Just a thought....Part Two

I was so sad to hear that Larry Clifton had died. I didn’t know Larry very well at all, but with his death comes the realization that the opportunity to reconnect with him will never happen and we have all missed out on a chance to really know him and his life since we left Childress High School. It is obvious from his obituary and from Jennifer’s conversation with his wife and daughter that Larry was well loved and he will be missed by his family.

I join Jennifer in expressing my sympathy to everyone concerned. I am grateful that as two of his old classmates Jennifer and I are able to share this small tribute to him on the blog.

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It seems that no matter how much time passes or how far away we have gone, most of us are always happy to hear news about Childress. Jim and I still take the Childress Index and check it out each time it arrives to see what is taking place in the “city” where we spent much of our young lives. We are both so grateful that there are still young and older leaders in the community who continue to step up in order to ensure that Childress remains a viable place for families to live and raise their children. In the Lifestyles section of the Sunday, April 27 Amarillo Globe-News, Childress is featured for a couple of reasons. One article is entitled Childress looks to future, and can be read online at the Globe-News website. The article takes a look at the ways the Childress County Heritage Museum is working to preserve the history of Childress.

The other article concerns the search by the Childress Chamber of Commerce for a new slogan to replace the current slogan “Gateway to the Panhandle” in an effort to update the community image. There is a contest which will last to the middle of May to solicit suggestions for the new slogan. Interestingly enough many want to really promote Childress as a great place for hunting.

Additionally a bright red restored 1957 Chevrolet 210 coupe is being raffled off to raise money for the Renovations for the Palace Theater. 1,200 raffle tickets will be sold for $100 each. I have posted a picture and more information at Classic 1957 Chevy 210
in Short Notes.

From what we can gather from the good folks in Childress, the Childress Index, and the Amarillo Globe News, these are just a few examples of efforts to keep Childress growing and going! Kudos and a heart felt thanks to everyone. The Class of 1963 is grateful to still have a proud community to come home to.

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Many of you, especially the guys, probably remember Dick Risenhoover who coached many of your sports teams when you were just little guys. One of his legacies was to establish Kids Inc in Childress. Over the years, Jim has told me many Dick Risenhoover stories, and it is obvious that he is very grateful to have had someone so special as a role model. A website has been created to share stories, information and photos of Coach Risenhoover. Many of you will enjoy a visit to the site. I am grateful to Shelia Davis Martinez and Harold Simmons for sending the information to us. The tributes to Coach R. are multiplying on the ciculating emails.

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I am so grateful that we are having a gorgeous spring here in Amarillo. Despite the wind, the trees are sprouting leaves once more, the grass is green again, and the spring flowers have brought me so much pleasure this year. As I have mentioned in previous posts, we, for the first time planted bulbs and I have not been disappointed. It is so much fun to look outside every day to see what is new in the yard. We have seen red, yellow, purple, and pink tulips as well as many other colors and varieties of flowers. I am only sad that they don’t last longer. Jim couldn’t resist digging another flower bed for “me” so tomorrow we are off to have a great adventure selecting just the right plants. As always it is a challenge to make sure that the sun lovers are happy and the shade lovers are protected and so on. I am, also, grateful that both Jim and I enjoy our yard and that it is something we can still do for and with one another.

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For a few days the blog was awfully quiet. As we on occasion have been reminded, most everyone is too busy living life to have much time to look back. The greatest benefit for me of the Class of 1963 blogs has been the joy of hearing from so many people from our class. I love exchanging email with everyone and I love the anticipation of meeting face to face either in Las Vegas or at one of the mini-reunion dinners we would like to plan. To me this isn’t a matter of looking back, but rather looking forward to new or renewed friendships. Our lives can only be enriched by making the effort to reach out to old and new friends. Over the last few days we have heard from Patsy Poling Sledge and Sharon Malloy Smotherman Kelly. I am so grateful that they have taken the time read the blog and make comments. Both have promised to send bios to share with us and both are eager to reconnect with old friends.

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Today when I googled the phrase “being grateful” there were 3,150,000 results. Because I had a hard time selecting my final thought for this post, I have chosen three that I love:

"When a person doesn't have gratitude, something is missing in his or her humanity. A person can almost be defined by his or her attitude toward gratitude."-- Elie Wiesel

"Try leaving a friendly trail of little sparks of gratitude on your daily trips. You will be surprised how they will set small flames of friendship that will be rose beacons on your next visit."-- Dale Carnegie: How to Win Friends and Influence People

"Give thanks for a little and you will find a lot."-- Hausa proverb (Nigeria)

Just a thought

Larry E. Clifton ... 1944 - 2008

Last week marked the death of our classmate Larry E. Clifton. According to information obtained from The Childress Index, Larry died Friday, April 18, 2008 in Wichita Falls.

Services were held April 23 at the Wilbarger Street Church of Christ in Vernon, where Larry resided. He worked for North Texas State Hospital after retiring as a butcher for United Supermarkets.

Larry was the son of the late Howard Clifton and Audrey Reed Clifton. He was born in Childress on February 28, 1944 and married Patricia Pickrel in Vernon on November 6, 1967. They had a son and a daughter, Rodney Clifton and Cindy Clifton Upton, and one grandson, Keaton Upton, all of Vernon. In addition to his parents, Larry was preceded in death by his brother Gary. He is also survived by two sisters, Helen Thompson of Arlington and Sharon Robinson of Hurst; one brother, Grady Clifton, of Oklahoma City; one "daughter" Jill Robinson and one "granddaughter" Dally Jo Robinson of Vernon; and several nieces and nephews.

He served in the United States Navy aboard the USS Lawrence during the Vietnam War.

In the Senior Edition of The Corral, published Sunday, May 19, 1963 by The Childress Index, it was noted that Larry would be remembered for his nickname "Jake" and for his ability to memorize poems. He was a member of the FFA and DE programs at CHS.

I spoke with Larry's wife Patricia (the daughter of George and Lola Mae Pickrel of Kirkland) and their daughter Cindy this morning to extend condolences and to ask if they would share some thoughts and memories about Larry.

Patricia told me that Larry loved people, and that he enjoyed and remembered his years at CHS, where he was assuredly one of the "class clowns". He had a great sense of humor and was a wonderful husband, father and grandfather. Patricia and Cindy both wanted me to let our classmates know that Larry will have another grandchild in August, and that his 12 year old grandson Keaton is just as fun-loving as Larry was.

Cindy and Patricia also wanted me to add that Larry died of cancer in his lungs, liver and colon. When he was diagnosed on February 12 this year, his doctor believed the colon cancer had been present for about six years, although Larry never showed any warning signs or symptoms until soon before diagnosis. They ask us all to please be vigilant in having necessary and potentially life-saving diagnostic tests done.

Memorials may be made to the American Cancer Society through the Northside School (where Larry's grandson Keaton is a student) or the Wilbarger Church of Christ in Vernon.

My sincere sympathy and condolences to Larry's family. We hope that our readers will share any memories they have of Larry as comments to this post.

)O(

Garuda

With Master Carver Sudana in Ubud

Jennifer has written about our souvenirs from our travels, and Nicki of her collectibles, and I thought some of you might be interested in a piece we picked up in Bali, Indonesia in 2004.

As you may know, of all 17,000+ islands that make up Indonesia, only Bali is Hindu with a uniquely Balinese dose of animism thrown in. The rest of the Indonesian islands are all Muslim. On Bali there is an artists' community called Ubud. While exploring various craftsmen's shops there, we came upon a shop featuring local wood carvings. The Balinese are world famous for their stone sculpture and wood carving.

As we wandered around in the modest showroom, every piece that I picked out as being of particular interest or artistic quality, turned out to be the work of one man, Sudana, who was the father of the salesman. We learned that Sudana is considered to be one of the master carvers in Bali. I must admit that I have a "trained eye", but it seemed to me that certain pieces just jumped out at me, as if the artists and I were on the same wavelength.

We decided to purchase one large piece, carved (we were told) from a single block of hibiscus wood (hibiscus apparently grows to tree size in Bali) with no fitted, glued or otherwise attached parts. The image is of Garuda, the Hindu protector god of the Balinese people who appears in the form of a bird, much like the Phoenix in ancient mythology and is the national symbol for both Thailand and Indonesia.

Our Garuda

I've attached a photo of an even larger painted Garuda so you can more easily see the wings, tail, arms and legs, etc. Our Garuda, as you can see, is unpainted, is about three feet tall and is a rich, cherrywood color. If you look carefully at our piece, you can see the tiny figure riding on Garuda's back, which represents the Balinese people being protected from the evil, multi-headed dragon below.

Master Carver Sudana was pleased to have someone who appreciated the work purchase it, and he came down to the shop to meet us. Artists know when they are dealing with people who understand and appreciate their work. He spoke no English and we spoke no Balinese or Indonesian, but the experience became truly one of my prized memories, as you can gather by the expressions on his face and mine.

The painted Garuda

Posted by Jennifer Johnston Smith at 11:13 PM

1 comments:
Nicki Wilcoxson said...
I found your post to be very informative and interesting. I really enjoy "seeing" your travels through your "artist eyes." I love your beautiful Garuda, and I would think that having met the artist, Sudana, face to face makes it all the more valuable to you. I imagine that Garuda and "Humphrey" share places of honor in your home. As a side, I have to laugh when I think of how wonderfully different your collection is from the ones that I have! Let me think--enamelware pots, Garuda and Humphrey--.......Thank you for sharing with us!
April 21, 2008 7:53 AM

L'Affaire des Mots ... Wishin' and Hopin' ... and It's Only Words ....

It seems that occasionally the blog takes on the aspect of a confessional, as some of us bare our souls ... not to mention our dependencies ... in this shared space. Recently Nicki owned up to a hard-fought battle against a former addiction to collecting and collectibles (see The Thrill of the Hunt: Confessions of a Collector, posted April 12, 2008), appended with my own mea culpa comment in partial expiation of my sometimes trying penchant for acquiring and hoarding books. Several of us have acknowledged before our peers that we are, if not truly compulsive, at least voracious readers ... eeeek!

So it is in the spirit of Spring, the season of rebirth and renewal, that I feel I must acknowledge a concomitant, overwhelming lifelong passion and obsession ... indeed, an interminable and eternal affair, if you will, which has sometimes left me with tears running down my face, or has lifted me to the heights of ecstasy, inspiration and exhilaration. Yahn, bless him (again), has been quite tolerant during our marriage of my frequent abandonment of him (at least mentally if not physically speaking), sometimes for hours or days at a time, as I heedlessly fling myself into the embrace of this occasionally all-encompassing, all-involving, but fortunately not illicit l'affaire des mots ... an affair with ... words.

I love words. I adore them. I love to devour them in huge bunches and conglomerations, sometimes unconsciously caressing them with my hand as my eyes move down the page. I thrill at contemplating them individually, or toying with the myriad ways they can be strung together, and then broken apart, and reconstituted in new ways to articulate different thoughts and interpretations. I love to study all their meanings, their synonyms, their antonyms, their propensities for rhyming and frequently humorous usage. I am in awe of their power ... to move us, to tempt us, to persuade us ... for good or ill. I love to say them ... to play with them ... to feel them swell as they form in the back of my throat and savor them as they roll over my tongue and burst through my lips. (Yes, it is assuredly always very good for me....)

Words can make a day or break a heart. They can soothe and calm a child, or rile and rouse the ignorant rabble in a crowd. They can save a life or a soul or a mind which may be teetering on the brink of disaster. Words encourage us to aspire, to dream of accomplishments we might once have considered beyond the reach of our hidden yearnings and desires. They can inspire us to keep going when hope is almost lost, or to reevaluate our thoughts and beliefs and set a new life course when the old formulas no longer work. They are with us, infinitely portable when carried in the mind, used by us, employed as part of our daily life and interaction with others ... though I sometimes wonder how much thought we give to the words we choose and the meaning of the words we hear.

I often think that without words ... without the ability to convey our thoughts in print or in speech or both ... we would be reduced to the level of Frankenstein's monster and his bride, gutturally grunting at each other through unintelligible, insensible sounds. But then I reflect that the kindred couple likely understood their conversations together very well ... or, if they did not initially, they soon would have found the right combinations of mumbles and squeaks and groans to embody and express their thoughts and feelings to one another ... because, to use one of my beloved word plays, it is a monstrous imperative that we communicate. Those without speech and/or without the ability to hear invented sign language so they could talk through their hands. Cavemen who had no written language left pictograms on cave walls to tell others of their exploits ... and in whatever language they developed among themselves, they passed down the oral traditions and stories of their clans.



Of course, the tradition of storytelling around campfires and in huts, passing stories from generation to generation, precedes the written word. But whether written or uttered aloud, words have the power to charm, the facility to educate and enlighten, to lift us beyond darkness or the sometimes quotidian drabness of everyday life. Words are used to entertain us, to bring us together by weaving common threads of experience, to impart and instill empathy and sympathy for those in different circumstances, to set down history and signposts and cautions for those who come after us. Sometimes words, and how we use them, can literally save or preserve our lives, as illustrated in the tale of the storyteller Scheherazade (see And Then Scheherazade TOTALLY Lost Her Head..., posted November 29, 2007). Conversely, words used by the venal and the evil can be among the most devastating weapons in undermining our society, our world, our lives and our collective future.

Storytelling has been common to every culture throughout time ... although more frequently than we would like to think, stories have been used not to pass along verities, but to mislead and deceive, sometimes with disastrous and far-reaching consequences. It is said that there can be much truth in a story labeled as fiction, and much falsehood in a story that proclaims itself to be factual. In today's media-saturated age, it becomes more and more important that we must all be able to read, and analyze, and research ... to sort through and distinguish facts from fabrications. Japanese director Akiro Kurosawa made his reputation in the West by turning linear story-telling on its ear in his film Rashomon, a complex story of four people involved in a murder who all relate four differing versions of the occurrence ... filtered and distorted to suit their own self interests. Kurosawa cleverly did not resolve the conflicting stories within the narrative of the film, leaving viewers to draw their own conclusions ... to be required to think ... and indeed, it seems that stories that appeal to generation after generation have no specific resolution, like the recently blog-mentioned The Lady or the Tiger. Nevertheless, as Daniel Patrick Moynihan wisely said: Everyone is entitled to his opinion, but not to his own facts.

Cave painting at Lascaux, France




On April 5, 2008 I published the post The Times of Our Lives: 1968 ... the Times ... and We ... Were a'Changin'.... Throughout that post there were references (and lyrics) to certain songs of that era. One of the songs from that year which occurred to me while I was writing, but was not used in the post, was composed and recorded by the Bee Gees ... a song called Words which says, in part:

Talk in everlasting words
And dedicate them all to me
And I will give you all my life
I'm here if you should call to me

You think that I don't even mean
A single word I say....

It's only words,
And words are all I have
To take your heart away.

I always liked that song, as well as some others written by the Bee Gees, despite their reputation in some circles as musical lightweights. The song invariably reminds me of Edmond Rostand's 1897 tale Cyrano de Bergerac, who ultimately (but unfortuntately as he lay dying) won the heart of the fair Roxane, after Cyrano's sentiments were originally and effectively employed on behalf of another. My literary digression notwithstanding, the words of Words struck a chord in my mind (must not go too over the top metaphorically here) while I was writing the 1968 post, and have continued to reverberate (grin) insistently in recent days.

When I think about Words ... and words ... I also cannot help but reflect just how crucially they, and the ways they are used, affect our lives. I recall the words of our teacher, Darryl Morris, as he lectured us in Journalism class about the power and wonder of words ... how the choice of each word and/or combinations of words may paint a positive or negative picture of the information being conveyed and may affect the perception of those who read and hear those words. As Darryl taught us, a major and defining tenet of journalism (at least in those days) was that a reporter should strive for pure objectivity in writing. Indeed, the Holy Grail of aspiration of a journalist was the ability to simply relate the news, the facts, and remain objective and detached in the reporting. Opinions were left to the editorial page, and were clearly labeled as such.

My first writing assignment in college (Freshman English Composition) was to write two one-page descriptions of people I knew ... one of a person I liked and wanted to praise and present in a positive manner ... and another of someone I disliked and desired to portray in a harsh, unflattering light. I reflected on Darryl's warnings about the effect of words deliberately slanted to persuade a reader to one point of view or another ... and then, with the ultimate purpose of the assignment in mind, I took one of my tangents and decided that it would be interesting to write both descriptive pages about the same person, using the selection and deployment of words to alter the perception of that one person from one characterization to the next. I discussed it with my instructor, who seemed excited about the idea, told me no one in any of his classes had taken that approach, and cleared me to proceed.

And so I wrote about a girl with beautiful black hair tinged with lustrous, almost ethereal blue highlights that shimmered seductively ... setting off her glowing skin, the color of warm, sunlit honey ... with long-lashed aquamarine eyes set above full lips and a welcoming smile ... whose grace of movement caught the attention of all around her and drew them into her shining orbit. And then, I wrote of the same girl ... with dull, stringy black hair which leeched the color out of her sallow skin and turned her eyes to refractive, opaque windows hiding an unknown soul, perhaps hinted at in her tight-lipped forced smile ... whose posture and carriage seemed calculated to lure but entrap.... Okay. Same girl. But ... you tell me ... who (!) would you choose for a friend, or want to know better?

This summer it will be 45 years since I wrote those pages ... yet they come more and more to mind as I listen to the carefully twisted rhetoric and read the slanted writing from and about the current crop of Presidential candidates, and concerning important issues of these times. It seems we no longer have many journalists who stand for objectivity, but we are positively besieged by charlatans with agendas, and by commentators and columnists run amok spouting "opinions" which would have properly been labeled libel or slander not too many years ago. We are inundated with knee-jerk slogans and manufactured "issues" to distract us from the truly critical problems we face for the future. I had a recent e-mail from my friend Jim Spradley, Sr., who "signed off" with the lines Walter Cronkite used to end his news broadcasts, and it literally caused a stab of pain as I contemplated what the profession of "journalism" has become since we graduated from CHS. But I digress....

On February 11, 2008 I posted Valentines ... Words of Love ... and The Butterfly Lovers..., wherein I spoke of the importance of words exchanged by lovers. I posited that it didn't particularly matter what one said, or the degree of one's linguistic skills ... the important thing was the sharing of words and feelings. I likewise believe that friendship is dependent on words between friends ... words to bring laughter, words to show support and sympathy, words to recall shared experiences and occasions, words of caring and concern ... the scripts and scenarios of our lives and times.

The writer Reynolds Price wrote: A need to tell and hear stories is essential to the species Homo sapiens -- second in necessity apparently after nourishment and before love and shelter. Many survive without love or home; almost none in silence....

And so it is with the blog. Nicki and I have recently discussed how the blog seems to be in another of its "slumps" ... that many of you out there are reading, but are not commenting, despite repeated entreaties to join us, to share your stories and thoughts of your own high school experiences, and your lives since we graduated. We love that you read us, apparently on a regular basis ... but we really, truly want to hear from you, in your own words, from your own memory. Your experiences, inside and beyond Childress High School, were and are unique. None of us has had exactly your experience, although as frequently acknowledged, we do share commonalities of history and circumstance.

Some of us were friends in high school, and are fortunate to remain so today. Some of us have in the past few years rekindled friendships long dormant after graduation. But one of the greatest blessings Nicki and I have shared since she inaugurated the blog is that we have come to know some of you better than we did then, and to delight in a "new" gift of friendship these long years later. As we have remarked, Nicki and I have become close friends in our work together on the blog, in the exchange of words and ideas between us. We have many wonderful conversations, over the phone, or through e-mail, on the blog and over brunch or dinner, and I believe we both cherish our relationship. Nevertheless, we are greedy people ... we still want to hear from you ... your words, your thoughts, your life experiences and perspectives. Imagine yourself around a glowing campfire, perhaps deep in a cave surrounded by pressing darkness, take a deep breath, begin....

And, we are only human in wanting to hear if you like something we write, or if some post brings back a memory or generates a thought. You don't have to write volumes ... it doesn't take more than a short comment ... "I enjoyed this" ... or even "Thanks". If we have not touched on something of interest to you, then perhaps you could say "I wish you'd write about" ... or "do you remember" ... whatever. Our knowledge is limited regarding subjects you might care to explore ... the things that would stoke your soul and light your fire, as it were.

We want to hear about your participation in sports or activities, as Joe Don and Clara and Linda Kay and Jim have written, but surely there are more stories to tell ... or about your work experiences in or since high school ... or about places you have traveled and your impressions, as Raenell related ... about so many things known only to you. We want to grow and sustain the blog ... we want it to continue to be something you look forward to and enjoy reading, even when perhaps it has no specific relation or relevance to you or your life experiences.

Plainly, and plaintively ... we need you, your voices, your stories, and your suggestions. We are here, a mouse-click away ... wishin' and hopin' and thinkin' and prayin', as Dusty Springfield sang in 1964 ... just do it ... please.... The metaphoric campfire beckons. It's only words ... and sometimes words are all we have ... sometimes they are everything....

)O(

Bobcat Treasure: Emeralds ... Spring ... and Green Fire ....

The Gachala Emerald, 858 carats, found at La Vega de San Juan mine in Colombia, housed at the National Museum of Natural History of the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C.

Cool green fire caught in stone ... a symbol of Spring, denoting rebirth and renewal, running the palette of greens, from light new growth to dark primordial forests.... Emeralds of a deep, ethereal green tinged with an intense blue may be more valuable than diamonds of equal size and are considered the most rare of the five "precious" stones (including pearls, which are not true "stones"). Emeralds are the birthstones of those born in May, and also the representative gemstones for the birth signs Taurus, Cancer and sometimes Gemini.

The translucent green gems are uniquely found in the rock in which they are formed, and never occur in scattered gemstone gravels, as do diamonds, rubies and sapphires. Emeralds signify abundance and riches, are said to ensure domestic bliss, and instill sensitivity, loyalty and harmony within oneself and in others in close proximity to the wearer. Emeralds are thought to eliminate negativity in one's life, and also are believed to foster strength, creativity, spiritual insight, focus and intensity to help fulfill one's destiny and complete a life's journey.

Emeralds have ever been considered sacred to the Great Goddess, the Earth Mother, the giver of fertility and bounty, called by many names throughout history from Paleolithic times (some 2.5 million years ago) to the present day, and including the Celtic Goddess Danu, the "mother" of the Tuatha De Danaan in the Emerald Isle. (See Guinevere the Druid Goddess: St. Patrick's Day ... the Shee ... and 'Kiss Me, I'm Druid' ... posted March 8, 2008.) The stones have long been associated with the Goddess Diana, patroness of the hunt and guardian of women and young girls. In 1531, at the time of the Spanish conquest of the Inca Empire, the Emerald Goddess Umina, embodied in a huge emerald crystal, was removed from her dominion over the Manta Valley in Peru by the conquistadores and carried back to Spain along with hundreds of her "daughters" (smaller but nevertheless sizable emeralds which had been arranged around Umina in her temple).

The lustrous stones were considered the personification of the Goddess Aphrodite (Venus to the Romans) and her consort Hermes, who created for Aphrodite the Emerald Tablet on which the words of creation were said to have been written. One biblical scribe envisioned the throne of God as being surrounded by a rainbow which looked like refractions of light from an emerald. In some Jewish lore, the emerald was one of the four sacred stones given to Solomon, although there is some dissension in Rabbinical thought as to whether the stone referenced was actually an emerald or another form of green beryl. One Medieval legend insisted that the mythic Holy Grail was actually carved from a single huge emerald dislodged from Satan's crown during his descent from Heaven to the underworld.

The earliest known emeralds were found in Egypt, near the Red Sea, although it is acknowledged today that the finest stones come from Colombia, South America. Good quality emeralds may also be found in other countries, such as Brazil, Zambia, Madagascar, Pakistan, India, Afghanistan and Russia. Some emeralds have been found in South Carolina, and in 1998 they were discovered in Yukon, Canada.

Emeralds have mystic significance to many religions, including Christianity, and the stone has often been believed and employed to focus the mind on spiritual matters. Indian mystics have long thought that the gift of an emerald to a deity would guarantee knowledge of the soul and eternal life.

Like some diamonds, certain emeralds have been held to be malevolent in nature. A emerald ring set with diamonds owned by King Phillip II of Spain at the time of the Spanish Armada's defeat by England was deemed to be so dangerous that it was buried by Church authorities in a fortified iron coffin which has never been found. In Russia, a particular emerald given to the Empress Elizabeth was passed down through Romanov family, with dire results for many of those who wore it, including Czar Nicholas II, who was massacred with all his family at Ekaterinburg in August 1918. That emerald has also disappeared and is thought to have been secreted away by spiritual leaders of the Russian Orthodox Church.

Similar to rubies, an old folk belief holds that an emerald will change color in the presence of treachery and deceit. For many years, lovers exchanged emeralds, believing that the stones would lose their color or actually fracture in case of infidelity. Dreaming of an emerald signifies good luck and wealth, and great happiness to come. It is said that emeralds open the portal to new beginnings, new life. In some societies, emeralds have been prized as healing stones, and are said to strengthen the eye, heart, immune and nervous systems. Throughout history, they have been rumored to protect from the evil eye, enchantment, poisonous snakes and demonic possession.

Unlike rubies, which may represent unbridled passion and ambition, it is believed that emeralds are preferred by those whose fires burn deeper, cooler and therefore longer, tended scrupulously and guarded from view by outsiders and others, except those who are favored by the owner and permitted a closer glimpse of the intensity and splendor inside.

Emeralds have been highly regarded by rulers and are displayed among all the Crown Jewels of countries throughout the world. Yahn and I looked in awe at the myriad gorgeous emeralds displayed at the Topkapi Museum in Istanbul, including but not limited to a six-sided emerald pendant which belonged to Sultan Ahmet I and an exquisite 17th Century dagger with an emerald hilt, worked with gold and diamonds. (The 1964 caper film Topkapi, starring Melina Mercouri and Maximilian Schell, spun the tale of an effort by international jewel thieves to steal the dagger.) The French Crown Jewels contain among other marvels an emerald necklace given by Napoleon to the Empress Marie Louise. Among the legendary "Easter Eggs" designed by Carl Faberge for the Russian Royal Family was the 1896 Rock Crystal Egg, topped by a 26-carat Siberian cabochon emerald. Since emeralds are softer stones than diamonds, rubies or sapphires, care must taken in displaying and wearing them so that they are not subject to rubbing against harder stones which may damage or diminish their value.

Like rubies, all natural emeralds have imperfections, or inclusions, which affect their quality and brilliance. Thus emeralds may also be likened to imperfect human beings, dependent for their ultimate worth on the number of cracks and flaws contained within their cores, and the ability of each of us to cut, polish and enhance our souls in such a way as to bring out the best of our inner fire and essential being. A raw emerald skillfully shaped by the hands of a master crafstman, and carefully tended and conserved by its owner, increases exponentially in value over time. And so, I give you emeralds....

Unfinished emeralds



Sandra Dement: Student council secretary and music scholarship winner. Sandra is married to Tony DeVeau and lives in Dallas. We had hoped to see her at the recent April 9 dinner with Phil and Winnie, Yahn and I, Nicki and Jim, Linda Kay and Wayne and Coach Joe Warren, but she was unable to attend. We missed her and look forward to seeing her in Las Vegas in October. For more information on Sandi, see her "Show and Tell" update posted March 4, 2008.

Max McClendon: Golf team, Speech Club member. Max is currently the pastor of the Church of Christ in Shamrock, Texas, after having served at churches in Mobile, Louisiana and Seattle. He and his wife have two grown sons.

Beth McKee: Johnny's football jacket, short. Beth lives in Lubbock, Texas.

Doug Greer: Wittiest, for his broken bones. Doug is retired and lives in Graham, Texas. Last seen by me at the time of Paula's funeral (where he was a pallbearer) in May 2002. The night before the funeral, Doug, Ronnie Kindle and Joe Don came by Lynn's house and visited with us for a while, sharing memories from high school and of Paula.

June Smith: Voice, first period librarian. June is living in Childress with her husband, Raymond Rhodes, and they are both retired.

Jack Privitt: Band, tall. Jack is currently living in Little Rock, Arkansas. He works with computers, networks and other computer-related matters.

Rebecca Cheatham: Choir member and office assistant. Rebecca is married to Doug Self, living in Glenwood Springs, Colorado. Doug is pastor of the Church at Carbondale and they have three grown children. We believe Rebecca may be a realtor.

Charles Crouch: Mechanical ____. (The rest of the line was apparently cut off at the time of printing.) Charles and his wife, the former Arvazene Whitten, have three children and live in Childress, where Charles works as a guard the prison.

Joy Hackler: Senior class secretary, voice. Joy Hackler Cunningham lives in Midland, Texas.

Bruce Patterson: John Phillip Sousa Award, long hair. We believe Bruce is retired from the railroad and living in Amarillo.

Pam Hughes: Office assistant, almond eyes. We understand that Pam lives in Fort Worth, but have no further information.

Don Seal: Jokes, Carrolle. Don lives in the Dallas area and owns a wig shop, catering primarily to those who have lost their hair because of chemotherapy, alopecia, or other medical reasons. He also carries prostheses for those who have undergone mastectomy. Don told me when we talked in November that he and his wife, who live in Highland Village, were then expecting another grandchild.

Carol Mahan: Gold Star Girl in 4-H, DE. Carol lives outside Childress with her husband, and Raenell believes she works as a private duty nurse. I last saw Carol and spoke with her briefly at the All-School Reunion in Childress in 2002.

Ronnie Lawrence: National Honor Society President, basketball. Ron retired from the energy industry and now teaches high school and lives with his wife Deborah in Centennial, Colorado, a suburb of Denver.

Jimmy Lassen: DE student, 1962 Corral staff. I talked with Jim, who lives in Longview, in November. Jim indicated to me then that he would check out the blog and possibly leave an update for us, though I haven't heard from him since. The last time I saw Jim was in the early '70s, at a little hole-in-the-wall pub in Dallas, The Quiet Man, where the clientele ranged from SMU professors to darts and rugby players to "hippies" (not necessarily mutually exclusive categories). Yahn and I were on the outdoor patio when Jim exited the interior. I saw his eyes and knew immediately who it was....

Cut emeralds

We are hopeful those profiled here (and others who may have more information) will add to these brief updates in comments to this post, or will forward us more comprehensive information for publication in the "Show and Tell" linked blog. Those of you who may have only recently begun reading the blog are directed to earlier "Bobcat Treasure" posts (i.e., Pearls ... of Wisdom [from Darryl Morris] ... and Giants and Windmills, published September 15, 2007; Diamonds ... BFFs ... and Who Was that Elvis Impersonator?, published September 21, 2007; Gold ... King Tut ... and the Lost Buddha..., published October 20, 2007; Jade ... Candles ... and Auld Lang Syne..., published December 31, 2007; and Rubies ... Mystic Powers ... and Valentines..., published February 4, 2008.)

We wish all of you a renewal of life and spirit in this lovely (if somewhat stormy) Spring, which we hope will meld seamlessly into a not-too-hot Summer of luminous green fire and growth and light ....

)O(

The Thrill of the Hunt: Confessions of a Collector

Hi, my name is Nicki and I am a collector. I first became addicted to collecting several years ago when it became necessary to clean out the homes of various relatives in Childress and Shallowater. These homes were filled with items that had been stored away for many long years There were no expectations that sacks of money or even long hidden treasure and valuables, would be uncovered. Even though it was a sad task for us, it wasn’t long before I began to experience feelings of pleasure that accompanied the discovery of the more mundane kind of items such as opening a box to find very old delicate tiny buttons, or looking in the kitchen cabinets to find old kitchen utensils that I hadn’t seen since childhood in my mother’s house, or old tins and boxes of spices held for years after expiration dates, but still displayed in the old fashioned tins of yesteryear, or old tin type photos of people long forgotten, or old cameras, tools, or even clothing. At this time I was introduced to the intoxication that comes from “the find” and I wanted MORE. Soon I was experiencing uncontrolled urges to look in every nook and cranny and every drawer to see what could be found to satisfy my desire for another rush. I was swept up watching shows on television about antique appraisal, visiting every antique shop to compare what we had found with those in the shops, visiting bookstores to find resources to help in identifying the items that had by now become “stuff” to treasure, not for monetary value but for the joy of having them, displaying them, and showing them off. My attic and house were soon cluttered with old fountain pens, eye glasses, cut glass, quilts, vases, old boxes, sets of china and dishes, old letters, WWII memorabilia. I was truly addicted, and even more so because these items had once belonged to the “family.” But soon this wasn’t enough; I needed something stronger, more challenging, and sadly more costly. The “beast” inside me was raging. (Apologies to my dear, but shocked readers)

It wasn’t long before I was found lurking in the darkest corner of the Internet. (no, silly reader, not porn! I was addicted, not perverted.) The dark corner for my addiction was Ebay. I had found my never ending supply of “old stuff” and the more primitive the better. I sought out wooden blocks of every shape and size, decorated with Disney characters, carved with letters of the alphabet, and old wooden egg crates. When that wasn’t enough, I moved to acquiring missing pieces for the old sets of dishes that we now had, and then I needed more McCoy pottery, always looking for the next item.

Along the way, in an antique store, I discovered brightly colored pieces of enamelware. Perhaps you, dear reader, have seen them—bright red, green, blue, or yellow tea pots, pitchers, coffee makers, plates, and other kitchenware. These soon began to regularly arrive on my front porch, from California, Texas, New Jersey, and even Europe. Sellers from every port proudly displayed their wares for sale to any buyer. It was too much for me to resist.

To my delight Jim was soon adding to my hunts. He was showing signs of sharing my addiction with his desire to acquire by year, golf clubs like every set that he had ever played with and then he had me searching for old, old books about basketball that were referenced in current books.

As a buyer I soon perfected my talent and technique for becoming the winning bidder in each auction. I snatched items from the hands of other bidders, swooping in at the last second with the winning bid. Such fun, such a rush, such a mess!

It soon became apparent to my family that Mom was out of control. With visions of someday having to pack away and get rid all my acquisitions they staged an intervention where I received an “order” to please not bring any more “old stuff” into the house or attic. It was at this point that I began to seek help for my addiction. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a twelve step program for my particular addiction, so I made up my own program. This included:

Step One: I admitted I was powerless over Ebay. My house and attic had become unmanageable.

Step Two: I came to believe that a power greater than myself could restore me to sanity--My bank account and the realization that I couldn’t buy a bigger house.

Step Three: I made a decision to bring order to my house and my life.

Step Four: I made a searching and fearless inventory of all my “finds” and old stuff— sorting the junk from the good stuff--most of it had to go. (Yes, worried readers, I kept Jim and the cats.)

Step Five: Admitted to myself that I didn’t need more things and that I was depriving other bidders and buyers the pleasure of acquiring what they wanted.

Step Six: I was entirely ready to have my defects of character that contributed to this addiction removed. ( Animal-like characteristics such as squirreling away things just for fun or for another day and snarling at those who tried to outbid me.)

Step Seven: Humbly, I removed myself from Ebay and all of its tempting delights.

Step Eight: I began the process of unloading. (garage sales and giving away)

And finally: I admitted that I was bored with the whole thing and tired of my house becoming filled with old stuff and looking like… well ……(No, dear sensitive readers, I won’t say a naughty word.)


Today, I live junk free (well almost). I still occasionally visit the antique store, but rarely buy anything. I rarely visit Ebay and they have forgotten who I am even though sometimes I consider becoming a seller. I have replaced many of the old things in my house with new stuff. Additionally, my desire to acquire more has been replaced with a strong need to organize every drawer, closet, and cabinet thanks to Clean Sweep on TLC and Mission Organization on HGTV.

I admit that I still have the need for the thrill of the hunt and collecting. But for today I am satisfied by seeking out people who are fortunate enough to have been members of the CHS Class of 1963 (No, frightened readers, I am not a stalker!), helping to organize 45th year reunions in Las Vegas and occasionally mini-reunions of friends meeting for dinner!

I hope you will join me in the thrill of the “hunt”.

For a more serious look at this subject go to my previous post on Friday, August 31, 2007
Grandma's Attic

It Was a Dark and Stormy Night ...

... the beginning of the egregiously turgid first line of the 1830 novel Paul Clifford, by Edward Bulwer-Lytton, borrowed and lampooned in myriad diverse works from Ray Bradbury (Let's All Kill Constance!) and Charles M. Schulz (Peanuts) to Star Trek: The Next Generation (The Royale). Considered an exemplar of purple prose and over-the-top writing, Bulwer-Lytton and his literary "style" have been perpetuated in recent years by the English Department of San Jose State University in California, in its annual Bulwer-Lytton contest to select the "best" imitation of his florid oeuvre from hundreds of submissions. Nevertheless, with an appropriate caveat to the reader, having been known myself to inhabit wordy environs ranging from pale Lavendar to glaring Psychedlic Purple (yes, there is such a color) ....

It was really a dark and stormy night when old classmates and one former teacher from Childress High School came together for dinner and conversation at Pappadeaux's in Dallas on 9 April. In addition to Yahn and my own happy self, there were Nicki and Jim, Linda Kay and Wayne, Phil and Winnie, and Coach Joe Warren, who lo these many years after CHS gave me permission to call him Joe. (Yes, some people for whom some old habits die hard do still ask, as quaint as that may seem.)

Jim and Joe deep in conversation

The weather was indeed threatening ... thunder, rain, lightning and tornado watches (and warnings!) all around. Yahn and I (who arrived first) were hoping that the storms didn't keep others from attending ... my "glass half full" nature assured me that even if we were blown to Oz and beyond, we would at least die well-fed and stimulated by camaraderie ... and we were not disappointed.

Of course there was no problem recognizing Nicki and Jim, or LK and Wayne, all of whom I've had the great pleasure of seeing recently. Although I had not glimpsed Phil since high school, except in a couple of photos (see the "Biker Bish" ... a new title ... picture on the sidestrip of the main blog), nor Joe, they joined the group in a flurry of hugs and exclamations of how long it had been since waaaay back when. Phil's wife Winnie did not escape our enthusiasm, and I can only hope we didn't alarm her too much. At least she didn't bolt before dinner was served.... (grin)

Phil and Winnie

Once seated around the table, we fell easily into serious and lively conversation, as we parted the veil of years. The only drawback was that the size of the table and the noise level at Pappadeaux's sometimes made it difficult to hear or pursue conversation with those seated opposite us. Still, it was a wonderful evening (illustrated by Nicki's pictures posted here along with her comments) and it is a delightful memory to stoke us as we prepare for the October Reunion in Las Vegas.

We were all pleased that Joe chose to join us. I remember his World History class so well from sophomore year at CHS, particularly some of the "spirited" class discussions (previously described on the blog). He looked great (but then he always did), tanned and fit (a golfer, along with Jim) and he either remembered all of us and seemed genuinely glad to see us, or we can add "thespian" to his resume. (There's an old joke in there, but I'll forgo it ... this time....) We are honored that he will attend the LV Reunion, and I look forward to seeing him again there, and whenever possible.

Although I was not "friends" with Phil or with Nicki and Jim during high school, to me one of the blessings of the blog (the "miracle" if you will) is that it has allowed me to know and appreciate them these 45-ish years later ... and to acknowledge the wonderful people they are today. I honestly don't have enough words (me?) to adequately express how truly thrilled I am to have had the opportunity to "reconnect" with them and with others of our class. Obviously there are some I didn't know well then, with whom I still have absolutely no basis for conversation except that which relates to our shared high school experience ... but I count myself most fortunate to have made new and treasured friends over the past few years as so many of us have become computer, Internet and e-mail literate.

Dear friend Nicki (a great treasure herself) did such a good thing when she started this blog and gave us all the opportunity to "speak" to each other in this forum across the decades, and I am delighted to have been able to work with her to discover and rekindle friendships where none previously existed, or had become dormant. Jim has become such a kind, thoughtful, well-read and conversant man ... and I look forward to each opportunity to get together with them. (Indeed, Yahn opined after the dinner that he regretted not having more of a chance to talk with Jim and Nicki, though we look forward to remedying that deficiency in the future.) LK (so deserving of the appellation "BFF") has never been long out of my life since our early years in grade school at the old Childress Junior High School, but the last few years have seen our friendship grow immeasurably, while Yahn and Wayne have come to know and like each other as well. Phil is a true recent "find"... witty, compassionate, erudite, well-traveled and consciousness-expanded ... and we so anticipate spending more personal time with him and Winnie whenever it is feasible ... although in the interim, e-mail will help fill the gap. And it was serendipity to interact with Joe outside the classroom and the teacher/student strictures which necessarily prevailed so long ago. Indeed, I am blessed by these gifts....

Linda Kay and Wayne Cook

To those of you who read the blog, but never (or rarely) comment, I can only say that you are missing a golden chance to reacquaint with fellow members of the CHS Class of 1963, to let them get to know the "who" you are now, and I urge you to do yourself and us the favor of "coming out" and joining us, on the blog or in Las Vegas, or wherever the opportunity may present itself. My experiences in these endeavors have been positive, as well as life-enhancing and -affirming, even when no new "friendship" has been struck ... and I do believe you will find pleasant surprises as well. To borrow a mangled line from Darryl Morris (which he used to deliver so well in good-ol'-boy-ese back in his Journalism, English and Speech classes): "Them that don't asks (or do), don't gets." And though it may be trite, it is true (I've often thought that if something weren't true, it wouldn't become trite) that one cannot have too many friends....

A big amen to that....

)O(

I say Amen to everything that Jennifer said above. Jim and I also had a great time--beyond our wildest expectaions for the evening. We had never met Jennifer's husband Yahn (in the orange shirt), but we knew him instantly when we entered the restaurant and felt very comfortable and at ease with him. We found him most gracious and look forward to getting some quality time really getting to know him in the future.

At the end of the evening, I felt that we had just scratched the surface of really getting reaquainted with everyone. I had the best time visiting with Linda Kay and her husband, Wayne. Because they live in Grapvine which isn't too far from Flower Mound where our family lives, we plan to get together for lunch or dinner in the near future. Needless to say, we "mentioned" grandchildren and old times.

Phil and his wife, Winnie, are a great couple. Phil made us laugh many times as he is a man not only of wisdom, but great jokes and stories. Winnie is such a good sport to join in with us. We had just begun to get to know her a bit before time to leave. We were all amazed to learn about their 3 daughters and 1 son who have blessed them with 15 grandchildren with 2 more on the way!! Next time we meet in Las Vegas, I hope they will bring family photos. We really are looking forward to having Phil share more with us about his travels and work. They tell us that a trip to Peru is in the works for them.

We see Coach Joe a few times a year and it is always wonderful to touch base with him. Jim and I are glad he is joining us in the reunion.

We all give a big thank you to Jennifer who through her planning and restaurant selection gave us a really special evening. We look forward to many more in the dinners in Texas with all of our old friends.

Nicki

Posted by Jennifer Johnston Smith at 11:02 AM

6 comments:

Philip Tutor said...
Hey Jenn, thank you for putting the dinner together. It was great! Looking forward to Vegas. Maybe less noise for us old folk.Blessings on you!The Bish
April 11, 2008 11:45 PM

Yahn Smith said...

I also enjoyed meeting everyone. I don't know if it is a function of maturity, or a testament to what fine people we all are, or just another of those pesky senior moments, but it was such a pleasure to be around a group of people and none of them seemed to have any axes to grind, none of the old "Oh, I can top that one..." just fellowship and seemingly genuine interest in the other people's thoughts and ideas. Good food, good poeple and enough time... paradise. I really am looking forward to spending more time with everyone and having better conversations when the Cajun background noise of Pappadeauxs will be beaten down to a gentle roar. I know it's authentic Cajun Crawfish House atmosphere but it is hard to carry on conversations. Ah, but Las Vegas is SOOOOO quite and refined. Now that'll be a trip. Well, as Claude Raines once said to Bogie, "I think we have the beginnings of a beautiful friendship here."

April 12, 2008 1:13 AM

clara robinson meek said...
Thanks for sharing the mini reunion! Obviously everyone had a great time.I loved seeing the photos.
April 12, 2008 1:43 PM

Sheila Davis Martinez said..

.
One of the things I love most about Dallas is her beautiful spring storms! How are the tulips? As warm as it is now, I will bet they have given way to something almost as beautiful and colorful. It is almost time for the lilacs to bloom! OH, how I miss the lilac bushes.Sorry to have gotten so off track. I will blame Jennifer and her lovely description of the storm.If the LV reunion is anything like you have described of your dinner, we will all have the time of our lives!Thanks for sharing the pictures. Everyone looks amazingly the same, yet ...wiser!Glad you all had a wonderful time.
April 13, 2008 12:20 AM

Driscilla Dehtan Storrs said...

It sounds great. Thanks for sharing the evening and the pictures with us. I remember Phil's wife Winnie from Wayland. It's nice to see her again, too. You actually got to call Mr. Warren by his first name? Does that mean we're supposed to be all grown up now?

April 16, 2008 7:19 PM

Jennifer Johnston Smith said...

Driscilla, I think the operative words are "supposed to be all grown up." But don't say it too loud ... you'll frighten the children.... Wish you could have joined us at the dinner. Perhaps we can get something going in West Texas soon. Nicki and I have been talking about it, and I would love to see you again.Thanks for reading ... and for commenting....)O(

April 16, 2008 11:53 PM

The Times of Our Lives: 1968 ... the Times ... and We ... Were a-Changin' ....

1968 ... five years from our Senior year and our graduation from CHS. A significant year for our country and our generation ... although I'm sure very few if any of us expected it to be so startlingly significant when we joyfully kissed and celebrated as the calendar turned relentlessly from December 31, 1967 to January 1....

Some of us were in college ... some had graduated and started careers ... some had gone straight to work from high school ... some were married and raising families by then ... some had been divorced ... and some were serving our country in the military, as a volunteer or a draftee. Some of us were still trying to decide what we wanted to be when we "grew up".... A dark cloud called "Vietnam" ... seemingly small and far away on the horizon when we walked the stage for the last time at CHS ... was looming larger in our minds and lives, and for our country as a whole.

By 1968, there were more than 500,000 U.S. soldiers serving in Vietnam. We had already lost our first former classmate to premature death ... Clifton Stewart, dead on November 21, 1966 ... though many of us were likely unaware of this particular grim milestone when it passed. And ... having legally "come of age" (21 then) ... we were about to cast our first votes to determine who would be President of the United States ... a significant ritual solemnizing our entry and participation in the "adult" world.

The music we had grown up and graduated with had morphed into the "British Invasion" and the glory years of Motown, psychedelic and "pop" rock, folk music and songs of protest ... of the undeclared but still real and deadly war in Vietnam, of inequality between races and classes of people, of anger and rebellion against the "society" which had nurtured and perhaps conversely stunted us during our "formative" years. As Bob Dylan sang in 1964:

Come gather 'round people
Wherever you roam
And admit that the waters
Around you have grown
And accept it that soon
You'll be drenched to the bone ...
Then you better start swimmin'
Or you'll sink like a stone ....

The line it is drawn
The curse it is cast
The slow one now
Will later be fast
As the present now
Will later be past ...

For the times they are a-changin'.

We could not help but realize that the times were changing, and that we were changing as well ... had indeed changed from the adolescents we had been in May 1963 ... when our ideas and beliefs had been as much the progeny of our parents as we were. Perhaps even by 1968 some of us had not fallen far from the parental and communal tree of life we had known in Childress ... but as must happen to everyone when they leave the shelter of the nest, we were finding that sometimes the "verities" we had once taken for granted no longer fit the world in which we lived and the lives we were constructing. Benjamin Franklin posited: In this world nothing is certain but death and taxes. But with all his wisdom, Franklin missed acknowledging the imperative for change which is likewise certain and inexorable, just like death and the turn of the calendar. Taxes at least are "negotiable" ... or malleable, in the hands of a creative accountant....

In November of our graduation year, our world and our psyches had been rocked by the assassination of President John F. Kennedy ... an unthinkable, unspeakable act for which we, and the country, were totally unprepared ... which even today remains writ large in our memories, the seminal event for the cataclysmic changes which would mark the rest of the decade. (See my post The Times of Our Lives: November 22, 1963 ... the day of the bells ..., published January 11, 2008.) The swearing-in of President Lyndon B. Johnson aboard Air Force One ... impossible for me to remember and visualize without also seeing the image of Jacqueline Kennedy standing there in her ruined pink suit (surely a metaphor for our now bloodied generation), grief-stricken and stunned from the horrors she had witnessed and experienced a few hours earlier ... also inaugurated times of change and a revision of the old social orders. The time when segregation would be tolerated de facto if no longer de jure, as it was when we were at CHS, was passing into history. Those who had been disenfranchised and denied because of race or poverty were being given their voting rights at last, despite rabid resistance which remained in some parts of the country. In 1968, in some states, people of different races were still not permitted to marry, despite the 1967 Supreme Court ruling striking down such racist laws.

As a society, of which we were now voter registration card-carrying members, many of us were finding we could no longer ignore and tolerate the manifest injustices that had been perpetrated against an entire race, against women, and against the poor and other minority classes of our fellow citizens. Some of us no doubt embraced these changes as long overdue, while others resisted such "disruptions" ... the beginning of a schism in what had been a fairly homogeneous mindset for the majority of the country in the years following World War II. Activist movements to effect change were becoming more common, more strident, more demanding of sweeping and immediate transformations in tenets and lifestyles we had largely theretofore taken for granted.

For some of us, knee-length or longer (often homemade) dresses and skirts, and "comfortable" Levis worn under our Dad's shirts with socks and penny loafers, had given way to the miniskirts, baby-doll dresses, knee-high or white mid-calf "go-go" boots and hip-huggers of London "mod gear" ... Carnaby Street and Mary Quant ... accoutered by huge lined and mascaraed eyes, flowing manes or chicly sculpted short tresses, and pale pouty lips. We moved beyond Buddy Holly and Patsy Cline, both dead before we graduated in 1963, and discarded our earlier fealty to Elvis until he reinvented himself in black leather for his 1968 Comeback Special.

We grooved to the music of the Beatles (which was itself in metamorphosis) and the Stones (self-styled "Satanic Majesties"), listened to Aretha Franklin demand just a little R-e-s-p-e-c-t, Heard It Through the Grapevine with Marvin Gaye, thrilled to the soaring harmonies of the Mamas and the Papas, and took inspiration from Steppenwolf, who averred that they, and we, were Born to Be Wild. For those who preferred country music, it is worth noting that it was in 1968 that Johnny Cash cut his legendary live album At Folsom Prison, while Tammy Wynette sang openly of D-I-V-O-R-C-E, and Jeannie C. Riley "socked it to the Harper Valley PTA." Changing times indeed....

Many of the guys, even in Childress, grew their hair longer and donned bell-bottoms, patterned shirts and Edwardian jackets. Some, although inevitably evolving in attitude and outlook, never abandoned their mode of dress from high school, as evidenced by my occasional glimpses of them when we visited Childress and chose to spend an evening in Hollis dancing at Fuzzy's or The Sand Bar ... or at the 19th hole of the Childress Country Club (CCC), where we could now order a drink along with our parents. Another breach in the formerly mystic bastion of adulthood.... The jukebox there was a melange of music types and styles, running the gamut from Glen Campbell's By the Time I Get to Phoenix and The Legend of Bonnie and Clyde by Merle Haggard and the Strangers, to Simon and Garfunkle and Buffalo Springfield (the forerunner of the group that would become Crosby, Stills & Nash, eventually adding Young, and later sing about Guinnevere of the golden hair, a free spirit who drew pentagrams late at night while no one watched, but couldn't see the man who longed for her) ... but still no Jimi Hendrix or Janis Joplin with Big Brother and the Holding Company, apparently still a few searing chords and a primal scream or two too far out man for the CCC.

As 1968 began, the societal rupture and upheaval we were about to experience had been in prolonged gestation, although a rending, difficult birth was imminent. We marked many notable events in January ... the flowering of the "Prague Spring" in Czechoslovakia, brutally crushed by the Soviets and their Warsaw Pact allies in August; the television debut of the irreverent Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In, which arguably changed the face and style of comedy; the seizure of the USS Pueblo by North Korea on January 23; the beginnings of the Battle of Khe Sanh and the Tet Offensive in Vietnam, both generating widespread and increasingly heated debate of our involvement in an undeclared war in Southeast Asia, which ultimately by the time of its tragic denouement in April 1975 would cost in excess of 58,000 American lives ... mostly young lives ... mostly lives of our generation. I remember hearing at about that time that Travis Simmons, two years ahead of us at CHS, had been killed in Vietnam ... and I knew others who served there, honorably and well, who were forever indelibly marked by their service. I have often thought that as long as there is one of our generation alive, that war will never truly end.

Frederick Hart sculpture, a part of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C.

On February 1, a photograph of the execution of a Viet Cong suspect in Saigon (it won the Pulitzer Prize in 1969) would serve as a further catalyst for a re-evaluation of our presence in Vietnam, a conflict which had been escalating steadily and was touching more and more American lives and families with tragedy. On March 12, President Johnson won a narrow victory in the New Hampshire primary over "peace" candidate Eugene McCarthy, reflecting burgeoning dissatisfaction and disagreement over the War, and on March 16, New York Senator Robert F. Kennedy (brother of the murdered JFK) entered the Democratic Presidential race, promising to end U.S. participation in an event which was increasingly perceived as a quagmire for our armed forces and our country. Also on March 16, American troops killed Vietnamese villagers at My Lai, although the details of the incident would take a long time to unfold. On March 31, President Johnson announced that he would not seek re-election, and would not run if nominated, thus becoming the most visible, if still living, casualty of the war until that time.

And then on April 4, Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated in Memphis, Tennessee. Assassinated ... once again, that terrible, dreadful word ... that almost unthinkable act ... a shock to so many of us, no matter what we may have thought personally of Dr. King or the civil rights movement. The arbiter of equality and non-violent change, dispatched so swiftly and irrevocably in the sharp, violent crack of a rifle shot. After the pain of the John F. Kennedy assassination, many of us had taken comfort in thinking that Kennedy's murder was merely an obscene anomaly in our "enlightened" day and age ... and yet, somehow it had happened again. Grief and disbelief ... followed by fear and fury after several days of violent riots in major American cities, one coming unnervingly close to the White House, and a shootout between Black Panthers and police in Oakland, California. What was happening to our country ... our world ... our sense of values? Some of us felt lost, adrift, bereft of the core beliefs we had held for so long. On April 11, President Johnson signed the Civil Rights Act of 1968, eased in its passage through the sometimes intractable Washington bureaucracy by Dr. King's death.

On June 5, Senator and Presidential candidate Robert F. Kennedy was shot to death in Los Angeles by a(nother) lone gunman, and the mind again reeled as we faced the fact that there were certain people, certain segments of our society, who thought it perfectly acceptable, even reasonable, to murder someone with whom they disagreed, as Ku Klux Klan members had done to three civil rights workers in Mississippi in 1964. James Earl Ray was arrested in London on June 8 for the murder of Dr. King, an event almost lost in the horror and shock over the latest Kennedy death.

Buried in the back pages of our newspapers, and likely only remarked by a few news commentators, if any, it was noted that on July 11 an obscure man named Saddam Hussein had led a coup d'etat in a Middle Eastern country, thereby first achieving ultimately corrupting power by becoming Vice Chairman of Iraq's Revolutionary Council.

In August, Richard Nixon was nominated as the Presidential candidate of the Republican Party, and chose Spiro Agnew as his Vice Presidential running mate. Amid unprecedented violent clashes between police and anti-war protesters in Chicago, Hubert Humphrey and Edmund Muskie were nominated by the Democrats. Humphrey-Muskie would go down to a narrow defeat in November, and Nixon-Agnew would be re-elected by a landslide in 1972. Segregationist candidate George Wallace proved disturbingly popular among some segments of society, and became the last third party candidate to win an entire state's electoral votes. Both Nixon and Agnew would later resign from their offices in disgrace (Agnew in 1973 and Nixon in 1974), becoming the only Presidential and Vice Presidential team in U.S. history to do so. The resignations, and Nixon's and Agnew's earlier vitriolic attacks on the news media investigating them, were inarguably, I believe, major contributing factors to our present-day cynicism and disillusion with politics.

The Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall by night, Washington, D.C.

In September, more than 150 women in Atlantic City protested the Miss America Pageant as being exploitative of women. Bras were burned, a thousand jokes were launched and the groundwork was laid for Rush Limbaugh's later rants against "Femi-Nazis" ... while most women quietly and outside the movement went on with the business of trying to obtain equal pay for equal work ... a goal still not realized. On October 7, NASA launched Apollo 7, the first of the manned Apollo missions, and there was a resurgence of pride in American accomplishments. At the games of the XIX Olympiad in Mexico City, the medal ceremonies of October 16 were marked and marred by the raised-fist Black Power salutes of American sprinters Tommie Smith and John Carlos. On October 24, the Department of Defense announced that about 24,000 U.S. troops would be sent back to Vietnam for involuntary tours of duty. In social notes, on October 20 Jackie, the beloved, iconic widow of President Kennedy, married Greek shipping magnate Aristotle Onassis on the island of Skorpios, putting a final dissonant coda to the end of Camelot. And on October 31, months after John McCain's plane was shot down and he became a Prisoner of War in Hanoi, President Johnson declared that he had ordered a complete cessation of the bombing of North Vietnam, effective the next day.

On November 14, the formerly exclusively male bastion of Yale University announced that it would become coeducational, to genteel and sometimes misogynistic consternation. (Many alumni of Texas A & M became apoplectic when the school went fully coed in 1970. My late father-in-law was one of them, and thereafter never donated a dime to the school, despite his earlier years of great pride in being an Aggie.) NBC's switchboard was swamped on November 17 when the network cut off the remaining 65 seconds (in "official time") of the Oakland Raiders-New York Jets football game in order to broadcast Heidi. The Raiders came from behind and scored two touchdowns, making the most of those precious seconds and enraging football fans across the country, causing NBC and the other networks to reevaluate their positions on cutting away from sports events to begin regular programming on time. On November 22, five years to the day after the assassination of President Kennedy, the Beatles released their eponymous ninth album, which would become known as The White Album, containing such music as Back in the U.S.S.R., Revolution and Helter Skelter ... taken as inspiration by a lunatic, homicidal, self-styled guru named Charles Manson, who would direct the terrifying murders of pregnant actress Sharon Tate and others in Los Angeles in August 1969.

On December 24, Apollo 8 entered lunar orbit and U.S. astronauts Frank Borman, Jim Lovell and William Anders became the first humans to see the dark side of the moon, and the entirety of the earth, as prelude to the launch of Apollo 11 and the moon landing by Neil Armstrong and Edwin "Buzz" Aldrin July 20, 1969. Armstrong's "one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind" fulfilled President Kennedy's goal of putting a man on the moon (and effectively winning the space race with the Soviets) before the end of the 1960s.

Whether you supported or opposed the Vietnam War, or like many came to oppose the war after initially supporting it ... whether you wore a peace symbol or a uniform, or both, or neither ... whether you believed the diverse movements toward civil rights for our fellow citizens were overdue in coming, or should have arrived "in due course" with calm, barely perceptible change ... whether you believed it was the right and duty of U.S. citizens to oppose policies of our government which they believed immoral or unjust, or felt that our government should be supported fully and completely, no matter what ... whether you loved our country but recognized its inequities and the necessity for change, or espoused that we should all love America without question or leave it ... whether you lived in a small town where change sometimes comes glacially, or in a larger city more roiled and affected by the tempests of the times ... the events of 1968 could not have failed to affect your life and your vision of the world today. As Dylan prophetically sang, our "present" in those days has now become our past, yet the reverberations and consequences of that year still resonate today, and will continue to influence our lives and those of our children and grandchildren, for many years to come.

It is said, although not documented as to authenticity, that the Chinese (in the throes of their horrific "Cultural Revolution" in 1968) have a saying that is both a proverb and the first part of a threefold curse of increasing severity: "May you live in interesting times." (The other two parts are "May you come to the attention of those in authority" and "May you find what you are looking for.") The times of our lives of the Class of 1963 have indeed been interesting ... and whether ultimately a blessing or a curse, or more realistically, a mixed bag (in the parlance of those days), they are nevertheless an ineluctable part of our history, our present and our future.

And, on a personal note (borrowing some lines from the singer Donovan): In those "chilly hours ... of uncertainty" of 1968, when it sometimes seemed the leaves were draped by tears of rain, between the pain of great loss and sustaining hope for the future, I made my own, life-altering and -affirming choice when I put out my hand to catch the wind and married Yahn (see my entry posted on the "Show and Tell" linked blog on January 29, 2008), who gave me true solace and refuge in the warm hold of a loving mind. We will celebrate our 40th anniversary at the end of May.

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