I remember growing up and wanting to be a Bobcat from the time I knew what one was. I also knew that as part of that tradition, I would drink beer and raise as much hell as posible, when the time was right. I did learn a valuable lesson my Junior year, which was the only time I remember breaking training and drinking the night before the game. As I recall, I could not find my you know what with both hands. We were playing Vernon and every time they lined up with the wingback on my side, I was getting knocked down at least two times each play (rather than the one time I was usually knocked down while playing defense). It got so bad that when they lined up in that formation, Coach Warren would yell for me and Michie King to switch sides. Fortunately we won the game and I vowed never again!
We had many heroes that we admired ahead of us, including Hugh Gayle Frith, Jimmy Holeman, Moose Meek, John Danner, Jerry Norman and my brother Teddy (Roy), to name only a very few. Teammates we admired were Michie King, Norman Naron, Keith Fanning, Jimmy Joe Clifton and John Bragg, all one year ahead of us, and again only to name a few. Classmates that played from Junior High through High School were Wayne Havens, Doug Greer, Charles Mitchell, Bob Huff, Harold Simmons, Ron Kindle, Barry Wakefield, Jack Petty and John Wilson. I am doing this sans 1963 year book so if I overlooked someone, blame it on my crs syndrome!
We went through several coaches, changing head coaches after our freshman year in football and basketball. We endured one year of being locked up in Wilson school for two-a-days as freshmen. I think I have that right. It was like being in jail as I recall and made you question just how badly you wanted to be a football player.
We did not live up to our potential as seniors and our best year was our Junior year when we went 8-1-1. Most of the credit for that record goes to Charles Mitchell, Norman Naron, John Bragg, Michie King, Glen Beal, Ray Hamilton,Wayne Havens, John Wilson, Jack Petty, Jimmy Hamm and Bob Huff, in my opinion. Don't mean to slight anyone but please remember I am playing with half a deck at best!
Our Senior year we were rated 2nd in the state, based on our previous record and number of returning starters. We sucked like a giant ant eater, went 6-4, losing to 3 teams we should have beaten. We weren't in very good shape and I remember the second game was at home against Hamlin. Each time we had a time out and the team managers brought out water, we kept moving closer to the sideline in order to make sure we got water. The regular procedure was to wait on one knee and the manager would bring the water to you. This night they were being met shortly after they cleared the sideline. Normally when you are in shape, you take a swig, swallow, take another swig and spit it out and your are good to go. This night players were chug-a-lugging entire bottles of water and I think a few fights may have broken out. Not a good example or role model for the Bobcats to be.
Charles Mitchell sweeps end against Quanah
We did have some great players younger than us who did a great job, including Bobby Meason, Mike Reeves, Phil Self, Ricky Hamm, Johnny Hall, Ted Poling and Jimmy Don Wilson to name a few. A disappointing season for sure, because we did not play to our potential. I used to wish we had made the playoffs until I realized that it would have delayed the start of basketball season, which is another story. Some of us celebrated the end of football by partying at one of the old motels on 287 after the final game of the season. The only problem was that basketball started at 9:00 am on Saturday. Not a fun time!
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Joe Don Hopkins: Confessions From the Locker Room ....
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20 comments:
Joe,
I really enjoyed your post. Unfortunately what you said about not living up to potential was painfully true. However, I can't believe that you forgot to mention that I was the quarterback for the 8th grade undefeated BobKittens. LOL
Keep up the good work!
Jim
in an e-mail dated August 21, 1999 ...
When we were freshmen [1956-57] and not on the varsity track team, the coach approached us [John and Johnny Longbine] and made an offer. Coach didn't have anyone to run the 880, or the designated person was injured. Anyway, he told us that if we ran the 880 in the District track meet and received one point, he would give us a letter in track. That meant one of us would get a jacket with leather sleeves and a letter, IF.... There was less than two weeks before the meet. We ran it only twice in practice and each time during the last 50 yards, Johnny would pass me. After finishing the distance I would start walking it off on the grass and would pass out from exhaustion. Before then I was only running the 100 and 220 yard dash.
The day of the District track meet finally arrived, as did the time for us to run the 880 (that's yards, or two times around the whole track). To get a point meant that you had to finish not less than fourth place. The race started and when the last 50 yards came I was in fourth place, but this was the point where Johnny would usually pass me. I ran my heart out trying to finish as fast as possible. When I crossed the finish line I was STILL in fourth place, filled with elation. I looked back for Johnny, only to discover that he had fallen out of the race long before the last 50 yards. I was never prouder of other letter jackets that came in the future in football and track than I was about that one.
Joe, I loved your story and we are so glad that you have joined us. We look forward to hearing more from you, and from Jim W., and others about football, basketball and other sports.
When John Danner's name came up, I thought of e-mails we exchanged during the three years before his death in October 2002 in Cebu, Philippines ... and I thought you might enjoy the story of how he earned his first letter at CHS.
I also have an e-mail from John telling his personal story from the time he left CHS, and I will share that at some future date.
When we did the Wimberley Weekend in October 2001, we placed a call to John in Cebu, and Joe Don and Mike and Jeff Jeffers (also Class of 1960) and Sheila (and I think Clara) and I got to speak with him one more time. He wrote me later how pleased he was to hear our voices and reminisce a bit.
John and I "talked" via e-mail more than once about the power of memory, and that those who are remembered never really leave us. I believe from our correspondence that John would be delighted to be able to "speak" to all who remember him after all these years.
)O(
It’s somewhat fashionable today to decry the effects of the Internet upon our lives. Among numerous complaints, the Internet has supposedly resulted in a deterioration of social skills (particularly a degradation of clear and courteous face-to-face communication and interaction in a social or business environment) as a result of the insularity that is created by one’s spending so much time alone on the computer. Other adverse effects that have been mentioned are an aversion to the reading of books; a deterioration in clear written expression due to the brevity and elliptical communication encouraged by e-mail and blogs; and a degradation of critical judgment due to the proliferation of sites offering simplistic explanations of and solutions to complicated problems and questions.
After reading all the posts in this blog and the comments thereto, I can say unequivocally that such criticisms do not apply. Ever since this blog’s inception, I have been delighted by the courtesy and consideration extended to all participants, and I have likewise been impressed by the critical acumen, intelligence, and uncommon expressive abilities demonstrated by everyone who has visited this wonderful forum for sharing the memories of high school and relating the subsequent events in the lives of your classmates. I can’t express how much I have enjoyed and have benefited from this experience—an experience in which I hope many others will come to share.
Recently I had the pleasure of watching (on TV) Joyce Carol Oates’ delivery of the keynote address to the 3rd Annual Mayborn Literary Nonfiction Writers Conference of the Southwest in Grapevine, TX. Among many other things, Ms. Oates said that she had seen a movement in nonfiction writing from biographies to autobiographies, to memoirs and personal essays. This, she thought, was a very natural and welcomed progression since, as she stated in her collection of critical essays entitled “Uncensored: Views and (Re) Views”: “For many of us, writing is an intense way of assuaging, though perhaps also stoking, homesickness. We write most avidly to memorialize what is past, what is passing, and will soon vanish from the earth.”
In this blog, I have encountered many “memoirists”—those of you who have recounted wonderful stories of your high school days and of events that have occurred in your lives since that graduation ceremony of 40+ years ago. Joe Don Hopkins has been the most recent storyteller, but there have been many others who have informed, entertained, and amused us with their individual stories as well: Nicki, Jennifer, Sheila, Linda Kay, Mike, Yahn, and various others. (I’m sorry I haven’t compiled a comprehensive list of all who have contributed.) In writing your stories, you have rescued “what is past, what is passing, and will soon vanish from the earth.” I don’t know how long this website will remain, but I hope it’s long enough that the roster of storytellers can continue to increase.
But, as we know, nothing lasts forever; so I hope all of you will copy your blog submissions onto a CD or capture your memories in some other permanent form even if you don’t desire to post them to the blog. You need to write down your memories—your unique stories—and file them away somewhere so that your children and grandchildren will have access to them at a later date. They will eventually want to know as much as possible about the lives of their parents and grandparents—your hopes and dreams, the things you did in your lives, what you thought about this or that particular thing or idea, the struggles you underwent and the things you learned from them, and probably most importantly how you felt about your offspring as you watched them grow and develop their own unique personalities.
For my own purposes, I’ve found that a journal is the most convenient way for me to leave my trace upon this earth. Of course, you’re not compelled to write in it every day—and you couldn’t even if you wanted to. But when a powerful memory—a good story—comes to mind, don’t let it get away. Write it down so that your “presence” will remain with your loved ones for generations to come. Don’t let your stories disappear into the maw of silence and forgetfulness.
Joe Don! I am still laughing about "sucking like a Giant Anteater" That's good! The truth is that we loved you guys so much we didn't even know that you sucked! You should have kept it a secret! LOL!! From what I remember, you went to college on a football scholarship, so you couldn't have sucked that much.
I must admit that even though I was there for only a few minutes, I do remember that party, but the game has vaporized into yesteryear.
We lost and that was that.
Did you know that on the very first game of that season...my very first game as a twirler, I dropped my baton at the very beginning of the half time show. I remember yelling out to Linda Kay.."I dropped my baton, what am I going to do!!!???" She yelled back at me with all of the pragmatism she possessed..."Go Get IT!" I was scared to death but managed to fetch the baton and finish the halftime show! I have even managed to live a full life inspite of it all. It just shows that WE DO SURVIVE, inspite of ourselves.
As for the Bobkittens, I just knew that the State Championship was a sure thing! Oh well. Maybe in our next lives.
Yeah, Sheila ... the "giant anteater" analogy sent me into a fit of giggles, too. And I loved your story about your first game ... and that sounds SO like Linda Kay. We'd love to hear more ....
)O(
Jenn, glad you enjoyed my story about my first game. You do remember that it happened when we were Seniors?? I had wished and waited for 5 years(2 in Jr Hi, 3 in HS) to become a twirler with the band...and as you know, that is a whole 'nother story. Anyway, all of the big guys were there to see the game...Hugh Gayle, Jim Dowis, Tommy Fleming, Don Meek, and others...and what do I do?? I drop my baton on take off, didn't want to mess up the routine, and am too stupid to pick it up. I had never dropped it before, not even in practice, so I just didn't know how to fix the problem. I am so glad that LK was there to bring me to my senses. I will never forget that day as long as I live. LOL!!
It's been very busy on the blog today as 2007 comes to an end. But I do want to second Darryl's suggestion that all of us take the time to copy what's been written on the blog onto CDs, or print it out for a notebook, because I do like to think that perhaps one day our children and grandchildren may enjoy reading about our youth, and our passage from youth into adulthood and beyond.
Of course, we hope the blog is not going away anytime soon ... at least WE hope you all hope that ... but there may come a time when those CDs and notebooks might be all we ourselves have left of this special exchange of thoughts and memories by old friends. I would hate to lose the stories that have been related here, the thoughts expressed by all our voices.
Mike Spradley e-mailed me today: "Jenn…..i really regret not ever meeting Darryl Morris……." Mike has come to know Darryl through the blog, however, and we who were privileged to have Darryl as our teacher so long ago are thankful that we have been able to get to know him again, under different circumstances than when we were at CHS. And we look forward to hearing more from him in the new year ....
)O(
I just never gave any thought to the fact that Mike didn't know Darryl. How did we get so lucky to have him in our lives? I blame him for everything I retained that was important.
I know this probably sounds so silly, but most people live their lives not giving much thought to how they will affect the future. I do. I say things without considering their repercussions today or in the future. Darryl Morris ...and I just hate going on and on about him as much as he probably hates hearing all of this stuff....BUT Darryl Morris' teaching abilities affected my children.
The way he taught us, the doors he opened and HOW he opened then affected the way I taught my own children. Jessica is a wonderful writer, poet, storyteller. She has come by the gift naturally, but were it not for the enthusiasm planted in my heart by DM, I might have not been so open to her gift and might not have encouraged her to continue with her very energetic writings.
I have always wished that Jessica could have been exposed to his teaching(classroom). She would have flourished and God only knows where she would be today. I did the best I could with what I was given.
Mike Spradley, I “niver knew ye” (with apologies to Robert Burns), but I wish I had had the pleasure ‘way back when’. Oh, I do know you now, thanks to your posts and comments on this blog, and I can honestly say the pleasure is all mine. If there ever was such a thing as a natural-born storyteller, you definitely are one. And what a great bank of memories there is for you to draw from—not only your experiences in Childress but also those tremendously interesting incidents from your working life. I hope you’ll continue to share your experiences with all of us.
And Mr. Spradley, Sr., it’s a delight to come to know you as well. I’m glad to (finally) know Fateye Cordell’s legal name was Rowden; but the thing I’m left wondering is how in the world he came to be called “Fateye.” I’ve also enjoyed your (and Jim W.’s) stories about your experiences at the Country Club and on the golf course. They reminded me of a story I told Jim and Nicki in an e-mail but will repeat here:
“Jim is right that you can stand in my yard and hit golf balls, but you really don't need a 7-acre place to be able to do that—my dad being a case in point. After my junior year in high school, we moved to Wellington from a dusty, 80-acre cotton farm 22 miles to the northwest (near Quail). Our home in town was situated on two corner lots, but the area was probably not more than an acre in size. My dad, who was a semi-pro Sunday baseball player until he was 40 [who played baseball with a Childress man named “Corky” McBrayer, as I recall; but more about McBrayer some other time], decided that golf would be a natural follow-on when he quit playing baseball, so he eagerly took up the sport.
[I might mention here that the original golf course was a makeshift affair near the airport in Wellington. It had what the players laughingly called “bent-sand greens.” Seriously, the “greens” really were wide mounds of fine-grained, oiled sand. When a golfer got to the “green,” he would pick up his ball and, using a hand “grader,” would smooth out a 2- or 3-foot-wide track to the cup and beyond. Needless to say, the putting was very good, there not being any unlevel ground or lumps to contend with. Eventually, Wellington got around to developing a bona-fide Country Club and a golf course with real bent-grass greens. My dad thought it was heaven on earth, even though his putting performance deteriorated significantly. But he was a helluva golfer with his irons, and the continuing story below will explain why.]
“Being a farmer, my dad didn't get to spend much time on the golf course, but practically every afternoon when we came home from a long day of plowing, he would get out of the pickup, go into the garage and grab his golf irons, and then chip golf balls over the hedge which divided our back yard to see how close he could come to a flag he had stuck into the lawn close to our back fence. [I remembered that he had put up a flag, but this Christmas my mother assured me that he put a bucket by the fence and tried to chip balls into it. ‘Did he ever do it?’ I asked. ‘Yes,’ she said; ‘I would often hear the clunk of a ball in the bucket as I was working in the kitchen.’] He did this religiously every day until the sun set and he was forced to go inside and clean up for supper.
“My dad loved the game so much that when he died in 1971, I took the two sets of clubs he had at that time, and I tried to learn the game when I had time to play at my various Army duty stations. However, I didn't get to play often enough to develop any appreciable skill, so the game was more a source of frustration than relaxation for me. When I was assigned to my last duty station at Fort Hood, I met the teenage son of one of my wife's workplace friends; and when I found out that he was an avid and quite accomplished young golfer, I gave him my dad's clubs to replace the shabby ones he had been forced to use because his family couldn't afford better ones. He was grateful, and I felt good about seeing the clubs being put to good use by someone who loved the game as much as my dad did. So, you can tell Jim that a ‘really serious’ golfer will find a way to hit his golf balls no matter where he lives.”
I’ve written a ton already, so I might as well go ahead an elaborate on the story of “Corky” McBrayer (and don’t ask me why he was called Corky because I haven’t the faintest idea). When I was a wee kid of about 9 years, I was bat boy for the Wellington “Dukes,” the baseball team on which my dad played. As I recall, Corky also played on the team for a while, but I might be mistaken about that. I only know for sure that my dad knew him and that they were good friends. Well, it seems that the McBrayers owned a musical instrument store in Childress; and one day as I was kicking rocks round in the dirt front yard of our four-room stucco farm shack north of Quail, what do I see but a flatbed truck bouncing slowly up the hard-packed, rutted road to our house. When the truck got to the house, I saw that the driver was Corky McBrayer and that he had a piano tied down onto the bed of the truck. I was puzzled to say the least, and I remained so even after my parents came out of the house and greeted Corky. I was soon to become unpuzzled when my mother said, “Your daddy and I thought you might like to learn how to play the piano.” Long pause. “Well, would you?” my dad asked. Extremely long pause. I remember Corky saying something about how much fun I’d have if I learned to play the piano, and to demonstrate he jumped up on the bed of the truck, raised the lid on the piano, and commenced to tickle the ivories a bit. I was, I’m sorry to say, totally unimpressed, as evidenced by what I said as I turned to walk back to the house: “I don’t wanta learn to play no pe-anna! I wanta play BASEBALL!”
I don’t remember how my parents handled the situation—how they made amends to Corky for carting that piano for 52 miles (the last 10 of which were over very rough, rutted dirt roads) from Childress to our house out in the sticks. I’m also puzzled as to how my parents ever thought they could afford a piano for me. But what I do remember quite clearly is the many times in high school, in college, and even now how much I regret my childhood refusal to at least try to learn to play the piano. Baseball players ultimately have to give up the game, but piano players go on . . . and on . . . and on.
I’ll also confess to another reason I regret not having learned to play the piano. I noticed in my growing-up years that a well-played piano seemed to attract a lot of girls. *grin*
I’m aware this comment hasn’t been entirely about Childress, but I thank you for your indulgence.
Joe,
Thank you so much for taking the time to feature Bobcat football. Even though at that time I knew nothing about football, I can still remember Friday nights in the stands cheering for the Bobcats and we wouldn't have had it any other way!
Thanks for the memories
Darryl,
I am glad you reminded me of your email about your dad and how he always found a way to practice no matter where he was. When you said to tell Jim that a serious player will always find a way to hit balls no matter where he lives I had to laugh. Over the years, Jim has always found a way to practice. Right now our back yard is filled with wiffle balls that he and our grandson take turns hitting here and there. In the summer time I find them lodged everywhere in trees and bushes. Everytime we visit a new place the first thing he does is scope out places where he can hit practice balls and it doesn't matter if it is a park, a driving range, or a vacant lot. On one occasion years ago our daughter lived in an apartment complex in north Dallas that was adjacent to a very large plot of land that was vacant. Being Jim, he immediately made himself at home by claiming it as his golfing territory. Over the next couple of days he spent time hitting his driver and other long irons and having a great time as he never traveled without his bag of practice balls. Well, you can imagine our horror when we finally realized that he was actually hitting some of the balls all the way across the vacant lot onto a busy Dallas street (Preston Road). OOPS!! That was the end of that. We were so grateful not to have been visited by the city police or some other irate citizen with a broken car window. Over the years, I have even seen him take our lawn mower to some weed infested field to mow so he would be able to find his practice balls. I suspect he and your dad would have enjoyed playing a game together and swapping golf tales.
Darryl,
In answer to the origin of Fateye's name, I am 99% sure that he got the name as a child when he was hit in the eye and had a huge shiner. The name stuck. This story was always told to me in Childress.
I also remember Corky McBrayer from my young days in Childress. He had 2 sons or nephews near my age and I remember seeing him at the ballpark over the years.
Darryl, I remember the McBrayers quite well. Both my grandmother and my mother purchased at least two pianos each from their store, and the McBrayers kept their pianos in good tune over many years.
My mother and grandmother played beautifully ... mother had a particular verve and artistry whenever she sat down to "tickle the ivories". My family invested eight years of piano lessons in me ... Linda Kay and I and a lot of others studied with sisters Carrie Mae and Edna Diggs. Then I dropped the piano and started playing alto sax from junior high until my senior year at CHS. (Yes ... I am reminded of another alto sax player of recent notoriety....) It was my brother Scott who inherited the musical talent in the family ... he could figure out how to play just about any instrument "by ear" ... and he likely would have been a much better pupil in that area than I. I have settled into my niche of being a rapt and enthusiastic listener of those who truly have "the gift".
I was also a bit of a black sheep in the family in that I just never "got" the game of golf, or more precisely, the obsession with it ... sorry, Jim.... Oh, well ... dif'frent strokes ... no pun intended.... I know ... the corner again....
)O(
Shelia,
I have chuckled several times about your dropping the baton experience. It really is wonderful to have a friend like LK who is not afraid to be brutally honest with us when we need it most! Darn it, we have all had those "life altering" and painfully embarrassing moments, made all the worse for having done it in front of tons of people!
Thanks for sharing.
Don't worry, Jennifer. Jim has heard that "o" word many times in the course of our relationship when discussing the "game" of golf. His greatest disappointment with me has been that I just can't seem to embrace the joys of playing golf despite the fact that I have the shoes, the clubs, and the greatest teacher ever. Give me a good book aany day!
Mr. Morris: I regret very much I have not had the pleasure of personally making your acquaintance. However, I feel I "know you," at least to a small extent, thru your postings and articles on the blog, plus many favorable comments made by your former students. Years ago, and I had my 84th birthday recently, I came to the conclusion there are a few people born into this world who are natural born teachers, and fortunately for the ones you taught, you are one among those select few. I am certain there are others who share the same opinion.
Mr. Spradley: I, too, regret that we will never be able to sit down face-to-face and become better acquainted. At 84, you are a member of what Tom Brokaw dubbed “The Greatest Generation”—that is, the generation that came of age during WW II and, in the war’s aftermath, led the USA into becoming the great nation it is today. You are of the same generation as numerous cousins and uncles of mine whom I viewed as heroes when I was a boy. Even today, those still living serve as respected role models even though I am now at a stage of my own life where I can hardly even remember having experienced such a thing as “boyhood.” *grin*
When I started back in 1962, I enjoyed teaching very much. My mother was a teacher, so I guess I just gravitated to the profession somewhat naturally. She was an educator for 40 years, the last four of which she served as Superintendent of Schools for Collingsworth County. However, due to my equally strong affinity for military service (blame my aforementioned cousins and uncles for that), I left teaching in November of 1963 for a career in the Army.
During my military career, I was fortunate to have been chosen for Army-endowed graduate schooling (University of Pennsylvania), followed by a three-year tour of duty as Instructor and Assistant Professor in the English Department of the U.S. Military Academy. Following my retirement from the Army, I taught English at Central Texas College, Killeen, TX, before retiring for good in 1995.
I can only hope that during my 17 years of accredited teaching, I did more good than harm and that I encouraged more students to higher achievement than to lives of lowered expectations. Unfortunately, a teacher can never know the effects of his or her efforts until many years after the fact. I find that a bit disturbing because, if harm is done, it is usually discovered at a time when it’s too late to fully rectify the situation. All any teacher can ever do is put forth his or her maximum effort—and then hope for the best.
All that being said, I want to take this opportunity to thank you for your kind thoughts and to wish you the very best of health and good fortune in this New Year. I also look forward to reading other comments you might wish to submit to this blog. All those of yours I have thus far read have proved most entertaining, as well as enlightening.
in 1973........i was in the bar at the sheraton hotel in lima, peru......met this great guy....older than me....i think his name was mac mccool.......
i told him my name was spradley... he said he knew a spradley in WW2 named james spradley...........i told him that was the name of my dad.....he says....the jim spradley i knew was in coastal artillery with me....i told him my father had been with coastal artillery.... he says......you know?....the unique thing about the jim I knew....was he was drafted even tho he was blind in one eye... I says....my Dad is blind in one eye...((((
and my grandfather told the draft board....that if my Dad was injured or killed....he was coming down there and shoot each of them..... (MY grandfather was not the BS'ing type....one should be afraid.....very very afraid.....))))))))
anyway.............Mac ponders a few minutes.......puffs on his pipe..........and says......"you know?........I think I might know your father."..........talk about an understatement......
but you are so correct........the Great Generation........and we were lucky enough to have been raised by them.....
now dadgum it ...it is time for others to write into the blog....get off the couch and write.......... Jenn....go hound them like you did me.....!!!!!
Mike: Right off hand, I do not remember ever knowing a Mac McCool while I was in the Army. I was in an Anti-Aircraft Battalion, a division of the Coast Artillery, during 1943, while I was in California. Then when my old Battery Commander learned where I was (Camp Hahn at Riverside) and started pulling strings to get me transferred back to his outfit, an officer friend of mine had me transferred to Ft. Bliss, where I spend a year in the AAATC Headquarters (Anti-Aircraft Artillery Training Center), still a part of the Coast Artillery.
In Dec. `44, I went to Sherman on emergency leave, as Grandpa Spradley was extremely ill, as a result of eye surgery and being allergic to penicillin. He died Dec. 4, the day after I returned to Ft. Bliss. Incidentally, all this occurred while the Battle of the Bulge was taking place.
When I arrived back at El Paso, I learned my outfit (AAATC) had been disbanded and the majority of the men had been transferred into the Infantry, put on airplanes and sent to Europe. My luck was still holding however, as again one of my friends had included me in an order that transferred me into the Field Artillery at Camp Gruber, OK. When I arrived there, I was already the Battery Clerk, but was listed on the Morning Report as being AWOL. That didn`t long to straighten that out, and I spent my final year there.
When the A Bombs were dropped on Japan, I was assigned to the Separation Center, where I worked til Dec. 1945 and the last person I typed discharge papers for was guess who? ME!!!!!
All this took place during the 2 years, 9 months and 15 days I served and I do not remember a Mac McCool. However, during the 9 months I spent in Calif, I was moved 11 times (another story) and was in so many outfits and met so many men, I`m sure some of them remember me that I only knew very very casually, if at all. I`m 99% sure it was in Calif. that McCool knew me. Where, I haven`t a clue.
I might add, I was 19 years old when I was drafted and Jim Jr. was 8 months old when I first saw him.
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