I was cleaning out a box this morning and found the bulletin from my grandmother's home church in Sudan, TX, dated Oct. 7, 1956. The bulletin is yellowed with age, and most certainly a manual typewriter was used to type the information about services, including the fact that "139 were present in classes last Lord's Day to study the Will of the Lord," and that "Granny Hanson seems to be getting along very nicely now. She is 96 years young this month."
Within the Church of Christ folded bulletin, I found these words:
Funeral services for Sister E.J.* [Elise Porter] Stone were conducted in the church last Wednesday afternoon by Brother Blake. She passed away Monday morning in the West Texas Plains Hospital, Muleshoe. Much could be written and spoken concerning the life and deeds of this fine woman, but space and feeble words cannot convey the fullness of life as she lived it. When we think of her life, above all we think of her as a faithful, devoted Christian, an untiring worker in the Lord's Kingdom, a loyal companion, mother, citizen, and builder of this community, state, and nation.
She loved all people---little children, middle-aged, and elders, and they all in turn loved and respected her. She was a continual source of inspiration and encouragement to all who were doing anything worthwhile. She loved that which was good, high, holy, wholesome, and pure, and abhorred that which was base, evil, and ungodly.
She was an outstanding scholar of the Bible, having spent many long hours in its study, in preparation for teaching classes, in preparing for living life, and especially in preparation for life eternal. She possessed a broad knowledge on many subjects, and was a good conversationalist. Her mind was keen and had been developed to a high degree.
There will always be that vacant seat in the church, in her home, in the community, and everywhere she went. Even though she is not present in body, we know that in spirit and that her good works and deeds will last throughout this present world & extend into eternity.
Let us each be courageous and fight the good fight as she fought it, and lay up treasures in heaven as she did. May God's richest blessing abide with [husband] Sib and his children as they go through the period of readjustment.
As I finish reading, I think about how my grandmother cashed in her Texas teacher retirement (she had taught 3rd grade) so that my mother could complete her senior year at Texas Tech and become a teacher. My mother went on to be hired as the founding superintendent of the Windham Schools, within the Texas Department of Criminal Justice. Mother and my daddy paid my tuition through Sam Houston State Teachers College so I could become a teacher, and I paid my son's way through University of Texas so he could be a teacher, too. Yes, my grandmother was a source of inspiration and encouragement, but her vacant seat has been filled with three generations (and counting) of believers in God's Word and Texas educators.
Her legacy lives on.
* Eusebius Jefferson Stone was my grandfather's name. He went by "Sib."
Showing posts with label Texas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Texas. Show all posts
Sunday, October 18, 2015
Sunday, April 19, 2015
It's the right thing
As the bumper sticker says: "I wasn't born in Texas but I got here as fast as I could." The end of World War II trapped my parents in upstate New York where my dad, a chaplain's assistant, moved the paperwork to separate other veterans from the armed service. While both my brothers enjoy native son status, I'm a Yankee interloper, but it isn't my fault--my mother, who couldn't wait in Texas any longer and joined my dad outside Rome, New York, gave birth to me in a military hospital on base. Shortly thereafter, we were Texas bound, and I've never called anywhere else home.
I'm thinking about the historical context of my birth because the 84th regular session of the Texas Legislature is thinking about repealing the Texas D.R.E.A.M. Act, a law that permits children whose parents brought them into Texas illegally--mostly Mexican children, but not all--and who graduate from a Texas high school and desire to become US citizens may attend Texas public colleges and universities for in-state tuition. It's a fair law, in my opinion, for grown children who grew up in Texas and plan to live, work, and raise families here--unless they are forced out.
It seems to me the Legislature is being short-sighted in wanting to repeal the law.
My generation is nearing retirement at record rates. Every single day 10,000 additional citizens turn 65 and will continue to do so for the next 6,935 days (19 years)! None of them are having babies. But they are coming to Texas for the warm climate, affordable housing, and low taxes. It makes good sense to educate the young adults who are here, giving them the workforce skills and encouragement to build a better Texas. Otherwise, I fear we will lack the labor force to meet the needs of an aging population.
We could argue that this is in the best interest and welfare of "undocumented residents," or interlopers, if you will. But let's be pragmatic: the real deal-sealer is that it is in our self-interest to educate the younger generation within our state lines.
And, for the record, let's be clear: they're not getting free college education--they're just getting a price break.
I'm thinking about the historical context of my birth because the 84th regular session of the Texas Legislature is thinking about repealing the Texas D.R.E.A.M. Act, a law that permits children whose parents brought them into Texas illegally--mostly Mexican children, but not all--and who graduate from a Texas high school and desire to become US citizens may attend Texas public colleges and universities for in-state tuition. It's a fair law, in my opinion, for grown children who grew up in Texas and plan to live, work, and raise families here--unless they are forced out.
It seems to me the Legislature is being short-sighted in wanting to repeal the law.
My generation is nearing retirement at record rates. Every single day 10,000 additional citizens turn 65 and will continue to do so for the next 6,935 days (19 years)! None of them are having babies. But they are coming to Texas for the warm climate, affordable housing, and low taxes. It makes good sense to educate the young adults who are here, giving them the workforce skills and encouragement to build a better Texas. Otherwise, I fear we will lack the labor force to meet the needs of an aging population.
We could argue that this is in the best interest and welfare of "undocumented residents," or interlopers, if you will. But let's be pragmatic: the real deal-sealer is that it is in our self-interest to educate the younger generation within our state lines.
And, for the record, let's be clear: they're not getting free college education--they're just getting a price break.
Sunday, April 12, 2015
Legend of the Bluebonnets
Blankets of bluebonnets threaded with colorful Indian paintbrushes, winecups, and lemonmint are popping in the wind today. God and the Texas Department of Transportation have covered the roadsides, especially from Washington-on-the-Brazos to Chappell Hill. As always, I am reminded of the legend of the bluebonnet.
When I was five, a babysitter told me the tale of the drought on the High Plains and how a young Comanche girl's sacrifice brought the bluebonnet to Texas. Do you know the story? Actually, like most legends, there are many versions around. This is the one I was told:
Once upon a time, a long time ago, in the High Plains of Texas, Comanche lived and hunted buffalo. But one summer, the buffalo did not come because there had been no rain to water the wild grasses. In fact, it had not rained for many moons, and the people in the village were worried. And very thirsty.
The shaman told the people that they needed to make sacrifices to the Great Spirit so he would bring the rain. A big bonfire was made in the center of the village and the tribe, one by one, offered up possessions--buffalo blankets, silver jewelry, clay pottery, flint spears and arrows.
But still the rain did not come.
The shaman told the people that their sacrifice had to be great, that they had to sacrifice what they prized the most to the Great Spirit. The people went back into their tepees and slowly began to uncover their greatest treasures to bring to the fire.
Still, the rain did not come.
In the village was a small girl. She was an orphan who had only one tiny possession of her own. It was a doll made from an old corn cob wrapped in a dusty rag with a single bluejay feather hanging from its head. It was nothing really, especially when compared to the wealth the other tribe members were bringing to the fire. But it was all she had left from when her parents were alive, and even though she loved the doll more than anything, she decided to offer it as a sacrifice for her people.
She walked to the edge of the bonfire and with tears in her eyes, she threw her doll into the flames. Immediately the bright flames consumed the doll, turning it to ash. The sacrifice was complete.
And then thunder clapped and the sky opened and rain began to fall. The wind blew the doll's ashes through the gentle rain and spread them over the land.
The voice of the Great Spirit spoke over the wind and thunder and rain to say: "This child gave me her most precious possession, and I will never forget her sacrifice." Flowers began to spring up where the ashes had fallen. They were wildflowers topped with the same blue as the feather on the girl's doll. We call them bluebonnets.
Today educators say this is a story that teaches children about selfless acts, about giving up something important for family, about letting go of material things, about surrender. As a five-year-old, I got none of those lessons from the story.
Here is what I got from the story: God loves little girls so much--maybe even best. That was a very important message for a little girl like me who felt invisible between two boisterous brothers. Every spring God covers the meadows and hills with beautiful bluebonnets to tickle my nose and remind me of His special love.
When I was five, a babysitter told me the tale of the drought on the High Plains and how a young Comanche girl's sacrifice brought the bluebonnet to Texas. Do you know the story? Actually, like most legends, there are many versions around. This is the one I was told:
Once upon a time, a long time ago, in the High Plains of Texas, Comanche lived and hunted buffalo. But one summer, the buffalo did not come because there had been no rain to water the wild grasses. In fact, it had not rained for many moons, and the people in the village were worried. And very thirsty.
The shaman told the people that they needed to make sacrifices to the Great Spirit so he would bring the rain. A big bonfire was made in the center of the village and the tribe, one by one, offered up possessions--buffalo blankets, silver jewelry, clay pottery, flint spears and arrows.
But still the rain did not come.
The shaman told the people that their sacrifice had to be great, that they had to sacrifice what they prized the most to the Great Spirit. The people went back into their tepees and slowly began to uncover their greatest treasures to bring to the fire.
Still, the rain did not come.
In the village was a small girl. She was an orphan who had only one tiny possession of her own. It was a doll made from an old corn cob wrapped in a dusty rag with a single bluejay feather hanging from its head. It was nothing really, especially when compared to the wealth the other tribe members were bringing to the fire. But it was all she had left from when her parents were alive, and even though she loved the doll more than anything, she decided to offer it as a sacrifice for her people.
She walked to the edge of the bonfire and with tears in her eyes, she threw her doll into the flames. Immediately the bright flames consumed the doll, turning it to ash. The sacrifice was complete.
And then thunder clapped and the sky opened and rain began to fall. The wind blew the doll's ashes through the gentle rain and spread them over the land.
The voice of the Great Spirit spoke over the wind and thunder and rain to say: "This child gave me her most precious possession, and I will never forget her sacrifice." Flowers began to spring up where the ashes had fallen. They were wildflowers topped with the same blue as the feather on the girl's doll. We call them bluebonnets.
Today educators say this is a story that teaches children about selfless acts, about giving up something important for family, about letting go of material things, about surrender. As a five-year-old, I got none of those lessons from the story.
Here is what I got from the story: God loves little girls so much--maybe even best. That was a very important message for a little girl like me who felt invisible between two boisterous brothers. Every spring God covers the meadows and hills with beautiful bluebonnets to tickle my nose and remind me of His special love.
Sunday, March 1, 2015
Texas Birthday Bash
Tomorrow is Texas Independence Day, but Navasota celebrated this weekend with its annual Texas Birthday Bash in the courtyard of the city hall. We had two days of live country music and Texas themed fun.
The bands were loud, rowdy, and down home country. We sat on one of the bales of hay scattered in front of the bandstand, but many families brought camp chairs along with wool blankets or quilts to wrap around them. Good idea--wish we'd thought to do the same.
A winter blast from the north required layered clothing. Seriously insulated jackets (the kind that are worn in deer stands or duck blinds) were favored gear for both men and women. Ronnie and I don't hunt, so we bundled up in our Harley leather motorcycle jackets. My beautiful blood-red cowboy boots were new, but the ones on the other women were scuffed and weathered. They weren't wearing their boot-scootin' dancing boots in inclement weather. I'll know better next year.
The guys sported short haircuts and full beards--no skimpy soul patches for these young men. They smoked filtered cigarettes, drank Budweiser, and bought cotton candy, funnel cake, and kettle corn for their rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed children. And when the music moved them, they punched the air with their fists and danced with their women on the hard concrete.
Marsha's Petting Zoo had the little ones squealing with delight as they toddled after the llama, sheep, and goats. I thought how my younger brother would have joined in the reverie because he acts like he's 6 when he's around children. But Dallas was being pelted with snow and sleet this weekend, preventing Mark and his wife from joining us.
A mechanical bull also attracted youngsters from 3 to 12. The ride's operator wisely matched the bull's aggressiveness to each rider, so all the 3-year-olds had gentle rides while the 12-year-olds were spun and bucked till only the best weren't thrown to the pillow-soft padded flooring. The line was long, with older kids, determined to stay upright, jumping back in line for rematches.
For $5 each, we could have judged the chili cook-off, and we wanted to, especially since our friend Mitch cooked the meat for the entry from Brookshire Brothers grocery store. But the cook-off was over by the time we moseyed over to that side of the venue. Unlike Houston, the cook-off must end at lunchtime instead of offering competitive vittles into the evening of the event.
We met a fellow named Jim from La Grange. He came over to thank Ronnie for his service when he spotted Ronnie's Vietnam vet service cap. Jim is three days from being mustered out of the Army after serving in Desert Storm, Iraq, and Afghanistan. He and Ronnie talked about the movie "American Sniper." We'd seen it last week, but Jim said he might have to wait to see it in video in the privacy of his home. He fought in Fallujah, and he isn't sure what emotions might come up. Ronnie nodded in understanding and said, "I was able to watch it with no problem, but that's because it wasn't my war." They discussed the differences between Vietnam and Iraq, jungle warfare versus house-to-house urban warfare, and the differences in the way they were welcomed home. They both agreed, as crazy as it got during their tours, they'd volunteer again. These two native sons are from the bloodline of the patriots who made Texas independence possible 179 years ago. They make me Texas proud.
The bands were loud, rowdy, and down home country. We sat on one of the bales of hay scattered in front of the bandstand, but many families brought camp chairs along with wool blankets or quilts to wrap around them. Good idea--wish we'd thought to do the same.
A winter blast from the north required layered clothing. Seriously insulated jackets (the kind that are worn in deer stands or duck blinds) were favored gear for both men and women. Ronnie and I don't hunt, so we bundled up in our Harley leather motorcycle jackets. My beautiful blood-red cowboy boots were new, but the ones on the other women were scuffed and weathered. They weren't wearing their boot-scootin' dancing boots in inclement weather. I'll know better next year.
The guys sported short haircuts and full beards--no skimpy soul patches for these young men. They smoked filtered cigarettes, drank Budweiser, and bought cotton candy, funnel cake, and kettle corn for their rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed children. And when the music moved them, they punched the air with their fists and danced with their women on the hard concrete.
Marsha's Petting Zoo had the little ones squealing with delight as they toddled after the llama, sheep, and goats. I thought how my younger brother would have joined in the reverie because he acts like he's 6 when he's around children. But Dallas was being pelted with snow and sleet this weekend, preventing Mark and his wife from joining us.
A mechanical bull also attracted youngsters from 3 to 12. The ride's operator wisely matched the bull's aggressiveness to each rider, so all the 3-year-olds had gentle rides while the 12-year-olds were spun and bucked till only the best weren't thrown to the pillow-soft padded flooring. The line was long, with older kids, determined to stay upright, jumping back in line for rematches.
For $5 each, we could have judged the chili cook-off, and we wanted to, especially since our friend Mitch cooked the meat for the entry from Brookshire Brothers grocery store. But the cook-off was over by the time we moseyed over to that side of the venue. Unlike Houston, the cook-off must end at lunchtime instead of offering competitive vittles into the evening of the event.
We met a fellow named Jim from La Grange. He came over to thank Ronnie for his service when he spotted Ronnie's Vietnam vet service cap. Jim is three days from being mustered out of the Army after serving in Desert Storm, Iraq, and Afghanistan. He and Ronnie talked about the movie "American Sniper." We'd seen it last week, but Jim said he might have to wait to see it in video in the privacy of his home. He fought in Fallujah, and he isn't sure what emotions might come up. Ronnie nodded in understanding and said, "I was able to watch it with no problem, but that's because it wasn't my war." They discussed the differences between Vietnam and Iraq, jungle warfare versus house-to-house urban warfare, and the differences in the way they were welcomed home. They both agreed, as crazy as it got during their tours, they'd volunteer again. These two native sons are from the bloodline of the patriots who made Texas independence possible 179 years ago. They make me Texas proud.
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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