Rites of Passage

Throughout history rites of passage ceremonies have marked  a person's progress from one event to another.  They come in all manners of activities.  Obtaining a driver's license and making that first solo trip from home is experienced by most teenagers at some point.  Baptisms, confirmations and bar mitzvah are religious rites of passage.  Graduations,  recitals and Quinceanera are others.  Club and fraternal organizations initiations are rituals that fit the definition.  And, of course, the Wedding fits the description.

We have all experienced many life events that define our progress from one state to another.  It was the anticipation of such a change that gave me great anxiety in my preteen years.  Elementary school included Grades 1 thru 6.  After the sixth grade you went to junior high at  a new campus.   From the time you were in the fourth grade you knew about the Rites of Passage to Junior High. All males were subject to this initiation.  

Upper class men in junior high would catch the new sixth grade boys, take off their pants and run them up the flag pole.  A humiliation that I had grown to fear as time to make the move to the new campus got closer.  

The other concern that gave me grief was not a rite of passage as much as it was a different rule.  You had to wear shoes to school.  Most of us went barefooted most of the year.  Wearing shoes was uncomfortable. 

Although the "big guys" never did take my pants off or anyone else's for that matter, we did have to wear shoes.  We all moved to another life stage.

The Super Hero Highway

                                               (Pine Island Bayou, near Hwy 105)

In 1982 we moved from the West End of Beaumont to Bevil Oaks.  We wanted a little land and a more rural lifestyle.   We raised some horses, chickens, a cow and three kids while making the daily 48 mile round trip commute to work.  At first, there were no stop signs and no stop lights on that 24 mile stretch.  A little over six miles of that drive  was on Hwy 105.  At first Hwy 105 was a two-lane road.  Over the years it was widened to five lanes.  Traffic lights were installed at several intersections.  Today,  a couple of fried chicken and burger joints line the drive, as well as six convenience stores.  Heck, there is even a builder supply store and a medical clinic and a few other small businesses.  I remember when the only business on that six mile stretch was a bar.

Today I was riding Hwy 105 to town to get a hair cut and the traffic going both ways was heavy and moving at a rapid pace.  It occurred to me that Hwy 105 was going to continue to grow until it resembled Dowlen Rd.  I recall when Dowlen was a shell road through the oil fields.

It was at that point that I had an epiphany.  Hwy 105 has no name.  It is simply, Hwy 105.  The BISD and the City of Beaumont have been trying to name everything they can for some political, egotistical and/or righteous reasons.  We have the Butch named after the School District Super, the swimming pool at that location named after some school board trustee that is of no significance.   Part of Florida Ave was changed to the name of the baseball coach.  Railroad Ave was changed to MLK.   Other streets have been named after preachers and politicians.
The City is trying to come up with a name for the new pond downtown.

We have named the backstop at Bingman Elementary the Buddy, after one of the kids that grew up playing baseball there.

It is only a matter of time before someone comes up with some stupid proposal to name Hwy 105. Therefore, I am requesting every one's support in naming the section of Hwy 105 from the Eastex Freeway to the Pine Island Bayou Bridge after me.  I have calculated that I have driven approximately 250,000 miles on that section of road.  I once rode my horse to the only business on the highway.  When it was still two lanes, I once passed a string of cars while going 100mph to find the lead car was a Highway Patrol (But, that is worth another Blog).  I feel that I am worthy of having that six mile stretch of Texas Highway named in my honor.  

I am suggesting G-Man, Super Hero Highway.   Feel free to submit other name suggestions.

The Older I Get, The Better I Was!

If you have read earlier blogs, by now, you know that I am a baseball fan.  I have been accused of riding around at night looking for lights.  I rarely miss a Lamar University home game.  Along with a group of friends that share my baseball passion, we make several road trips each year.  Last year included about 15 games at the Southland Conference tournament in Corpus Christi and the NCAA regional tournament in Ft. Worth (Seen above) where Lamar was eliminated by host TCU and Baylor.

While we are not root, root, rootin' for the home team,  someone is always looking for a practical joke to play on the others.  We have drawn body chalk outlines on the surface where one friend fell the day before.  Paid an unknown kid to give a ball to another buddy who is always chanting, "Give that foul ball to a kid"  Any many other jokes, pokes and/or "smack" talk.

(The culprits: Richard Placette,George Fortune,Bill Waugh

Jay O'Neal, Gilbert Garza and Jim Wright)

This year it was my turn.  It just so happened that our home opener was on the 28th anniversary of my 39th birthday.  I was informed at our preseason kickoff supper that it had been arranged for me to throw out the first pitch on opening day.  I told them I wasn't going to do it but after shaming me on what was involved to set this up,  I reluctantly agreed.  It wasn't that I didn't really want to do it, but that I might not do it well.  That is, bounce the ball as so often occurs.  Several years earlier I had rotator cuff surgery to repair two torn tendons in my throwing shoulder.  I still have five anchors in my shoulder and don't have 100% range of motion in my throwing arm.  I know that if my throw came up short and the ball bounced, I would be booed by my friends and ridiculed for the remainder of the year. 

I wasn't sure if I could use a full overhand throwing motion or I would have to "short arm" the throw.  When I got home that night, I found one of those stress balls and threw it down the hall..  Ouch!! A full-windup over hand throw was out of the question.  I took a couple of short arm tosses and it didn't hurt.  So I knew that was the throwing motion I would use, but, could I throw it the distance?

I took a ball to work and thought about throwing it, but decided I only had one throw and was going to save it for the first pitch. 

Game time:   Ten minutes before game time The LU rep escorted me to the dugout.  I started to get nervous standing there while the National Anthem played.  The PR guy handed me the ball and pointed to the mound.  I started to walk to the mound and realized it was a lot further from the pitchers mound to home plate than it was down the hall in my house.  I had decided I was going to stand on the front of the pitchers mound to make the throw shorter.  (Most other first pitches are thrown from that spot).  As I got into position to make the pitch, I could hear one of my buddies hollerin', "get on the rubber".  I remembered my son telling me to "aim high", that it would be better to hit the backstop than for the ball to bounce in front of the catcher.  I waited for the catcher to get set and in an instant it was over.

 

The 82 mph fastball popped the mitt of LU catcher, Joey Latulippe, knee high on the outside corner of the plate.
THE YEAR IS MINE!!  I have already picked up 2mph on that fastball and by the end of the year it will be an 88mph slider on the black.  Baseball, You Bet!!

Chevy vs Ford

Back in the 60's you were either a Chevy or Ford guy.  Facts didn't matter, you were either on one side of the other.  There was always discussions on which car was the fastest.

 
Some time during the early 60's, the two guys  with the fastest cars decided to answer the question.  It was an impromptu race.  Three or four of my buddies were at the local Pig Stand drive in drinking shakes and eating fries when the word begin to spread.

Interstate 10 west of Beaumont was not completed.  Concrete had been poured on the west bound lane but not open to traffic.  The race was to take place on the unopened lanes .  It was dark and 100s of people showed up and were lining the side of the road.  This was before cell phones, twitter, even pagers, but, nevertheless the word spread.  We road to the spot supposed to be the finish line and all got out to watch.  As we gathered near what was to be the finish line, a vehicle with lights on came through.  It was an old pick up and kept on going.  Then the Ford took off and as it raced across the finish line with the driver hollering.  "COPS"!!  Everyone scrambled for their vehicles to make an escape.  I had drifted away from my friends and by the time I got to where we had parked, they were gone.

It appeared that the pick up was a local constable that went to the other end of the concrete and set up a road block.  I jumped into the first car available and it was one of my other classmates, Richard Cook.  Richard knew a back way out  and we took a dirt road and got out.  We went back to the Pig Stand to await the arrival of my "Friends" (two are shown above).  In a couple of hours they all showed up.  They weren't as lucky and were stopped by the cops and charged with "unlawful assembly".  I think it cost them about $50 each.  Still don't know which car was the fastest.  All I know is that on that day, "Cookie" was my hero

The Junior/Senior Prom

I was twelve years old and in the sixth grade.  My Mother asked me if I wanted to take dancing lessons with other members in my class.  Many of my friends were going to sign up along with some "girls".  Apparently, some adults had figured that we needed to learn some social skills and have some exposure to the arts.  Well, I didn't like girls.  They couldn't play baseball.  They couldn't hit or catch or throw.  I was probably a little intimidated by the fact that I might not be any good at dancing. 

In all my trips to Lamar Theater on Saturdays, I had never seen Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rogers, John Wayne or Captain Video dancing with a girl.  Nor was there any evidence that Duke Snider, Roy Campanella or Mickey Mantle knew how to dance.  So, how important could this skill be?  After repeatedly refusing my Mother's requests, she gave up on me.  So while Joel Wrotan, Bobby Katz and others went to dance class, I stayed home and played with my baseball cards.

In my mid teens girls took a whole new perspective.  All at once it didn't matter if they "threw like girls".  All of a sudden I woke up and found out I was on the bench.  My reputation as a "non-dancer" spread.  The only thing that saved me was the fact that I had my drivers license at the age of 14.  Otherwise, I would have been a total social outcast.

I was about 16 and had been dating a girl from another town.  She knew my limited dancing skills and invited me to her prom anyway.  By that time I had matured and was able to swallow my pride. I decided it was time to learn to dance.  For my dance instructor I selected my next door neighbor.

Barbara Alexander was the pretty young girl that lived next door.  There are lots of country songs written about these girls.  The little girl you used to pick on.  Freckled faced kid getting in the way. The one that wanted to tag along.  Then one day they grew up to be beautiful women.  Well in the Winter/Spring of 1961 Barbara was somewhere in the middle of the above mentioned metamorphosis when I approached her about teaching me to dance.  She agreed. (Her Mother probably made her).

Everyday after school and whatever sports practice was in season.  I would go to Barbara's house  and we would practice dancing in her living room.  Since I was rhymatically retarded we focused on the slow dance.  With "The Platters" in the background, I painfully learned "the box step"  This showed promise because I could count to four or eight.  I just had trouble counting to the beat.  With the Prom rapidly approaching, I continued to work on the box step.  Barbara was a great motivator and had me convinced  I could dance.  But, I was soon to find out that I was "The Great Pretender".

The big night came.  I picked up my date in my semi clean 1957 Plymouth.  After exchanging pleasantries with people I didn't know, the band started playing.  My date knew I was not a dancer. Nor, did she know about my secret dance lessons with my next door neighbor.  She was shocked when I asked her to dance.  With my confidence booming, I led her to the dance floor.  It was almost immediately I found out that she didn't know the "box step".   All my hard work and Barbara's patience came cascading down in a few short seconds or bars,notes,beats or whatever.

Years later I would marry a dancer and eventually got where I could survive on the dance floor.  I even had to dance the waltz with my daughter at some social coming out thing. 

As for Barbara, my dance teacher, she turned into a lovely swan and married one of my friends. Every time I hear an old Platters song, I remember dancing in the Alexander living room.  It was one of the first times I can ever remember asking someone for help.  A lesson that has served me well.  Barbara, this dance is for you.

Climate Change along Pine Island Bayou

I guess it just depends on what you are used to.  Along the bayou we can take a direct hit from a category III hurricane, recover from a 500 year flood or endure the hottest, humid days you can imagine.  But, when the temperature drops below freezing, it is another story.  

While Chicago is digging out from 10 feet of snow and people on the East Coast are driving to work behind the snow plow, we are shut down by a freezing rain and Artic temperatures dropping to 30.  Heck, it didn't even snow!

Schools are closed.  Businesses shut down.  Bridges and overpasses are icing over, making driving treacherous.  Our transportation department is limited in its ability to clear the roads.  One of the road crews is shown below as it prepares to spread salt.

Something ain't right!  It's not suppose to get cold along the Bayou.  Al Gore, look what you have gone and done.

Now That's Funny. I Don't Care Who You Are

"Humor is a bad experience plus time"  I believe Will Rogers once said this or at least Buddy Greig gave him credit when he related the quote to me.  I have found this to be true in most all embarrassing situations I have experienced during my life.  Being somewhat left brain I tend to use a lot of graphs and formulas to help me understand things.  Accepting Roger's hypothesis as the truth, then:

H = E + T

                                                                                                                                                           where H = Humor, E = Bad Experience and T = The time it takes to get over the embarrassing event.

Sometimes the "T" is only minutes and sometimes days or years.  But, eventually you can look back on something and laugh about it.

In my personal experiences, I can vouch for this being true.  My first application of Roger's Theory occurred in Ms. Vitterbo's second grade class at South Park Elementary School on Highland Ave.

I was an innocent kid who did not know that flatulence was not socially acceptable in public. After letting one "rip", Ms. V hollered, "JAMES HUGH".  I learned two things right there, 1) Farting should be left to the playground and 2) I preferred being called Jimmy.  The other variable in the formula also came into play, while my T  was for a duration of many years,  The T for the rest of the students in the class was only a few seconds.

Once while fiddling with a foam ear plug, I somehow unconsciously put it in my nose.  Realizing what I had done, my actions resulted in pushing it further in.  As panic struck I was confronted with the possibility of going to Medical to have it removed.  This would not have been a good idea as my good friend, Dr. Webb would not have maintained "the patient/client privilege" when it came to an event such as this.  Gaining control of the situation, I decided to check it out in the rest room mirror.  On the way, I got the brilliant idea of closing one nostril and blowing.  It worked.  It shot out like a cannonball.  Being confronted in the hall by Arlene, the secretary, I admitted what I had done.  My T was about one year, hers was only seconds.

I once dropped a touchdown pass in the end zone in high school.  I am expecting my T to be up at the 50th year reunion.

At my retirement party, My Mother even told stories on me.  My Mother for God's sake!!. 

Conversely thinking, my T was only seconds when my lifetime friend, George, tripped in the middle of the road chasing a foul ball.  It still wasn't funny to him the next day when he arrived at the park to find that we had found a piece of chalk and made a body outline on the road where he had "bit the dirt".

All of this said brings me to the inspiration for this blog.  While eating lunch in a local deli a couple of days ago a potential humor event happened to a young woman.  I was sitting at a table in the back, near the restrooms when this young lady dressed in a professional looking pant suit briskly walked by.  As she passed I noticed that she had a piece of toilet paper hanging from the top of her pants to the floor.  I mean it had to be five feet long.  She was walking so quickly that no one could get over their "gasp" quick enough to say anything.  When she got to the front and had to stop for the door someone evidently told her and she frantically removed the paper and quickly exited.  The entire restaurant started chuckling at the same time. 

I have been wondering what is the duration of that young lady's T.