed in touch over the years.  Sam went on to prominence, as the Speaker of the House in Washington, D.C., and was known as a man with more real power than the President of the United States, serving in that capacity for seventeen years!  Tennie went on to marry Eugene Shoemake.  My Dad was their son.  "Mr. Sam", as he was widely known, never knew my dad, but he knew and thought highly of Tennie (my grandmother).

In a desperate move, Dad called Washington, D.C., and left a message for Speaker Rayburn, telling the staff person he spoke with that Mr. Rayburn did not know him, but that he was the son of Tennie (Childers) Shoemake. Dad hung up and about ten minutes later, Speaker Rayburn called my dad. They spoke briefly (mostly about Tennie and the childhood the two of them had enjoyed), and then Speaker Rayburn asked my dad: 'What can I do for you, Jack?' Dad told Speaker Rayburn that, for years he had tried to be transferred from the U.S. Corps of Engineers in Galveston, TX., to a job with U.S. Treasury, in the Custom Division. Dad had always wanted to be a customs inspector, he explained. He was having trouble feeding his family while working for the Corps of Engineers, and had just lost his home and everything
in it.

Speaker Rayburn told dad that he could not promise him anything, but he said: 'Jack, give me a few minutes and I will make a couple of calls and I will call you back'. He hung up and Dad frankly never expected to hear from him again. Speaker Rayburn was an immensely powerful man with a lot of responsibilities.

Dad never heard from Speaker Sam Rayburn again, but, in about ten to fifteen minutes, Dad received a call from someone, (as I remember it), that he called 'the Director of the Port Authority in New York' telling Dad to report to Dallas the following Monday for his new job with U.S. Customs! Forget the mountains of paperwork! Speaker Sam Rayburn, with his far-reaching power, made it happen with a single phone call. We moved that very weekend from a hurricane-wrecked home in La Marque, Texas, to Dallas, and Dad began working in a job that made a lot more money, which changed his life and the lives of our entire family.

Speaker Sam Rayburn didn't have to help my Dad. My Dad could do nothing to enhance the life of Mr. Rayburn. Mr. Rayburn simply remembered an old friend, Tennie (Childers), and honored her by helping my Dad.

I have thought of Mr. Rayburn many times over the years. I wonder how many other lives he touched, as a kind and thoughtful man whose power in the greatest country in the world was unmatched for many years. How did he keep his integrity, and sense of duty and honor in a world where so many others are often corrupted and self-serving? I miss Sam Rayburn. Sam was a true heroe in our time. He provided a rudder for this vast ship of a country in which we live -- and he steered a straight course through often turbulent, dangerous waters.

"Mr. Sam" -- we miss you. We salute you for the life you lived and the country you served so well.


(Note: Take a moment and google Sam Rayburn. Read about what a REAL leader is all about. It will be worth your time). 

Monday, September 29, 2008

For the love of rocks!

If you don't love beautiful rocks, then you may not want to read this story.

In 1975, I worked for a company called Ministers Life. I sold life and health, disability and retirement plans to ministers, missionaries and students, studying to become ministers. I represented the company in the state of Oklahoma, but also traveled to other states -- Texas, Arkansas, Kansas and Colorado. On one occasion, I flew to Denver and spoke to the students at the Bear Valley School of Preaching. During the day, when the students were in class, I had a lot of time on my hands, and I rented a Volkswagen 'bug' from a car rental place called Rent-a-Volks, or something sort of like that name.

Gas was cheap and I drove all over a large area, looking at all the mountains, old, abandoned mines and other scenic places. I went to the Royal Gorge one day. Fascinated witht the rocks there, I asked a park ranger how far I had to go to be in a place where I could pick up rocks. He told me. I drove to that area, some distance from the park, parked my Volks, and began looking over the cliff at the rock formations that were visible. After doing a lot of looking, I finally saw some rocks, sticking out of the face of the cliff (over 1,000 feet straight down!). In the bright sunlight they appeared to be made of silver! I had to have them. Then I realized that if I could pry them from the cliff wall, I still could not take them back on my flight home to OKC. What to do? I decided that I would try to pry them loose (one was already laying in full view on a ledge, about 30 feet down the side of the more or less vertical wall on the cliff).

I have a fear of heights -- something that I've had most of my life -- so, the decision to go over the cliff was difficult for me. I was almost 31 years old and should have known better, but I didn't at the time. I picked my way carefully down the cliff wall, carefully testing each hand and foothold. Arriving at the ledge, I could not look over the side of the ledge. I was terrified....but I wanted those rocks! Some of the rocks that had caught my eye were firmly embedded in the cliff wall, and were clearly out of reach of my abilities. Some of the others were not! I began working on the smaller rocks, and, upon closer examination, realized that the rocks were composed primarily of slabs of mica, mixed in with quartz, feldspar and pink granite. They were gorgeous! I have collected rocks all of my life and had never seen anything like them! Wow!

I worked on the ledge, which extended outward from the face of the cliff about three feet. I lost track of time, but would guess that I spent over an hour on the ledge. I pried loose several speciments that weigh somewhere around 20-30 pounds each, another one that weighs over 60 pounds, and the granddaddy of them all -- a beautiful specimen that weighs over 100 pounds! I stacked them up, after determining that they were all 'rock-garden-worthy' and then left them there. Then I worked my way back up the cliff face while, in the midst of my terror at being near the top of a vertical rock face that, with one mis-step, would send me flying down to the railroad tracks over 1,000 feet below.

I reluctantly left my treasure stacked on the ledge and after looking longingly at the pile of rocks from the safety of the top of the cliff, I got back in my Volkswagen bug and went back to Denver. I made careful note of the location, so that someday --- if the opportunity came for a return visit, I could 'bring home my mountain babies!'

The opportunity to return to the spot came in 1986. Paula and I, along with Gena and Jeff, while on a trip to Colorado to visit Bruce and Sherrill Kerr in Aspen, stopped on our way home at the spot where I had stashed my treasure. I asked Paula and the kids to remain in the car while I went back for the rocks. Gena was nine years old and Jeff was seven. I was a fool for risking my life again for those rocks, but I went over the cliff again, and slowly, and with great care and great deliberation, made my way back up the side of the cliff once again, each time with one of the rocks on my shoulder. It was hard climbing up the cliff face with one arm, but, since there were a number of rough places where one could secure handholds and footholds of sorts, and since the side of the cliff way was not perfectly vertical, but very, very steeply pitched, I felt as though I could -- instantly, if necessary, drop any of the rocks I was carrying, grabbing the cliff face, if necessary.

By the time I had arrived at the top of the cliff with the largest rock -- the prize of prizes-- my shirt was torn and my shoulder, neck and the side of my face were all bleeding. I had skin torn off my hands and arms and had some assorted bruises here and there, but I had the rocks safely on the ground at the top of the cliff!

After arriving in OKC and having positioned the rocks in the rock gardens in our yard, I went to a chiropractor and, over the next six weeks, had a number of treatments on my back, from the trauma of the ordeal of securing the beautiful rocks.

These beautiful speciments reside in our yard today, and one day my children will inherit my hard-won treasure. They are also seriously interested in rock collecting, as is Paula. None of them are as rabidly fanatical about rock collecting as I am, but they are all close! This rock-collecting thing is addictive.

We love rocks as much as other people love antiques. If a fire broke out in our home, we would grab the pictures and video tapes of family and then run outside and begin moving rocks away from the sides of our home.

Paula and I have rocks from all over the world, and each one has a story. Don't ever ask about any of the rocks, if you visit us in our home, because to do so, or show even a mild interest in the rocks will invite a torrent of information that will leave YOU with eyeballs rolling up into their sockets! You will fall victim to that most dreaded of maladies......'The Terminal Glaze' (medical professionals simply refer to the condition as the TG's....but, that's another story!)

Come by sometime to look at my rocks. For your well-being, however, just don't say anything!

:)

Saturday, September 27, 2008

Zapped by lightning!


After my fall through the 3rd floor window at OCC on Dec. 1, 1966, I spent a LONG time in Baptist Hospital in OKC. After my third of five hospitalizations and surgeries, sometime during the Spring of 1967, I was tickled to get to have a date with a sweet girl I had been dating when I fell out of the window. Her name was Carol Davis, (the girl on the left with the polka-dot looking dress) and she was from Bay Shore, N.Y. It was late in the day, but it was not yet dark. We were walking from the girls' dorm where she lived, to the campus. It was not a great distance, so I didn't mind walking with my right leg in a walking cast, and my right upper arm held together with plate and screws and my right forearm trussed up with a brace that allowed springs to hold my fingers and thumb out in stirrups that made them not curl into a claw (which they did when I did not wear the device). I had torn some pretty significant nerves in my arm --- radial nerve, I think they called it. On my own I could not raise my right wrist, or straighten my fingers.

I had braces on my teeth at the time. A smart-mouthed (grin) jr. high kid I had previously run into, saw the cast, the arm brace, the braces on my teeth and said: "What's all this, Shoemake ---your Science Fair project?" He then just about died laughing. If I could have caught him, I would have throttled him! Back to the story: Carol Davis and I were heading toward the College Church (now called the Memorial Road congregation. It was raining. I walked on her right side down the sidewalk, since my left arm still worked. She was pretty and I was so proud to be able to be out of the wheelchair and actually walking...well, sort of walking. I still hurt so very much -- all over -- and I looked like Chester, on the old Gunsmoke t.v. series, with my right leg in a stiff plastic cast wrapped with plastic.  We couldn't walk very fast. She held the umbrella with her right hand and I held it with my left hand, and we made decent progress toward the building. I had a rubber walking boot on my walking cast and a nice dress shoe on my left foot, made of some synthetic material that made it fairly invulnerable to rain water. Carol had some rain gear over her feet. Suddenly there was a simultaneous blinding light and explosion! It was like a bomb had gone off nearby!

Nearly deaf from the lightning bolt, and stunned, with the retinas in our eyes feeling poached, we looked around for the umbrella. There it was -- on the ground over by Carol. She picked it up (I couldn't perform that maneuver, with the cast on my leg), and we headed off toward the building again, which was probably still 200 feet away. Our hair was wet (yes, I had hair back then) and we were now soaked. As we stood in the 'back of the old auditorium, right inside the old east entry, we were checking ourselves out. Everything seemed to be okay. Then we noticed the smell! Like burned hair! We started looking at each other and checking each other out. We noticed that there was no hair on my left (umbrella) arm and no peach fuzz on Carol's right (umbrella) arm! That's where the smell came from! Burned hair! At that moment, two other girls we both knew -- Cheryl Suffridge (now Cheryl Payne, of Stillwater), and Karen Selby (from California), came in from the rain. They were goggle-eyed. I asked them if they had heard and seen the lightning strike. They almost shouted out: "Did we SEE IT? It hit your umbrella and we saw it arc to the ground!" We had known that it had hit nearby, but had no idea that we had been hit. When we saw the hair missing from our arms, we sort of assumed that it was from 'static electricity' from the lightning having hit so close to us! The lightning could have gone right through us. Instead, it followed the rain streaming off of the umbrella and went to the ground. Unbelievable!

Later on, although so very grateful for our safety, we couldn't help but remark how God was either trying to teach me something...or, possibly, the Devil was a 'bad shot'...he missed me again! 

Once again, God's Providential care in my life and the life of my friend, Carol.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

I was OCC's First 'Real' Dropout!

Thursday, December 1st, 1966 at 8:00 p.m. was a cold night on campus. The temperature was about 20 and there was a brisk wind. There was snow on the ground. My roommate, Ken Nichols and I, along with Sheila Holland and Randa Herschel, were all on the north end of the Learning Center. Ken and I had been horsing around, showing off in front of the girls. Then we settled down and were laughing and cutting up, having a good time.  (The picture of Ken is at the window, days later, after the window had been replaced.  Ken was looking down at where I had landed.  The little blond is Randa.  Ken and I both really liked her and Randa a lot.  The other pic is of Randa and Sheila together, out between the Learning Center and just north of the old tennis courts between the girls' and boys' dorms. 

I did a really dumb thing. Ken said something funny and I sort of slapped him on the shoulder and I stepped back-- deliberately-- and leaned against the glass window, with my right foot sort of propped up against the bottom of the window frame. The windows did not have guard rails (someones bright idea), and kids leaned on the windows all the time. Admittedly, leaning on a floor-to-ceiling window is not something a thinking person would do. We did it all the time, though, and the greasy head prints all along the windows was evidence of the fact that I didn't invent dumb window tricks. I was in good company. I just became OCC's only REAL DROPOUT!

When my shoulders touched the window, the window did not just crack -- it exploded, and I went out of the window. My right Achilles tendon held me briefly, however, and that caused me to go out of the window head first, toward the concrete down below. I might add that the window was NOT made of plate glass. Some bright guy was responsible for the windows being made of 3/16" inch 'crystal'...not plate glass as most responsible people installed in public buildings. There were also not any guard rails in front of these floor to ceiling windows at that time.  The pane of glass was huge, and most of it went with me, and I landed on some of it and sustained a lot of cuts due to landing on glass. A lot of the glass landed ON me and some of that glass also did a lot of damage. I had over 500 stitches, from the initial surgery and repairs to my body from the glass. 

On the way down, some interesting things happened: Time slowed down. In my mind's eye, it took two hours and twenty minutes to fall that distance. I got to watch a  video of my life to that point in time. At the end of the 'video', I saw a brilliant white...tunnel (for want of another word that will adequately describe it). I felt at peace and was not fearful. I thought, however, that I was about to die, but the thought was not an unpleasant one.  The 'tunnel' through which I was traveling, was full of what appeared to me to be a dismembered chandelier, with the individual crystal pieces turning over and over, displaying both brilliant, familiar colors and colors I had never seen before. I have always assumed that the dismembered chandelier image was due to my eyes being open as I tumbled out of the window and as I looked up, I saw shards of glass tumbling in slow motion, reflecting the lights in the Learning Center. I don't know. The thing about the colors is still something I think about sometimes -- along with the brilliant white 'tunnel'.  Who can make sense of memories like that.  They say that such memories are common.  The slow-motion replay of ones' life in an instant is also an amazing thing.  I don't  understand any of it, but the memories of it all are still so vivid...like it was only yesterday.

As the 'video' ended, I snapped out of the pleasant reverie, and realized that I was going to hit concrete-- maybe head first. In my mind's eye, I thought I might land across the balcony guard rail (yes, there was a balcony guard rail, but no guard rails in front of 3-story windows!). I maneuvered so that I could land parallel to the railing. As it turned out, that is what happened, and that was one thing that helped save my life. I had taken several years of self-defense training in high school, and I knew how to fall properly, without having to really think about it. There was no time to think about falling correctly, but I did it instinctively. I landed on my back, with my head tucked on my chest, and hit the ground more or less flat, with my legs bent at the knee and feet flat. My arms were extended from my body and my hands and forearms were flat-- all of this to try to disperse impact over a larger surface area, while protecting my head. In my mind, however, there was still the specter of the guard rail on my left, running east to west. I landed right beside the guard rail, having corrected my fall from a head-first fall to a 'flat' fall, and a twist from a north-south orientation that would have put me on top of the guard rail below, to an east-west orientation that would leave me on the concrete, but not cut in half by the steel railing.

When I hit, I bounced. In my mind's eye, it was an exaggerated bounce, in slow motion. In an attempt to not hit the guard rail, I leaned somewhat to my right side, and in so doing, I tucked my right elbow, instead of leaving it extended as intended. (Remember, in my mind's eye, I had a long time to prepare for the landing).  Leaning to the right, I also lost the bend in my right knee, and my right leg was more or less straight out. Bad move! I heard my right arm snap, above my elbow. I heard my right leg snap, between my ankle and kneecap. I then felt my right wrist snap as my right arm was slapping like a rag dolls' arm on concrete and glass. On the first bounce, my 'tucked' head snapped back and slammed into the concrete and glass. One of my shoes was found a distance from the north side of the Learning Center, where it was thrown when I landed.

I thought I was dead. I couldn't breathe. When finally I was able to take a breath, the pain hit. Oh my, did the pain hit! I had glass buried in my back, legs, neck and head. I had glass buried in places where I didn't even know I had places -- front and back.  Then I felt the cold. Bitter cold. I was bleeding profusely. My fall shook the concrete and people felt the vibrations all over the building. The doors leading from the building to the balcony were locked, so no one was able to come to my aid. John Morrison, a computer genius working in the control room where the computers were located, felt the vibration at the other end of the building and came running to the north end of the building. He had a key to the door on his key ring. Mark Livingston was there with John when they went out on the balcony and picked their way across the glass and blood to see what they could do to help me. Mark ran back inside and grabbed a tennis ball and gently but firmly pushed the tennis ball into my right armpit to help stanch the blood flow. If not for that, I would have died right there on the balcony. John and Mark, seeing the crowd of students inside the building at the windows, asked them for coats to throw on top of me. The temperature and wind outside would also have killed me in short order. I was paralyzed. Girls began throwing their coats on top of me to help keep me warm.  John and Mark's quick thinking saved my life.  John and Mark are two men I pray for often, to this day.  I will also be forever grateful to the girls who threw their nice coats on me, getting them soiled with blood and glass.  Such kindness!

An ambulance was called. It took 25 minutes for the ambulance to make it to campus from Baptist Hospital. I was semi-conscious as they wheeled me into the emergency room. My eyes were closed. As they wheeled me (face up) to an elevator, I 'saw' the threshold of the elevator -- that it had not quite come level with the floor where the gurney was located. I somehow knew, with eyes closed, that my nearly severed right arm would fall from the gurney when we entered the elevator and ran over the 'bump'.  I said something to the gurney attendants.  I remarked about the floor being green linoleum...with eyes still closed. (Strange, huh?).

In the operating room where they wheeled me immediately on arrival at the hospital, I heard Dr. John Harsha, an orthopedic surgeon who had been called at his home, and who had hurried to the hospital. He was not happy about what had been done (or not done after my arrival there at Baptist). With my eyes still closed, and somewhat in shock, I heard Richard Mock (a Dean at OCC at the time), come into the room. I was conscious enough to hear his voice and know whose voice it was, and, with eyes still closed, I somehow knew that one of the attending nurses was a single woman, and I made some reference to the two of them 'getting together' and getting to know each other. (Dick Mock was single at the time, in case you're wondering). I heard about that remark over the weeks and months ahead, during my stay at Baptist. It seemed simple enough to me. In my mind's eye, I was above the operating table, and had a clear view of the room and the people in it. Same with the elevator. I was an 'observer', or so it seemed.

A team of surgeons operated on me for about 6 hours, trying to repair some of the damage. I had broken bones and a lot of glass damage. My head was bashed pretty good, and over time, it appeared that I would go blind. Dr. Harsha told me that I would likely not do well with radial nerve surgery on my right arm. He told me that the procedures at that time were likely to only give me the prospect of a 10-15% recovery of my arm. It looked like I would be a cripple, and maybe a blind cripple at that. I had internal bleeding, and trauma to internal organs from the fall. I ended up having to have five major surgeries to get over the fall from the window. I had to drop out of college and could not return until the fall of 1969. By then all my friends had graduated. Most of them, including my roommate, were now married. My roommate, Ken Nichols, married the girl I had been dating when I fell out of the window (Carol Davis).  

During Christmas of that year, I was still confined at Baptist. It was a lonely place. Most of my friends had gone home for the holidays. Two people stand out in my memory of those lonely days. Lon Winton (a member at Memorial Road at this time), and Chuck Hansen, came to the hospital often, and would bring treats, or sometimes stay for a game of chess. I will never forget their kindness to me, during the days of my deepest despair. I have prayed many times over the years for God's blessings in their lives. Lonnie and I were not friends...we were only acquaintances. The attention he showered on me was unbelievable! Who leaves family on cold winter nights to brighten the corner of someone who is not even a friend?  They were like angels to me.  I was lonely and frightened and in terrible pain.  They made a difference in my life.  I'll never forget their kindness.

On Christmas Eve, with most of the 6th floor of Baptist mostly empty, Dr. Harsha appeared one afternoon.  He told me he was going to 'smuggle' me out of the hospital, where I had been for weeks.  He said that he and his family wanted to have me come to their home for their Christmas celebration.  He had left his car idling (to keep it warm) at the entrance to the emergency room.  He had a wheelchair and a jumpsuit that belonged to him.  He dressed me in the jumpsuit, put me in the wheelchair and 'furtively' smuggled me out of the hospital via the freight elevator (that added to the drama and suspense).  I spent the day with the Harsha family.  Dr. and Mrs. Harsha had eight children and Mrs. Harsha was due to deliver their ninth child any day.  I sat there, among all the Christmas trees and presents and drank eggnog and cider and enjoyed their hospitality.  That evening, Dr. Harsha returned me to the hospital and once again, to my delight, engaged in the same conspiratorial drama that really appealed to my sense of adventure!  What a family!What a man!  I still thank God for Dr. Harsha regularly. 

Long story a little shorter: Over the years ahead, God healed my body. Completely. I have no disability from the shredded, severed nerves, or the broken bones, or the head trauma. I have 20/10 vision, with glasses. I have no arthritis. I still thank God regularly for His healing in my life. If this accident had not happened, I would never have met my sweet wife, Paula, who was in the 6th grade when I started college! If the accident had not occurred, I would never have met her. I wouldn't have two wonderful kids -- Gena and Jeff. I wouldn't have two perfect grandchildren, Raegan and Greyson.

I thank God for my life and for the blessings that I enjoy every day! Isn't God great?  Don't we ALL have so much for which to be thankful?  I don't take my life for granted.  I hope you're grateful for the blessings in your life.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

My Special Day with Jesse Owens


Many years ago there was a man with colossal athletic abilities. He was a black man, and was the best in the world at the time. He represented the U.S.A. at the Olympics, much to the displeasure of Adolf Hitler. Jesse Owens was--- all of his life, a larger-than-life man. He was an humble man, and never used his fame in an inappropriate way. He was a legend and is STILL a legend.

Back in the '70's, when I was fresh out of college at OCC and worked for the college (before OCC became a university), I was asked to pick Jesse Owens up at Will Rogers Airport and take him to OCC. I was also asked to take him anywhere he wanted or needed to go while he was here in the OKC area that day. Wow! What an honor! When Guy Ross asked me, I jumped at the chance! I had a brand new '71 Chevrolet Monte Carlo and was thrilled to have the chance to spend some time with Mr. Owens.
I didn't have to share him with anyone during our drive-time.

I asked Mr. Owens a lot of questions, about his career and about his life. It probably comes as no surprise to you that Mr. Owens had very little to say about his remarkable life, filled with fame and fortune -- with his associations with other famous people. I was in awe of the man! Mr. Owens, however, was an unusual man. He would not talk about his life, his fame, his achievements. He had no need of anything that put his life in the spotlight. You know what he wanted to talk about while we drove through the city, to and from the airport and other places? He asked about MY life. I was 27 years old, had never done anything noteworthy--had never been anywhere to speak of. In spite of that, the great man, Jesse Owens, asked me a lot of questions -- about my youth, my parents, why I had chosen Oklahoma Christian for my college education....and a host of other questions. I am sure that my answers were of no real interest or importance to Mr. Owens. He was doing what all truly great people do....he turned the spotlight on the other guy. He made the other guy feel important and relevant.

I will never forget Jesse Owens. Such greatness. Such humility. Such kindness. I wish Mr. Owens still walked among us.

Betty Lou Gayle --her life defines love and friendship!


Here's another story that, while it touches on my Mom, the spotlight this time is on someone else. My dad had a first cousin named Noel Gayle. Noel was married, for over sixty years to the same woman -- a wonderful woman named Betty Lou. My Dad and Noel were close, and my Mom and Betty Lou were like sisters. They loved each other and talked a lot ---and visited when they could. My folks and the Gayle family lived in the Dallas area, although clear across town from each other. Visits with the Gayle family were always special...REALLY special when their kids also came over.

Over the years, the kids on both sides all grew up and pretty much lost touch with each other, but Mom and Betty Lou and Dad and Noel remained close....Mom and Betty Lou were especially close. The Gayle's had three kids: Tommy, Linda and Terry. Tommy is Matt Gayle's dad! If you know Matt, then you have already met Tommy! Peas in a pod -- both are wonderful people and a lot of fun to be around!

I am writing this tonight to tell you about Betty Lou. When my Mom could no longer be a friend to Betty Lou, due to Mom's Alzheimer's condition, and had to move from her home in Dallas to Edmond, OK, where we could help take care of her, I found out what Betty Lou Gayle was really all about. Even though Mom's memories were fading fast, Mom received a card or letter or card AND letter from Betty Lou EVERY DAY FOR OVER FOUR AND A HALF YEARS! EVERY DAY! Betty Lou typed news about her family -- her kids and grand kids, news about their local congregation -- whatever news she could rustle up for Mom. I have never, in my entire life, seen such devotion to a friendship as Betty Lou showed toward my Mom. Never. Betty Lou was a quiet lady. She never wanted any attention (she still doesn't). She's not a complainer, although she is nearly blind. She has a wonderful spirit and an unbelievable faith in her Lord Jesus Christ. She and Noel had their kids in church every time the doors were open. They were great examples of Christian living. They were involved in every good work of the church. Her kids are all wonderful people who love the Lord. Like ripples in a pond, her legacy continues across time, touching one generation after another.

Betty Lou and Noel have had a great impact on my life....and I guess I could say that, due to Mom's condition, and her inability to respond to Betty Lou's constant attention--constant acts of kindness and friendship, I grew to love Betty Lou like I had never loved her in my earlier years. Betty Lou continued her steadfast expressions of love toward my Mom, even when Mom couldn't reciprocate. I believe that in Betty Lou, I saw what true love is all about: an acceptance of all that has been, all that is, and all that never can be again. What a woman! What a treasure! Betty Lou's life is one that makes the angels sing!

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Remembering Mom 9-23-08

When Mom was in the Alzheimer's wing at Oklahoma Christian Home, on Boulevard, near Danforth in Edmond, she was near the end of her life, but was still able to walk. Paula and I had always gone to the home every time we had the chance, and were almost always there for the supper hour. We would take Mom for short walks either before or after dinner, and then help Mom with her dinner, trying to encourage her to eat while telling her about the events of the day, and asking about her day. We had a little routine. After dinner, we would walk Mom back to her room and visit with her a while and then we would help her out in the bathroom. Mom had passed the point of being modest, since her mind was slipping. She was like a little child. So tiny, so frail, so sweet. Late one afternoon after supper we were standing at the window in her room, looking out at all the flowers that cooler weather had not taken from us. Mom always loved looking out her window, so Paula and I had planted many hundreds of jonquils, tulips, cannas, irises and hundreds of plants in the raised beds. Mom enjoyed them, and on more than one occasion, had 'helped' us plant things in the raised beds. Mom had loved her flowers all her life. She still loved getting her hands in the moist dirt and helping us. It was fun, seeing how much she enjoyed helping out.

Mom stood there, in the fading light and noticed the little plastic hummingbirds, with their little wings going around in opposite directions. She remarked: "My, aren't they tame!...they never leave! I think they like me!" Then Mom came out with: "I wonder if hummingbirds would like to go to church." As I stood behind Mom, tears came to my eyes. The little Mama that had loved me all my life was slipping away from me. We made our way to the bathroom, for the little before-bedtime-ritual of going to the bathroom, washing her hands, brushing her dentures, putting 'cold cream' on her little face and hands and getting her into her pajamas. As I stood behind Mom, helping her wash her hands, I asked her a question. I didn't really expect an answer. I was just mainly trying to stimulate her mind. Often, when I asked Mom questions or otherwise tried to engage her in conversation, she would look at me blankly, or stare off at some imagined thing in the distance or in her mind's eye. I asked her: "Mom, are you happy?" She stopped washing her hands and turned around, wet hands dripping -- then looked directly at me and said: "Yes, I decided a long time ago to be happy." Such a profound statement from one with pretty advanced Alzheimer's! One of the most profound thoughts I had ever considered! HAPPINESS IS A DECISION! It has nothing to do with ones' circumstances. It is a decision! I will never forget that statement from my little Mama, for it was a cornerstone of her being.

Not long after that, again, after supper one evening, we were washing hands again and as I stood behind Mom, guiding her little hands with mine, I softly asked her: "Mom, have you had a good life?" Once again, I didn't really expect an answer, because Mom was most often now in a place, mentally, where I couldn't follow. Her answer came without hesitation, however, as she said: "Yes-sir, I've lived MY life with NO regrets...have YOU?" I was dumbstruck! Where had that come from? Her mind was virtually gone! I gave her a hug and said to her: "No, Mom, I have not lived my life with no regrets...I'm deeply flawed. I've never been as good a person as you have always been....but, Mom, I'm convinced that God still loves me! She smiled at me and soon after, fell quiet again.

Mom didn't say much more after that. One day, not long after that, Mom was holding Erick and Gena's little baby, Raegan, on her lap (with close supervision), and was trying to remember how to talk to a baby and to say sweet things to Raegan. She had trouble doing it, but all of us knew what she intended, and it was a sweet moment. Then Mom said, very clearly, for all of us to hear: "Well, it's time for me to go...out with the old and in with the new." With those words, Mom had decided that it was, indeed, time for her to go. She began to refuse food and after a week of this, she had to be wheeled to the dining room in a wheelchair. She became very weak. Then Mom refused to drink liquids. She had made her decision. It was so hard to see the Mom who had brought me into the world and who had devoted herself to her kids, her husband, her grandchildren, her Mother and Mother-in-law and countless friends, give up her life.

Mom passed away about a week later. She was tired. She had no physical ailments. Her little body was almost invisible under the covers as she quietly slipped away while I gently smoothed her hair and continued softly and quietly telling her how much I loved her. Mom passed from this life on November 17, 2004, having avoided ever once seeing a doctor since her youngest child was born, in 1954. She was an extraordinary woman. She never complained -- about anything. She took life as it came and made the most of every day. After her passing, when cleaning out her home, Paula and I went through a 55-gallon drum of letters and cards of people who had loved her! There were thousands of them. It took weeks to go through them. I knew Mom was special, but until I read those cards and letters, I had no idea of the high regard so many hundreds of people had for her. Mom touched a lot of lives. In her correspondence with others, she always spoke of our Lord. Jesus was real in her life and she spoke of Him to everyone. She was a gentle woman. I loved her with all of my heart. Still do. Always will.

The Slow Blink

Have you ever watched someone speak who is a little full of himself (herself)? If you're trapped and have to listen, because the person pontificating is your boss, or an elderly person (like me), or someone you endure because you love the person in spite of that person's bad habit of verbosity (that's a Bill O'Reilly word of the day).

I have always found relief from being the target of the 'learned ones' who want to educate everyone in their paths. Here are some tension-relievers:

1. Count their 'ahs'. Note the time, as you begin counting how many times they use 'ah', 'you know', 'see what I mean', 'and stuff', 'totally', 'to die for'....you get the idea -- now, add your own to the list and you can, if you will think quickly, make a mental note to add these up in columns. At the end of the ordeal, you can up all of the teeth gritters and divide by the number of minutes/hours you've suffered during this particular session. Assign the offender with a score, or, as your golfing buddies would term it, a handicap. It's not uncommon for a really heavy-hitter to reach a score of 50 to 60 in less than five minutes.

2. Watch the way they will often pause, when deep in profundity, to slowly inhale through their nostrils as they tilt their head back in a pre-heimlich maneuver designed to clear the airways for the onslaught of words to come--then slowly, and with great deliberation and theatrics, close their eyelids, as though the effort was commensurate with the closing of the roof of an NFL stadium. The Slow-Blinkers will often, during the middle of this routine, raise one or both hands and extend a finger to emphasize the point, with all the anticipation of one waiting for lightning to strike something or someone nearby. Listen carefully, for you are in the presence of greatness.

3. Count the number of times, after you have listened to an interminable speech, and try to work a word or two in sideways -- how the offender will interrupt you, after one or two errant words have escaped your lips, and say, with great gravity,
"you know, the same thing happened to me...", or, my personal favorite, "I was just gonna say...". After spearing your comment with these verbal harpoons, they will often steal your moment in the sun and run off with comments in another direction, never to return to hear what little you were going to try to say.

If you are full of mischief, you can always feign deep sleep. Allow YOUR head to slowly rock back, while your lips part just slightly. Then allow your eyes to begin slowly rolling upwards into their sockets. This will sometimes allow the offender to begin to get the message "audience fading fast", whereupon he/she will usually quickly break off the conversation, offer a cursory "NICE TALKING TO YOU", and immediately look for the next victim.

Note: I don't want to be THAT GUY, but if I am, have the goodness in you to send me an anonymous note and tell me! You know how it is with old guys (like me) and with old ladies. The older one becomes, the fewer friends we have left in this world. People who, in our youth would have said: "You know, you talk too much"...or, 'that's dumb"...or, much."....or, "that's dumb"...or "too much information." When one begins pushing the envelope of age, the correcting mechanism
found in old friends is lost, and old people lose their mental compass...the mental compass that keeps the rest of us a little more aware of how we dress, what we say and to whom...even to be aware of denture breath!

People become reluctant to 'dress down' the elderly or give them much-needed gentle guidance. I have a friend who is older than I am. Nice guy. Wonderful Christian man. Problem is, when he is talking with me, he is always digging at the end of his nostrils-- first with one hand, then with the other. Won't use a handkerchief or a Kleenex. He digs. He, like all nose-miners, invariably wants to shake hands-- with everybody he meets. He has a sinus condition and when he's not digging in his nostrils, he is snorting things back up into his sinus cavities where they have been 'cooking' for who knows how long. But this is another subject, and I only intended to give 'tension-relieving' tips when listening to 'bucket-mouths'. I got carried away....just like the pontificators and bloviators I was just describing. How humiliating....!

Saturday, September 20, 2008

My dad's one-day lark with a Civil War Cannon

My dad, Jack B. Shoemake, grew up in Sherman, TX. He was born in 1916. When he was 13 years old, living on a hill right next to what is now Highway 75, at 408 N. Ely Street (now called Sam Rayburn Drive), he had one of his bright ideas: Why not go down into the old part of Sherman, where some old guy was selling a Civil War cannon -- buy the cannon and then have someone haul the cannon home? His parents lived on a hill overlooking a brand new multi-storied building across a grass field where the Sherman Bearcats practiced football. It was several hundred yards from his parents' home -- a little white frame home that faced this municipal building.

Dad bought the cannon for $4.50 (a princely sum in those days), and had a really nice, elderly black man, who owned a team of mules, haul the cannon to the edge of the bluff, in front of his parents' home. Dad secured the cannon so it wouldn't move, and then he ran around collecting 'cannon fodder' -- pieces of heavy chain, rocks, railroad spikes, ball bearings -- everything he could find to load up the cannon. Then, before loading the cannon, he inserted the make-shift container of gunpowder and wadding deep into the cannon. Next, he loaded up the cannon with the metal and rocks. Having done that, he and his friend, 'Punk Sladen', who was helping him in this venture, fashioned a fuse and inserted it into the cannon.

Now, my dad and Punk Sladen became a little nervous. This was the moment of truth. They looked out across the landscape (their imaginary battlefield), and saw that there were no humans or animals out in front of them. There was only the municipal building, severl hundred yards to the east. They lit the fuse....and ran!

Moments later, there was a terrific explosion, as the cannon disgorged its load of rocks and metal. The explosion was so loud it almost deafened them -- although they were at least 50 feet away when the cannon went off! They ran to the edge of the bluff, and looked out across the 'battlefield'. They saw the cloud of dust, where, not more than 200 yards out, the shrapnel hit the ground and kicked up a lot of dirt and dust. They were still jumping up and down, congratulating each other when the police arrived and confiscated the cannon!

It seems that the explosion had blown out nearly all of the windows-- hundreds of them -- in the newly constructed municipal building, on the side that faced the cannon. The boys' early military career ended as suddenly as soon as it started! They both got hard whippings when their respective dads came home from work.

They stayed out of trouble for awhile -- until their next caper --- hoisting a cow up on top of Sherman High School and leaving it there over the weekend. They got in trouble for that too....some kids' path to learning is longer than others! (Now, Jeff, you know where you 'got it!') :) -- Dad

Thursday, September 18, 2008

She was perfect! She was my Mom

My Mom, Edwina Margaret (McElroy) Shoemake, was a perfect woman. Oh, I know--none of us are truly perfect. I know the drill. Jesus was the only perfect person who ever walked the earth. Let me say this another way: apart from Jesus Christ, my Mom was the only perfect person I knew until I married Paula Ann Bryan. Then Paula became the second perfect person I have ever known. Like Glenn Beck says: 'Here's how I got there.'...

I want to tell you about my Mom. She spent the best years of her life raising her four children. We didn't have a lot of money, and Mom always put her kids first. She made sure we got new clothes, year after year when she rarely ever had anything nice to wear. She was always cooking --- man, could she cook. Maybe that's why most of her kids (okay, all four of us!) in our adult years looked like we were 'ready for market'. Our home always had the aroma of wonderful food -- and Mom could make the most wonderful desserts. Whenever people would come to our home, whether they were invited or not, Mom would serve food. She was so hospitable. People loved my Mom. She was always so happy, so cheerful, so optimistic. She was the ultimate 'glass half full' person!

In my entire life, I never heard my Mom ever say anything hurtful about anyone. I never saw her get angry and act in an inappropriate way. I never saw an act of selfishness on her part. I never saw a chink in her armor. Dad had a lot of flaws, as did all of their children. Mom, however, had NO discernible flaws. I always saw a lovely woman who devoted her entire life to other people. She was always sewing, cleaning, cooking, growing beautiful flowers -- making our home a wonderful place to be. She read to all of us when we were little -- books with illustrated Bible stories. She made sure we were always dressed in clean, nice clothes. The only words that came from her mouth were good things. Words to live by. She made sure we were at the church building every time the doors were open. She made sure that we spent time with people she approved of, and that we were involved with activities that were appropriate.

Mom was never part of the 'elite' at churches we attended. People thought well of Mom, but she never had time for the luncheons that a lot of the ladies enjoyed. Mom was always home, 'batting 'em back' as she used to say. That was a baseball term. Whatever life throws at you, you plant your feet and bat 'em back! Life was hard for my Mom, in a lot of ways. She wasn't treated like a Queen should be treated.

Because her back was always up against the wall, raising kids and then grandbabies, sometimes Mom couldn't go to Ladies Bible Class. On one occasion, one of the ladies at church, who was well-heeled and had a pretty comfortable life, and who had no children, chided Mom for having missed Ladies Bible Class. When she left our home, Mom simply said to us: "Shoot, I'd rather SEE a sermon than HEAR one...ANYDAY!" Then she went back to work, cooking, ironing and cleaning.... I still remember those words when I think of the difference between 'doers' and 'observers'. Mom was a 'DOER' and counted taking care of others as having a higher value than constantly trooping to a church building to sit in a chair and listen to others TALK ABOUT 'DOING'.


When all four of us were raised, marriages with a couple of the kids in our family did not work out, and Mom got to help raise another generation of kids in her home. She did so without complaint, and lavished the same love and attention on them that she did on her own children.

Later on, Mom's own Mom and her Mother-in-law (my two grandmothers), who were, by then in their '90s, needed special care. Mom brought them into her home and cared for them. During that time, my Dad had a number of strokes, and was confined to a wheelchair in their home. Mom was taking care of three invalids, and would not accept any help from anyone. When we would ask Mom she would simply say: 'No sir, this is MY honor, and MY duty.' It got to a point when Mom was having to feed all three of them. She bathed and dressed them. She refused to allow any of them to move to a 'retirement home.' Mom wanted them there in her home where she could provide for them, cook for them, spend time with them. The grandmothers lived to be almost 102 before they passed. Dad died August 1, 1998. After Dad was gone, Mom had no reason to keep going, and her mind began to slip. Mom lost 40 pounds, and lost interest in eating.

We brought Mom to Edmond, from Dallas, where she had lived for most of her adult life. Mom developed dementia, and her doctors were fairly certain that she had something they termed 'rapid onset Alzheimers.' The doctors told us that Mom could not live with us. We had Mom for another 4 1/2 years before we lost Mom. She spent her sweet life going about, always quietly doing the right thing. Mom was never a public figure, never had a career, never made the headlines, was not 'published'. The world never took note of her presence among us, or made any comment about her passing, but, I took note. My wife and kids took note. She was a treasure, in human form. I loved this little woman who took the words of Jesus Christ to heart. She truly lived for others. She lived her life in such a way that THE USE OF HER LIFE OUTLIVED HER LIFE! I want to be like that. I'll have more to share with you about Mom in the days ahead. I want you to know her too!

**********

Through my blog, I will introduce you to one of the most remarkable people who ever lived...my Mom. Then I want to introduce you to the only other person I've ever known who is, after 36 years of marriage, flawless in my eyes....Paula Ann! Our God must have known I needed a lot of help. He put two perfect women in my life! Thank you, Jesus!

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

A Young Married Party That Was Unique!

During the 1970's, Paula and I were at a young married party at Bruce and Sherrill Kerr's home in Edmond. There were a lot of young couples there from Wilshire. Someone in the bunch knew that I spent some of my days in high school and college hypnotizing friends, and asked if I would hypnotize some of the people at the Kerr's home. I reluctantly agreed, because people sometimes get a little crazy at the thought of people being hypnotized --- they will usually have one of the following reactions: 1. not believe it's 'real' (meaning it's all faked) 2. not believe that I know how to pull it off (safely) 3. not trust that someone won't 'take advantage' of them while they're hypnotized 4. fear that they will say/do something embarrassing 5. wonder if they will somehow be permanently 'marked' or 'damaged' or 'permanently under someone else's control....and so on. Knowing that comments like these are inevitable, and knowing that I would have to address each of them made me not want to spend my fun evening with friends having to explain and reassure people. None of the guys wanted anything to do with it...I guess it was a macho thing...who knows? Maybe they didn't trust me and thought that I was some kind of nut. Who knows? Maybe I AM a little nutty. Anyway, six or seven of the young women wanted to be hypnotized, so I got their husbands and/or girlfriends to 'watch over' each of them, and we began.

Without boring you to tears, I will cut through the process, since telling it is a real snoozer. To make a long story a little shorter, several of the ladies could not relax and concentrate and did not make good 'subjects.' Several of them did. I won't tell the names here but if you have lived in Edmond very long, you know of a couple of these ladies, since a couple of them are fairly well-known. A couple of them have husbands who are very well-known locally. We were all young marrieds in the Wilshire congregation in OKC.

There are always a lot of skeptics when hypnosis is performed in settings like this---people who really don't believe it...or don't want to believe it. You can imagine.
There are conservatives who believe that it is the work of Satan. Some people believe that it is only the 'weak-minded' who could possibly be hypnotized. I've heard it all over the years, and for this reason, this was one of the last 'group' sessions I've had anything to do with.

As the ladies 'progressed' through what I call 'layers' of receptivity to suggestions of relaxation, it was apparent that the skeptics were going to see manifestations of the ladies' receptivity to suggestion. I asked several of the ladies who were not involved directly in the session to pick up one of the ladies and place her head on a Samsonite chair and her heels on another samsonite chair (don't worry -- she was wearing jeans -- no embarrassment for anyone) and while they had her suspended momentarily, I gave this one lady suggestions that her body was as stiff as an ironing board. She responded appropriately. I then asked the ladies who had lifted her to release her and everyone saw that she was now suspended between the two chairs, with no sign of tension or trembling. She appeared to be asleep, but was not. She was very much awake, and her senses were not hyper-sensitive. She heard everything, but had her eyes closed. (Later on she disclosed to everyone that she thought she was 'going along with the whole thing', and could have decided to not cooperate at any time). The couples in the room were shocked and in disbelief!

I then gave her suggestions that she would only hear the sound of my voice. At that point, she could no longer hear the giggles and laughter, and expressions of awe and disbelief from the other onlookers around the room. They watched her remain motionless between the two chairs -- head on one and heels on the other -- stretched out like an ironing board. If you think this is not difficult, try it. It's imposssible for someone in the 'waking state' to do such a thing.

There were still a few skeptics, so I then asked another lady -- Kathy McDonald (the wife at the time, of Mike McDonald) to sit on the lady's mid-section. She did, and the lady who was stretched out there as stiff as a board, did not even show any strain at all. Then I asked the lady upon whom Kathy sat, to sing a song. She did so, with no strain in her voice. This convinced even the die-hard skeptics. Again, this is impossible for someone in the natural state to accomplish. Your body won't allow it!

We then let the 'ironing board lady' relax, and went on to one of the other ladies, and asked her to recall things earlier than her 'waking memory' would allow. We asked her specific questions, and later, when she was 'awakened', we had her call her mother to question her mother about events in her life prior to age 2. Her mother verified what her daughter had told us, and everyone thought that was cool.
All that stuff is in ones' mind, waiting to be recalled! Under hypnosis, peoples' ability to recall is astonishing.

We did some other things that were fun and I told them about another time we had done this with some of the high school kids when we hosted a class party in our home. These were high school kids at Wilshire where we were involved with the youth. There were probably 30 or so high school kids there on a winter night. On young man -- 'Mark' (we'll call him Mark, since that was his real name) came in from running around outside with a couple of the other guys, doing what high school guys do when there are a bunch of guys and girls together at a party ---showing off! He came in, hot and sweaty and wanted to be hypnotized. So we did just that. It was 'suggested' to Mark that he was becoming very, very cold...and in a few minutes, his lips and finger tips turned cyanotic (bluish), and we could not detect a pulse. His skin turned a waxy color, when, moments before, it was reddish, from all the running around outside. Then we threw a handkerchief over his shirt and told him that it was an electric blanket on 'high' and he was burning up from the heat. Immediately the flush returned to his face and he began sweating profusely. As usual, when we were ready to return someone to the waking state, we always gave suggestions that the person hypnotized would awaken refreshed and feeling great. He was given suggestions that when this was over he would awaken, refreshed. When he returned to the 'waking state', he said that he felt that he had been asleep all night! He felt great.

We had other kids memorizing pages from magazines and doing some other 'mental' things that cannot be faked, just as Mark's response to the 'cold' and 'heat' suggestions could not be faked.

It has always been amazing to me that our God, who made us the way we are, put into each of us such a vast, largely untapped reservoir of potential. We barely understand the rudiments of the workings of our bodies and our minds, and hypnosis offers a tiny glimpse into the power of our minds over our bodies.

I wanted to share this, since hypnosis is largely understood. It is often cloaked in mystery and fear and will, many times, evoke a sort of nervous disbelief when it comes up in conversation with people. I suppose that, like many other things --that if 'I didn't experience it, then it's not real'! People, it's REAL. It's interesting. It's fun. Check it out!

Gene

Monday, September 15, 2008

Dallas Twister, 1957

Last year, during the summer, I got a telephone call from the Dallas Morning News. They were canvassing students of Sunset High School in Oak Cliff, who were in school anywhere in Oak Cliff during 1957. They were looking for people who remembered or had actually seen the 1957 Oak Cliff tornado. I told the reporter that I had in fact seen it --- even experienced it! He asked me if I would tell my story.

I told the reporter that I had not only seen it, but had been stuck in a bus, while out on a shopping trip with my older sister, Nancy, in downtown Dallas. I was thirteen years old and did not particularly feel the need for my sister to take me shopping for clothes. It was probably a good thing, though, since my taste in clohes, then as well as now, is pretty bad. Now that I'm an old guy, I've about quit trying to buy clothes for myself or my wife, since all of it will be returned, except the occasionaly package of white hankerchiefs or a few pairs of socks. I do shop well for my wife, however, if I limit my purchases to the 'tried and true' items. Over the years, I have become a real connoisseur of fine dark chocolates and I have the good eye of an Amsterdam gem merchant for nice jewelry! I've never made a bad purchase of those two items! Paula has enjoyed two pounds of Russell Stover's chocolates (she prefers the dark chocolates) every month for the 36 years we've been married. Now --back to the tornado....

We were heading back toward home on W. 10th Street when all of us on the bus saw the tornado! It was heading right down a street toward us. The bus driver panicked and wanted to 'step on the gas', but other drivers also panicked and their panic-button caused some of them to stop. People couldn't get away from the tornado, so they were getting out of their vehicles and attempting to run away from the tornado. It was still marching down a street, directly toward us. In just moments, it was upon us. My last 'mental movie' of the tornado was a swirling mass of very dark green (almost black) devastation, swooping right at us! There was a house -- then there was no house! Bricks, boards, trees, trash cans, fences, all kinds of debris was being swept right toward the bus. I saw boards thrown into homes -- and boards sticking out of brick chimneys where they had been thrown like spears! Bricks flying down the street like autumn leaves. We all knew that we would be wiped out, but it was upon us so quickly we could not have exited the bus and run away. (Run away! Run away WHERE??). The tornado was huge. As it towered over the bus, it suddenly lifted, and went directly over the bus. Our ears felt like they would burst, from the change in air pressure and the incredible noise. Screaming metal (I never knew that metal could actually scream!) and debris everywhere! We were in a large intersection on West Jefferson, and the tornado went over the bus and then ripped a telephone pole out of the ground, and threw it like a javelin right through a new black Ford automobile, whose driver had abandoned the vehicle in the middle of the intersection and had run for his life! The telephone pole shot through the car and was more or less suspended by the floorboard of the automobile. If the driver had remained with his vehicle the telephone pole would have cut him in half. We watched as the tornado continued on its path, until the volume of debris blocked a clear view of the tornado as it roared on through Oak Cliff.

Our bus driver had to get out of the bus and stand for a few minutes in order to calm down. My sister was embarrassed, as she wet her pants out of fear. Pretty embarrassing, as she was nineteen, going on 30! What a day! What a shopping trip THAT turned out to be.

The reporter for the Dallas Morning News put part of my long story in the paper. I was pretty excited --- MY 15 MINUTES OF FAME, or so I thought! I bought a copy of the paper and, noticed that most of the really good stuff had been left out of the article. .....I guess that's SHOW BIZ, right?

Sunday, September 14, 2008

Braniff Flight 352, May 3, 1968

After falling out of the Learning Center 3rd floor window on 12-1-1966, which was a Thursday night, at 8 p.m., I spent a long time in and out of Baptist Hospital in OKC, having one surgery after another. (I joke now about having been OCC's first 'REAL dropout!'). While recuperating from my 5th surgery (radial nerve surgery on my right arm), I took some tests, submitted to an extensive background check, and was hired by Dow Chemical Company in Freeport, Texas. I worked there for a year and a half, until I was healed sufficiently to return to classes at OCC in order to get my degree, a B.S. in Biology.

I missed my friends at OCC, and one week I asked my supervisor for permission to come into work early, on Friday, May 3, 1968, so I could leave an hour early in the afternoon. I was also given permission to miss my lunch, and I picked up another hour, so I could now leave two hours earlier than the usual clock-out time on the day shift. By the time I was able to leave, I was ravenously hungry, so I stopped at a little hamburger place in Freeport. One of our Lake Jackson C. of C. members worked there -- a sweet little 16 year old blond-headed, blue-eyed girl. We talked for awhile and I took too long eating my hamburger and when I noticed the time, I had to drive fast to Hobby Airport in South Houston, for the first leg of my flight to OKC. I was heading to OKC (it was Friday) and I planned on a big date with a beautiful girl at OCC that evening.

I parked my car at Hobby airport and went running with my carry-on to the Braniff ticket counter. I arrived, all out of breath, and, fearing that I had for certain missed my flight to Dallas, I asked the man at the ticket counter if I had missed my flight --- Braniff flight 352 (I was then going to ask if there were other flights I might be able to take, in order to get to OKC that evening). The man looked at me strangely. He then turned to the two women ticket agents standing there with him. They all exchanged looks, and something didn't seem right. All three of them looked curiously pale.

The male ticket agent then looked at me and said: 'Son, you missed your flight. You better be glad you did---Flight 352 has crashed in Dawson, Texas and we fear that all 85 people aboard have been killed.'

I thanked him and walked slowly out of the airport, back to my powder blue, '68 Ford Mustang, got in and drove to OKC. I missed having a date that Friday night, but, late that night, well after midnight, I pulled into OKC. I was so grateful to be 'home', and I felt SO VERY ALIVE. Life was such a precious thing, and I had almost lost my life again. I was still crippled from the fall out of the window at OCC in 1966, and felt so very fragile, and yet, at the same time, so very fortunate. I thanked God often during the 9 hour drive to OKC from Freeport, and I've thanked God so many times since then for his care and keeping.

Years later, around 1986, while relating this story to Ronnie White, (our minister while we were members at Quail Springs Church of Christ), during lunch together at Bennigan's on May Ave., he at first had a surprised look on his face -- then got quiet and then told me that Marsha, his lovely wife, had also missed that same flight! What an amazing coincidence! I had not met Marsha and Ronnie in 1968, and only met Marsha 17 years later at Quail Springs. I have thought about and have wondered about what I feel is God's Providence at work in my life and Marsha's life. Why were we spared? We were no more special than any of the other people who died that day. I didn't understand then. Still don't.

Sometimes His Providence is not so dramatic; sometimes we don't understand or acknowledge His direction in our lives. I have to say, though, that God is so real to me. I am certain of His Providence in my life -- and yours.

This year marks the 40th anniversary of the crash of the Braniff L-188 Electra "II" at 4:37 p.m. on May 3rd, in Dawson, Texas. But for God's Providence and a nice conversation with a little blue-eyed, blond-headed angel from the Lake Jackson Church of Christ, I would not be here today! Thank you, Lord!

Trapped in a freezer!

Back in the '60's--- 1963, I think, I worked one summer at an un-named (you'll see why later) dairy in Dallas, TX., in Oak Cliff. It wasn't a wonderful job, but it gave me a little spending money. I didn't own a car, so my Mom took me to work and brought me home at night, when my shift ended. I worked in the 'quick freeze' room, which was an auditorium-sized room where ice cream and popsicles entered the room on steel rollers through tiny holes in walls that were, to my the best of my memory, something like four feet thick. Ice cream, in cartons wrapped with brown paper, came in from the plant where it was frozen rock hard in a very short period of time. The turbine-forced wind whipped through the freezer like a Arctic gale, and the temperature was kept way, way below zero. I don't want to exaggerate this part, and my memory may be faulty, but if memory serves me correctly, the temperature was somewhere between 25 and 40 below zero. We had to wear special suits and masks and goggles, along with huge, thick gloves. We could only work for about 40 minutes at a time until we had to leave the freezer to warm up outside. When inside the freezer, our eyelashes iced up from the condensation due to breathing. The hair in our nostrils (I know..this is GROSS!) were like little ice picks and tore at the insides of our noses. All in all it was miserable work.

I worked with some pretty 'raw-around-the-edges' men, and it was not uncommon to see men standing on top of a 15-ft. high mountain of stacked packages of frozen ice cream, relieving themselves rather than taking the time to go outside in the summer heat, while cocooned in the heavy insulated suits, to take care of 'business'. It was disgusting to see urine, frozen solid in mid-air, fall to the floor and break like glass icicles all over the floor, and on the brown paper wrappers that enclosed the cartons of ice cream.

It was bitter cold in the freezer, with the wind howling ferociously, and snow falling from the moisture emanating from the multiple steel rollers laden with hot ice cream entering the quick-freeze room. The very hot ice cream gave off moisture due to the pasteurizing process in the plant. The moisture made large quantities of blinding snow. The effect, I imagine, was rather like being at the North Pole in the winter! Our job was that of stacking the packages of ice cream that, only minutes before, had entered the room at a very hot temperature and was now frozen solid in this 'quick-freeze' room. We stacked the ice cream, in these brown paper packages, about 15 feet high and four feet wide, making 'stairs' as we worked our way up to the top of each row. We would leave enough room from one stack to the next, to allow a man to walk between the rows to shovel snow and pick up the occasional broken packages of ice cream containers. We scooped it all up-- snow, broken packages of ice cream, popsicles, fudgesicles, dixie cups--and, yes, even the 'yellow ice' and unceremoniously tossed all of it into 55 gallon drums, for disposal.

One night, near the end of my shift, I lost track of time and failed to leave with the other men. I headed to the door, to leave for the evening, and found it locked...from the outside. I began pounding on the door, but the doors were massively thick. No one could hear me! The thought occurred to me that I could die right there among the frozen treats! Realizing that no one was coming for me and that one could not live long in the freezer, I did the only thing that made sense to me. I climbed up on the steel rollers at the other end of the freezer -- (the steel rollers that continued out the other side of the huge freezer--- rollers that were used to run the packaged ice cream through the four-foot thick walls and into the 18-wheelers docked there for the loading of the ice cream for distribution to stores in the area). As I tried to enter the small opening into the wall with my heavy clothing and parka, I realized that I could not fit into the opening in the wall. (For the smart alecks among you, you need to know that I only weighed 145 pounds back then! I know what you're thinking). I decided to do something that I thought was the only thing I could do. I took off the heavy suit and parka--my protection against unbelievable cold and wind-- and scooted face down up the steel rollers toward the tiny door in the wall. I knew that this door was only about one foot in thickness, but that it was likely also locked. I looked around for something to use to pound on the door when I scooted up the steel rollers through the four feet to the tiny door. There was nothing. You can't pound very hard with popsicles and ice cream cartons! I then planned to pound on the door with my hands, hoping that someone would be outside and would hear me and get help. I pounded for a long time, and could tell that I was rapidly succumbing to hypothermia. I had never been so cold in my life and my skin was sticking to the steel rollers. Thinking that I had made a mistake, I tried to back down the steel rollers but could not --- I was stuck inside the narrow chamber! Great! Now I was in a real pickle! I couldn't go forward and couldn't back down into the main part of the freezer. I couldn't move to try to keep warm, and with my heavy clothing and parka left behind, I knew I would die quickly.

I began pounding on the tiny door again, knowing that if I could not get someone to hear me, that I would be dead in minutes. Finally, after having almost given up on the idea of a rescue, I heard noises around the little door in front of my face. My Mom, sitting in the parking lot in her 1962 Biscayne Chevrolet, had been asking people in the parking lots if they had seen me. No one had. Mom paced back and forth outside the exit door from the freezer and as she walked by the area where the little doors were located, she heard a faint sound. She heard me pounding on the door. Mom got someone from inside the plant to come out and open the locked door and when the little door was unlocked and opened, there I was, my frozen face staring up at them!

Men opened up the freezer room and pulled me back down the steel rollers and I was saved! The same Mom who had given me life in 1944, gave me life again when I was 19!

A few more minutes of that cold, with the incredible gale-force of forced air sucking the heat out of me would have killed me in a few more minutes. When the men rescued me from the freezer, I was so cold I could barely move. I fully expected parts to start falling off of my body! I recovered from the places where my skin had frozen to the steel rollers, and did not care for ice cream and other frozen treats for a long, long time.

Even today, when I see someone enjoying a frozen treat, I will think back to that hot summer, when I almost became a blond-headed popsicle! My ordeal gave a whole new meaning to the term "freezer burn". Words and phrases such as giving someone a 'cold shoulder' or an 'icy stare',...or 'frozen in time'...or, the overused 'freeze, mister!'...all have a different meaning for me now...and those, my friends, are just the cold, hard facts!

Be cool! ---Gene :)

Sunday, September 7, 2008

The Legendary Ft. Worth Cardinals

O.K....I wasn't going to tell this, but the OU and OSU frenzy is pushing me over the edge again, so here it is....

When Paula and I were newlyweds, at the Wilshire C of C., we tried to fit into the young married crowd, but had a hard time. I was 28 and Paula was 20 (a mere child). I was too old for that newlywed crowd, and Paula was too young. Also, we didn't have any children...we only had a cat. When the couples went on and on about their babies, we could only talk about our cat (what my son Jeff is going through with his new bride, Candita, except that they have two little miniature Schnauzers and some chickens...yes, you heard me...chickens). Anyway, we tried to fit in. I quickly found, however, that when we went to church parties, the guys would cluster around a television set and become downright rabid over whatever sport was the flavor of the day and the women would run off to the kitchen and talk about babies, labor pains, breast feeding and stinky diapers. I grew up never seeing a sporting event until I went to college, since I had to work and help 'bring home the bacon', so, I never developed any particular frenzy over any sport. I was, therefore, not comfortable with EITHER group of people at the parties, but I did want to fit in and have friends.

To fit in and feel halfway normal with all the talk you hear when you turn on a radio or t.v. when a sporting event is being broadcast, you've got to understand the lingo: "Yeah, our offense was better than their defense and that offside kick got us 2 for 4, with only 16 interceptions before the time-out at the middle of the 1st quarter of the 3rd quadrant"...and the like. Oh, and not to forget the inevitable endless, repetitive interviews, with some guy with a sub-moronic monotone, staring glassy-eyed into the twilight zone and telling the interviewer: "Yeah, and we want to win...and stuff....and..you know....yeah, man...it's cool...you know? Yeah, man, we gon' doo it....and stuff." ...and a thousand other really, deeply intelligent comments....that make you want to scramble for a paper and pencil, so you can record those immortal words for posterity.

Nonetheless, I still wanted to fit in, so, in desperation, I decided that if you can't whip 'em, join 'em. I did the only thing I could do...I INVENTED MY OWN SPORTS TEAM!! I called it the Fort Worth Cardinals. I made up names of the team owners, the general manager, the coaches, and all the players. I made up (on the spot), all the team stats, and when the conversation about sports started up, I would join in with: 'Hey, how about them Cardinals?!! Did you guys catch that game last night?' No matter what sport their team played last night, the Cardinals also played and won by a bigger point spread. I casually, and boastfully threw out the names of players, coaches, managers and owners -- with whom I enjoyed long friendships. I bragged about dinners and parties we attended together, trips that Paula and I went on with these guys and their wives and girlfriends.

Not satisfied with my 'instant acceptance' into the world of sportsminded young married friends, I went a step further. I had a ballcap and t-shirt made up with FWC (Fort Worth Cardinals) emblazoned on the front, with my name on the back! I stuck a can of Skoal into my back jeans pocket, and tried to walk with the 'sports-guy swagger', whose team was smokin' everybody's chili every night of the week!!!

My greatest thrill, after introducing the Fort Worth Cardinals to my friends at the Wilshire church, was in having people like Ray Vaughn and Larry Olsen come up to me and ask me how the Cardinals were doing! I would flip on my 'sports guy' persona and start saying: "Hey, man...we're gonna win...and stuff!!...know what I mean?....yeah, man!!....we're gon doo it!"

It's now been 36 years and I still occasionally get a 'hit' on the illustrious 'Fort Worth Cardinals' by one of my die-hard sports friends from the '70's. My friends saw through the ruse, of course, but I got an 'A' for effort, and although they no doubt thought I was a brick short of a load at the time, I eventually was accepted into the 'sports club' here in Edmond. Whenever you run into Ray Vaughn or Larry Olsen, Bob or Larry Forrester, ask them about the 'Cardinals...Shoemake's very own, Fort Worth Cardinals!