Despite threatening rain clouds, homecoming at Navasota High School brought out the entire town. Alumni as far back as the Class of '35 were honored (that's 80 amazing years!), and the bleachers were filled with people of all ages dressed in blue and white attire.
While the rain stayed way, memories of my own high school senior year homecoming flooded my mind. Navasota's Rattler Nation includes a marching band complete with a majorette and six flag girls, the Diamonette drill team, a slew of cheerleaders, and no less than 54 football players who suited up for the game. Back in my day, the green and white fighting Huntsville Hornets had no drill team, no flag girls, only six cheerleaders, and maybe 20 players.
But the hometown spirit was the same: Friday night football in Texas rules!
In the 1960s, we girls wore mums to homecoming. We'd keep them afterwards, pinned to our mirrors or walls where they turned brown and dried to fragile artifacts. My mind conjured the images of those big fat white flowers, and I thought how times have changed.
The corsages I saw Friday night were made of artificial flowers and accessorized with bling on steroids. Lots of different styles, too. The style I'd consider traditional was worn on the left shoulder, but oh my gosh, the glittered streamers flowed from shoulder to ankle. There were also corsages as necklaces, as armbands, and the most popular: as garters worn on the thigh. The garters were favored by the cheerleaders in their min-skirts, as well as spectators in blue jean shorts.
How times have changed.
Even though the 1960s claimed Drugs, Sex, and Rock 'Roll as its banner in American culture, Huntsville High School officials held tightly to the values of the 1950s, and cheerleader skirts were required to hit mid-calf, covering darn near all of their legs. Even if flower-clad garters had been available (and trust me, they were not), L.K. Westmoreland would never have allowed the cheerleaders on the field had they dared to wear them.
Confession: Ronnie and I did not stay for the entire game. The Rattlers were ahead 42-3 at halftime, and we felt confident the hometown team could win without our cheering from the stands. We bought "Navasota Rattlers Get Ready" t-shirts because we heard that the Rattlers will probably go to District and we will want to be in the stands to witness their win. We watched the crowning of Rebecca White as homecoming queen and listened to the Class of '35 and the Class of '45 sing the school song. While most folks stayed for the rest of the game, hollering and stomping and cheering the Rattlers as the second half began, we sneaked out.
While I waited for Ronnie to get the car from the crowded parking lot, I sang my school song softy to myself ("Oh, Huntsville High School, hear us singing our love and loyalty to thee beneath the shadows of the pine trees..."). We moseyed over to the Wrangler steak house on Hwy 6 and talked about how much we love this small town.
What are your high school homecoming memories?
Showing posts with label Huntsville. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Huntsville. Show all posts
Sunday, September 21, 2014
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Class of '64
My 50th Huntsville high school class reunion was this weekend, and holy smoke, about fourth-fifths of the class showed up--Art Koeniger as far away as Alaska and Nancy Hall-Hollis as close as a couple of blocks away. My cousin, Barbara Jean, aka Bubbles, who spent most summers with me and dated many of the guys in my class, accompanied me as did my sweetheart, Ron.
Sweet mercy, it was so good to see everyone. Many of us went all the way through public school together, from first grade through high school. Others like Pat Wood and Margaret Nuchia moved to Huntsville their junior year in high school and graduated with the class of 1964. When Bill Roy (he goes by Bill now, living in Arizona and no longer needing that two-name Texas moniker) introduced me to his wife, I told her that Bill and I danced the minuet in Colonial costumes when we were in Mrs. Jackson's first grade class. She replied, "Maybe that explains why it took me 40 years to get him on the dance floor."
Many of my female classmates had southern double names: Mary Ethel, Mary Elizabeth, Mary Nell, Nancy Gay, Carol Ann, Amy Lou, Linda Lou... you get the idea. Except for Mary Elizabeth, they have dropped the second name. As for the guys, almost all of them have dropped the "y" or "ie" on their boyhood names of Danny, Jimmy, Donnie, Ronnie... again, you get the idea. I think there's probably a rule of agreement that men can do that after they are 50 years old or have moved out of state.
We reminisced about the major impact Coach J.J. Head and journalism teacher Karey Bresenhan, among others, had on our lives. Coach Head is deceased; Karey Bresenhan went on to become the founder of the International Quilt Association. She was a surprise guest to our class meeting as was Grace's mother, Velda Hall, who at 105 is the oldest living parent of the class members. I was able to personally thank Karey B. for the solid foundation and encouragement she provided me as a young journalist. Grace's mother, who uses a walker to get around and has a mind sharper than mine, had us laughing in the aisles with the quick-witted repartee she exchanged at the podium with her niece Nancy.
We recalled climbing the Huntsville water tower, sneaking cigarettes, driving to the bootlegger on Gospel Hill, Friday night football, slumber parties, learning the Garner stomp (similar to the today's Texas 2-step), meeting at the Tastee Freeze after school, Mrs. Oliver's typing class, going to the college to "paste up" the high school student newspaper (the Hornet Hive) and checking our shoes to be sure we didn't have part of the newspaper clued there .... such memories!
We all agreed that we grew up in intense times (Cuban Missle Crisis, Kennedy Assassination, beginning of the Vietnam War), and that may be the reason we still care about each other. There are no cliques anymore
--we love each other for the survivors we are. We lived through interesting times and now we live interesting lives, and it's good to hear about our university research, our writing projects, our medical care work, our volunteer service in schools, hospitals, clinics, and our children and their children.
So much went into the weekend activities. Larry and Merrie Monzingo provided commemorative drink coozies and commemorative labeled bottled water for us. Margaret Prentice and Nancy Hall were the amazing coordinators who managed to track us down and make all the arrangements for a grrrrrrreat reunion. I wish I could recall all the individuals who contributed their time, leadership, and finances for this once-in-a-lifetime event, but I'm getting up in the years and it was taxing enough to put names to faces.
Hornet Hugs to all my classmates.
*FYI: Huntsville High School's mascot is the Fighting Hornet.
Sweet mercy, it was so good to see everyone. Many of us went all the way through public school together, from first grade through high school. Others like Pat Wood and Margaret Nuchia moved to Huntsville their junior year in high school and graduated with the class of 1964. When Bill Roy (he goes by Bill now, living in Arizona and no longer needing that two-name Texas moniker) introduced me to his wife, I told her that Bill and I danced the minuet in Colonial costumes when we were in Mrs. Jackson's first grade class. She replied, "Maybe that explains why it took me 40 years to get him on the dance floor."
Many of my female classmates had southern double names: Mary Ethel, Mary Elizabeth, Mary Nell, Nancy Gay, Carol Ann, Amy Lou, Linda Lou... you get the idea. Except for Mary Elizabeth, they have dropped the second name. As for the guys, almost all of them have dropped the "y" or "ie" on their boyhood names of Danny, Jimmy, Donnie, Ronnie... again, you get the idea. I think there's probably a rule of agreement that men can do that after they are 50 years old or have moved out of state.
We reminisced about the major impact Coach J.J. Head and journalism teacher Karey Bresenhan, among others, had on our lives. Coach Head is deceased; Karey Bresenhan went on to become the founder of the International Quilt Association. She was a surprise guest to our class meeting as was Grace's mother, Velda Hall, who at 105 is the oldest living parent of the class members. I was able to personally thank Karey B. for the solid foundation and encouragement she provided me as a young journalist. Grace's mother, who uses a walker to get around and has a mind sharper than mine, had us laughing in the aisles with the quick-witted repartee she exchanged at the podium with her niece Nancy.
We recalled climbing the Huntsville water tower, sneaking cigarettes, driving to the bootlegger on Gospel Hill, Friday night football, slumber parties, learning the Garner stomp (similar to the today's Texas 2-step), meeting at the Tastee Freeze after school, Mrs. Oliver's typing class, going to the college to "paste up" the high school student newspaper (the Hornet Hive) and checking our shoes to be sure we didn't have part of the newspaper clued there .... such memories!
We all agreed that we grew up in intense times (Cuban Missle Crisis, Kennedy Assassination, beginning of the Vietnam War), and that may be the reason we still care about each other. There are no cliques anymore
--we love each other for the survivors we are. We lived through interesting times and now we live interesting lives, and it's good to hear about our university research, our writing projects, our medical care work, our volunteer service in schools, hospitals, clinics, and our children and their children.
So much went into the weekend activities. Larry and Merrie Monzingo provided commemorative drink coozies and commemorative labeled bottled water for us. Margaret Prentice and Nancy Hall were the amazing coordinators who managed to track us down and make all the arrangements for a grrrrrrreat reunion. I wish I could recall all the individuals who contributed their time, leadership, and finances for this once-in-a-lifetime event, but I'm getting up in the years and it was taxing enough to put names to faces.
Hornet Hugs to all my classmates.
*FYI: Huntsville High School's mascot is the Fighting Hornet.
Sunday, April 13, 2014
Hometown memories
I'm facilitating a workshop at Story Circle Network's national conference today. The topic is "Home is Where the Heart Is," and I've been thinking about the different places I've lived, the different homes I've had, and that thinking led to the idea that one's hometown is the larger home that we all share.
Songwriters have certainly used the hometown theme to evoke strong emotional memories. The first, "Home Sweet Home," was written over 190 years ago by John Howard Payne about his early life at his grandfather's house in East Hampton, Maine.
More recently, Eric Church's "Give Me Back My Hometown" is a bittersweet ballad of faded love and bright memories. The lyrics are emblematic of every small town across the south and southwest.
I was born on an Army-Air base in upstate New York at the end of World War II, but I grew up in Texas and call Huntsville my hometown. There is a state college and a state prison in my hometown. The college, a university now, was the first teacher-training school in the southwest United States. The state prison housed the electric chair where 361 convicts died between 1924 and 1964. Most kids' parents worked at one of these institutions.
My dad was hired to teach at the college in 1949 after receiving his graduate degree from Harvard University in teacher education. When a colleague who was showing him around found out he was Catholic, the colleague turned a stone ear to any more conversation. It was awkward, to say the least. My brothers and I were oblivious to this act of unkindness. As we each entered school through the next five years, we took our turn to pray over the loud speaker which carried the message through classroom intercoms. We were supposed to write a prayer, but sometimes I forgot and so I would say one I knew from memory. Looking back, I'm sure more than one teacher, most likely a Southern Baptist or a deacon in the Church of Christ, trembled and quaked when I began reciting "Hail Mary, full of grace...." But if anyone gave me even a disapproving look, I don't remember. God looks after the innocent children.
We lived in five houses, from 1949-1967, while I was living at home full time, or hanging out between college semesters.
Our first home was a rehabbed army barracks in a place called Country Campus, east of Huntsville on Hwy 19. It had been a prisoners of war camp during the war and turned into faculty housing for a time afterwards. Families came together for family picnics. I remember watermelon, iced down in galvanized tubs, and eating out the hearts. I remember spitting seeds or taking a few and planting them. I remember hand-churned ice cream parties and adding fresh peaches or strawberries to the mix. I remember dirt-daubers and honey bees, and I remember getting stung more than once while tagging after my brothers. Today there's an 18-hole golf course there, but nothing much else.
Our second home was in town. In 1952, we moved into a two-story brick house on 15th Street. My older brother talked my younger brother into jumping off the second story soon after we'd seen Peter Pan. Stone convinced Mark he could fly, but of course, he could not. Mark missed the concrete patio by about ten inches and because he was five and still growing his bones, he suffered only a sprained ankle. God looks after the innocent children, indeed.
Our third home was across town near the college. My dad was not ready to cash in his GI bill for a mortgage, so we stayed in what my older brother called the "slump," the combination of a dump and a slum. It was in the living room of this house where my dad offered me the humongous amount of one hundred dollars to read ten books over the summer between my third and fourth grade in school. It was in the living room of this house where my older brother gave me a black eye for turning the TV channel. It was in the living room of this house that my younger brother watched Saturday westerns while dressed in his fringed Roy Rogers cowboy outfit with his 6-shooter guns strapped on.
Our fourth home was across from Piggly Wiggly grocery store. It was my favorite. Maybe because Johnny Campbell taught me how to kiss in that backyard. Probably because several other boys kissed me in the driveway and on the front porch, but none was as loved as Jimmy Scott. Both Johnny and Jimmy were victims of Vietnam. Johnny's plane crashed in the Indian Ocean; Jimmy took his own life when he couldn't re-adjust to civilian life after his year-long tour, which consisted mostly of sending home the dead in body bags.
Our fifth home was an old Victorian house next to the Methodist Church. It had stained glass windows, mahogany sliding doors, wide wrap-around porches, 15-foot ceilings, and a staircase built by convict labor in the 1800s. In 1971 I got married in that home. My dad was walking me down the stairs when he whispered, "We can keep walking, honey, and go right out that front door." I thought it was a bad joke, but I should have listened--the marriage lasted only 5 years.
Interstate 45 bypasses Huntsville, and the town has grown toward the freeway. The drugstore and clothiers around the courthouse have been replaced by "antique" stores, filled mostly with second hand furniture, Fiesta dishware, art decor perfume bottles, mismatched china, crocheted lace doilies, plastic dolls, wooden trains, and Mexican pottery. My parents are dead and so are a number of my friends. Most of those who are still living have moved away, many to the suburbs of Dallas or Houston, but some live out of state, one as far away as Alaska. I'll return to Huntsville this summer for my 50th high school class reunion. I'm amazed, and heartened, by how many are coming. There is no doubt, we'll listen to the music of Eric Church, and through the fragments of our shared memories, take back our hometown.
Where is your hometown?
Songwriters have certainly used the hometown theme to evoke strong emotional memories. The first, "Home Sweet Home," was written over 190 years ago by John Howard Payne about his early life at his grandfather's house in East Hampton, Maine.
More recently, Eric Church's "Give Me Back My Hometown" is a bittersweet ballad of faded love and bright memories. The lyrics are emblematic of every small town across the south and southwest.
I was born on an Army-Air base in upstate New York at the end of World War II, but I grew up in Texas and call Huntsville my hometown. There is a state college and a state prison in my hometown. The college, a university now, was the first teacher-training school in the southwest United States. The state prison housed the electric chair where 361 convicts died between 1924 and 1964. Most kids' parents worked at one of these institutions.
My dad was hired to teach at the college in 1949 after receiving his graduate degree from Harvard University in teacher education. When a colleague who was showing him around found out he was Catholic, the colleague turned a stone ear to any more conversation. It was awkward, to say the least. My brothers and I were oblivious to this act of unkindness. As we each entered school through the next five years, we took our turn to pray over the loud speaker which carried the message through classroom intercoms. We were supposed to write a prayer, but sometimes I forgot and so I would say one I knew from memory. Looking back, I'm sure more than one teacher, most likely a Southern Baptist or a deacon in the Church of Christ, trembled and quaked when I began reciting "Hail Mary, full of grace...." But if anyone gave me even a disapproving look, I don't remember. God looks after the innocent children.
We lived in five houses, from 1949-1967, while I was living at home full time, or hanging out between college semesters.
Our first home was a rehabbed army barracks in a place called Country Campus, east of Huntsville on Hwy 19. It had been a prisoners of war camp during the war and turned into faculty housing for a time afterwards. Families came together for family picnics. I remember watermelon, iced down in galvanized tubs, and eating out the hearts. I remember spitting seeds or taking a few and planting them. I remember hand-churned ice cream parties and adding fresh peaches or strawberries to the mix. I remember dirt-daubers and honey bees, and I remember getting stung more than once while tagging after my brothers. Today there's an 18-hole golf course there, but nothing much else.
Our second home was in town. In 1952, we moved into a two-story brick house on 15th Street. My older brother talked my younger brother into jumping off the second story soon after we'd seen Peter Pan. Stone convinced Mark he could fly, but of course, he could not. Mark missed the concrete patio by about ten inches and because he was five and still growing his bones, he suffered only a sprained ankle. God looks after the innocent children, indeed.
Our third home was across town near the college. My dad was not ready to cash in his GI bill for a mortgage, so we stayed in what my older brother called the "slump," the combination of a dump and a slum. It was in the living room of this house where my dad offered me the humongous amount of one hundred dollars to read ten books over the summer between my third and fourth grade in school. It was in the living room of this house where my older brother gave me a black eye for turning the TV channel. It was in the living room of this house that my younger brother watched Saturday westerns while dressed in his fringed Roy Rogers cowboy outfit with his 6-shooter guns strapped on.
Our fourth home was across from Piggly Wiggly grocery store. It was my favorite. Maybe because Johnny Campbell taught me how to kiss in that backyard. Probably because several other boys kissed me in the driveway and on the front porch, but none was as loved as Jimmy Scott. Both Johnny and Jimmy were victims of Vietnam. Johnny's plane crashed in the Indian Ocean; Jimmy took his own life when he couldn't re-adjust to civilian life after his year-long tour, which consisted mostly of sending home the dead in body bags.
Our fifth home was an old Victorian house next to the Methodist Church. It had stained glass windows, mahogany sliding doors, wide wrap-around porches, 15-foot ceilings, and a staircase built by convict labor in the 1800s. In 1971 I got married in that home. My dad was walking me down the stairs when he whispered, "We can keep walking, honey, and go right out that front door." I thought it was a bad joke, but I should have listened--the marriage lasted only 5 years.
Interstate 45 bypasses Huntsville, and the town has grown toward the freeway. The drugstore and clothiers around the courthouse have been replaced by "antique" stores, filled mostly with second hand furniture, Fiesta dishware, art decor perfume bottles, mismatched china, crocheted lace doilies, plastic dolls, wooden trains, and Mexican pottery. My parents are dead and so are a number of my friends. Most of those who are still living have moved away, many to the suburbs of Dallas or Houston, but some live out of state, one as far away as Alaska. I'll return to Huntsville this summer for my 50th high school class reunion. I'm amazed, and heartened, by how many are coming. There is no doubt, we'll listen to the music of Eric Church, and through the fragments of our shared memories, take back our hometown.
Where is your hometown?
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