Don't Tear Down My Statues

Before all of this Controversy of Anything Confederate expands, I want to go on the record. Although to most of the World, I am known as G-Man, Super Hero, my real name is Jim Wright.
I want to make it perfectly clear I am NOT the Liberal Politician from Ft. Worth.  I am in no way related to the former Speaker of the House by blood or marriage.  I have never socialized nor met with the Democrat.  In fact, a distant relative of mine, Wingate Lucas, was opposed by Jim Wright for a seat in Congress. 

I am prepared to take legal action against ESPN if they try to block me from playing Fantasy Football or lead any efforts to remove my trophies just because I share a similar name with a politician of questionable ethics.

Although I was born in Ft. Worth and lived my early life in Tarrant county,  I never knew the man.

More Summer Work

After my first year of college, I had not been able to land a summer job.  I was going to the high school gym in the mornings to work out, play ping pong or some pick up basketball games.  After about a week into the summer, Coach Pappy Drennan approached me asking if I had a job for the summer.  He was the Assistant Head Master and was looking for counselors to work at Camp Stewart.  Camp Stewart was a boys summer camp in the Texas Hill Country near Hunt, TX.  I had to provide my own transportation.  Since my parents weren't willing to let me take one of the family cars, I had to ride the train to San Antonio where I was met by someone to take me to the camp.  I don't recall much about train ride other than it stopped a lot.

Once I was there I received my duties.  I was to be in charge of a cabin of 12-15 boys that were about 12years old.  I had to make sure they got up, made their beds and went to breakfast each morning.  They would then participate in various activities during the day and be back in their cabins for a 9:00pm "lights out" 

During the day I had several activities, one of which was teaching golf.  Within a week, all of the campers under my tutelage were slicing the ball.  I also had to coordinate some other games.  Plus, I was required to be a lifeguard at the swimming hole on the Guadalupe River.  (Note to Parents:  Be careful where you send your kids)  I was not a strong swimmer.  I had to swim out to the life guard float and oversee the kids.  At one point I had to pull  a kid out of the water.  Fortunately, he was hanging on the float and I didn't have to swim to rescue him. 

All of the counselors were near my age and we developed some comraderie.   I got to know the wranglers pretty well.  One of them had an old truck.  None of the other counselors did.  The wranglers were only responsible for tending the horses and leading the trail rides.  They did not have cabin responsibilities and would ride into town at night.  They invited me to go with them and on several occasions I would head to town after my campers were all asleep.  We went to this honky tonk in Ingram called Criders.  It was surrounded by a chicken wire fence with a large gate at the entrance. It had a bandstand on one end, a bar and concession on the other and a concrete dance floor in between.  It was completely open and had a large oak tree in the middle of the dance floor.  The clientele was a mix of ranchers, cowboys, vacationers, families with kids and, in some cases, dogs.  It was at Criders that I learned to do the chicken dance to the Adolph Hofner and the Pearl Wranglers Band and that golden eagles are hated by sheep farmers as they will kill the new born sheep or goats. 

After returning to Texas from Tennessee my friend, Craig Christopher, had purchased a ranch near Hunt and invited me to spend a weekend with him.  He suggested we go into town for a rodeo and some BBQ at a local establishment.  Turns out it was Crider's.  After 20+ years the only thing that had changed was the chicken wire had been replaced by a chain link fence.

Each summer the Camp Stewart boys would be transported to Camp Mystic for a dance at the girls camp.  The counselors were the chaperones.  A lot of the campers were from affluent families.  In my cabin I had a kid whose dad was president of Westinghouse Corp and another boy that was a member of the Houston Fondren family.  At the Camp Mystic dance,  Lucy Johnson and the daughter of Governor Connelly were present.

After being at Camp Stewart for about six weeks, I started getting sick.  I had an extremely sore throat. So bad that I could only eat ice cream.  My whole body ached.  After several trips to the camp infirmary, they finally decided I needed to see the doctor in town.  I had come down with mononucleosis.  They sent me back home on the train.  By the time I got home I had lost 20 lbs.

About a month later I got a check for my services.  Don't remember the amount, but it wasn't much.
The money didn't matter as I developed an appreciation for the beauty of the Texas Hill Country.


Next:  Getting a little more serious about working.

Summer Job

For teenagers in the 60's it was hard to find part time or summer jobs.  There was no fast food restaurants or shopping malls that employed students in mass. When you could find a job to make a little spending money, it was usually for a short duration. 

I was always looking for some work.  The first I remember was cleaning up the little league field after the games when I was 13.  My job was to pick up the trash and put it in the garbage.  I think I made $5 each game.  Unfortunately, I had not developed a very good work ethic at that time and my Mother did most of the work.  I didn't last very long on that job.

I excelled on the next job.  It started in my 8th grade year at MacArthur Jr. High.  Each morning before classes I had to go to the cafeteria before school started and take all of the folding chairs off the tables and set them up for lunch.  After the last lunch period I would go stack them on the tables so the floors could be cleaned and mopped.  I remember working with Bill Coward.  We got the routine down and could get it done in a hurry.  Compensation for this was a free lunch in the cafeteria and either two cartons of milk or two desserts.  I opted for the two milks, except on Friday when it was cherry cobbler day and I got two desserts and bought the second milk.  I think lunch was about thirty cents at that time.  Held that job for two years.

Summer jobs were hard to find as a young teenager.  A couple of summers I got to work for the school district delivering the new text books to the schools.  It was fun and never seemed to be "work". I don't recall the pay, but the total was something short of $100.

It was the summer job I got after my senior year in high school that has the date August 10, 1962 etched in my mind.  I was looking for work when I heard of a construction company that needed a laborer/dump truck driver.  I was told to report for work the following Monday.  I never told them I had never driven a dump truck before nor did I have a commercial license.  I studied the book and passed the test the next day.   The company was building filling stations in the area.  I was to drive the truck when needed and work with the labor crew the rest of the time.  The very first morning I was told to help load debris in the truck and then take it to the dump.  Driving the truck was no problem.  I had been in a dump truck before but only as a passenger.  When I got to the dump, I had no idea how to operate the lift.  I knew it had something to do with the two levers protruding through the floor board.  I begin to try various combinations to get the lift to work.  I was beginning to think I was going to have to unload the junk by hand when I finally figured out how the bed lifted.   When I got back to the job site, the boss wanted to know why it took so long.  

I would go to the sand pit, haul building materials and numerous trips to the dump.  Even had to go to a railroad siding one day with several crew members to transfer asphalt from a rail car to the dump truck.  Southeast Texas summer heat caused the asphalt to stick to the bottom of my tennis shoes, making my feet really hot.  Not easy work for $1.25/hr. 

Once I mastered the dump truck, I looked forward to driving.  The ground work was tough.  Most of my duties centered around preparing foundations for pouring the slab.  One of the crew members was and old man that always grabbed the hand tamp to pack the fill sand.  I noticed he always worked at a very slow rate.  Had to be easy. One day I grabbed the tamp before he did.
Turned out the thing was a lot heavier than I realized.  After about ten minutes I gave it back to the old guy.  It was then I realized his forearms were about twice the size of mine.

Back to August 10th.  We were sent to a previously built station on the Corner of College and Lindbergh to make some repairs.  During that period of time oyster shells were used as road base.  The oysters were put down wet and then rolled to pack them.  When dry, it set up as a solid base and asphalt was used to top it off, making a nice road, drive, etc.  This particular station had an apron constructed in this manner.  Due to the unstable SE Texas gumbo soil and a plethora of 18 wheelers parking on this spot, the approach kept failing.  The construction manager decided that it must all be dug up and replaced with concrete.   Since hauling off the spoils required the dump truck, I was sent with the crew.  The job was fairly simple.  Dig it up and load the truck.

It required the use of a grub hoe, a shovel and lots and lots of muscle.

You simply just busted up the asphalt and oyster shell and shoveled it.  Simply enough you might think.  And, why was August 10th significant?  Well that date is the second highest temperature recorded in Beaumont, 107 degrees.  It was brutal.  I would hammer for awhile, then go to the water cooler.  Bust some more oyster shell and go to the bathroom.  It was during one of those water breaks that I knew I wanted to go to college.

I gained a lot of respect for those guys that were doing it for a living, especially Scatter, the old man on the tamper.

Coming next: Working as a counselor at a summer camp.

Pills Are For Sellin' Not Takin'

My Great-Grandfather, Zachary Taylor Wall and my Grandfather, Clifford Wall were both pharmacists in Grapevine, Texas.  I even have a copy of a prescription that was written by Z. T. Wall in 1879.  The actual drug is difficult to read, but underneath it says with whiskey.  Grapevine was a "dry" town in the 19th Century. 

Growing up under two generations of drug store owners, my Mother (Babe as we affectionately called her)  had plenty of exposure to the business.  I recall a conversation I had with her when she was in her early 80s about her medications.  She told me that she wasn't taking all of them.  When I questioned her about it, she replied that, in her family, pills were for selling, not taking. 

Babe was only 15 when her Mother died during the Great Depression.  Forced to take over the household during difficult economic times, she was very resourceful and remained so her entire life.
I recall meals at home growing up.  It didn't take long to learn that what wasn't eaten during the week was going to show up in the soup on the weekend.

I have been accused of being cheap, tight, chintzy, etc.  A trait that I don't deny.  But, as you can see from the above I came about it honestly. 

Upon moving back to Texas during the 80's, I decided that I needed a new belt to wear with my jeans.  Of course, I needed one with my name on the back.  While shopping at a local store, I noticed a table full of belts.  Apparently they were defects or had been returned.  One caught my eye and it was the size I was looking for.  Only problem, the name on the back was "Greg".  Since the belts were only $2.88 each, I decided it would be fine.  I bought the belt and begin wearing it. At social gatherings people would come up to me and call me Greg.  After a couple of years my niece and nephew gave me a belt for Christmas with "Jim" on the back.  I'd still be wearing the "Greg" belt today if it would fit.

Several years later we moved to the country.  For Christmas, I thought I would get the kids in the real spirit of Christmas.  We would go out in the woods and find a suitable Christmas tree and cut it down.  Since furs and few cedars grow in Southeast Texas, we cut down a small pine and then cut off the top six feet to use as our tree.  I must admit  that it was a bit sparse, but it got decorated anyway. Years later I heard my daughter talking with my friend, Don Webb.  He mentioned the story about the tree and Jennifer said, "Yes, that was the Christmas I learned the meaning of frugal".

This past week I took my wife to the doctor for some discomfort she was experiencing.  He prescribed a couple of medications and three B-12 shots.  I was told that the pharmacy could give her the shots as a courtesy.  We got the medication, sans whiskey, but the pharmacist said they don't give shots.  I was told to go to the Minute Clinic, but I knew they would charge me.  So, being the frugal person I am, I told my wife I would give her the shots.  She asked me if I had ever given a shot before and I told her I had.  After giving her the shot the next day, I confessed that I had given shots before, but they were to the horses. 

Baseball Mothers.

With the start of the 2017 College baseball season less than a week away, I was reflecting back on my baseball playing days.  As a kid I loved baseball.  Read the box scores every morning.  Played in the sandlots and organized ball every chance I got.  Having a Father that loved the game and was excited that I played only fueled my emotion.  Every chance we got he would take me, my brother and whatever neighbor kids we could round up to the sandlot for batting practice.  But that is not the topic of this story. 

Last night while watching the movie, "Sandlot" for the umpteenth time, I recalled the line Small's Mother said to him.  She said she wanted him to go outside, meet other kids, have fun and get into a little trouble.  It got me to thinking of the role the Mothers have in all of the baseball playing boys. 

My Mother didn't throw me or my brother batting practice or hit us grounders.  However, she went to the field and shagged balls as we hit.  I can still see her in the outfield without a glove scooping up ground balls with her skirt.  She was pretty good at it too.  She could whip up a meal in minutes and often had to prepare two or three suppers a day, as we were all on different schedules.  She was a score keeper.  After she passed I found many of those scorecards.  I think she only kept the ones that I did well. 

Later in life as I started coaching my seven and eight year old boys in Little League, I became more aware of the importance of mothers in their baseball son's development.  My first year in coaching I had to draft a team.  Identifying the kids to pick in the early rounds was easy.  The later rounds was tougher.  I recall that first team and my last pick.  I had about ten kids from which to pick.  None had shown any ability at all.  So when it came my turn I selected a little lefty named David Rose.  Why David, you ask?  Well David's Mother, Ginger, had brought him to tryouts.  She was knock down gorgeous. I mean a real beautiful woman.  If her kid couldn't play ball, at least she was nice to look at.  (At this point I will pause and allow female readers to comment on my shallowness and whatever adjectives one would feel necessary to throw at me).

However, the story does not end here.  Ginger was as beautiful inside as she was outside and ended up being my Team Mom.  Byron, her husband, ended up volunteering to be my assistant coach.  We became good friends.  But there is some irony to this story.  We ended up with a pretty good team. David was a real nice kid and tried hard.  We had a pretty good team and made the championship game.  In the last inning of that game we had a one run lead.  The other team had the bases loaded with two outs and their best hitter at the plate.  He hit a line drive to left field and my little lefty with the beautiful Mom made a diving catch to end the game.  What a great draft pick.

The next year I had another pretty good team of eight and nine year olds.  Practices can be a challenge to keep the kids interested and make it fun.  Many of the mothers would bring their kids to practice and wait to take them home. In order to keep it interesting, I told the Moms and kids the next day we were going to have a Mothers vs. kids game.   My second baseman was a kid named Phillip McAbee. A really good player.  He could hit and field. It turned out that one of the mommas was an army brat and had been an All Europe softball player when she was a teenager.   Phillip's Mom was still playing slow pitch softball in Chattanooga.  Needless to say the Mother Team was pretty good.  When Phillip's Mom caught his line drive, putting him out for the second time, he sat down and cried.
I understand Phillip later received a voice scholarship to U of Tennessee.

All the Moms weren't as classy as MY Moms.  I once had to separate two of them from a "Cat Fight" at the Red Bank, TN Dixie League park. 

Two Generation Of Baseball Moms. One is done and the other just starting

Flash forward to the 90's.  By then my kids baseball careers were over and I had become a Lamar University baseball fan.  Sitting in the stands we had the chance to meet a lot of the baseball Moms of the college players.  A handful stand out in my memory.  Bryan Lovelace's Mom and Dad came from California to watch him play.  She would holler at him, "C'mon, Cutie Pie".  A name she must have given him as a toddler and thoroughly embarrassed him as a 21 year old college baseball player.  Everytime he would come to bat she would cover her face and not watch until his at bat was over.

Richard Templeton was a reliever in the mid 90's.  During one particular game when the Cardinals were playing poorly, His Mother got on top of the dugout and started berating the entire team for their poor play.  The Cards came back and won that game.  Mrs. Templeton was credited with the "Save".

As time went on, we began encouraging the Mother's to bring us cookies.  Many obliged.  A couple of Section BB favorites emerged.  Lisa Dziedzic, whose son was invited to the KC Royals spring training camp this year, made all of the games along with about a dozen of her other kids.  She made some outstanding pastries.  Another favorite, Frankie Harrington, also brought some nice treats.  Frankie had two sons, both pitchers that are still in the LU record books.  We got cookies for eight years.  She knew the game and when her boys made mistakes, she didn't cut them any slack. A great fan.

But, the favorite of all time was the Mother of Scotty Diaz.  Scotty didn't pitch many innings in his two years at Lamar, but his parents were always there. They sat behind us in Section BB and she had treats at every game which she enthuastically shared.  It was her desire to see her son pitch more that is still talked about today in Section BB.  Last I heard Scotty had earned his medical degree and is practicing medicine. 

As the new season is about to begin, I am looking forward to cookies from Reid Russell's Mom and the other baseball mothers yet to be named. 

Most of the baseball Mom's don't throw batting practice, play catch,  hit fly balls or call balls and strikes.  But, like my Mother and Ms. Smalls, they are the backbone of a baseball playing kid.  They drive the carpools, wash the uniforms, bandage the scrapes, ice the black eyes.  They root for their kid, worry about an injury, prepare the pregame meals, give up a new dress to have money for a new catcher's mitt, soothe a wounded soul following a hat trick and on occasion mediate with an overbearing Dad.   They spend hours and days in uncomfortable seats when they would need to be doing something else. And, in some cases scoop up grounders with their dress like Ozzie Smith.

Thanks to my Dad I could hit left handed pitchers pretty well, But, thanks to my Mom, I learned to keep score.  That I still do to this day.