OCC's 1964 Freshman bonfire and my Jeep

I transferred to OCC from Fort Worth Christian in 1964. That Fall OCC still had, as a Homecoming Activity, something known as the 'Freshman Bonfire'. All types of wood and other flammable objects were brought together, on the North side of the Learning Center. It was a good opportunity for people to get rid of all kinds of combustible objects...including wood. Guys risked their lives, stacking telephone poles, old furniture, cross-ties and other objects, in their attempt to build the biggest of allbonfires.

The bonfire was guarded a good bit of the time -- for good reason. More about that later...

A little background info:
I transferred in as a junior, and I had a vehicle..of sorts. It was an old jeep, made of parts of a Willys jeep and a Ford jeep. It looked like the old proverbial 'camel put together by committee'. It looked awful. It had no sides, so it was strictly an open-air vehicle. It also had no paint, except in places where I had not sanded and primed the metal. A lot of the metal was rusted. It was not a pretty thing, but it WAS fairly dependable. The carburetor was not made for the vehicle, so the air cleaner and filter would not fit under the hood. I had to improvise an air filter out of a pair of pantyhose, held on top of the carburetor with a hose clamp to try to keep dust and dirt out of the carburetor. It was a fun vehicle, though, and both boys and girls liked riding around town in my little jeep! The jeep was so unattractive it was cute! 

When I took girls out for dates in the fall, winter and spring, I had to bring blankets to wrap them up so they wouldn't freeze! Now, back to the bonfire! One day, when the bonfire-to-be was left unguarded, some guys and I took my jeep and raided the bonfire materials before they were erected. We hooked a cable around the telephone poles that were going to be the corners of the bonfire. Having secured the cable to the jeep, we took off! To the west of the campus, before the days of sewer service for the campus, there was this thing that the uninformed called a 'pond.'  A more accurate but ominous description would have nailed it perfectly -- a 'sewage lagoon'. We drove around the earthen embankments that surrounded the lagoon, dragging the telephone poles behind the jeep. We couln't believe our good fortune!  We had stolen the freshman bonfire telephone pole supports and had gotten away without getting caught!

As I whipped around the top of the retaining wall, the telephone poles followed dutifully behind the jeep, rolling and rolling, twisting the cable and mowing down the grass and weeds.  The guys who were with me unhooked the cable and with great effort we threw the telephone poles into the lagoon.  It was not a pretty sight. The telephone poles floated like basking sea lions in the sewage. We were elated! We couldn't quit laughing! We went back to campus and by now, at the site of the bonfire-to-be there was outrage among the freshmen over the disappearance of their coveted telephone poles. Without the telephone poles, there would be no grand bonfire! Eventually we were found out (maybe because we were all rolling on the ground, red-faced from laughing).

The freshmen had no way to get the telephone poles back to campus. We decided that the prank had been fun but that we had to help them out, so back to the lagoon we all went. The freshmen, brave souls that they were, waded out into the lagoon to secure their telephone poles. At the time, I thought that they exhibited unbelievable valor! There was no way that any of us upperclassmen would have waded into that lake of sludge and floating 'cookies.' We secured the other end of the cable to the jeep again and headed off for campus, going south on Eastern and then uphill on Memorial Road. The telephone poles were on pavement this time, and dragging on the pavement, they caught fire, and were smoking pretty good by the time we got them back to campus. No harm was done. Nobody got hurt. We all had great fun at the expense of the freshmen. The freshmen had to bathe...and bathe...and bathe (and, who knows--they may have had to burn some clothes). The bonfire happened without further incident. The sad looking little jeep got to have its 15 minutes of fame.

Later that year, the little jeep got to perform again when I took eight OCC girls down to Denison, Texas for the weekend. We didn't all fit in the jeep, and the jeep wouldn't go faster than 45 mph down old highway 77, but we were a funny sight, with legs hanging out on all sides as we went down the highway! We looked like a spider on wheels! Cheryl McKee, a wonderful OCC girl who went on to be Homecoming Queen the next year, provided two of my jeep's legs during that trip! Cheryl lived in Denison, Texas and she hosted the girls' visit. We all had a great weekend, but, on the return trip to OCC, it became bitter cold. I had to drive, so different girls took turns holding their hands over my ears so I wouldn't freeze while driving. We were NOT prepared for cold weather --not at all! By the time we got to Norman, we were in a blinding snowstorm. Some of the guys from campus came to meet us and take the girls back to campus in their cars...cars with windows, heaters and the works. I came back to OCC from Norman, finally having had about enough of the little Jeep. I needed a real car, with windows and doors -- protection from the elements. Dating, in an open-air jeep, was beginning to lose its allure.

In the spring, I succumbed to the flashy sales presentation of the Southwestern Company, of Nashville, Tennessee. They recruited a large number of us to be Bible salesmen. I needed a car, so I sold the little Jeep and bought a 1959 Chevy Impala, via the unbelievable kindness of Ralph Burcham, who, not really even knowing me, co-signed a bank note for me to buy that car. Years later, when I developed a little bit of common sense, I was embarrassed for having put Ralph on the spot to help me out. He could have refused me. No one would have blamed him. I was an idiot for having asked him. Ralph, however, did what he has done all his life --- he went out on a limb to help someone else out. He trusted me to make the payments on that Chevy Impala. I love Ralph and Gladys..for all they are and all they have been to so many, for their entire lives.

The memories of the Homecoming bonfires, the many trips in the Jeep, the wonderful guys and girls I met while at OCC comprise a lot of the best memories of my life.
Many of the friends from those days at OCC are still best friends -- and, over the years, the memories of those friends and the good times we had, grow sweeter by the year!

'Totally Immobilized....TOTALLY!"

Okay, this has been 'true confessions week'. I have one more really embarrassing moment from my youthful days. Here it is...

The summer of 1957 was a great summer. I was 12, going on 13. After my paper route -- after supper -- I would often get on my bicycle and ride all over our neighborhood. After I wrecked my old balloon-tired bicycle showing off at school at an earlier time, I got a newer bike. It was maroon, and wasn't an antique. It wasn't expensive, either, but I loved that bike! I became so familiar with that machine, I felt like the bike and I were 'one'. It almost seemed like part of me. I polished that bike and adjusted the spokes and cleaned and oiled it, almost compulsively. I got it with some of my paper route money and unsanctioned candy sales at school, and I spent a lot of time on that bike, exploring my world.

One summer evening, I had been riding all over the neihborhood at breakneck speed, up and down the gently-sloped hills in and around our neighborhood, wearing nothing but a pair of long jeans and a t-shirt. I didn't want to go home -- not yet -- and still, I needed to stop for 30 seconds to relieve myself. If I go home, I thought, Mom will make me come inside for the evening --- take a bath and get ready for bed. So, I pulled into the alley behind our house, and without getting off of the bike, unzipped my jeans and took care of business off of the side of my bike. Then I hurriedly zipped up my jeans and --- OUCH!...I had managed to zip up 'Oscar' in the zipper of my jeans! That really hurt! I was frozen in pain, and yet, I knew I couldn't stay in the alley all night. I tried to free myself from the zipper. I tried and tried, to no avail. The pain was almost unbearable! Then it gradually got dark.

I decided to try to ease back up on the bicycle seat and carefully coast down the alley and around the corner back to our house. Big mistake! As I carefully eased back up onto the seat -- still in terrible pain -- I slowly put my right foot up onto the pedal to give it a tiny push. I pulled my shirt down over my open pants, and then started rolling down the alley toward the street. I no sooner began pedaling than I realized that the cuff on my 'high water' jeans had gotten caught in the sprocket of the bicycle! "OH, GREAT!", I thought. "Now I've done it! I'm stuck here in the alley. I can't pedal and I can't get off of the bike without tearing 'something vital.' " I couldn't move! I WAS TOTALLY IMMOBILIZED! TOTALLY!

I stood there quietly in the alley for a long, long time. I had a vivid imagination, and began to think of all sorts of 'outcomes'...none of them pleasant!

I had mental pictures of people driving down the alley, plowing into the 'paralyzed kid' on his bike! I thought that I might be there all night, until someone could see me the next day. Then I thought of my parents. They will think that I've run away from home when I don't come home tonight. They may call the neighbors or the police and I may be 'discovered' by people with very bright, utterly revealing flashlights! I'll be ruined at school, I thought. How can this be any worse? I know how it can be worse --- what if they have Sylvia Harrell and her Mom and Aunt join in the 'search' and Sylvia finds me? (Sylvia was a young girl from church who was, at that moment of my life, and for years thereafter, the love of my life, as the saying goes). She lived half a block from our home. I would rather have died than for Sylvia or her Mom and Dad to find me in that ridiculous, embarrassing situation in the alley!

Very late that evening, my Mom went outside our home, looking for me. None of the neighborhood kids had not seen me in hours. Mom and Dad were bound to be worried. I didn't know it at the time, but they had gone out looking for me. Dad went one direction and Mom went in another direction, talking with neighbors and calling my name. I heard Mom coming, and I responded with an answering 'yell'. I was both so glad to see her, and yet mortified to have to have my Mom, of all people, help me get 'free' so I could go home. How embarrassing! It took awhile, but eventually, both 'Oscar' and my jeans were free and I went home. Eventually I healed up and the humiliation subsided. Mom didn't tell anyone what happened and I didn't either, for many, many years.

I learned a lot from that episode...but the most important lessons I learned were:
Don't 'whiz' off of a bicycle, put the chain guard back on the bike...and never forget to remember ALL of the kindnesses of parents. They go through SO MUCH in trying to raise their kids!

Gunplay at church - a lie - forgiveness- a life changed

In 1957, I was 13. I had a paper route in the afternoons after school in Oak Cliff. I had somewhere around 120 papers to deliver every day. The papers were Dallas newspapers, and they were heavy. It was a tough route to walk every day. It was good for me, though. It made me tough. I carried two bags of papers -- one over each shoulder. I walked for a couple of miles, delivering those papers. Delivering papers was a way I could contribute to the 'Shoemake family income.' I helped buy groceries with my paper route money and never minded doing it one bit. I felt like a real asset to the family. I felt important--I 'contributed' and that's a good thing for a kid (then or now!).

I was still an immature kid, however, and once or twice I got into trouble via the afternoon paper route. My papers were delivered each day on the north side of the Sunset church of Christ parking lot, out by the curb on Jefferson Boulevard, just west of Hampton Road. On one particular day, I decided to take my pellet rifle with me. I chose a day when the papers were pretty light, and the added weight of the air rifle was not going to be a burden. While waiting for the papers to arrive by delivery truck, I started plinking at things -- cans and bottles that I found next to the church parking lot. I got bored with those targets and soon spied targets I could not resist! The large floodlight bulbs esconced within metal reflectors, situated high up on the auditorium building of the Sunset church where we were members. I knew it was wrong, but I was a dumb kid, with no sense of the cost of things or the mess that I would make. I was tempted and I gave in to temptation. I began aiming at, and exploding the bulbs. I was having great fun, until Jack Hardcastle, our pulpit minister, drove up and got out of his car.

Mr. Hardcastle asked me if I was the one who was responsible for the glass on the ground under the reflectors on the sides of the building. I was standing there with a pellet rifle. I was the only person for a hundred yards. The glass had barely stopped 'tinkling' on the concrete, and, if this had been a Western film, my rifle barrel would still have been 'smoking' from the firing of the rifle! No, I didn't look guilty...NOT MUCH! A reasoning person, 'caught with the goods', would have instantly confessed to the crime, knowing that it was all over. Instead of doing this, I stood my ground and came out with what I remember as the first whopper I had ever told in my life. I denied what I had done! I LIED!

Mr. Hardcastle was not pleased, but he outwardly expressed his acceptance of my denial as 'the gospel truth'....and he never told my parents! I would have been beat within an inch of my life had he told Mom and Dad. I was ashamed, but kept my conscience in check, and covered up the lie. The guilt in me festered like a boil.

My conscience bothered me for years. In 1964, after having enrolled at Oklahoma Christian College, Jack Hardcastle was on campus, for the OCC Lectureship, if memory serves me correctly. I saw him from a distance and worked my way through the crowd, wanting to talk with him. When I got my chance, I introduced myself to him...hesitantly. He remembered me, and smiled a kind smile -- not the reproving scowl I deserved and half-expected. I told Mr. Hardcastle that in the summer of 1957 when he drove up and saw me with the air rifle and asked me if I had been the one shooting out the flood lights and had denied doing so ---that I WAS the one who had been doing just that! He smiled a forgiving and understanding smile, put his hand on my shoulder, and told me that he had known it all along. He told me that he forgave me for what I had done and had watched me over the years following my 'Sunset shootout', and knew that I had become someone different...someone with 'admirable qualities'. He told me that he knew that I had done things for my family and that he appreciated who I had become -- adding that he had often inquired about me over the years. He told me that he could tell that I was truly sorry, and that now I had to forgive myself.

I walked away from my talk with Mr. Hardcastle, and as I left him I felt like I had been reborn! I had confessed something that had bothered me for years, and had been forgiven. I had never known that kind of forgiveness from my own Dad, who I am sure, loved me and my brother George and my other siblings, but we were never TOLD that we were forgiven...or loved. Forgiveness, or an arm around the shoulder, or kind words were not something that we got from our Dad. We were disciplined, and we were provided for, but what we really wanted and needed was always missing from Dad. I know he meant well, but all four of us kids wished things could have been different.

As a consequence-- in my adult life, I have 'seized' on the qualities I have seen in men whom I have respected. At Fort Worth Christian College (1962 and 1963), I locked in on Elmo Hall, one of my professors. I also homed in on Marshall Keeble, a fiery black minister, who was the best preacher I had ever heard in my life to that point in time. I admired Jimmy Allen, the evangelist.

When I transferred to OCC in the fall of 1964, I again saw and watched Elmo Hall. I saw how he treated his family, and how he treated people with whom he came into contact every day. I saw his compassion, his love of the Lord, and the constancy of his devotion to family and the church. I watched and learned from Ralph Burcham, Mickey Banister and Bailey McBride, in whom I have seen an uncommon kindness and a gentleness of spirit that is magnetic! I found wisdom in all of these men, and a 'composite' of all the things I hold dear, and treasure in godly men. I have never told any of these men what I am sharing with you now, but I will. They need to know what an impact they have had on my life (and the lives of countless others).

People are watching all of us all the time, observing how we treat others...looking to see if we are the 'genuine article.' Lives are being changed all the time by the way we live our lives...by the way we treat people...by our words, our actions...a warm smile, a word of forgiveness or encouragement or a hand around a shoulder. Let's all remember to love each other. Life is over so quickly...each of us has a chance...as well as a responsibility...to be a light in this world.

'Redemption' by candy at Lida Hooe Elementary

I was in the 6th grade, in Dallas, Texas. We lived four blocks from the Sunset church of Christ in Oak Cliff (when Oak Cliff was still a nice place to live -- before it became a ghetto). One day when dad was at work and Mom had gone somewhere for the day, I thought it would be cool to skip school for a day. With no parental oversight, I had a grand day. Dressed in a pair of summer shorts and a t-shirt -- barefooted and free -- I decided to get on my old-timey-ugly-brown-rusty-no-handle-grips-balloon-tire bicycle and ride back and forth in the street next to the playground of my school---Lida Hooe -- my elementary school on Hampton Road. I knew when my classmates would be out on the playground, right after lunch, and I wanted to taunt my friends and make them feel like they were really missing out on the great fun I was experiencing, skipping school on such a grand day! I wanted them to suffer a little bit after seeing my apparent freedom. I rode grandly back and forth -- up and down the street on the north side of the school building, smiling and waving at my buddies (and hoping the girls were watching). Then I started doing the 'no hands' maneuver, whereby one steers the bicycle, sans hands, weaving from one side to the other like a surfer riding his board.

Suddenly, without any warning at all, the front fender on that old heavy clunker of a bicycle, dropped down over the front tire! The front of the bicycle stopped instantly, since the tire abruptly quit turning and the front of the bike stopped! The rear of the bicycle, however, went into a rear-over-front flip. Naturally, since I was perched up high on that semi-tractor seat, (which had its own set of strong springs), I was propelled over the front of the bicycle and onto the pavement. Just as you might imagine, it was another instance of 'teeth, hair and eyeballs' splattered all over the street. My bare elbows, kneecaps, hands and other body parts slammed into the hard pavement. As if this was not bad enough, the rear end of the bicycle, along with the bicycle seat, then slammed into me. I didn't have handlebars on my old bike, and one of the metal handlebar tubes drove itself into the space between the first and second knuckles on my right hand -- hard enough that I couldn't use that hand for days (and had what appeared to be a reddish blood clot between those two knuckles for years).

I picked my body up off of the pavement, to the laughter of a large number of my classmates and other hecklers, who thought that my nearly getting killed, while showing off in the street, was GREAT FUN!

By now, all my joints were getting into some serious 'synchronized bleeding'. Later on, I got 'busted' by the teachers, for skipping school, and had to stay after school every day for a long time. I also got busted with a belt that night when Dad came home. I wrecked my sole means of transportation, and made myself the laughing stock of Lida Hooe Elementary.

The ridicule went on for a long time, but I finally redeemed myself in the eyes of my classmates when I began furnishing them with a steady supply of cinnamon sticks that I would buy on the way to school (a small store next to a funeral home that I passed while walking to school each day). I loaded up my pants pockets with various articles of purchased contraband that I bought for a nickel or a dime and then re-sold at school, furtively, lest I get caught, for 3 times what I paid for them. My hottest selling item was a cinnamon stick called a 'Fire Stick.' Eventually I quit 'carrying' all the other items and focused on Fire Stick sales. The sticks were 4 or 5 inches long and about twice the thickness of a piece of chewing gum. I could pack a lot of them into my jeans pockets. I started doubling or tripling my money every day, and eventually pocketed some serious money...for a 6th grader!

The candy sales made me a 6th grade hero (others could have done it, but were afraid of getting caught -- or, they had no store in the route they had to take to get to school). I was able to make the embarrassment and ridicule from the bicycle fiasco fade away in time ---and I did it with cinnamon sticks! Redemption by candy at Lida Hooe Elementary!

The first ten years are sometimes the hardest!

When I was a newborn, my Mom was at the home of her in-laws in Sherman, Texas. She was holding me and she leaned over to latch a screen window in my grandmother's bedroom. As she leaned over, I moved suddenly and she lost her hold on me. I fell into the window, and past the still-unlatched window screen. I landed on the gravel outside the window. My mother and grandmother rushed me off to the hospital, thinking that I had sustained some internal injuries. I was not 'broken', but my Mother lost standing in the eyes of her mother-in-law when the accident happened. She felt like she was not a good mother, at least in the eyes of my grandmother.

I survived that first 'fall', and went on to move, with my parents, and siblings, to Houston, Texas. We lived out on Yale Street -- sort of out in the country -- and we had chickens. When I was two years old, and was chasing chickens one day, I slipped and fell onto an old washtub. The bottom of the washtub had rusted out and had become a sickle-shaped piece of rusted, yet sharp metal. When I fell, that rusted metal went across the top of my head, effectively almost scalping me. Off we went to the hospital. I got sewed up and months later, my thick, curly blond hair didn't betray the horseshoe-shaped sutures beneath. See the pic of me and sister Nancy -- before the chicken-chasing, washtub disaster. The other pic is of me, AFTER the hair came back. (Raegan, your Poppy gave you your pretty, curly hair -- don't ever forget it!).

I didn't want to go to school as a little kid. On the first day of kindergarten, my Mom left me with my kindergarten teacher at the Woodrow Wilson Elementary School in Houston, Texas. I made it through part of the day, but the little girl, Antoinette, who took a nap on a towel next to mine, on the floor, soaked us both while she was asleep! Wet, thoroughly grossed out and embarrassed, I left -- walked right out of the classroom -- out the door -- and went straight home! I didn't care much for school!

I felt pretty good about going home. It was a good decision! I enjoyed the walk. When I got home, however, the novelty left when I got a good paddling --- with Mom's Fuller Brush hairbrush (the good one, with the wooden handle). She marched me right back to school (with dry pants), and I suffered through the rest of the day, looking at the alphabet, trying to duplicate what I saw on the blackboard on my Big Chief tablet, trying to learn the alphabet while taking turns learning to tie shoes on a giant red wooden shoe...and staying WELL AWAY from Antoinette!

The next few years in grade school were better. I fell in love with all of my teachers and not a few of the girls in the classes.

Saturdays saw a bunch of the guys in our neighborhood, going to a local theater for the Saturday matinee, to watch 'shoot-em-ups'. The tickets cost a quarter, and my folks allowed me to do that-- unsupervised, since a bunch of guys all went there together (safety in numbers I guess).

Some of us managed to pick up ring worm at that classy theater. Our school picture showed several of us wearing those flat caps boys wore in those days --you've seen them. Like they wore in 'Little Rascals.' A small brim in front. There we were -- as bald as bald can be. No hair, no eyelashes, no eyebrows. We looked like little Martians. I was especially homely looking, as I was sporting a wicked set of Mortimer Snerd buck teeth. To have been 'street legal', I probably should have been wearing a sign, warning people to avoid bumping into me. The teeth I was sporting could have been their undoing. And that's the plain 'tooth!' The teeth, combined with the bald head, capped off by a dorky looking cap from the 1030's, made me a real looker! See the pic above of my 1954 Grade School class. I'm the guy, 2nd row from the top, left of center, with the dark cap. A kid that only a mother could love! My only comfort was that some of the other guys were in the 4th grade and also bald! As bad as this was, it gets worse...

I went to a doctor (of sorts). The standard treatment among the learned physicians back in the 1950's included irradiating peoples' heads when they picked up ringworm! They would lay what looked like heavy truck tire innertubes lined with lead, on our chests and then blast away at our heads with radiation...x-rays!...to kill the ring worms, of course! Our hair, eyebrows and eyelashes grew back, over time, but the humiliation faded away much more slowly.

In June of 1953, when I was 8, and going on 9, the Alco Fireworks plant, near our home in Houston, exploded! My brother, age 6, and I had been taking a nap. I had awakened, and was 'sneaking' out of the room, so my younger brother would not awaken and start following me around again. As I started to leave the room, a monstrous explosion shook our home, knocking me off of my feet. I landed hard on the floor. My brother, George, came flying out of bed, and barely missed being sliced and diced by a large mirror that shattered and sent large shards of glass all over our bedroom floor.

We ran outside and looked around. To the right, past the Baird's Bakery that was located a few blocks away, right next to the River Oaks Shopping Center, we saw a huge fireball -- a gigantic mushroom -- rising into the air. There was a lot of damage in our neighborhood, from broken windows and structural damage to homes, shaken by the explosion. Later we found out that people had died -- a large number of people had been hurt. An automobile ---a Crosley automobile, if memory serves me right -- had been thrown hundreds of yards through the air. The fireworks plant was blown to smithereens. At this time, however, we didn't know that the explosion was caused by the detonation of a fireworks plant. We all thought that we had been attacked by Russia!

We lived in a time, back then, of drills in the schools, to prepare for the possibility of nuclear attacks from the Russians (as though 'duck and cover' would help when ones' city had just been vaporized!). We had regular 'duck and cover' drills at school, and, as kids, had a sense of impending doom, even though we didn't really understand the threat. We didn't get bombed, however, and so life settled down after awhile. In the fall, school started again, and we went back to buying stamps to put into the pages of our little books. When the pages were filled, we got a War Bond! It was the patriotic thing to do back then. We all wanted to support the Korean War effort, although we didn't know where Korea was or why we were at war. We just did what we were asked to do.

Occasionally, Mom would take my brother and I shopping for shoes. They had this nifty device in the stores in the 1950's that was a kid's delight....none other than a small x-ray machine (they called it a fluoroscope...but an x-ray machine is an x-ray machine...no matter what you want to call it). One could stand in front of the device and stick a foot into the opening, and then press a button and see the bones in ones' foot! What a neat toy to allow kids to play with while Mom shopped for shoes! We played with it endlessly....(no wonder most of us who grew up back then are a little 'different' now!). Sometimes my brother or I would stick our hands in the machine and let the other brother look at the bones in our hands as well. Great fun! Playing with x-ray machines! The thing was probably developed by Hitler's henchman, Mengele, to genetically alter all of America's kids!

I made it to age 10, and watched 'Superman' every afternoon after school, at the home of 'Lalo' Reese, my little neighbor who was short and chunky, and, with her chili-bowl haircut, looked a little like a tiny, female Friar Tuck! My, did we love Superman! Her Mom always served us chocolate cookies and Kool-Aid. The Reese's were also more affluent than we were...not only did they have a television, but they had a window air conditioner as well. Rich people! ....Back to Superman...

I had a lot of confidence as a kid, and became convinced that with a proper cape, I, too, could learn to fly like Superman. One afternoon I strapped on a less-than-perfect cape...certainly not flashy like Superman's cape, but one that I was able to craft out of one of Mom's old bed sheets. I got up on top of our garage and then leaped, and soared off into....the ground! I didn't get hurt too badly, other than two sprained ankles, but came close to landing on one of the 54 turtles that I had collected...turtles that roamed all over our backyard during the warmer months.

We stabled our horses at the Post Oak Stables (Dad was a member of the Harris County Sheriff's Mounted Posse -- something he did as a hobby), and the turtles were, I guess, attracted to the bugs that were attracted to all the manure. Mom didn't like the turtles too much. We didn't have a clothes dryer in 1954, and Mom would hang the wash on clotheslines in the backyard. While she was looking up, putting clothespins in the clothes on the clothesline, turtles would clamber over her feet, sometimes almost sending her into orbit! Great fun, I thought!

Speaking of doing laundry, Mom also made our laundry soap. She made it in large basins, out of lye and what else I do not remember. I can still remember Mom grating large pieces of that lye soap, using a cheese grater. I would also grate soap, and the trick, of course, was to not run ones' knuckles over the cheese grater! We used an 'agitating washer', but, I can also remember Mom using a scrub board for some of dad's clothes. That was hard work. Looking back, I don't know how she did it....leaning over the bathtub with a scrub board and her homemade soap, scrubbing dirt out of three boys' jeans and dad's clothes. We had a 'wringer' on the washing machine, and we were given strict instructions to stay away from it. We had heard lots of stories about people getting hair, hands, fingers, arms, and other appendages caught in the wringer. One still hears an occasional reference to someone getting his/her '(blank) caught in the wringer...'.

When I was 10 we went to the Houston zoo. Nice zoo. I ran ahead of my parents and stuck my head between two of the vertical iron bars outside the zoo - bars that were part of the fence decoration at the entrance to the zoo. Bad move. (Why do kids stick their heads between bars?...because they're THERE, of course!). I got my head stuck and all the kings horses and all the kings men couldn't get my head back through the bars. Finally, in desperation, the zoo people called the Houston Fire Department! Here they came, sirens blaring! A small crowd gathered. What a humiliation. If I hadn't been crying so persistently, I probably would have gotten a huge whipping by my Dad for that stunt.

Not long after this, my family and I witnessed the event in Houston that, even today, remains unexplained. All of Houston, TX., saw the event in the sky. I wrote about it in an earlier post. THAT was an amazing day, and I still think of it often and wonder. When you have a minute, read that earlier post, 'You tell ME what they were!'

Not long after, while messing around in our garage, I found dozens of old shotgun shells that belonged to my Dad. I had been experimenting with the rolled caps from my cap guns and the way the gunpowder 'flashes' when one scrapes a sharp object across the top of the caps. I thought: "I know -- I'll open up all of these shotgun shells and collect the powder that it inside them and make a bigger flash!" Another not-so-bright idea. It took hours, but I got all of the shells opened -- collected the powder and then began my experiment. It flashed all right...so big that when it ignited, it blinded me and seriously burned my face, fingers, hands and arms. I had to go to the doctor a lot that summer....it took months to get over that 'experiment.'

In late fall, my neighbor Bobby, who was about 13, decided to dig a 'fox hole' in the vacant lot on the corner of our street. He had his dad's pick-ax...you know, a blade on one side and a sharp pick on the other side. He had been digging for a long time when I showed up with a couple of buddies. I stood on the other side of the hole where Bobby was diging. As he plunged the blade down into the hole, I looked down in the hole to check on the progress. He yanked the pick-ax back up, and it hit me squarely in the center of my forehead. It hurt....oh, yes...it hurt a lot! And then the bleeding started, and I bled like a stuck pig. I was skinny back then and I ran home, with blood coursing down my face, neck and chest. Back to the doctor. Stitches. My forehead was mangled...I looked like a 10-yr. old Charles Manson...without the swastika carved into my forehead. It took years before the scar faded.

Later that year, near Christmas, Bobby, the 'old' 13-yr. old neighbor, was throwing a knife into a chinaberry tree. It was a beautiful knife. It has a fake pearl handle, and the blade was about 4 inches long (maybe a little less...to my eyes back then it looked like a Bowie knife!). He was pretty good at throwing it hard enough and accurately enough for it to usually stick in the tree....usually being the operative word here. I was impressed. He threw it once more and it richocheted off of the tree and embedded itself in my thigh. I took off for home, with the knife moving back and forth as I ran. Mom had to remove the knife and...you guessed it...take me back to the doctor again. More stitches. This time, however, Bobby got the whipping-- from his dad. If I had thought about the pick-ax and the knife and had ever put the two events together, I might have had second thoughts about running around with Bobby.

Right after the end of the year, after my dad's shooting-the-ornaments-off-of-the-Christmas-tree-stunt, with his cousin, Otis, (Matt Gayle's great uncle), the neighbors put their Christmas trees out on the curb for the trash man to collect. Good old Bobby -- our mentor and teacher -- collected the trees and put them in his back yard, in order to construct another, in a series, of ill-fated 'forts'. It was a grand fort, and we set about making the fortifications secure -- against imagined 'foreign invaders'. My brother George, as part of his preparations, brought matches from home -- the big kitchen matches. One day in January, George-- ever one for experimentation -- lit a match and accidentally set the fort on fire! He managed to burn down Bobby's parents' garage and everything in it!

We all got a whipping for that...all of us. Especially Bobby. His Dad nailed his hide to the wall! And come to think of it, George and I each got two whippings for that stunt....a 'two-for-one-stunt'---one from Mom and another from Dad once he got home from work. Mom used her Fuller hair brush (I still have it...broken wooden handle and all).

After the Christmas tree fort fire, one of the neighbor boys (from over the back fence, behind Bobby's house)-- still mad about the whipping he got from his participation in our fort activities--- beat up my brother George one day. I heard George crying, as the boy, 12, and his brother, 11, let my brother have it while George was on their side of the fence. George was only 8 years old, and was trying to climb the fence, to come home, and the boys kept hitting him. I grabbed a brick, climbed up the 'hog-wire' fence, and heaved the brick at the older of the two brothers, to try to make them leave George alone. The brick hit the older boy in the shin and he went down like a 'TON of bricks'. Those boys were never friends again after the brick incident, but they also left George alone.

The next summer, while I was still age 10, George and I were at my grandmothers' home in Sherman, Texas (the site of the cannon incident I told about in an earlier blog). We were across the street, down at the bottom of the bluff, just outside the weeds, in the creek bottom. We were playing with Dad's magnifying glass. It was a big, powerful magnifying glass. You could burn your initials into boards in seconds! George got tired of burning words into wood, and he experimented for a bit with dried weeds. You know where this is going....seconds later, the fire he started was racing up the steep wall of that bluff. From the creek bed to the top of the bluff was about 50 feet. The flames were immense! It was an raging inferno! It was loud! I had never heard a fire make so much noise. The cedar trees along the way went up like Roman candles! The heat created wind, that swept the flames up the side of the bluff. In a few minutes, we heard the fire trucks coming. They finally put the fire out. Two telephone poles were charred. The wires between the poles were 'toast', and had to be replaced. Just like my dad had received a hard whipping for setting a cannon off right over the same place (when he was a young kid, maybe 25 years earlier) where my brother George started a fire, George and I both received a 'belt' whippping (much worse than a hairbrush whipping, since it was administered by Dad, and he hit harder than Mom did).

This pretty well summarizes my first ten years! Most of my early years were filled with wonderful days-- fun times that I remember like they were yesterday. Carefree days of wearing a pair of shorts and nothing else...running like the wind, riding bikes and exploring and pretending. These years were just punctuated every now and then with unusual events --- probably much like your lives have likely been!

Putter pics for interested bloggers!

Here's what the putter looks like with a printed name in block letters, or a signature.

This is going to be fun! I can't wait for the drawings, late this year! Good luck!

How to get 'comments'...bribe 'em with golf putters, of course!

I just read my daughter Gena's blog. She's changing her 'address' so her name is not part of the blog name. Good move...I guess. I'm not very technically literate, and I'm too trusting to really understand why that's a good idea, but maybe it has to do with fears of 'identity theft', or a fear of weird guys stalking little children (I can understand that...big time!).

Gena said something funny on her blog tonight...it had to do with her trying to squeeze comments from people who read her blog.....good luck with that one, Gena. Most people like their anonymity, I guess. Part of the fun in blogging, at least for me, is having someone leave a comment. I want to try to 'draw out' some visitors who read my blog but never let me know they've been here. That's kind of like going to a friend's wedding and not signing the guest book....and then slipping out of the church building before the ceremony is over. Right?

I have always wished more people would let me know they've read my blog. That makes it more fun for me, too. I comment a lot on others' blogs, and enjoy doing so. Some people don't want to comment, however, and I understand that...I guess. Stay with me here. I've got an idea!

I'm going to try something FUN! For those of you who don't read blogs without pictures, you can sign off now. This won't have pictures--at least today. Don't get me wrong -- when I was young I wouldn't read things either, if there were no pictures on the pages. Now that my maturity has reached such an advanced level (major grin here), I'm deliberately weeding out the intellectually-challenged readers who rely on visual stimulation along with their printed pages. Such 'mentally dwarfed individuals' will drop out along here somewhere, I'm guessing.

I'm going to save all my 'comments', where people actually identify themselves as having visited my blog. Toward the end of the year, I am going to type out all the names and put them in a container and have a little child stir the names up (Raegan, maybe?), and pull out a few names. The owners of those names will receive a gift! A custom-personalized golf putter. The retail value of the putters will be substantially over $100. I'll share with you the retail value of the clubs later this year, in another blog.

One day soon, I will have the time to post a picture of one of the golf putters on my blog, so you can see it. I will custom-personalize that golf putter with the name of the recipient in block letters or something more cursive, such as Zaph Chancery font, or, should the recipient want me to do so, I will use his/her actual signature and custom-personalize the club with his/her signature!

I make these clubs in a proprietary process that I developed back about 1989. The club head is made of stainless steel, and will be fitted to the recipients' wishes as to length.

A length of 35" is standard for putters. The putters will have a genuine black leather, fur-lined putter cover, with a velcro strap. The personalized area on the club looks like black glass, with the gold lettering appearing to be floating in the cavity of the club, within the 'black glass.' The material is invulnerable to sunlight, and will never pull away from the putter head. It will not fade. It is simply gorgeous! The club is not just a 'pretty face', however. It is a functional club, and has been used by many customers since the late '80's It comes in a right hand model only, at this time.

These clubs are soon to be re-introduced in the U.S. market after a 7 year absence. We produced these clubs for 11 years, and sold them to companies all over the U.S.--companies like Coca Cola, ESPN, AC Delco (a division of GM), American Airlines, all the major oil companies, and so on. Every country western star you are likely familiar with has one of our golf putters -- given to them by Bob Woods, an OKC man who worked with and recorded some of these people -- Vince, Reba, Garth, Roy Clark, George Strait, and lots of others.

These are beautiful clubs, and you can't get them anywhere else! We designed the club heads, and they carry our logo. Our former logo was 'BackNine', and we dropped that after 11 years. Our new logo is 'OneStroke', and we've trademarked that name. You won't ever see our clubs in stores. We haven't and won't -- advertise them. We sell directly to companies, primarily, and they use our clubs as gifts for their best customers-- people who spend a lot of money with them.

We do sell to individuals as well, but the vast majority of our clubs were sold to large companies. We think our internet sales will also, over time, bring in buyers who want that special, unique (redundant?) gift item that can be custom-personalized with a name and a message, and given for birthday, retirement, job advancement, or any of a dozen other reasons. Wait till you see the pics of our clubs on my blog next week. The club will knock your socks off! We sold many, many thousands of them until 7 years ago when we could no longer obtain club heads in the United States. Our U.S. foundries couldn't seem to make metal heads without at least 30% of them having serious flaws. So, with the help of a well-connected friend, we are having them made overseas now. Our first shipment came in two weeks ago. We're having a web site developed and are getting the last few things put together so we can start producing them again. I will get the site up and running and then Paula will take it over -- at least until I retire someday from Premiere Roofing and join her.

This will be a fun experiment. I may or may not draw out the heretofore 'anonymous' visitors to my blog. There's no harm in trying, is there? There's no cost involve, so there's nothing illegal about this. There's no gambling involved (we couldn't have that, could we, Joetta?...a little private family joke here) :)

So, now that we have long ago weeded out the bloggers who have to have 'picture-pages,' you tough, stalwart bloggers who stay with me and identify yourselves when you visit my site, will have a better chance of winning a beautiful golf club for yourself or your significant other! As my Mom would have said: "How 'bout THEM apples?"

" I'm gon' shoot you, man! "

In the winter of 1983, about February, I'd guess, Paula and I, along with our two kids, Gena,5,and Jeff, 2, had just left the Sunday morning services at the Wilshire church of Christ in OKC. We were heading north on Kelley Ave, and passed an interesting sight -- a very large, tall man, was carrying a huge television from the side of a residence next to Kelley Ave., some fifty feet, out to the street on the side of the house. I said to Paula: 'Can you believe that someone would carry something that heavy so far when he could have parked the car up by the front door and carried it ten feet to the car?' We drove on for another block and then it hit me -- that guy was carrying that television out the side window of that home because he was probably likely stealing the television!

I turned the 1982 Buick LeSabre around in the middle of Kelly and slowly drove back south, in time to see the big man set the television in the back of a car and then, without taking time to tie down the truck lid, get back in the car and head south on Kelley. (Not tie down the trunk lid? Who would do that to a nice television if they were not in the commission of a crime? He's either a criminal or really stupid). The man saw me behind him and he eased his car into a right turn into the Musgrave neighborhood, driving slowly -- nonchalantly. The trunk lid was still bouncing up and down on the t.v. I stayed right behind him as he wound his way through the neighborhood, up one street and down another, gradually picking up speed. The streets wound around and there were vehicles here and there on both sides of the street, and that prevented him from really flying through the neighborhood. That was a good thing. There were also low spots on the pavement, at the intersections where streets met, for water drainage. Those prevented him from racing along too fast.

That's odd, I thought! Why would he do that? He was not really going anywhere...he was circling back toward the house where he had taken the television! As we passed the house for the second time, I looked toward the still-open window on the side of the house and saw the curtains hanging out the window, along with the upper half of a second man, who was watching our two-car 'parade'. Now I knew for sure what was going on: the second man was the accomplice, and he was waiting for his 'ride' to pick him up! At this point, I 'sat down on the horn' and continued following the guy with the television as he hurried up and down the streets to the west, south and north of the home where the television had been stolen. I was determined that the man in the window would not be getting his 'ride!'

You need to understand the sound of the horn on that big, new '82 Buick LeSabre. It sounded like the horn on a big Santa Fe train engine! It was a huge sound. I stayed on the horn, following the guy closely as he became ever more frantic. People in the neighborhood, who had slept in on this beautiful Sunday morning, started coming out of their houses, some in bathrobes, and staring at the spectacle. Some were likely angry at the loud, insistent honking on a quiet Sunday morning. Then I saw a nicely-dressed woman stop in her driveway. She had been to church services somewhere and was arriving home. I stopped and rolled down the window long enough to tell her there was a burglary in progress and asked her to call the police. She said she would.

I resumed the chase. The guy in the car, with the television then left the neighborhood, abandoning his accomplice and heading south on Kelley at a pretty good clip, his trunk lid still slamming repeatedly into the television. He got away, but I had his tag number and description of him and his car that I later shared with the police.

I drove back by the house and saw the other man -- the 'accomplice', hurry out of the front door of the home that the two men had been burglarizing. He headed west on that street, hands in his pockets, like he was heading off for a really fast, Sunday morning stroll. He walked really fast, as though he might have had a really strong case of the 'Tennessee Quick-Step' and was heading home to take care of business! I paced his fast walk, just about twenty feet behind him. He was on the sidewalk and I was close by, heading west in the street, trying to make sure I didn't hit any of the dozens of vehicles parked on the street in front of homes. The man was a very large man -- maybe 6'4", and approximately 230 lbs. His shirt tail was out and he took his hands out of his pockets, to walk faster, I'd guess. He ignored my presence in the street, some twenty feet behind and to his right.

My window was still down, so I spoke to him: "Say, did you see those guys breaking into that home down on the corner?" He replied: "No, man....did you see what they looked like?" To that I had to laugh, as I replied: "Yeah, as a matter of fact, I did...I got a good look at the thief who stole the television set....but you must know what he looked like...after all, he's your buddy!" To that comment, the big guy looked directly at me for the first time and said: "I'm gon' shoot you, man!" He reached with his left hand into his left front pants pocket, as though he was reaching for a gun. Thinking that he was bluffing, I quickly said to him: "Go ahead...do what you need to do, but, before you have a chance to shoot us, I'm gonna cut the wheel and run over you!"

His threat was a bluff, and he then took off running down the sidewalk-- pretty fast for a big guy. I continued to pace him, and I could tell that he knew he didn't have enough 'gas' to match the gas in a car, so he then ran between two homes and disappeared. Just about then the police helicopter appeared, followed by two squad cars. I stopped and told the officers what what had happened and they took up the chase. They caught the guy, hiding behind someones' home.

The other guy, the one with the television, was caught the next day, in one of the motels that existed back then, frequented by drug users and prostitutes -- just north of the Oklahoma State Capitol.

I was called to testify in court, and had the pleasure of pointing out the 'bluffer' who threatened to shoot us. He got fifteen years. He was a repeat offender. For some reason, I was not needed to testify in the case of the guy with the car and the television. I guess they caught him with the 'goods'.

The only downside to the adventure was the verbal thrashing I got from Paula, who was sitting in the front seat of our car. I realized that, while helping to catch the 'bad guys', I did a really stupid thing: I endangered the lives of my family by following the guy through the neighborhood (although not at a high rate of speed), and by verbally engaging one of the guys on the sidewalk who threatened to shoot us. Not a very bright thing to do.

I don't remember the sermon at Wilshire that morning. It got eclipsed by the 'action' on the way home from church. God's angels must have been watching over us that day!

Thanks, Arni, for your gift to me!

In 1968 and 1969, while working for Dow Chemical and healing up from a bunch of surgeries from an accident I had in 1966, I had a friend at Dow named Bill Pryor.  He invited me to come over for dinner one night and his wife cooked dinner.  After dinner he showed me some beautiful oil paintings that he had painted.  I was impressed!  I asked Bill if he would show me how to paint.  He startled me with: "NO...but I'll show you what materials to buy.  If you're truly interested, you'll figure out how to paint.  Get a couple of inexpensive books.  They'll give you a little direction."  So -- right there, that weekend, I became a would-be artist.  I stayed with it, and over the next decade, did dozens of seascapes and sunsets in oils.  I loved it!

Later on, in 1979, living in Edmond, married for four years, with a baby daughter, Gena Marie, and a baby boy due to be born in January, 1980, I began taking watercolor lessons from Arni Anderson -- (Robin Anderson's dad, and Matt Gayle's father-in-law). As much fun as oils were, painting in watercolors was harder -- more challenging! Arni was (and is) a great teacher. He was patient,kind, and a source of encouragement and inspiration. I am so thankful for his having introduced me to a medium that is difficult to navigate without instruction. Arni encouraged me to go to a few workshops where I saw masters of the watercolor medium, work their magic -- while carrying on conversations with awe-struck students like me!

Now, 29 years after starting lessons with Arni, I'm still hooked on watercolor painting. I can't play the violin like Gena or her Mom (my wife, Paula). I can't sing like Gena's husband, Erick -- but, I can and have found expression through my watercolors. I'll never be an Arni Anderson, but I can paint for my own enjoyment, and that's enough for me.

Arni may not even remember his gift to me, but I will never forget what he shared with me during those lessons that I enjoyed for more than a year. I'll always be grateful that he left me with an ability, to some extent, to express my thoughts in a fun and challenging way.

Here are a couple of watercolors from the 'past'. The scene with the bluebonnets was an early painting that I copied from another artist. Trying to learn by copying is something that was good training. Later on, with a little experience, it is not difficult to imagine scenes that you want to paint, from your own mind. The winter scene is my own creation, and, naturally, producing something that is 'your own' is much more fulfilling.

I signed my name in the barbed wire, so my signature wouldn't ruin the painting. I hope you enjoy them. I hope, too, that if you get into a 'funk' and feel caught in a rut, that you'll consider seeking out someone who can help you 'find yourself' artistically, in one thing or another. Find someone with a passion for what they do best and dive in! Find an 'Arni Anderson.' You've got everything to gain and you'll never be sorry for having done it! Some of my favorite memories of Gena and Jeff, when they were little, was in having them join me in the kitchen for 'watercolor sessions'. Those were sweet times for a Dad to get to enjoy with his kids. I'll never ever forget those days. I also had the privilege of teaching a few friends a little about watercolor painting. My Mom and Dad became painters in the sunset of their lives, due to an 'extension' of Arni's good instruction...I shared what little I knew with them! Mom was good. Dad wanted to be good.

Dad was the eternal optimist. Always one for jumping the gun, so to speak, when Dad decided to become a painter, he immediately went out and had business cards made that said: Jack Shoemake, humorous Western artist! Unbelievable! Business cards!...when he had yet to have his first lesson! Then he went to Triangle A&E in Dallas and bought about a $1,000 of art supplies --- expensive easel, gobs of paints and brushes and this and that. Then he built a studio out behind their home in Dallas. He went into painting full-tilt ---like he did with everything else in his life. He never learned how to paint, but I always was both a little embarrassed by his 'spontaneity'...and yet, somehow, I admired him for his passion for anything he was interestd in.

Mom, in her quiet way, let Dad have all the 'glory' when visitors to their home saw and enjoyed their paintings. She made a big deal of Dad's paintings, and downplayed her own talent. Mom had the real talent. This was just another example of Mom's servant heart...putting others first. I sure miss Mom. I loved Mom and Dad, but I really miss Mom.

I'm rambling here, so I'll close. One more thing and I'm out of here.......

While you're at it, google Rudyard Kipling's poem called L'Envoi...it's probably the most beautiful poem I've ever read. You'll like it too! It touches on the artist in all of us...and it hints at Heaven in a grand way!

Thanks for checking in....

Sweet Bessie Brown...a baptism 'overkill'

In 1970, or thereabouts, I was at OCC for the 2nd time. I had fallen through the
3rd story of OCC's Learning Center, then dropped out of school for 3 1/2 years for five major surgeries, and then had come back to graduate, at last, with my degree. I was living in the dorm with a character from Denison, TX. named Bill Crabtree.

E.J. Sellars, our dorm dad, came to our room one day, looking for someone -- anyone -- who could help him out. It seemed that the church just east of OKC -- Harrah or Newalla, OK., or some other little town out Hwy. 66, if I remember correctly, needed a preacher for that coming Sunday. I was not a preacher (had never done anything like that in my life), but the sound of $50 caught my attention. (Do I hear an 'AMEN'?). I agreed to do it and then I began looking around for a song leader, since I can't carry a tune in the proverbial bucket. I found a willing helper (I think the church paid him a little money, too). His name was Steve Kelly. He's from Shawnee, OK., and is a cousin to Marilyn Dobson and Debbie Powell. Steve was a lot of fun and a great guy. I thought: 'This will be okay -- we'll get through it, hopefully won't do badly, and we'll make a few bucks on top of it all. (So much for selfless motives!).

The singing went well, since Steve 'knew his stuff''. The sermon was canned, and contrived, and I feel confident in the knowledge that people in the audience suffered greatly. However....

When I finished the sermon and offered the invitation, secretly praying that there would be no 'responses' (you have to understand here that I DIDN'T KNOW THE 'WORDS'), here came a tiny little lady slowly down the aisle toward the front of the little auditorium. She looked 100 to me, since I was 26 years old. She was likely in her mid-70's. She wanted to be baptized! "Oh, boy, what am I going to do now", I thought! I wanted to bolt from the church building!

After taking Bessie's confession of her faith in Jesus Christ, I went like a slave, 'scourged to his dungeon', to quote part of a line from an old poem --'Thanatopsis' by William Cullen Bryant -- to the changing room next to the baptistry. There, with the help of some of the old timers, I got into the rubber suit provided for that purpose. I left my slacks on, not wanting to get down to my tidy whities ---and besides, it was a waterproof rubber suit, right? I also left on my white long-sleeved dress shirt, and just rolled up the sleeves, imagining a scene where I would perform the baptism 'cleanly' and then walk away from it all....intact.

At the moment of truth, I repeated those sweet words -- words that I had heard all my life--and with just a touch-too-much enthusiasm, I laid her back into the water....more than a touch too much, it turned out. An involuntary raising of one of her legs caused one of her feet to breach the surface of the water like a hooked trout...and there followed more than a little snickering from the general direction of the small audience.

To compound matters, when I leaned down to make sure that Bessie and her hair were totally immersed (I had heard tales of elders making people 'do over' a baptism because hair had floated on the surface and I wasn't taking any chances!), I leaned down just a touch too far... O.K., more than a touch. I 'took on water' into my rubber suit, soaking my socks, my pants, my underwear and even the shirt. Unbelievable! How could I have messed up something so simple?

Wading back toward the 'exit' to the baptistry was easy -- the hard part -- after Bessie had left the scene of her (I imagined) near-drowning, was when I tried to walk up the stairs. Rubber suits weigh considerably more when one tries to walk in them--- with water in the legs --- up stairs and out of the water! I thought I'd never get up those stairs! My legs felt like lead. I felt like a beached whale. More snickering.

The weight of the rubber suit was straining the suspender-like straps. I was worried now...what if the suspenders snapped under the weight of so much water? Not a pretty sight to contemplate.

Once back in the 'changing room', which by now I felt more like calling it a 'decompression chamber' -- something like one might find on board a submarine-- I tried to get out of the suit. I had a lot of help. It seemed to me that every old gentleman in the entire congregation had gathered to see the college kid try to get out of that portable aquarium called a rubber suit! There was a lot of water in that suit, and the trick was to get out of the suit without destroying the flooring in the room ... or putting on a show in my wet skivs. It was NOT a pretty sight!

I was soaked. Take a moment and get a visual on this scene: people are waiting to congratulate Bessie. People are also waiting to congratulate the novice-ain't-never-ever-gonna-make-a-preacher' boy, and try to make him feel that he did a 'fine job'. I slipped on my dry shoes and stood up -- then felt the shoes begin filling not-so-slowly with water from the wet pants, shirt, socks and underwear. I shook hands and accepted tentative hugs and pats on the back and nice words from the lingering members of the little church, who, I'm sure, thought that the baptism had made it a wonderful day....sideshow and all. Finally, I sloshed my way out to my car, with Steve Kelly still laughing and trying to assure me that things had gone well! We sloshed our way back to campus, and I got into some dry clothes.

I got over being soaked and embarrassed, and although I never again heard about little Bessie Brown, later on I forgave myself for being such an incompetent preacher. I had been humbled, but Christ had been exalted. All in all, not a bad day!

Rest in peace, sweet Bessie!

Favorite sayings from Mom and Grandmothers

These are random recollections... have you ever heard of them before? Let me know your favorite family sayings! Please don't just read this and 'walk away'...share yours with us...you MUST have some priceless sayings from your family tree as well. :)

Mom (we called her 'Chief', since Dad teasingly referred to Mom as the 'Chief Cook and Bottle-Washer')...would sometimes say this when really astounded about something: " Well, if that don't beat the hen a-peckin' in blue mud!"

Corny, huh? She would say it sometimes--echoing something that she had heard her grandmother say at times). Mom's grandmother, Angie Shoemake Potts (yes, there were Shoemakes on both sides of the family tree...that's why we're all 'a bubble off plumb!'...or 'a brick short of a load!' ...come to think of it, those are cool sayings too. Heard of them? Come on, now! You've got to share!!!


Mom would say this next one when she had experienced a difficult day. This expresses how she would handle the things that life threw at her:

"I just keep battin' 'em back!"


Another phrase of disbelief or incredulity from Mom:

"Well...I'll swan!" (a form of the word for 'swoon' perhaps? Who knows?).


My personal favorite: When Mom encountered someone a little bit self-righteous who would make a big deal of 'going to church' and never get involved in the needs of those around him/her but would have plenty of tiime for criticizing those who were not 'at the building every time the doors were opened'...here's what Mom would say:

"Shoot!...I'd rather SEE a sermon than HEAR one...ANYDAY!" (Then she would get back to work, doing for others...family, neighbors, friends...whomever needed her help).

O.K., people, I've shared some 'corn' from my family....let's have it! YOU need to share now!

The Incomparable Bobby Murcer

Years ago, when we attended the Quail Springs church of Christ, my son Jeff asked me to have Bobby Murcer sign a baseball card. I didn't know who Bobby Murcer was, or what he did prior to seeing that baseball card, since I grew up without much of an exposure to sports of any kind, but I sought Bobby out at Quail Springs church and he graciously signed the card and I gave it to Jeff.

Later on, Paula and I ended up in the same Bible Class as Bobby and Kay attended. I didn't really get to know them there either, but, started to get to know them at the annual Christmas class party 'sponsored' by James Cail, the teacher in my favorite Bible class of all time! Our Christmas parties were always a lot of fun -- still are, as we continue to enjoy them year after year.

Bobby and Kay always attended the class Christmas parties, and, over time, Paula and I grew to appreciate and then to love them -- for a lot of reasons, none of which involved baseball or Bobby's fame. I didn't (and still don't) care anything about baseball, but I loved what I saw in Bobby and his lovely wife. Years later, Paula and I discovered a lot about the two of them that we had not previously known.

The day before Bobby found out that he had a brain tumor, all of the old Quail Springs James Cail class members were at a Christmas party at Jack and Georgia Slentz' home. I had enjoyed a few minutes talking with Bobby. He loved to joke and kid good-naturedly and had a quick mind and an easy laugh. He caused everyone to have a great time, with his razor-sharp wit! I had noticed that Bobby seemed really tired that evening and appeared to have a difficult time getting out of a chair that he had been sitting in. A few minutes later, I went to the center of the group to pick and unwrap my 'Dirty Santa' Christmas gift. On the way, Bobby said something funny (at my expense!)to dig me a little bit, and I turned and said to him, with a laugh: "Big words coming from a man too old and weak to get out of his chair."

I had joked good-naturedly with Bobby, not knowing that something was in fact, not right with him that night. I think Bobby might have thought that he was a little tired from his usual strenuous gym workout or a day at golf...something like that.

As I recall, the next day Bobby found out that he had a brain tumor. Bobby fought that cancer bravely, and showed the world what kind of fighter --- what kind of man he was. The world lost a great man-- a legend in the world of sports -- a legend in the world of real men! We loved Bobby and now miss him terribly.

Long before Bobby's cancer made its appearance, Bobby and Kay Murcer showed themselves to Paula and to me, to be uncommonly wonderful people. Let me share a little about being on the receiving end of 'Murcer love.'

Paula found out a few years ago that she had breast cancer. We were devastated, and Bobby and Kay -- now members at Memorial Road church of Christ, and once again, in the same class where Paula and I also attended. They went out of their way to show Paula and me a degree of care and concern unmatched even by some in our own families. As busy as Bobby and Kay always have been, traveling all over the United States on Yankees' business, they both still found time to constantly call Paula and me to inquire about Paula's treatment and her (and my) well-being. They gave us their cell phone numbers and email addresses and encouraged us to call them. They sent emails constantly and sent cards. We were overwhelmed at the love and concern shown toward us by these two wonderful, Christian people. We have never seen anything like the attention they showered on us.

Some time ago, we were enjoying a hamburger at The Flat Tire in Edmond, OK with Bobby and Kay. During the conversation, I told Bobby that for a long time, after I had met the two of them, I did not know what all the fuss was about--- (meaning Bobby's celebrity status), and added that I had 'never really followed BASKETBALL
anyway! O.K., it was a corny joke, but Bobby and Kay were gracious enough to laugh anyway.

Bobby and Kay have always been people unaffected by fame and fortune. They were friends to Paula and to me when they didn't have to be. We have no fame, no fortune and no ability to really enhance the lives of people like the Murcers, who rubbed elbows with sports legends and countless people who, like Bobby, are well-known everywhere.

About a year ago, I was visiting with Bobby and Kay in their home in Edmond. It was a wonderful visit, and as I stood, preparing to leave, Bobby asked me if we could share a prayer. The three of us stood together in their living room, with our arms around each other. We had shared some personal things during that visit, and I felt very close to both of them. Kay sweetly laid her head on my left shoulder and we stood there and prayed for a long time. When the prayer was concluded, we all hugged and said very special things to one another. I will never forget that time with Bobby and Kay. It was one of the high-water marks in my life.

During the last couple of years, Paula and I have gotten acquainted with Kay's beautiful and loving parents and her brother and his sweet wife. All of them are out of the same mold as Bobby and Kay. They're all godly people with big hearts and a love for people and a love for the Lord.

We will never be the same, from having known Bobby and Kay. I told Bobby and Kay this past year that we have been thoroughly 'MURCERIZED'...we feel like part of their extended family! What wonderful, sweet, loving, gracious people! We miss Bobby so very much.

Kay, we thank God for Bobby and for you. We loved Bobby. We love you!

The best-est neighbors in the whole wide world!

Paula and I have lived in our little home for 33 years. We have lived here longer than any of our neighbors, but we do live on a street that has remained pretty stable for most of that time. Most of our neighbors have lived here for over 25 years. All of our neighbors are nice people. We don't have a single weirdo on our block. We're blessed!

There are neighbors, however, and there are neighbors. It's one thing to have a neighbor who smiles and waves and will put your mail back in the mailbox when it mistakenly gets left in someone else's mailbox. That's nice. Most of our neighbors have always been people who prefer to drive into their garage and close the garage door and rarely ever come out and visit in the front yards or on the sidewalk. They're all nice people, but generally have enjoyed their privacy. I'm a little like that, also, so I understand.

A few years ago, a neighbor who had lived next door -- raised his three boys and later on, when he lost his wife, lost interest in taking care of a large home. He told Paula that he was going to sell his home. Paula was out in our yard, puttering around, when Joni Arter drove slowly by, rolled her window down and spoke with Paula for a minute. Paula asked her what she was doing in 'our' neighborhood, knowing that Joni and Neil Arter lived about a mile away. Joni let us know that they needed a little more room, and from time to time, she would get in her van and drive around, 'curb-shopping' in other neighborhoods. Paula told her that the house next to us was for sale. Joni turned around in her seat and said that she didn't see a 'For Sale' sign in the yard. Paula told her that: "You're the first person, after me, to know about it." Joni went home and picked up her husband, Neil. They returned and talked with our neighbor a long time. Before we knew it, they had bought the house next door! We couldn't believe it! What a wonderful thing--- to have the wonderful people who were: a. Christians b. the parents of little Paige and Gina Arter (Gina was named after our beautiful daughter Gena Marie) c. the people who, uner the direction of Neil Arter, orchestrated, directed and protected the Summer Singers at Oklahoma Christian University for years (our daughter and future son-in-law were both Summer Singers and benefited from the Arter's love and guidance during all those years!).

We were ecstatic! We had no idea, however, just what a blessing it would be to have the Arter family living next door. They are not 'hermit neighbors', but are peoople who love to have you in their lives and to be a part of their neighbors' lives. The Arters and the Shoemake's are good friends and the Shoemake's have benefitted greatly from knowing and associating with the Arter family. As Glen Beck would say:
'Here's how I got there': The Arter's are constantly either inviting us over for a meal or bringing something tasty from their kitchen. They invite us to do things with them. They are always offering to help with this or that....and the offers are not the Southern 'ya'll come over sometime' offer, with little substance behind it. They are genuine offers, and the followthrough that often accompanies an invitation or an offer, proves that what they said was heartfelt. We love these Arter people!

The Arter's are some of the most caring people we have ever met. Their house is nearly always brimming with guests...people who feel free to drop by...for a visit or a meal or to spend the night. The Arters are the most hospitable people we have ever known. We frankly do not know how they manage to make welcome so many dozens of people every week. If we didn't know better, we would think that there was some kind of multi-level marketing meeting going on next door! Everybody loves the Arters!

Paula and I always -- when the weather and schedule permits -- have breakfast on our front porch, among all the flowers and the rock garden and little fountain. The Arters have always come over, when the mood and opportunity presents itself, and we have a nice, if sometimes brief visit. They stay in touch. We've never had neighbors like this (and we've never before really invited that kind of closeness with our neighbors). The Arter's changed all that. They are like family to us, and most of that feeling of 'family' is due to the outgoing nature of the Arter family. They are, in our estimation, what the New Testament talks about with the admonitions to Christians to be hospitable people -- people who love their neighbors as themselves.

We are so blessed to know these Godly, sweet people. They are younger than we are, but we are learning a lot from their great example! These Arters are God's people, to be sure!

My wife...the other perfect person in my life

In an earlier blog, I told you about my Mom. She was the first 'perfect' person in my life. I use the word perfect to describe a person in whom I never -- ever-- saw a flaw! Most people in this world are flawed like I am (but probably not to the degree that I am flawed), but I never saw a flaw in my Mom. Not once. I never heard her say anything unkind -- never saw her lose her temper -- never heard her gossip about anyone. She spent her entire life quietly going about, doing the right thing. Read my blog about her. She was a remarkable woman in every way.

My wife, Paula is the only other person in whom I have never found a flaw. Paula is 8 years younger than I am. We've been married for 36 years. She has put up with a lot of flaws in me, but I've never had to deal with any shortcomings in her life.

When I first noticed Paula--on the Oklahoma Christian College (now University) in OKC, OK, I was smitten! I told my best friend, Phil Johnson that I 'had to have that girl.' I had dated dozens and dozens of sweet, beautiful young Christian women while at OCC, and while they were all very nice, this young woman stood out. The first thing I noticed that she was sort of a Pied Piper. She befriended a number of guys and girls who did not seem to have a lot of friends. I liked that. Her experience at OCC was not 'all about her.' She never cared about being in any 'elite' group. She didn't really care for any of that. She just wanted to be a good, Christian young woman who loved the Lord and cared about, and for, others.
That got my attention. Those qualities were easy to identify.

I noticed her attitude -- always cheerful. Always happy. Always helpful. I found out where she went to church services and I made a point of finding out everything I could about her. I found out everything but her name, as it turned out! One Sunday, after church services at the Wilshire church of Christ, I scanned the picture board and found the beautiful girl I had seen at Oklahoma Christian so many times! She had a young-Julie-Andrews look about her. Sweet-faced, innocent, beautiful! The picture board showed her photo, along with her two sisters and her brother. It appeared that the girl of my dreams was named 'Julie'.

I caught up with her sister (whom I had identified as 'Paula' from the picture board at Wilshire). The picture board, however, had mis-named the girls of George and Joetta Bryan. When I spoke with her sister, (mis-named by the picture board as Paula), I called her by the wrong name. She turned to me (an old man in her eyes, I'm sure-- since I was 27), and frowned. Then she said: "My name's NOT Paula, and who ARE you anyway?" Talk about getting off on the wrong foot! I later found out that Julie didn't mean anything about her brusque treatment of me...that was just something in her nature back then! ha.

I went back inside and was able, with some help from a church member, to sort out the names correctly. With the correct information, I went back to campus and the next day, went to the Campus Life Office. I found out her full name, where she lived, and her class schedule....stuff that, were I to do this today, would no doubt land me in jail!...privacy and all that stuff would get in the way now, I'm sure.

Then I began to 'accidentally' walk past the doors to her classes when classes were dismissed, where I would often run into her. Then I began 'accidentally' to appear behind her in the cafeteria line. Soon I worked up the nerve to speak with her, and before long, had asked her out on a date. Since I was older, and wore a suit and carried a briefcase on campus (and was already balding), she was a little bit intimidated, often answering a question of mine with "yes, sir"...or "no, sir." For a while, I thought: "I'm not getting anywhere fast with this girl. Maybe this is has been a mistake."

For the first date with Paula, I decided to see a little bit of what she was about. I drove a nice car back then and dressed better than I do now (I had more disposable money then than now!). I was in the habit of taking dates to nice places. One of my favorites was a place called Glen's Hickry Inn, in OKC. White tablecloth dining, with candles, nice music, and a lot of ambiance! I didn't want Paula to want to go out with me just for the nice meals, movies, etc. I wanted to see a little bit of how she was made up, so, on our first date, I drove north into Edmond and pulled in to a parking spot directly in front of the Wide-Awake Cafe --- a greasy spoon that seemed to be open 24/7/365. It was not a tidy place. If one had dropped his wallet on the floor, it might have been a good idea to just leave it -- money, driver's license and all, and start over, rather than pick it up and catch who knows what from the floors! (I'm just kiddding....kind of....sort of).

As I pulled into the parking space in my new '71 burnt sienna colored Monte Carlo, I looked over at Paula to see her reaction. She was smiling and happy, not dejected and embarrassed by my selection of a place for our first date. All right! She passed my test with flying colors! I backed up the car and we drove into the city to Glen's and had a wonderful evening....the first of many.

I told my friend Phil, after our first date: "Hack (his nickname), I'm going to marry that girl." We had a lot of dates over the months to come. A lot of the girls on campus back then wore wigs, and Paula was no exception. On one of our dates, we were sitting in the girls' dorm parking lot and I was about to walk Paula back to the dorm. I leaned over to kiss her (for the first time) and she sort of deflected my kiss, with an evasive maneuver designed to make me believe that her wig was in need of adjustment. After she did this a couple more times, I began to get the message. What a disappointment! I weathered this treatment for awhile and then began to lose interest, since she was dating other guys that I didn't care for. I let her know it one night, and broke up with her. I finally let her know that she needed to decide whether she wanted to date just me, or continue to 'play the field.' We talked a lot and eventually our relationship improved to the point where I asked her to marry me. I went to her parents, not to get their approval, but to ask for their blessing. I got it, although her stern-faced, no-nonsense Dad didn't crack a smile. It was quite a while before he smiled over his daughter's choice for a husband. Her Mom thought I would be just fine, and she let me know it.

We were married in August of 1972. In 1977, Paula gave birth to Gena Marie, and then in January of 1980, to Jeff Bryan. We built a little house (where we still live), just east of the campus. Paula, with her wonderful attitude, love of the Lord and of me and her kids, made the little house a home. We've been through a lot in those years. We've lost a lot of family -- not many of them left now. We've done a lot of living, and have had a lot of life experiences during this time -- most of them wonderful, and some of them downright awful. Through it all, though, this little woman who trusted me to take care of her in 1972, when she looked up at me with such trust and such love, and said "I DO!", has stayed with me through thick and thin. Like my own Mom, Paula has cared for me, and for our kids, and other families, with a love and constancy of devotion I had only previously seen in my Mom. After 36 years, I can honestly say that there is no guile in my lovely bride. I have never seen a chink in her armor...a flaw in that lovely woman who is my wife!
I said this in my blog about my Mom, but I'll say it again here: God must have known I needed a lot of help, because He put two perfect (in my eyes) women in my life.

Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, Paula. I love you!

"God's Mailboxes"

When Gena and Jeff were very young, we would often go to the cemetery at Memorial and Kelly and feed the fish. There was a long reflecting pond, full of beautiful koi---hundreds of them -- and they were always hungry! We took old bread and the kids deliighted in feeding them.

We always believed in teaching our kids about the cycle of life, and part of that is learning about a natural and inevitable event in the lives of people and pets. The kids loved to wander about the cemetery and look at grave markers and 'smell' the plastic flowers-- and occasionally some real flowers. One day, as Jeff was running from one container of flowers to another, he yelled at me: "Dad smell these! They smell REAL GOOD!! I went over and 'smelled' the plastic flowers, of course, and, just like Jeff, I thought they smelled just great.

Later on, as we were driving home, Jeff and Gena settled down a little. We always went to Wendy's for a 'Frostie' when we had been out enjoying time together like that. Jeff said to me: "Dad, I know what those markers are for!" I said: "Really? What are they for?" Jeff said: "Those markers are God's mailboxes....but He only sends people in them."

That was, I thought, a profound thought for a three year old little boy. God's mailboxes! Indeed! We had talked about living and dying, and how people and animals all die someday, and that it is as natural as living. We talked about animals living and dying and that there is a difference when people live and die and that we have the opportunity, when we die, to live again, with Jesus.

Out of the mouths of babes....!

"Daddy, what's a Governor?"

When our two kids -- Gena and Jeff were about three-something years old, we started violin lessons at OCU. The method of instruction was and is called The Suzuki Method. They took lessons each week and about once a month we had 'Stage Day', where the kids all demonstrated their skill levels, in front of an audience of adults. This allowed the kids to learn stage presence and confidence at an early age, as they learned to play their violins.

When Gena was five, and had taken to the violin like 'a duck to water', she was asked to play for Oklahoma Governor George Nigh at the Blue Room in the Oklahoma State Capitol building. Paula and I dressed up for the event and also dressed little Gena up in her Sunday best and we headed toward the Capitol. Paula and I were so excited for her (and so proud we could barely stand it). We were talking on and on about the event --- until Gena leaned over the front seat from the back seat where she had been sitting. Gena said: "Daddy?" I said: "Yes, honey, what is it?"
Gena asked: "Daddy, what's a Governor?"

Paula and I nearly died laughing. Here we were, driving along and going on and on about this very cool opportunity to show off our little girl, who had just turned four. We were very impressed with the prospect of her playing before Governor Nigh. Gena didn't have a clue what a Governor was. As it turned out, Governor Nigh's plane couldn't make it (weather or something-- I don't remember), so we got all dressed up for nothing. Oh well -- we all got to be together and it still made for a fun memory...

When Gena and Jeff were little people they played for a lot of adults and learned, over time, to be confident, competent adults. Music was good for their development. Gena stayed with it....while Jeff lost interest in the violin when he discovered girls at about age 14.

We recommend music lessons for kids. It's a good discipline, like making kids eat their green beans and take baths...when it is fun, kids look forward to the lessons. Kids can be taught to love a discipline that takes time and effort. They learn self-worth, confidence --they also learn how to push the envelope of their own capabilities. This brings about even greater confidence. They learn to perform without anxiety before audiences, and this can change the course of ones' life.

Now we watch another generation of our family learn music the Suzuki way...little Raegan has taken up the violin. I'm telling you--- it's enough to melt this old granddad's heart to see that little girl learn something that will change her life forever!

Memories of home -- part 1 - -Christmas, 1954

The Christmas season of 1954 was a crazy time at the Shoemake's in Houston, Texas. My Dad and his cousin, Otis Gayle were re-wallpapering our home at 1710 Elmen, south and a little west of downtown Houston. Mom had gone Christmas shopping and Dad and Otis were working hard. They had a great time together. I remember a lot of unrestrained laughing and telling of jokes. When the two of them got together, they brought the house down with their laughing. They occasionally took a break and had a little eggnog, and they were definitely full of the Spirit of Christmas!

I remember, on that fateful Saturday afternoon, during one of the eggnog breaks, when Dad and Otis took my birthday present from the previous October --- a B-B gun, and they sat in the living room of our home, and took turns shooting the ornaments off of the Christmas tree that Mom had spent hours decorating. I was in awe of the complete disregard for their 'personal safety'--- I knew that Mom would return sometime soon and would not be happy about the mess in the living room. I knew, also, that she would not have approved of the consumption of all that eggnog. I didn't see it, but I later suspected that the eggnog was a little different from the eggnog that Dad poured for me. They were having far too much for for a wallpapering weekend!

Neither Dad nor Otis were normally so raucous, but when they got together, everyone around them got caught up in the laughter and cutting up. They were having a ball together, and everytime one of them scored a direct hit on a Christmas tree ornament, they both laughed so hard I thought they might stroke out!

At the height of their merriment, Mom walked through the front door, with her packages, wearing her winter coat and hat. She was dressed up, as though she had been to church services! Dad and Otis were in their khakis and wife beaters, and had wallpaper paste all over their clothes. When Mom walked in, before she sat the packages down, she saw the broken Christmas ornaments all over her wooden floors---tiny shards of brightly colored ornament glass. She was a little bit miffed at what they had done, and proceeded to tell them about it. Then she cried and the merriment stopped....at once! Dad and Otis then looked like scolded schoolboys and they rushed for the broom and dustpan and Mom's Electrolux vacuum cleaner. They really hustled! Mom's tears made them instantly contrite...like whipped puppies.

Dad and Otis rushed out and bought new Christmas ornaments and when they arrived home, they quickly put the tree back in order. They even made a good time of decorating the tree -- something I had never before seen my Dad get into with gusto!

I don't know why I remembered this event so clearly. Maybe it was the shock of seeing someone kill a fully dressed-out Christmas tree. Even though I was ten years old, I still believed in Santa, and I sort of had the thought that Santa might not be happy about the demise of our tree. I was apprehensive. You just don't violate a Christmas tree -- (at least not until after Santa has made his appearance).

Later that evening, with the Christmas tree all ablaze with lights -- especially the 'bubbly-lights' (my personal favorites), I saw Mom and Dad kissing in the living room, so I went to bed feeling pretty good. Everything was all right...and not long therafter, Santa was sure to visit the Shoemake's home in Houston!...and he did!

All in all, it was a great Christmas!