Sand Tarts. Strange name for cookies, huh? If you’ve never had a sand tart, you’re missing something. When I was growing up, my mom usually made sand tarts for special occasions like showers, teas, parties, etc. Sand tarts are the most flaky, tender, good tasting cookie I’ve ever put in my mouth. They are made with very few ingredients, butter (and I do mean butter, not margarine), powdered sugar, flour, vanilla extract and pecans. Then they are rolled in powdered sugar. When you pick one up, you get powdered sugar all over your fingers and usually on your face and your clothes, too. They crumble on your tongue and literally melt in your mouth! I'll give you the recipe later.
I liked them when I was a little girl and I still like them now. I had gone for many years and not made any sand tarts.
This week, I had a special reason for making sand tarts and I’m so glad I did. As the church hostess, I’m responsible for preparing and serving funeral meals to families. This past Monday, I did that for a special family, the Klings, long-time friends of ours. Chris and Stewart Kling’s brother passed away. Their parents, Bill and Florace Kling died within the past two years. Florace had been a friend of mine and I was aware of some of her specialty desserts. I came up with the idea to make some of her favorite desserts and serve them at the family meal after the funeral service. I hoped that her sons and their families would enjoy eating some of the desserts that she was “famous” for. I have several of her recipes, including her cheese cake and her shortbread sticks, so I made them. I remembered that she also made sand tarts. I didn’t have her recipe, but I knew that all the sand tart recipes I’ve ever seen were the same, so I made them. They turned out just like I remembered them, if not better! I made signs for the desserts that read “Florace Kling’s Sand Tarts”, etc. and I had copies of the recipes for the family to take home. They seemed so surprised, excited and appreciative of what I had done. I’m so glad that God placed it on my heart to do that. It brought joy to the family and lots of memories of Florace’s cooking. She was a very organized, precise woman and we talked and laughed about how her recipes were examples of that.
I hope you'll try these and enjoy them as much as I do.
Sand Tarts
1 cup butter (room temperature)
5 tablespoons powdered sugar
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1 1/2 cups chopped pecans
Cream butter and sugar. Add vanilla. Work in flour and pecans until well mixed.
Form into crescent shapes. Bake on ungreased cookie sheet at 350 for about 30 minutes or until lightly browned. While warm, roll gently in powdered sugar. They will be very fragile. You will probably break some, but that will just give you an excuse to eat some while they’re warm.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Thursday, July 14, 2011
William and William
Some of the following is a re-run of an earlier post, but I just feel like it needs to be said again to introduce you to some more thoughts I have.
Soon after Art’s Grandma Barnhill died in 2001 (at the age of 101), Art and I spent some time with Art’s mom going through some old photos. There were some very old ones of Art’s grandparents, great grandparents, etc. and I became really interested in them. I asked Art’s mom if I could borrow the pictures so I could copy them. In the midst of that, I decided it would be fun to make Ken and Ross photo albums for Christmas. I’ve always liked to give unusual Christmas gifts…ones with more meaning, more substance than just something bought at a store….something to treasure. I spent many hours copying photos and calling Art’s mom asking questions about the people in the photos. By Christmas I had two books, exactly alike, filled with Art’s family history. One day, while working on that project, it dawned on me that I had nothing like that about my family history. That made me very sad. Thus began my genealogy adventure…the search for my ancestors.
I’ve discovered that either you are really interested in your family history or you are not. There is no in-between. I also discovered that you usually don’t get interested until most everyone who could answer your questions is no longer on this earth to ask. That is certainly my situation. So what do you do? You have to dig for the information. You might be asking….why do you even care who your ancestors were? I don’t think there is a very clear answer. Like I said, you’re either interested or you’re not.
One of the reasons I’m writing this blog is so my kids and grandkids won’t have to wonder who I was and what I did in life and what I thought…in case they are interested someday…..after I’m no longer here to ask.
I never got to meet even one grandparent. They died before I was born. That’s sad to me…sadder the older I get. That means that I missed out on a whole bunch! My grandparents were never even talked about in our house when I was growing up. I’ll never understand that. But when I realized how much I had missed, I became very curious. No, I kind of became obsessed with finding out about my grandparents. Who were they? What were their names? What kind of lives did they live? Were they good people? Or would I be ashamed to find out about them? After several years of searching, I found out those answers.
Check out the pictures below. This is one of my really, really interesting stories I discovered. The old man on the left was William Frank Murray, my great grandfather…my mom’s mother’s father. For a long time he was what a genealogist calls “my brick wall” and I guess he really still is. I can find no trace of him being born or growing up or anything about his parents. He just appears about the time he marries my great grandmother. Well, guess what? On his death bed, he confessed to being John Wilkes Booth!! That’s the guy on the right. What do you think? Looks like it could be, huh? Booth as a young man compared to Murray as an old man? I’m no expert on photo-facial comparisons, but I would sure like to find someone who is. I know you’re thinking…but I thought there was a fire in a barn and Booth died there…..well, some people think that and others do not. Some Booth historians believe that he indeed escaped and lived to be an old man. They lost track of him for about 12 – 15 years and then think he lived in Mississippi, Texas and Oklahoma in his later life. Guess where William Frank Murray lived during that time? Yep and I have the documentation to prove that part of his life. The Booth historian I visited with told me that I would be famous if we could prove that William Frank Murray was really John Wilkes Booth. I’m not sure I want to be famous.
Well, now for a better story or I mean one that is about a better man…my great grandfather on my daddy’s side…another great grandfather named William…William Garey…my daddy’s mother’s father. There’s no“brick wall” here. I have found lots and lots about him, pictures and even copies of letters he wrote. I’ve been to his gravesite in Hardin County, Tennessee. William Garey was a good man.
According to the man who wrote William Garey’s obituary: “Mr. Garey was a farmer and was a successful farmer always enjoying the farm and for many years had owned one of the good small farms in the county, which he kept up well and made a bountiful plenty for those he was commissioned to care for.” He went on to say, “William Garey was one of God’s noble men always standing for that which is right and best for his fellow man. He professed religion in early life and joined the Cumberland Presbyterian Church and was a ruling elder for many years always caring for and supporting the Church and was a leader in his community for schools.” In the writings of my Great Grandfather Garey, there is strong evidence that he was a deeply spiritual man of God.
Grandpa Garey had quite an interesting childhood. His parents emigrated from Ireland to New Orleans. William was the youngest of six children of David and Mary Ann Garey. On July 10, 1852 David died of yellow fever and then just a little over a year later Mary Ann died on August 1, 1853 leaving 6 children. The four oldest children were apparently able to take care of themselves, but the two youngest boys, Bartley, age eight, and William, age five, needed to be cared for. They were given to a Dutchman who kept them for about two years and then took them to a male orphan asylum on June 19, 1854 where they stayed four years.
In the early winter of 1858, J.H. Hawkins and Rueben White, farmers of Hardin County, Tennessee loaded wooden staves onto a flat boat and floated up the Tennessee River, down the Ohio River, down the Mississippi River to New Orleans to sell their goods. Needing extra help on the farm back in Hardin County, Mr. Hawkins applied to the necessary authorities while they were there and went to an orphanage to select a young man to take back with him. From among over 100 boys, he chose Bartley Garey. It is said that Bartley refused to go without his little brother, William, so because Mr. Hawkins could not take both boys, Mr. White decided to take William. The four of them walked back to Tennessee. The boys grew up near each other on neighboring farms and according to William “both had good homes – none better in Hardin County.” And William went on to say, ”But here we were 1,000 miles away from any relative of any kind, and everything different from what it was in a large city.” He said “Imagine dear reader if you can how two little children would feel under such circumstances.” Talking about the White family in his later years, William recalled, “I was living with them, Reuben and Caroline White, an orphan boy with no relatives save one brother and hundreds of miles away from my place of birth, was given a home by them and cared for as one of their own, under those circumstances.”
My great grandfathers,William Murray and William Garey. Two very different men.
Soon after Art’s Grandma Barnhill died in 2001 (at the age of 101), Art and I spent some time with Art’s mom going through some old photos. There were some very old ones of Art’s grandparents, great grandparents, etc. and I became really interested in them. I asked Art’s mom if I could borrow the pictures so I could copy them. In the midst of that, I decided it would be fun to make Ken and Ross photo albums for Christmas. I’ve always liked to give unusual Christmas gifts…ones with more meaning, more substance than just something bought at a store….something to treasure. I spent many hours copying photos and calling Art’s mom asking questions about the people in the photos. By Christmas I had two books, exactly alike, filled with Art’s family history. One day, while working on that project, it dawned on me that I had nothing like that about my family history. That made me very sad. Thus began my genealogy adventure…the search for my ancestors.
I’ve discovered that either you are really interested in your family history or you are not. There is no in-between. I also discovered that you usually don’t get interested until most everyone who could answer your questions is no longer on this earth to ask. That is certainly my situation. So what do you do? You have to dig for the information. You might be asking….why do you even care who your ancestors were? I don’t think there is a very clear answer. Like I said, you’re either interested or you’re not.
One of the reasons I’m writing this blog is so my kids and grandkids won’t have to wonder who I was and what I did in life and what I thought…in case they are interested someday…..after I’m no longer here to ask.
I never got to meet even one grandparent. They died before I was born. That’s sad to me…sadder the older I get. That means that I missed out on a whole bunch! My grandparents were never even talked about in our house when I was growing up. I’ll never understand that. But when I realized how much I had missed, I became very curious. No, I kind of became obsessed with finding out about my grandparents. Who were they? What were their names? What kind of lives did they live? Were they good people? Or would I be ashamed to find out about them? After several years of searching, I found out those answers.
Check out the pictures below. This is one of my really, really interesting stories I discovered. The old man on the left was William Frank Murray, my great grandfather…my mom’s mother’s father. For a long time he was what a genealogist calls “my brick wall” and I guess he really still is. I can find no trace of him being born or growing up or anything about his parents. He just appears about the time he marries my great grandmother. Well, guess what? On his death bed, he confessed to being John Wilkes Booth!! That’s the guy on the right. What do you think? Looks like it could be, huh? Booth as a young man compared to Murray as an old man? I’m no expert on photo-facial comparisons, but I would sure like to find someone who is. I know you’re thinking…but I thought there was a fire in a barn and Booth died there…..well, some people think that and others do not. Some Booth historians believe that he indeed escaped and lived to be an old man. They lost track of him for about 12 – 15 years and then think he lived in Mississippi, Texas and Oklahoma in his later life. Guess where William Frank Murray lived during that time? Yep and I have the documentation to prove that part of his life. The Booth historian I visited with told me that I would be famous if we could prove that William Frank Murray was really John Wilkes Booth. I’m not sure I want to be famous.
Well, now for a better story or I mean one that is about a better man…my great grandfather on my daddy’s side…another great grandfather named William…William Garey…my daddy’s mother’s father. There’s no“brick wall” here. I have found lots and lots about him, pictures and even copies of letters he wrote. I’ve been to his gravesite in Hardin County, Tennessee. William Garey was a good man.
According to the man who wrote William Garey’s obituary: “Mr. Garey was a farmer and was a successful farmer always enjoying the farm and for many years had owned one of the good small farms in the county, which he kept up well and made a bountiful plenty for those he was commissioned to care for.” He went on to say, “William Garey was one of God’s noble men always standing for that which is right and best for his fellow man. He professed religion in early life and joined the Cumberland Presbyterian Church and was a ruling elder for many years always caring for and supporting the Church and was a leader in his community for schools.” In the writings of my Great Grandfather Garey, there is strong evidence that he was a deeply spiritual man of God.
Grandpa Garey had quite an interesting childhood. His parents emigrated from Ireland to New Orleans. William was the youngest of six children of David and Mary Ann Garey. On July 10, 1852 David died of yellow fever and then just a little over a year later Mary Ann died on August 1, 1853 leaving 6 children. The four oldest children were apparently able to take care of themselves, but the two youngest boys, Bartley, age eight, and William, age five, needed to be cared for. They were given to a Dutchman who kept them for about two years and then took them to a male orphan asylum on June 19, 1854 where they stayed four years.
In the early winter of 1858, J.H. Hawkins and Rueben White, farmers of Hardin County, Tennessee loaded wooden staves onto a flat boat and floated up the Tennessee River, down the Ohio River, down the Mississippi River to New Orleans to sell their goods. Needing extra help on the farm back in Hardin County, Mr. Hawkins applied to the necessary authorities while they were there and went to an orphanage to select a young man to take back with him. From among over 100 boys, he chose Bartley Garey. It is said that Bartley refused to go without his little brother, William, so because Mr. Hawkins could not take both boys, Mr. White decided to take William. The four of them walked back to Tennessee. The boys grew up near each other on neighboring farms and according to William “both had good homes – none better in Hardin County.” And William went on to say, ”But here we were 1,000 miles away from any relative of any kind, and everything different from what it was in a large city.” He said “Imagine dear reader if you can how two little children would feel under such circumstances.” Talking about the White family in his later years, William recalled, “I was living with them, Reuben and Caroline White, an orphan boy with no relatives save one brother and hundreds of miles away from my place of birth, was given a home by them and cared for as one of their own, under those circumstances.”
My great grandfathers,William Murray and William Garey. Two very different men.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Summer Camp
Our oldest grandson, Aken, is at summer camp. This is his third year to spend a couple of weeks at a camp in North Carolina. I’m reminded of my days at camp.
When I was 9 years old I went to 4-H camp for a week and went every year after that until I was probably 13 or 14 years old. We went to the same place every summer. It was by a lake near Marble Falls, Texas. I remember it was always very hot and dry and dusty. We stayed in small dormitory-like wooden cabins that had no air conditioning and slept on cots. The mess hall was a short walk away on another little hill. That’s where we ate and met together. That was a big wooden building with a big kitchen and dining/meeting area. I recall that it had screens on 3 sides to let in any slight breeze that might blow off the lake.
I didn’t know it at the time, but our camp was in “the hill country”. I’m probably the only person I’ve ever heard of who doesn’t like ‘the hill country”, but I don’t. I grew up where it was very flat, lots and lots of lush green grass and big, healthy trees. At camp, it was hilly, no grass, lots of dirt and rocks and scrawny things that were called trees, but looked more like sick bushes to me. Despite the way it looked there, I always enjoyed going to camp.
Kids from all over Wharton County went to camp the same week. I don’t remember how many were usually there, but probably 40 to 50 kids and some adults. We all pitched in to help cook and clean up and plan our activities. I always liked working in the kitchen and eating! I remember one time making coleslaw and realizing that a piece of my finger had been grated off with the cabbage. I tried to find it to no avail. I guess that had to be my first experience cooking in large quantities. In those days, I could eat a lot. I’m sorry to say that it was at that camp that I would participate in eating contests with the boys! They usually beat me, but I gave it a good try.
We did folk dancing at camp. That was kind of like square dancing, but better – at least I thought so. It’s really the only kind of dancing that I’ve ever really enjoyed. We danced in groups, similar to square dancing, but there were no costumes. The music was different than square dance music. At 4-H Club functions, was the only place I ever heard of doing folk dancing. I’m not sure where it came from or what has happened to it, but it was so much fun!
At night, we built a campfire on a little hill by the lake and sat around the fire and sang “campfire songs”. If you’ve never done that, you’ve missed something special!
The first year I went to camp, I said earlier that I was just 9 years old. My parents drove me to Wharton to the County Agents’ office. We unloaded my things and a kind of strange thing happened to me. I looked around and saw all the kids and their parents hugging and kissing each other and saying good-bye. I wasn’t sure what was about to happen to me. You see, my parents had never shown me any affection like that, certainly not in public, at least not that I could recall. I remember feeling really uncomfortable and anxious. I’m really not sure what happened at that moment, just that we said good-bye and I left for camp. If I ever got homesick at camp, I don’t recall it. I just remember having a good time.
I hope Aken is having a really good time at camp. Just like his Nana, he will make new friends and do lots of fun things and have lots of good memories about summer camp.
When I was 9 years old I went to 4-H camp for a week and went every year after that until I was probably 13 or 14 years old. We went to the same place every summer. It was by a lake near Marble Falls, Texas. I remember it was always very hot and dry and dusty. We stayed in small dormitory-like wooden cabins that had no air conditioning and slept on cots. The mess hall was a short walk away on another little hill. That’s where we ate and met together. That was a big wooden building with a big kitchen and dining/meeting area. I recall that it had screens on 3 sides to let in any slight breeze that might blow off the lake.
I didn’t know it at the time, but our camp was in “the hill country”. I’m probably the only person I’ve ever heard of who doesn’t like ‘the hill country”, but I don’t. I grew up where it was very flat, lots and lots of lush green grass and big, healthy trees. At camp, it was hilly, no grass, lots of dirt and rocks and scrawny things that were called trees, but looked more like sick bushes to me. Despite the way it looked there, I always enjoyed going to camp.
Kids from all over Wharton County went to camp the same week. I don’t remember how many were usually there, but probably 40 to 50 kids and some adults. We all pitched in to help cook and clean up and plan our activities. I always liked working in the kitchen and eating! I remember one time making coleslaw and realizing that a piece of my finger had been grated off with the cabbage. I tried to find it to no avail. I guess that had to be my first experience cooking in large quantities. In those days, I could eat a lot. I’m sorry to say that it was at that camp that I would participate in eating contests with the boys! They usually beat me, but I gave it a good try.
We did folk dancing at camp. That was kind of like square dancing, but better – at least I thought so. It’s really the only kind of dancing that I’ve ever really enjoyed. We danced in groups, similar to square dancing, but there were no costumes. The music was different than square dance music. At 4-H Club functions, was the only place I ever heard of doing folk dancing. I’m not sure where it came from or what has happened to it, but it was so much fun!
At night, we built a campfire on a little hill by the lake and sat around the fire and sang “campfire songs”. If you’ve never done that, you’ve missed something special!
The first year I went to camp, I said earlier that I was just 9 years old. My parents drove me to Wharton to the County Agents’ office. We unloaded my things and a kind of strange thing happened to me. I looked around and saw all the kids and their parents hugging and kissing each other and saying good-bye. I wasn’t sure what was about to happen to me. You see, my parents had never shown me any affection like that, certainly not in public, at least not that I could recall. I remember feeling really uncomfortable and anxious. I’m really not sure what happened at that moment, just that we said good-bye and I left for camp. If I ever got homesick at camp, I don’t recall it. I just remember having a good time.
I hope Aken is having a really good time at camp. Just like his Nana, he will make new friends and do lots of fun things and have lots of good memories about summer camp.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Soda Jerks
Our three grandsons from Alabama visited us for several days recently and I introduced them to the term “soda jerk”. It was terribly hot while they were here and I tried to come up with some fun things for us to do inside. They always like to spend time with Nana in the kitchen, so I decided to show them how to be soda jerks. For those of you who might not be familiar with that term, a soda jerk was a person who operated the soda fountain in a drugstore. Soda fountains date back to the late 1880’s and were really popular when I was growing up.
I’ve mentioned before that my daddy would take me to one of the drugstores in Wharton and get me a malt. Before that, I barely recall the soda fountain in Greathouse’s Drugstore in Boling. After Art and I married and moved to College Station, there were at least two soda fountains in drugstores in Bryan-College Station. Redmond Terrace Drugstore was on the corner of Texas Avenue and what is now George Bush Drive. Jarrott’s Drugstore was in Townshire Shopping Center. Both of those closed in the late 1960’s, I think, and I don’t recall seeing a drugstore with a soda fountain since then.
Soda jerks were usually young men who wore white shirts and bow ties and distinctive little white hats. The name soda jerk had nothing to do with their personalities or temperaments. When they dispensed the soda water, they would jerk the handle on the soda fountain machine. The sodas were usually made of flavored syrups, ice cream and carbonated water. The drinks were served in a tall, thick glass with a long-handled spoon and a straw. You could sit on a tall bar stool and watch the soda jerk do his thing and then stay there and drink his creation or move to a cute little round table with 4 chairs. I loved going there. I have very fond memories of my Daddy taking me to the soda fountain.
Usually soda fountains had food, too. I recall eating sandwiches at the soda fountains in Wharton…..chicken salad or tuna salad on toasted white bread cut diagonally and served with potato chips. Art and I discovered “Aggie Chili Burgers” at the Redmond Terrace Drugstore and that became one of our favorites. We have made them at home many, many times. It was an open-faced hamburger on a toasted bottom bun, covered with chili and grated cheese and chopped onions. The top bun was toasted and cut in half and placed on the sides. Good stuff!
I miss the soda fountains in the drugstores. Why did they have to go away? I wish I could take my grandchildren back to those days.
I’m glad I was able to introduce Aken, Austin and Aaron to the soda jerk. They had such a good time. I had a really good time, too. I have (had) lots of bottles of flavored syrups and they used almost all of them making their concoctions. Austin took the orders and wrote them down. He was so creative as he named each drink. I saved the papers he wrote on and cherish those. These are some of his inventions (spelled like he wrote them): vanilla vader bomb, rasberry rampage, caramel crazy, almond joy buster, cherry cyco, gredient monster, gredient monster 2 and no alcohol pina colada. He even wrote down the recipes for some of them: GM (gredient monster) – water, chrused ice, sweet rasberry syrup, French vanilla, Arizona fruit smoothie mix orchard peach and pineapple coconut, sour cherry, Coke, lime. Again, I wrote that just as he did. Aken helped make the drinks and Aaron and I fully enjoyed drinking them. We spent several hours being soda jerks. We tasted and tested and changed and added and got the drinks just like we wanted them. I drank way too much sweet stuff and cleaned up lots of syrup spills, but it was so worth it!
Now I will need to replenish my supply of flavored syrups so I will be ready to set up the soda fountain for Sam, Jude and Naomi. Hopefully some day soon I can have all six of them in my kitchen being soda jerks.
I’ve mentioned before that my daddy would take me to one of the drugstores in Wharton and get me a malt. Before that, I barely recall the soda fountain in Greathouse’s Drugstore in Boling. After Art and I married and moved to College Station, there were at least two soda fountains in drugstores in Bryan-College Station. Redmond Terrace Drugstore was on the corner of Texas Avenue and what is now George Bush Drive. Jarrott’s Drugstore was in Townshire Shopping Center. Both of those closed in the late 1960’s, I think, and I don’t recall seeing a drugstore with a soda fountain since then.
Soda jerks were usually young men who wore white shirts and bow ties and distinctive little white hats. The name soda jerk had nothing to do with their personalities or temperaments. When they dispensed the soda water, they would jerk the handle on the soda fountain machine. The sodas were usually made of flavored syrups, ice cream and carbonated water. The drinks were served in a tall, thick glass with a long-handled spoon and a straw. You could sit on a tall bar stool and watch the soda jerk do his thing and then stay there and drink his creation or move to a cute little round table with 4 chairs. I loved going there. I have very fond memories of my Daddy taking me to the soda fountain.
Usually soda fountains had food, too. I recall eating sandwiches at the soda fountains in Wharton…..chicken salad or tuna salad on toasted white bread cut diagonally and served with potato chips. Art and I discovered “Aggie Chili Burgers” at the Redmond Terrace Drugstore and that became one of our favorites. We have made them at home many, many times. It was an open-faced hamburger on a toasted bottom bun, covered with chili and grated cheese and chopped onions. The top bun was toasted and cut in half and placed on the sides. Good stuff!
I miss the soda fountains in the drugstores. Why did they have to go away? I wish I could take my grandchildren back to those days.
I’m glad I was able to introduce Aken, Austin and Aaron to the soda jerk. They had such a good time. I had a really good time, too. I have (had) lots of bottles of flavored syrups and they used almost all of them making their concoctions. Austin took the orders and wrote them down. He was so creative as he named each drink. I saved the papers he wrote on and cherish those. These are some of his inventions (spelled like he wrote them): vanilla vader bomb, rasberry rampage, caramel crazy, almond joy buster, cherry cyco, gredient monster, gredient monster 2 and no alcohol pina colada. He even wrote down the recipes for some of them: GM (gredient monster) – water, chrused ice, sweet rasberry syrup, French vanilla, Arizona fruit smoothie mix orchard peach and pineapple coconut, sour cherry, Coke, lime. Again, I wrote that just as he did. Aken helped make the drinks and Aaron and I fully enjoyed drinking them. We spent several hours being soda jerks. We tasted and tested and changed and added and got the drinks just like we wanted them. I drank way too much sweet stuff and cleaned up lots of syrup spills, but it was so worth it!
Now I will need to replenish my supply of flavored syrups so I will be ready to set up the soda fountain for Sam, Jude and Naomi. Hopefully some day soon I can have all six of them in my kitchen being soda jerks.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Father's Day
Father’s Day. As Father’s Day approaches I am reminded of my father, who I called “Daddy”. I was not fortunate to have him around for a long time. Daddy died just a couple years after Art and I married. He died suddenly, with no warning, no time to say “good bye”.
He had lots of names. He was Daddy to me, Clarence to my mom, “C” to his sisters, Grandpa Joyce to his grandchildren, A.C. to some people, Cotton to others and of course, Mr. Joyce to many.
Daddy was not a tall man, but I didn’t consider him to be short, either. His hair was thin. His skin was very tanned and leathery looking…with lots of wrinkles. He wore glasses and had false teeth, which he loved to stick out and surprise the little kids. His hands were those of a very hard working man. I can still picture them. Veins stood out on the back of his hands and some of his fingernails were deformed from being mashed by heavy objects…I think from pipes when he worked in oil fields. As he got older, he told me how his skin was getting thinner and referred to it as “his bark was gettin’ thin”. Those hands were never idle. He used them almost constantly. He was good at lots of things. He was a “fixer “. He could repair almost anything around the house, inside and out. He used his hands to mend fences, grow and harvest beautiful gardens, shell peas, milk cows. And he used his hands to warm my sheets in front of an old space heater just before I went to bed on a cold winter night. He never even once used his hands to spank me. That’s probably not a good thing. I’m sure I needed it sometimes.
Daddy used his hands to cook. He was pretty good at it. Homemade biscuits were his specialty. Mama was the main cook in the house, but once in awhile Daddy made biscuits and some other things, like rabbit stew. We had a brick bar-b-q pit in the backyard, that he built, and he was good at cooking bar-b-q.
Daddy seemed to be a very happy man. He joked a lot and loved to tease people, especially young people. I’ve mentioned before how he would hang around with the teenagers after church and tease them.
I felt a lot of love from my Daddy. We did some special things together. He would take me to Boling to Greathouse’s Drugstore and buy me some tooty fruity ice cream and when they closed down, we would go to Wharton to one of the drugstores and get a malt, which at that time we called a malted milk. Wow! That was a treat! Daddy taught me how to drive when I was just 9 years old. He expected great things from me. He was never satisfied, even when I brought home straight A’s. He would say “Is that the best you can do?” I knew he was teasing, but I also knew that he really did want me to do the best I could do. He was proud of me and I knew it.
Daddy smoked Camel cigarettes. Most men smoked back then. He told me one time that he figured that I would smoke some day. He said that I reminded him so much of his youngest sister, Virgil. She smoked. Well Daddy, you misjudged that one. I have never smoked a cigarette (or anything else) in my entire life and certainly don’t intend to start now!! I know he would be proud of that.
He provided well for us. We were not rich, but we always had what we needed. He was very opposed to me borrowing anything from anybody. He said if I needed it, he would figure out a way to buy it, but there would be no borrowing.
Daddy worked at the Newgulf Sulfur Company in Newgulf, just a few miles from our house. When they brought the sulfur out of the ground, in liquid form, they would pour it into molds and build gigantic rectangles of hardened bright yellow sulfur. They looked like huge buildings of sulfur. Then, as needed, they would use dynamite to blow them up in sections and load the chunks of sulfur into rail cars to be shipped off by railroad. Daddy was in charge of the dynamiting process. He would bring the empty dynamite boxes home for us to use. They were wooden crates that had many uses. During the summer, when I was out of school, Mama and I would fix lunch and drive to Newgulf to take Daddy a hot meal to eat. I loved doing that and seeing my daddy during lunch time. That was special.
Daddy didn’t have much education, but he was a very smart man. He was especially good with math (with numbers, as he would say). He could add, subtract, multiply and divide most anything in his head. He instilled in me the importance of a good education. I’m not sure he realized it, but he lived in a place where his children received a very good education. I thank him for that! It was important to him that I go to college and I did. He was proud of that.
Daddy was a great role model. He was a good, hard working, God fearing man. As a family, we went to church “every time the doors were open.” Daddy was active in church, serving as a member of the church board. He didn’t just send us. He went, too. He knew the scriptures and he tried to lead a life pleasing to God. He was the spiritual leader of our family, just like it should be. It was obvious to me that he was well respected by those he worked for and with and everyone he came in contact with. I was never, never ashamed that he was my daddy. I never once saw him do or heard of him doing anything that would not make me proud of him.
Even though my daddy has been gone from this earth for 42+ years, I still miss him. He wasn’t here long enough. I am so sad that my sons and my grandchildren didn’t get to know him. They would have loved him and learned so much from him. Daddy would be proud of what a good father Art is and what good fathers our sons are. I feel so blessed that Art did know him, for as long as I did….just another reason I’m so glad that we grew up together. I hope I have some of Cotton Joyce’s characteristics. We didn’t have long together, but it was good times. He was a good man and for sure the best father a girl could have!
He had lots of names. He was Daddy to me, Clarence to my mom, “C” to his sisters, Grandpa Joyce to his grandchildren, A.C. to some people, Cotton to others and of course, Mr. Joyce to many.
Daddy was not a tall man, but I didn’t consider him to be short, either. His hair was thin. His skin was very tanned and leathery looking…with lots of wrinkles. He wore glasses and had false teeth, which he loved to stick out and surprise the little kids. His hands were those of a very hard working man. I can still picture them. Veins stood out on the back of his hands and some of his fingernails were deformed from being mashed by heavy objects…I think from pipes when he worked in oil fields. As he got older, he told me how his skin was getting thinner and referred to it as “his bark was gettin’ thin”. Those hands were never idle. He used them almost constantly. He was good at lots of things. He was a “fixer “. He could repair almost anything around the house, inside and out. He used his hands to mend fences, grow and harvest beautiful gardens, shell peas, milk cows. And he used his hands to warm my sheets in front of an old space heater just before I went to bed on a cold winter night. He never even once used his hands to spank me. That’s probably not a good thing. I’m sure I needed it sometimes.
Daddy used his hands to cook. He was pretty good at it. Homemade biscuits were his specialty. Mama was the main cook in the house, but once in awhile Daddy made biscuits and some other things, like rabbit stew. We had a brick bar-b-q pit in the backyard, that he built, and he was good at cooking bar-b-q.
Daddy seemed to be a very happy man. He joked a lot and loved to tease people, especially young people. I’ve mentioned before how he would hang around with the teenagers after church and tease them.
I felt a lot of love from my Daddy. We did some special things together. He would take me to Boling to Greathouse’s Drugstore and buy me some tooty fruity ice cream and when they closed down, we would go to Wharton to one of the drugstores and get a malt, which at that time we called a malted milk. Wow! That was a treat! Daddy taught me how to drive when I was just 9 years old. He expected great things from me. He was never satisfied, even when I brought home straight A’s. He would say “Is that the best you can do?” I knew he was teasing, but I also knew that he really did want me to do the best I could do. He was proud of me and I knew it.
Daddy smoked Camel cigarettes. Most men smoked back then. He told me one time that he figured that I would smoke some day. He said that I reminded him so much of his youngest sister, Virgil. She smoked. Well Daddy, you misjudged that one. I have never smoked a cigarette (or anything else) in my entire life and certainly don’t intend to start now!! I know he would be proud of that.
He provided well for us. We were not rich, but we always had what we needed. He was very opposed to me borrowing anything from anybody. He said if I needed it, he would figure out a way to buy it, but there would be no borrowing.
Daddy worked at the Newgulf Sulfur Company in Newgulf, just a few miles from our house. When they brought the sulfur out of the ground, in liquid form, they would pour it into molds and build gigantic rectangles of hardened bright yellow sulfur. They looked like huge buildings of sulfur. Then, as needed, they would use dynamite to blow them up in sections and load the chunks of sulfur into rail cars to be shipped off by railroad. Daddy was in charge of the dynamiting process. He would bring the empty dynamite boxes home for us to use. They were wooden crates that had many uses. During the summer, when I was out of school, Mama and I would fix lunch and drive to Newgulf to take Daddy a hot meal to eat. I loved doing that and seeing my daddy during lunch time. That was special.
Daddy didn’t have much education, but he was a very smart man. He was especially good with math (with numbers, as he would say). He could add, subtract, multiply and divide most anything in his head. He instilled in me the importance of a good education. I’m not sure he realized it, but he lived in a place where his children received a very good education. I thank him for that! It was important to him that I go to college and I did. He was proud of that.
Daddy was a great role model. He was a good, hard working, God fearing man. As a family, we went to church “every time the doors were open.” Daddy was active in church, serving as a member of the church board. He didn’t just send us. He went, too. He knew the scriptures and he tried to lead a life pleasing to God. He was the spiritual leader of our family, just like it should be. It was obvious to me that he was well respected by those he worked for and with and everyone he came in contact with. I was never, never ashamed that he was my daddy. I never once saw him do or heard of him doing anything that would not make me proud of him.
Even though my daddy has been gone from this earth for 42+ years, I still miss him. He wasn’t here long enough. I am so sad that my sons and my grandchildren didn’t get to know him. They would have loved him and learned so much from him. Daddy would be proud of what a good father Art is and what good fathers our sons are. I feel so blessed that Art did know him, for as long as I did….just another reason I’m so glad that we grew up together. I hope I have some of Cotton Joyce’s characteristics. We didn’t have long together, but it was good times. He was a good man and for sure the best father a girl could have!
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Vacation
Vacation. I looked up the definition and it says “a period of time devoted to pleasure, rest, or relaxation”. This time of year is vacation time for some folks. For others, it’s just a regular work time, just hotter and drier than usual, especially here in this part of Texas. Since all my grandchildren are on vacation right now, I’ve been thinking a lot about vacations.
I don’t recall many vacations during my growing up days. In fact, if you compare them to the kinds of vacations the grandkids are having, we didn’t have any vacations like that when I was a kid.
We lived less than an hour from the Texas Gulf Coast, so occasionally we would drive down there for a Saturday at the beach. Some people in Wharton had a cabin in Rockport and several times they let us stay there for a night or two. Our church would sometimes take the kids to the beach and that was fun until one time on one of those trips I was attacked by Portuguese Man of War. I was probably about 10 or 12 years old at the time. I was the first one out of the cars and I went running out into the water. Almost immediately I felt something that felt like seaweed all over me and even inside my bathing suit. At first I just tried to brush it off and then realized that it was more than seaweed. I started yelling and fighting it off, but everyone thought I was just having a good time. Then I started screaming for help and running back on the beach. These tentacle things were wrapped all around me and the pain was horrible. The sting felt like fire. People came to my rescue and I was put in a car and rushed to the nearest little store where we asked for help. The people in the store knew what had attacked me and said to siphon gas out of a car and put the gasoline on me where I had been stung…which by now looked like I had been whipped with a wet rope all over my body, and it was hurting really bad! Well, they did what was recommended and guess how that felt!! Oh my gosh. The pain was excruciating. Needless to say that vacation didn’t end very well. I suffered from that for several days and then the whelps got infected (apparently because I scratched them in my sleep) and it looked like I had been whipped with a huge wet rope all over my body. Before it had looked more like a string. Now the stripes stood out from my body about an inch wide and an inch tall. Yes. I’m not kidding. I ended up having to go to the doctor and for weeks had scars all over my body. You wonder why I don’t like to go to the beach?
Well, let’s see. What other vacations did we go on? I remember going to Jackson, Tennessee to visit my Aunt Ivy, Daddy’s sister. Aunt Ivy lived way, way out in the country down a dirt road in a very old unpainted wood house. There was no bathroom inside, so we had to take a bath in a wash tub. That was…uh; let me think….not much fun. Aunt Ivy served us sweet iced tea for breakfast. That was a first for me. I kind of liked that. Aunt Ivy was a stocky little woman full of energy. Her husband, Uncle Ebe Blanton, had suffered a stroke sometime in the past and he was paralyzed and bedridden. Aunt Ivy obviously had a very rough life, but a wonderful attitude. She had a smile on her face and joy in her heart. It was obvious that she and my Dad loved each other very much. I think it must have been on that trip that we did kind of a “touristy” thing and went to Pickwick Dam on the Tennessee River. I remember getting to buy a bracelet that must have been made out of aluminum. It was silver and very light weight. It was kind of like a charm bracelet with little round discs hanging down spelling out “Pickwick Dam”.
Then there was our visit to Sapulpa, Oklahoma to see another one of Daddy’s sisters, Aunt Elva…we pronounced it Elvie. She was married to Uncle Argyle McDougal. I really liked visiting them. Aunt Elvie was a tall, slim woman with a great personality. I could feel her love for me. She made really good cinnamon rolls.
When we drove on our “vacations” to Tennessee and Oklahoma, I don’t recall stopping and spending the nights in motels. We must have driven all day to get there. We never stayed long….just a few days. I don’t think Daddy got much vacation time off from work.
When I was little, I went to Austin several summers and stayed for a few days with my oldest brother Murray and his wife, Genny. I don’t recall much that happened there except for seeing their dog vomit and then eat it. I know that’s gross, but it’s what I remember. There are pictures of our family doing some tourist things around Austin, but I really don’t remember those times.
Well, that about sums up my memories of childhood vacations. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but you know, I didn’t know I was missing out on anything. I really don’t think it’s bad. Nobody has to entertain me. And it doesn’t take much to make me happy. I hope my grandchildren are enjoying their vacations.
I don’t recall many vacations during my growing up days. In fact, if you compare them to the kinds of vacations the grandkids are having, we didn’t have any vacations like that when I was a kid.
We lived less than an hour from the Texas Gulf Coast, so occasionally we would drive down there for a Saturday at the beach. Some people in Wharton had a cabin in Rockport and several times they let us stay there for a night or two. Our church would sometimes take the kids to the beach and that was fun until one time on one of those trips I was attacked by Portuguese Man of War. I was probably about 10 or 12 years old at the time. I was the first one out of the cars and I went running out into the water. Almost immediately I felt something that felt like seaweed all over me and even inside my bathing suit. At first I just tried to brush it off and then realized that it was more than seaweed. I started yelling and fighting it off, but everyone thought I was just having a good time. Then I started screaming for help and running back on the beach. These tentacle things were wrapped all around me and the pain was horrible. The sting felt like fire. People came to my rescue and I was put in a car and rushed to the nearest little store where we asked for help. The people in the store knew what had attacked me and said to siphon gas out of a car and put the gasoline on me where I had been stung…which by now looked like I had been whipped with a wet rope all over my body, and it was hurting really bad! Well, they did what was recommended and guess how that felt!! Oh my gosh. The pain was excruciating. Needless to say that vacation didn’t end very well. I suffered from that for several days and then the whelps got infected (apparently because I scratched them in my sleep) and it looked like I had been whipped with a huge wet rope all over my body. Before it had looked more like a string. Now the stripes stood out from my body about an inch wide and an inch tall. Yes. I’m not kidding. I ended up having to go to the doctor and for weeks had scars all over my body. You wonder why I don’t like to go to the beach?
Well, let’s see. What other vacations did we go on? I remember going to Jackson, Tennessee to visit my Aunt Ivy, Daddy’s sister. Aunt Ivy lived way, way out in the country down a dirt road in a very old unpainted wood house. There was no bathroom inside, so we had to take a bath in a wash tub. That was…uh; let me think….not much fun. Aunt Ivy served us sweet iced tea for breakfast. That was a first for me. I kind of liked that. Aunt Ivy was a stocky little woman full of energy. Her husband, Uncle Ebe Blanton, had suffered a stroke sometime in the past and he was paralyzed and bedridden. Aunt Ivy obviously had a very rough life, but a wonderful attitude. She had a smile on her face and joy in her heart. It was obvious that she and my Dad loved each other very much. I think it must have been on that trip that we did kind of a “touristy” thing and went to Pickwick Dam on the Tennessee River. I remember getting to buy a bracelet that must have been made out of aluminum. It was silver and very light weight. It was kind of like a charm bracelet with little round discs hanging down spelling out “Pickwick Dam”.
Then there was our visit to Sapulpa, Oklahoma to see another one of Daddy’s sisters, Aunt Elva…we pronounced it Elvie. She was married to Uncle Argyle McDougal. I really liked visiting them. Aunt Elvie was a tall, slim woman with a great personality. I could feel her love for me. She made really good cinnamon rolls.
When we drove on our “vacations” to Tennessee and Oklahoma, I don’t recall stopping and spending the nights in motels. We must have driven all day to get there. We never stayed long….just a few days. I don’t think Daddy got much vacation time off from work.
When I was little, I went to Austin several summers and stayed for a few days with my oldest brother Murray and his wife, Genny. I don’t recall much that happened there except for seeing their dog vomit and then eat it. I know that’s gross, but it’s what I remember. There are pictures of our family doing some tourist things around Austin, but I really don’t remember those times.
Well, that about sums up my memories of childhood vacations. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but you know, I didn’t know I was missing out on anything. I really don’t think it’s bad. Nobody has to entertain me. And it doesn’t take much to make me happy. I hope my grandchildren are enjoying their vacations.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Music
Music has always been an important part of my life. Earlier I wrote about my very first music teacher, Mrs. Donaldson, and what a big part she played in introducing me to music theory and singing. She showed me the importance of music. I saw what pleasure music brought to her life and I wanted that, too. She inspired me to want to play the piano.
When I was 6 years old my daddy bought me a piano. That was in 1951. Many years later I found out from a piano tuner that my piano, which I still have, was probably made around 1920. It is an upright piano that at some time, before we got it, had been cut down and a horizontal mirror was attached to it. That was a popular thing to do at one time. That old piano has brought many hours of enjoyment in my life. It is my one worldly possession that I hope one of my kids will want to keep and hopefully be passed down to one of my grandchildren. Ross has reminded me that he wrote some of his first songs on that piano.
I started taking piano lessons when I was in first grade and continued to do so until the end of the eighth grade. You would think that someone who took piano lessons for 8 years would be a very accomplished pianist, but I’m not. I think there are several reasons for that. First of all, I didn’t practice as much as I should have. Also, I really think that I didn’t have the right teacher for me. My piano teacher, Mrs. Pearson, was also our church pianist at the Iago Federated Church. She taught me to read the music and play exactly what was written…no more, no less. That was frustrating for me. We practiced all year on the music that we would play in the annual piano recital which was held at the old Iago Federated Church each spring. The music had to be memorized. We wore long formal gowns and the recital was a really big deal. I was always scared to death. It was not until many years later that I realized what the major problem was. I think I had a good “ear” for music and really needed someone who could teach me to “play by ear”. All I wanted to do was play church music and be able to “run up and down the piano” playing with passion and lots of feeling. Learning and memorizing the recital music just didn’t do that for me. To this day, when I play, I can sight read the right hand fairly well, but have a tough time with the left hand. I don’t care anything about playing what’s written for either hand. I just want to sit down at the piano, with no music, and do my own thing. Sometimes it sounds pretty good, sometimes not, but it’s soothing and calming and relaxing and I need to do it more. Also, I care nothing about performing in front of an audience. I just want to play for my enjoyment. When I was in high school, I played the piano at the Iago Federated Church and even played the organ a few times. In college, I played at a very small church on Sundays. After Art and I married, I played a lot for Sunday school at bigger churches, but only a time or two in church services. I really never felt confident to play in front of a lot of people.
About the time I quit taking piano lessons, I joined the school band. Our band director was Mr. Brantley, T.V. Brantley. He was a good band director and a good man. He loved band music and he so wanted to instill that in us. Just like Mrs. Donaldson, he taught us music with passion. In eighth grade you joined the band and Mr. Brantley would help you decide what instrument was the best fit for you. Our school furnished all the instruments. We didn’t have to pay for anything. Our school district was one of the only “budget balanced” schools in the state of Texas and everything was provided, thanks to Texas Gulf Sulfur Company. Anyway, Mr. Brantley and I decided that I should play the alto sax and I did for the rest of my high school days. My senior year, I was first chair alto sax in the Boling High School Band. We had band concerts and participated in band contests. I was a twirler and Mr. Brantley really didn’t like twirlers, as a group, but I always knew that in spite of me being a twirler, he liked me. He knew that as twirlers we were taking time away from our instruments and he really wanted us to excel in music, not twirling. He also didn’t like for his band kids to play sports. He knew that also diverted our attention away from band and music. Mr. Brantley ran a very tight ship. We had really strict dress codes, when it came to our band uniforms. As soon as we stepped off the bus or walked out of the band hall, we were to be in full uniform. As twirlers, we wore tall, clumsy hats, but they had to be on our heads at all times, with just one exception….the second half of a football game. During the first half, we played our instruments in the stands with the band with those awkward hats on!! After we marched on the field at half time, we could take our hats off and not play the second half. It was during that time that we met the twirlers from the opposing school and twirled in front of the bands and the fans. Mr. Brantley tolerated that, but we always knew that he wasn’t pleased with the whole twirling thing. Since we didn’t own our instruments, my alto sax stayed at the school to be passed down to someone else after I graduated and I didn’t pick up an alto sax again for many, many years. By that time, I had forgotten how to play it. Art bought me an old one many years later. I enjoy getting it out and trying to play it once in a while, but it’s really frustrating that I’ve lost my ability to play it. It’s not like riding a bicycle….you do forget!! Sam likes to get out that old sax and try to blow some notes on it. I still have my batons and really haven’t lost my twirling ability. The grandchildren all like to watch Nana twirl and then try to copy me. I don’t think Mr. Brantley would be proud that I lost my ability to play the sax, but haven’t lost my twirling skills. Several years ago, Mr. Brantley died and I went back home to attend his funeral. A few of us old band members were there and we had a wonderful time reminiscing about our band days at Boling High School. We all agreed that Mr. Brantley was a great band director who instilled in us a lifelong love for music.
I’ve always enjoyed singing. I really don’t remember ever not singing. I don’t think I was very good at it, but in our little country church I sang lots of solos and in small groups. We sang a lot at the Iago Federated Church….in church services, Sunday school, Vacation Bible School, Sunday night youth groups, Wednesday afternoon I.A.H. (I am His – girls’ group). We sang a lot in 4-H….at our meetings, at camps and around camp fires. I like to sing. I’ve realized in my older years that I don’t always enjoy just listening to music. It’s probably annoying to those around me, but I don’t want to sit and listen to music. I like to sing along. I want to participate. When there’s music going on around me, I want to be a participant! I love praise and worship music. I love turning up music really, really loud and singing to the “top of my lungs”. Some of my most spiritually moving times are when I am praising God in music! Many times, I don’t need the sermon, I just want the music!
I wouldn’t want to imagine a life without music. I thank God for music and what it has meant in my life. Music has gotten me through many tough times. I’ve been able to appreciate all kinds of music, but I do have my favorites…from children’s Sunday school songs to hymns to contemporary Christian music, Elvis and early rock and roll, country music, patriotic and marching band music, ‘50’s music, Broadway and classical music, Irish tenors and Celtic music and more!
God blessed me in giving me a husband who loves music and sons who love music…even one who has centered his life on writing and singing music for the Lord. I pray that all my grandchildren will like music. Music is good!!!
“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, sweetest name I know. Fills my every longing. Keeps me singing as I go”!!
When I was 6 years old my daddy bought me a piano. That was in 1951. Many years later I found out from a piano tuner that my piano, which I still have, was probably made around 1920. It is an upright piano that at some time, before we got it, had been cut down and a horizontal mirror was attached to it. That was a popular thing to do at one time. That old piano has brought many hours of enjoyment in my life. It is my one worldly possession that I hope one of my kids will want to keep and hopefully be passed down to one of my grandchildren. Ross has reminded me that he wrote some of his first songs on that piano.
I started taking piano lessons when I was in first grade and continued to do so until the end of the eighth grade. You would think that someone who took piano lessons for 8 years would be a very accomplished pianist, but I’m not. I think there are several reasons for that. First of all, I didn’t practice as much as I should have. Also, I really think that I didn’t have the right teacher for me. My piano teacher, Mrs. Pearson, was also our church pianist at the Iago Federated Church. She taught me to read the music and play exactly what was written…no more, no less. That was frustrating for me. We practiced all year on the music that we would play in the annual piano recital which was held at the old Iago Federated Church each spring. The music had to be memorized. We wore long formal gowns and the recital was a really big deal. I was always scared to death. It was not until many years later that I realized what the major problem was. I think I had a good “ear” for music and really needed someone who could teach me to “play by ear”. All I wanted to do was play church music and be able to “run up and down the piano” playing with passion and lots of feeling. Learning and memorizing the recital music just didn’t do that for me. To this day, when I play, I can sight read the right hand fairly well, but have a tough time with the left hand. I don’t care anything about playing what’s written for either hand. I just want to sit down at the piano, with no music, and do my own thing. Sometimes it sounds pretty good, sometimes not, but it’s soothing and calming and relaxing and I need to do it more. Also, I care nothing about performing in front of an audience. I just want to play for my enjoyment. When I was in high school, I played the piano at the Iago Federated Church and even played the organ a few times. In college, I played at a very small church on Sundays. After Art and I married, I played a lot for Sunday school at bigger churches, but only a time or two in church services. I really never felt confident to play in front of a lot of people.
About the time I quit taking piano lessons, I joined the school band. Our band director was Mr. Brantley, T.V. Brantley. He was a good band director and a good man. He loved band music and he so wanted to instill that in us. Just like Mrs. Donaldson, he taught us music with passion. In eighth grade you joined the band and Mr. Brantley would help you decide what instrument was the best fit for you. Our school furnished all the instruments. We didn’t have to pay for anything. Our school district was one of the only “budget balanced” schools in the state of Texas and everything was provided, thanks to Texas Gulf Sulfur Company. Anyway, Mr. Brantley and I decided that I should play the alto sax and I did for the rest of my high school days. My senior year, I was first chair alto sax in the Boling High School Band. We had band concerts and participated in band contests. I was a twirler and Mr. Brantley really didn’t like twirlers, as a group, but I always knew that in spite of me being a twirler, he liked me. He knew that as twirlers we were taking time away from our instruments and he really wanted us to excel in music, not twirling. He also didn’t like for his band kids to play sports. He knew that also diverted our attention away from band and music. Mr. Brantley ran a very tight ship. We had really strict dress codes, when it came to our band uniforms. As soon as we stepped off the bus or walked out of the band hall, we were to be in full uniform. As twirlers, we wore tall, clumsy hats, but they had to be on our heads at all times, with just one exception….the second half of a football game. During the first half, we played our instruments in the stands with the band with those awkward hats on!! After we marched on the field at half time, we could take our hats off and not play the second half. It was during that time that we met the twirlers from the opposing school and twirled in front of the bands and the fans. Mr. Brantley tolerated that, but we always knew that he wasn’t pleased with the whole twirling thing. Since we didn’t own our instruments, my alto sax stayed at the school to be passed down to someone else after I graduated and I didn’t pick up an alto sax again for many, many years. By that time, I had forgotten how to play it. Art bought me an old one many years later. I enjoy getting it out and trying to play it once in a while, but it’s really frustrating that I’ve lost my ability to play it. It’s not like riding a bicycle….you do forget!! Sam likes to get out that old sax and try to blow some notes on it. I still have my batons and really haven’t lost my twirling ability. The grandchildren all like to watch Nana twirl and then try to copy me. I don’t think Mr. Brantley would be proud that I lost my ability to play the sax, but haven’t lost my twirling skills. Several years ago, Mr. Brantley died and I went back home to attend his funeral. A few of us old band members were there and we had a wonderful time reminiscing about our band days at Boling High School. We all agreed that Mr. Brantley was a great band director who instilled in us a lifelong love for music.
I’ve always enjoyed singing. I really don’t remember ever not singing. I don’t think I was very good at it, but in our little country church I sang lots of solos and in small groups. We sang a lot at the Iago Federated Church….in church services, Sunday school, Vacation Bible School, Sunday night youth groups, Wednesday afternoon I.A.H. (I am His – girls’ group). We sang a lot in 4-H….at our meetings, at camps and around camp fires. I like to sing. I’ve realized in my older years that I don’t always enjoy just listening to music. It’s probably annoying to those around me, but I don’t want to sit and listen to music. I like to sing along. I want to participate. When there’s music going on around me, I want to be a participant! I love praise and worship music. I love turning up music really, really loud and singing to the “top of my lungs”. Some of my most spiritually moving times are when I am praising God in music! Many times, I don’t need the sermon, I just want the music!
I wouldn’t want to imagine a life without music. I thank God for music and what it has meant in my life. Music has gotten me through many tough times. I’ve been able to appreciate all kinds of music, but I do have my favorites…from children’s Sunday school songs to hymns to contemporary Christian music, Elvis and early rock and roll, country music, patriotic and marching band music, ‘50’s music, Broadway and classical music, Irish tenors and Celtic music and more!
God blessed me in giving me a husband who loves music and sons who love music…even one who has centered his life on writing and singing music for the Lord. I pray that all my grandchildren will like music. Music is good!!!
“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, sweetest name I know. Fills my every longing. Keeps me singing as I go”!!
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