the party line could listen if they chose.
Part of my dad’s job included making monthly rounds to pick up payments for gas at several grocery stores in the county where customers left payments. They had no meters for gas usage; they simply paid two dollars in summer months and four dollars in the winter. I marveled at people paying so much for this utility every single month!
AT AGE FIVE, I moved to the country again (as if the early years in May and Blanket were urban). The family moved to the Salt Creek Community, about eight miles west of Blanket and a dozen miles from Brownwood, county seat of Brown County. The house redefined modesty. It had a kitchen, bedroom, and living room. My bed was in the living room. There was a bathroom with a commode and lavatory, but a washtub was brought in for bathing. A few years later, Dad hired a man to pour concrete for a makeshift shower, and Dad walled it with planks on three sides. Had there been a door, it would have looked exactly like an “out” house “in” doors….
The move to Salt Creek put dad closer to several gas wells that supplied the company, and there was plenty of room to store steel pipe used in the natural gas lines. Though I lived in the country, I was anything but a “country boy.” I don’t think I ever milked a cow and gathered but few eggs. Costs of allergic reactions to cotton fields put an end to that, and working with barnyard animals never piqued my interest. I rode a school bus to Early School, where I attended all twelve grades. This was about a ten-mile ride each way, with arrival back home each afternoon leaving time to ride my bike, skip rocks on a farm pond, or fire my air rifle. (Often, I emptied entire packages of BBs into the armor of armadillos, never fazing them.…)
IT IS NOT possible to think about that air rifle without remembering a bleak moment, perhaps when I was ten years of age or so, when I wondered if a BB would penetrate the glass on the gasoline pump we had on the place. It was a primitive pump--Dad would move the handle, forward and back, to force ten gallons of gasoline into the glass cylinder. I was fascinated to see gas slosh about, then disappear when Dad put the nozzle into the truck’s gasoline tank. I had sense enough to know that I would NEVER pull the trigger of my air rifle anywhere even close to the pump, fearful of the possible dangerous result of mixing BBs and gasoline.…Still, I wondered many times if a BB would penetrate that gasoline cylinder.
One day, with Dad away and the cylinder empty, my boyish curiosity begged to be satisfied. I drew a bead on the upper part of the cylinder and pulled the trigger. I was mortified to see a tiny hole appear in the glass; I had figured the BB would simply glance off the surface. I was hopeful that my dad might not notice the hole right away, but he was bound to see gasoline when it came spurting out….
Before the inevitable spanking was administered, I tried to reason with him that if he would pump eight gallons into the cylinder instead of ten, the gasoline level would never reach the hole. He didn’t like my logic, but had to follow it for years. He made me realize there was a price to be paid for unhealthy curiosity.
WHEN MY BROTHER, Fred, was born, I was seven years of age. We seemed to be from two generations. Immediately, I felt almost old enough to be a babysitter. In the early years, we had little in common except the affection we both felt for our mongrel dog, Prince.
A favorite summertime activity was forcing bunny rabbits out of the six-inch pipes stacked on racks near our house. It was a simple procedure. I placed a coffee can inside the pipe, using a metal rod to push the can thirty or forty feet through the pipe. At the other end, I stationed Fred and Prince. Sometimes we would catch the bunnies in gunny sacks; other times we both delighted in just watching Prince take off after them….
A seemingly failsafe way to determine if rabbits were seeking a shaded respite in the pipes from the hot summer sun was simply to peer inside. If the view was obscured, or if we saw two bunny ears erect, it was almost certain that a rabbit was blocking the view. One day, we were wrong, very wrong….
Seeing what I thought was a rabbit, I pushed the coffee can through the pipe, with Fred and Prince “at the ready,” gunny sack in place for the catch. When our prey hit the sack, Fred held it tight, and Prince pawed at the bag like crazy. In an instant, both brother and dog looked sick. I wanted to go help them, but the odor was too great. Our “rabbit” that day was a petrified skunk, but this little creature was not so petrified that he could not make both Fred and Prince smell like a skunk’s siblings for the next several days….
ENTERTAINMENT WAS MOSTLY “42” (a game played with dominoes) with relatives and friends, and in those days, there were “drop-in” visits. It was not uncommon for relatives to land on us (or us on them) completely unannounced and almost always at mealtime. This was the “expected” thing, and Mom always hustled about to make sure there was plenty of food. After supper, kids played croquet, pitched washers and horseshoes, or shot baskets while the domino games kept the adults busy, often well into the night. While they played, amidst the plethora of boasts, bluffs, and threats, they caught up on the news of the day. Upon becoming totally “tuckered out,” the kids curled up on pallets when their bodies insisted that rest could no longer be ignored.…
About once a week, Mom and Dad would take me to the movies in Brownwood. This modest entertainment was not as “tame” as it would seem. Remember, there was no television in those days. When World War II broke out, the army’s Camp Bowie, located a couple of miles from Brownwood, became a military center, doubling the county’s population in a short period of time. Most of the soldiers lived in tents, but when they had a pass, or even a few hours off, they “went to the picture show.” (That’s what we called movies back then.) Though they had theatres on base, current releases played in the downtown theatres.
A typical procedure involved ticket purchasing, then munching on a bag of popcorn, waiting until the feature ended. When it did, soldiers poured out of the theatre, and those of us outside poured in, trying to enter early enough to get seats that weren’t too close to the screen. (Seated way down front, we had to look up at the screen, often getting cricks in our necks.)
I remember holding on to my folks’ hands for dear life, because soldiers were everywhere. I knew there was no reason to be afraid of them, but, at age five or so, I had a horror of getting lost in the big crowded city! Youngsters today can’t believe that in those days there were eight theatres in downtown Brownwood, and in the 1950s, three drive-in theatres. (There now are only about a dozen drive-in theatres in the entire state!) Theatre admission was thirty-five cents and twelve cents for children under age twelve at the best “picture show,” the Bowie Theatre. At most of the others, it scaled downward to twenty-five cents and nine cents.
I THINK I was “under twelve” until I was well into my thirteenth year, perfecting, as did my friends, the rehearsed art of “slouching down” in front of the cashier’s booth, meekly asking for a child’s admission. The savvy cashier no doubt knew of the ploy, but also knew that whatever money we had left would be spent just a few feet away at the concession stand. (One Saturday, the carnival came to town, and I had to be “short” and “tall” on the same day! I was “short” when admitted to the movie, but stood on tip-toe at the sign where they made sure you were tall enough to ride on the carnival’s bumper cars. You had to reach a minimal height of “this tall,” or they wouldn’t sell you a ticket….)
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