The Adventures of Smokey The Crow

This story takes place when I was a little bit too young to develop any memories, so many thanks to my brother Gene for writing this for me.  Here are Gene's recollections along with some parenthetical comments from me:

When we were growing up our Dad worked for the telephone company. He also did electrical and refrigeration repairs on the side. Sometimes he would get real pay for these side jobs, but more often he would get other items instead of pay. He even brought home a 1930 Model A Ford one day.



I remember the day he brought home Smokey the Crow. We were mesmerized; Smokey could actually talk! He had taken the crow as payment for some repair he did for Blue Minor from Boles, Arkansas. He explained to us that some people said you had to split the crow’s tongue so they could talk, but Smokey disproved that because his tongue was not split.

For growing crows

He had a wire cage about 4 foot square made out of the same black sticks we got from the furniture factory to stake tomatoes and beans. They were nailed together and covered with chicken wire. We kept Smokey in that cage and Dad kept his wings clipped so he would not fly away when we got him out to feed him. Feeding him was an interesting job. We would mix him some “Pablum” baby cereal and separate a clothes pin to dip it out for him. We had to hold on to the clothes pin as hard as we could because Smokey would swallow it too if he got it away from us. I guess he really liked that cereal because he would make a “yum-yum” sound while eating.


We learned very soon that Smokey was very accurate when he had to go to the bathroom. We had to be sure not to get too close to the cage after he had eaten, if you know what I mean. For this reason we eventually let his wings grow out and got rid of the cage. There was a very large Elm tree by the driveway, and it soon became Smokey’s favorite roost. He would sit up there and exclaim “Hello” to anyone who passed by. Our Grandmother (Me-Maw) worked as a cook at Bill and Jo Cope’s Café. She would walk past the house on the way to work and return in the afternoon after work. Smokey took to greeting her with “Hello” in the morning and he would then escort her to work and go get her in the afternoon. I never could figure out where he wore his watch. (Mama used to tell about a day when Memaw was sick and didn't go to work.  Smokey became concerned, and went down to check on her.  He lit on her screen door and scratched until she came to the door!)

One of Smokey's relatives

Smokey was a very enjoyable pet to grow up with but he sometimes got himself into trouble. Our neighbor, Sophia Floyd would hang her laundry on her clothes line behind her house. I suppose Smokey liked the different colors, so he would land on the clothes line and look at the bright colors. Refer back to my earlier mention of Smokey’s accuracy and you can imagine the trouble he brought onto himself. Due to this we had to get rid of Smokey so I have to believe that Dad took him out to a large group of crows and introduced him to the group where he lived out a very long and fruitful life. I always say “Hello” to any crow I see, in case it might be one of Smokey’s grand kids.

(My brother Gary recalls an incident in which Smokey went missing one day.  After searching the neighborhood, it was discovered that a local hooligan who shall remain nameless had hit Smokey with a rock, breaking his leg and causing him to fall out of his tree.  The hooligan then took Smokey to his house.  When this was discovered, Daddy went to get Smokey and gave the hooligan a quarter for feeding him.  I remember this incident as well, but other family members think it may have happened with a different crow.  In any case, the broken leg eventually fell off and we had a one-legged crow.)

I'll bet that we probably weren't the only family in Waldron that had a pet crow!

Runaway!

The 1967 Ford Custom 500 that would eventually
become my car, pictured a few years before it tried
to do away with me.

It was a weird mixture of embarrassment and fear, that moment as I hurtled down Highway 71, behind the wheel of a car that seemed to have taken on a life of it's own, completely impervious to my commands.  My main concern was to keep from killing anyone who had the misfortune of being ahead of me that day.  I was going to have to figure out some way to bring this little drama to a close, but for the life of me I couldn't think of how.  All I could think of, oddly, were the words of that great cartoon character George Jetson, "Jane!  Stop this crazy thing!"  But I'll get back to that.

It happened at the conclusion of one of the happiest and most joyful periods of my life.  I had just graduated from Arkansas Tech University, and was moving back home to begin my post-college life.  Later that summer, I would be hired by the school district I had grown up in, Waldron, to teach fifth grade.  I would also buy a new car, a new 1978 Mercury Monarch, to replace the vile little machine that had tried to kill me. 

The little ghetto apartment I rented while I did my practice
teaching with Fort Smith schools.

I had spent the past 10 weeks doing my practice teaching, which is now called internship, at Morrison Elementary School in Fort Smith.  Those ten weeks confirmed that I had chosen a profession that I loved, a profession in which I would in fact spend the next 29 years looking forward to going to work each day.  Morrison was a small school in the northern part of Fort Smith, near the Arkansas River.  It was built as an "open classroom" school, meaning there were no walls separating the individual classrooms.  It was a little difficult for me at first, because I felt like I was on display to everyone in the building, but I soon adjusted to the concept.  There was only one class for each grade, and my class was Doris Collins' fifth grade.  Mrs. Collins was an older teacher, a gifted artist in fact, who could whip up a bulletin board for any topic just by painting it.  She was great, and gave me so much encouragement, once even telling me that I was a naturally born teacher.  I learned a lot from her, and she made my practice teaching experience a really wonderful time.  The kids were great too.  Many of them were from the local housing project located near the school, and I really bonded with them.  When I left after ten weeks, they put on a little skit, and one of the boys had a fake moustache and played the part of me.  I was so touched by it that I almost teared up.  I kept several little mementos from that time, including a note from a little girl who was participating in a contest from World Book.  The representative had visited our class, and the students were to prepare a little notebook full of coloring sheets to be turned in when he came back.  He made it clear that neatness was one of the main criterion for judging the book.  A little girl named Teri was going to be gone when he came back, but she entrusted me to turn in her notebook for her.  To make sure I didn't forget to turn it in, she left me this straightforward and to-the-point note:

I had arranged to rent a room from an old lady who had a beauty shop over by Sparks Hospital.  I moved in on a snowy February day, and my humble surroundings were like a palace to me.  I was so glad to leave behind forever my dorm, Paine Hall, at Arkansas Tech.  This little apartment had a little kitchen, a bigger room that was the living room and bedroom combined, and a tiny little bathroom.  But that little place was dear to me.  Usually, when I went home from college on weekends, I was in no hurry to get back.  But now, when I went home, I found myself eager to get back to my little ghetto apartment.  I was sad to leave it behind.  But on that weekend, I had traveled back to Russellville to go through graduation, then headed back one last time to my apartment to load up, and having done so, headed down Highway 71 to Waldron.  Along the way, my little Ford Custom 500 had one last surprise in store for me. 

I was south of Mansfield, in one of the rare straight stretches on that portion of the highway, when I saw the opportunity to pass a slow-moving car in front of me.  I eased around the car, stepping on the gas to speed up to complete the maneuver.  Once around the car, I pulled back into my lane and took my foot off the accelerator.  To my surprise, the gas pedal stayed where it was, and my car continued on at the same speed it was traveling when I passed that car! 

Now let me say, in the calmness after the fact, it occurred to me that the thing to do would have been to put the car in neutral and coast to a stop.  This solution, in all it's elegant simplicity, was nowhere present in the moments of the actual crisis.  Realizing that my car was going way too fast for the narrow curves that mark that part of Highway 71, all I could think of to do alternately stomp the brake pedal and the gas.  I briefly considered turning the key off, but I realized that to do that would disable my power steering and brake, and I knew that would be disastrous.

The immediate problem, as I careened crazily down Highway 71, was the traffic in front of me.  Since I appeared to be unable to shut down my demonic car, I though I should at least try to warn all the unfortunate people who were about to be slammed into.  So, as I came upon a little family driving leisurely down the highway, I tried to make my presence known. 

Imagine, for instance, a man driving his wife and kids somewhere, who, upon hearing a distant horn honking, happens to glance into his rear view mirror.  He sees a blue car moving alarmingly fast toward him, with a crazed driver who is alternately honking his horn and waving frantically for him to move over.  He wisely does so, and watches as the crazed lunatic zips past him and hurtles on down the road.  This little scenario is repeated several times.

Finally, I realized that if I didn't find a way to stop, this might not end well.  So, I decided that I was going to apply the brake, and even if it burned up both the engine and the brake pads, I was stopping this sucker. 

And I did.  I put on my brakes, and with the engine racing, eased over to the shoulder of the road and shut down the engine.  And I just sat there.  My heart was racing at the same level my engine had been, and all I wanted to do was not move for a minute.  And then, all those cars that I had passed came along.  Without exception, each driver and passenger stared at me like I was from the moon.  Nobody stopped to help, they just slowly passed by, evidently thankful that I was no longer on the road.

After a few minutes, I started the engine.  Everything seemed normal.  Just to be safe, however, I traveled the remaining few miles of my journey at a maximum speed of 30 m.p.h. 

When I got home, I got a can of spray carburetor cleaner and sprayed the linkage, which appeared to have a little bit of sticky gunk on it.  That did the trick, and my little Ford never had a sticky accelerator again. 

My mom drove that car for a long time after that.  But I was happy when I got my new Mercury later that summer.  It turned out to be a piece of junk, but at least it never tried to kill me.

The Whole School Goes To Lake Hinkle

Senator John L. McClellan signs autographs for a group
of Waldron school children.  Can anyone identify the
boys in this picture?

It was, by any description, a momentous event.  A flood-control dam had been constructed on Jones Creek west of Waldron, and a new lake would fill the valley, providing the residents of Western Arkansas and Eastern Oklahoma with a fantastic new recreational resource.  A new campground, a new swimming area, and almost a thousand acres of great fishing.  The date was October 15, 1971.

I was in tenth grade that year, and there was much excitement when it was announced that the entire school would be bused to the dam 12 miles west of town, where we would spend the day viewing the new soon-to-be-filled lake.  We would also listen to some speeches, a not-too-exciting prospect to most school kids, but the prevailing sentiment was that a day outside listening to speeches was still preferable to a day inside listening to teachers.  So, in what was actually my very first time to ride a school bus (I was a town kid, you know, and in those days, town kids got to school on their own!), we loaded up about mid-morning and headed out in a slight misty rain to Lake Hinkle.

The lake was named for Mr. Byron S. Hinkle, who was a Scott County legend.  He had served as county agent for many years, providing tremendous assistance to local families who were making their living by farming.  Later, he was elected to represent Scott County in the state legislature.  In honor of his contributions to Scott County, he was being recognized with the naming of the new lake. 

The big draw on that October day was the presence of one of our United States senators from Arkansas, John L. McClellan.  Senator McClellan was a part of the incredibly powerful trio of men who represented Arkansas in the late 1960s and early 1970s.  In addition to Senator McClellan, the state's "Junior" senator was none other than J. William Fullbright.  Both of our senators served as chairmen of powerful Senate committees, and carried considerable weight on a national level.  In the House of Representatives, central Arkansas was represented by Wilbur Mills, who, as chairman of the powerful Ways and Means Committee, essentially controlled the purse strings for most federal funding.  Representative Mills was often referred to as the second-most powerful man in Washington, after only the President.  Unfortunately, one night as Wilbur's limousine cruised around Washington, there was a little problem that resulted in a local stripper named Fannie Foxx jumping from the moving car and ending up in Washington's Tidal Basin.  Fannie spilled the beans on her relationship with Wilbur, which soon brought an end to Wilbur's political career and Arkansas' power in Washington.  But, I digress.

Edward P. Cliff (right), introducing the world to Woodsy
Owl, exactly one month before his (Edward's, not Woodsy's)
visit to Scott County.

Another visiting dignitary was Mr. Edward P. Cliff, who at that time was Chief of the National Forest Service.  Scott County, about 75% of which is covered by the Ouachita National Forrest (for nonlocals who may be reading, that's pronounced "Wash-ah-taw").  Mr. Cliff was not a politician, but a man who had started out as a forest ranger and worked his way up in the organization, becoming Chief in 1962.  He surely felt at home in the beautiful hills of the Ouachitas.

And a beautiful spot it was.  Jones Creek wound it's way through some of the prettiest scenery you could find anywhere.  Although the location was only 12 miles from Waldron, the road to the lake was extremely rough, having been cut through some very difficult mountainous terrain.  The rough dirt road was improved about 15 years ago to a nice paved highway, but for most of it's earliest existence, Lake Hinkle was not an easy place to reach. 

A picture of the construction of Lake Hinkle, from Wanda
Gray's Images of America Scott County Arkansas.

That day, the ceremony was held at the newly constructed dam.  Hay had been spread generously over the bare dirt.  I believe that there were large grills going most of the morning, preparing hamburgers for the hungry crowd.  Most of Waldron's leading citizens were there, as well as quite a few of the local residents. 

Sadly, I have no recollection of hearing Senator McClellan speak.  Mr. Cliff also spoke.  For the serious researcher, transcripts of their comments have been preserved in university archives.  I, in a slightly erroneous view of what was actually important, was fascinated by the presence of a news crew from KATV, the ABC affiliate in the far-away town of Little Rock.  That was actually back in my days of wanting to become a journalist, so I was intent on watching how the news professionals were covering the visit of our Senator.  In fact, I had my camera with me, and the only picture that I seem to have of the event is this picture of the Channel 7 news guy filming the speeches.  The Senator and the Forest Service Chief are just out of the shot.

Well, the festivities ended in time for us to load up and go back to school that afternoon.  As local residents can attest, Lake Hinkle proved to be a wonderful addition to Scott County.  At one time, a successful catfish farming operation was conducted near the dam, and after a storm that might cause some of the catfish cages to break open, it was not unusual to find fisherman standing shoulder to shoulder reeling in giant, corn-fed catfish.  Camping and swimming are still popular at the Little Pines Recreation Area, and people come from miles around to fish. 

I'm sure that the forgotten comments of the dignitaries who spoke that day alluded to these benefits.  I, myself, on July 16, 1998 caught 56 fish in the tailwaters of Lake Hinkle, where it empties back into Jones Creek.  So what if most of them were just a little bigger than my finger.  It's not just people that grow up in Waldron.

W.L. Tuck Beats The Rap

We're hopping into the Wayback Machine on this one...all the way back to 1876, when Waldron was a town of dirt streets and oxcarts.  I just happened to be perusing opinions from the Arkansas Supreme Court; I have absolutely no idea why, and came across this one.

On January 26th, 1876, an affidavit was made before the mayor of Waldron, charging that W.L. Tuck "did sell ardent and vinous liquors inside the corporation of Waldron, without first having obtained license, as required by an ordinance adopted by the town council of said town."

W.L. Tuck, undoubtedly feeling somewhat taken aback, denied the charge, but the unnamed mayor overruled young Mr. Tuck.  With this turn of events, Mr. Tuck, feeling more and more put upon, declined to answer any more of the mayor's questions.  Mr. Mayor, by this point no doubt equally puffed up, levied a fine of $25 on Mr. W. L. Tuck.

Well, it seems that W. L., nobody's fool, appealed to the Circuit Court.  A jury trial ensued, during which W. L. pled "Not Guilty."  But much to his dismay, the jury disagreed and found our young hero "Guilty," and the court fined W. L. again the sum of $25.

In order to convince the Court that they were, in fact, messing with the wrong chump, young W. L. moved for a new trial.  The Court overruled.  This did not sit well with W. L., and so he appealed to the Arkansas Supreme Court. 

"That," he undoubtedly said to someone, "will show them."

The Town of Waldron was able to establish at trial that on January 26th, 1876, W. L. Tuck did sell to A.J. Patrick, within the incorporated town of Waldron, one half-gallon of whiskey.  They also introduced the statute, which stated that anyone selling "ardent or vinous liquors" inside the city limits without getting a license first would be fined "a sum not exceeding $25."  The ordinance had been passed on January 5th, 1876, just three weeks before the dastardly act was committed. 

Our young Mr. Tuck was able to establish that a firm, of which he was a member, did in fact obtain a license to carry on the business of selling wines and liquors from the City of Waldron, as well as from the state, for the period of one year.  The license went into effect on August 25th, 1875.  He also established that the town of Waldron itself was not actually incorporated until November 6th, 1875.

Well, it turns out that, under Arkansas law, the act providing for incorporation of towns gave those towns the right to regulateor prohibit "ale and porter shops or houses, and public places of habitual resort for tipling and interperance."  Mr. Tuck was not charged with keeping a tipling house; he was charged with selling ardent and vinous liquors, namely a half-gallon of whiskey.  There was actually no provision in the law that allowed towns to require persons who wished to sell wines and liquors to obtain a license.

The ruling was that the Circuit Court must be reversed, and Mr. Tuck was to be discharged from further prosecution for the offense charged against him. 

He got to keep the $25.

The Yates Family Goes Camping

Our campsite on the Fourche La Fave, just off Arkansas
Highway 28 East. 

You would not confuse any of the Yateses with The Swiss Family Robinson.  That is to say, we as a group are not noted for anything resembling a Quest for Adventure.  And so, there is actually no reasonable explanation why it was decided that we, as a family outing, would camp out on the Fourch LaFave River. 

The Fourche LaFave (pronounced locally as "fush") is a beautiful, winding river that originates in southern Scott County south of Waldron and makes its way towards central Arkansas, eventually joining the Arkansas River.  Fourche is a French word meaning fork, which the early French explorers, evidently a group lacking in creativity, assigned to the flowing body of water they had encountered as they were thrashing about wildly through the rugged underbrush of the New Land.  "Eh, look Pierre.  Zees leetle reevah seems to spleet, as though it were a fourche!"  "Ah, yes Andre; we shall call it the Fourche.  I'm sure there are no other leetle reevahs that do that," Pierre replied sarcastically.  Later on, "LaFave" was added to the name, just in case it didn't sound French enough.

Daddy, my brother Gene, and his sons Tony and Chuck,
and the Studebaker in later years.

I suppose the main reason that we went camping was due to the fact that Daddy had recently purchased a pickup.  Not a new one, but a late '50s model Studebaker, which he bought from James Hicks, who lived down the street from us.  With our flashy new pickup, the world of outdoors was now open to us.  It was simply a matter of jumping in!

So we did just that.  I don't remember whose idea it was, really.  I just remember that on a Friday afternoon, we loaded up the Studebaker with whatever supplies we had on hand, and then drove up to Sims Building Materials on Main Street to get the rest of our supplies.  Daddy went in and purchased enough camping equipment to traverse at least the first leg of the Oregon Trail in relative comfort, loaded it all in the back of the Studebaker where I was riding, and off we went.

It was me, my twin sister Janet, and Mama and Daddy.  The only family member left at home at that time was my brother Phil; he was working at the furniture factory in Waldron at that time and couldn't get off to make the trip with us.  Daddy, as regular readers know, worked for the phone company; I suppose he had come across our destination at some point when he was out working on phone lines and decided that we needed to camp there.  I don't know what must have come over him; Daddy was not an outdoorsman.  The only other previous outdoor adventure that I recall him participating in was a frog-gigging expedition a few years earlier with his friend Chee Jones and some other guys.  I don't know if any frogs were harmed during that outing, but we did have a pretty fierce-looking frog gig in our garage from then on.  But, even if he was not much of a sportsman, Daddy did have an appreciation for the beauty of the forests and mountains of Scott County, and I'm sure that's what led to the camping trip.

And what a beautiful place it is!  If you visited Scott County, Arkansas, you would not find a lot of industry or commerce.  But you would find the Ouachita (pronounced "Wash-ah-taw") National Forest, which encompasses about seventy-five percent of the land area of Scott County.  It's an outdoorsman's paradise; with abundant game for hunting and great fishing spots. 

And so, our Studebaker loaded, me in the back and Daddy, Mama, and Janet in the front, we headed down Highway 28 East toward our camping spot on the Fourche.  When Highway 28 was a gravel road, there were times when people coming in to Waldron from that direction were unable to cross the river due to high water.  But now, the highway was paved, and a bridge spanned the Fourche.  That's where we would camp; on the west bank of the Fourche, beside the bridge. 

We pulled off the highway and traveled down a short dirt road to the bank of the river.  Then, the excitement began, as we unloaded all the wonderful camping supplies.  We had air mattresses, flashlights, an ax for chopping firewood, just about anything you could need to camp.  Except a tent; we didn't have a tent, but sleeping under the stars, that's what camping is all about, right?

Daddy got a fire started and we had supper.  I think it was hot dogs, a sure-fire hit when it comes to campfire meals.  After supper, we got to fish for a while with the cane poles that we brought from home.  We didn't own any rods or reels, since we didn't get to fish very often, but fishing with a cane pole is pretty fun.  We caught a few little bream, but nothing big enough to keep.  As darkness began to fall, Mama got a little concerned about snakes, so we put up our cane poles and got ready to settle down for the night.

Mama's concern about snakes extended to the area surrounding our campsite, so it was determined that no one would be sleeping on the ground.  Daddy, in a grandiose gesture, volunteered to sleep on the soft bench seat of the Studebaker.  Mama, Janet, and I did our best to arrange our air mattresses in the now empty bed of the truck.  Thus situated, we tried to drift off to sleep. 

Along the riverbank, the word quickly spread among the mosquito population that The Buffet Was Open.  The high-pitched whine of mosquitoes is not conducive to a good night's sleep, so I quickly realized that I was in a pitched battle with the little buggars, and it was a skirmish that would likely continue all night.  My mind drifted back to the stories Mama had told me of when she was a little girl, and they lived along the Fourche, how the children would regularly come down with malaria and have to take quinine to treat it.  Then there was the spectacular chorus of the frogs, singing throughout the night.  Then an occasional howl (dog or wolf??) off in the distance, and every so often the sound of a car crossing the bridge.  I couldn't wait for morning!

Finally, the sky began to lighten, and soon a misty haze filled the air.  In other words, it was damp.  We dragged ourselves out of the back of the truck, and Daddy got another fire started.  Mama had brought her iron skillet from home, and we had eggs cooked over a campfire that morning.  They were really good.  Then, we determined that, as a group, we were pretty much ready to head back to civilization.  We loaded up the truck and, everyone back in their places, headed for home.

I can remember rounding the block and seeing our house come into view, with Phil's little red International pickup parked in the field by the back yard.  It felt good to be home!  Lucky, our dog, was happy to see us too.  I even got home in time to watch some of my Saturday morning cartoons.

I've often thought back on that little camping trip.  It's a good memory.  For whatever reason, we didn't do many things like that together as a family.  But there we were, not really knowing what we were doing, but trying our best to do something new.  And I didn't catch malaria.  Even better.

The Growing Up In Waldron Book Now Available for Nook and Kindle!!!

We now have an ebook version of Growing Up In Waldron available for those of you who use a Nook reader.  This version joins the previously announced Kindle version of the book on Amazon.  Either version is available for only $0.99, a true bargain if I do say so myself. 

Here's the link for the Nook version:

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/growing-up-in-waldron-bill-yates/1108193994?ean=2940013752979&itm=1&usri=growing+up+in+waldron


Once again, here's the link for the Kindle version:

http://www.amazon.com/Growing-Up-In-Waldron-ebook/dp/B006SQB3T2/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1326378328&sr=8-1

Thanks and enjoy!

Bill Yates, President

My wonderful tenth-grade English teacher, Mrs. Melba Owens, passed away this week.  This is a reposting of a previous blog entry that mentions her.  Melba was a kind, caring, and dedicated teacher.  We will all miss her very much.

I was not much of a joiner in high school.  I didn't participate in athletics (no confidence), I didn't participate in band (no talent), and I didn't hang out on the back porch of the high school and smoke (afraid of what my Mama would do to me).  However, there were occasional club meetings throughout the year, and during my sophomore year I found myself attending the meetings of the English Club. 

The English Club was the largest of the high school clubs.  It was sponsored by Melba Owens, who was a much beloved member of the WHS faculty.  She was kind and even-tempered, and her students thoroughly enjoyed being in her tenth grade English class.  Our main activities were a Halloween Hayride and a float for the Homecoming parade, and surely somewhere in there we must have worked to promote the proper use of the English language. 

Well, I loved to write, so English was my favorite class.  So, when selecting a club in which to belong, I easily overlooked the other options (Chess Club, Letterman's Club, Spanish Club, Future Nurses Club, and Library Club) and settled on the English Club.  I think I pretty much faded into the background during that sophomore year.  I'm sure I worked on the float and probably went on the hayride, but I don't remember it.  We held our meetings in the library/study hall, and there were so many of us that we pretty much packed the place out. 

So it was that on that last meeting of the 1971-1972 school year, when we were voting in new officers for the next school year, I heard someone speak out "Bill Yates" when nominations were taken for the office of President.  Somewhat incredulous, for I had never been particularly popular, I stepped outside into the hall while the voting transpired, and came back in to the library announced as President of the English Club, to what in my mind today is recalled as thunderous applause.

Me, in my triumphant Junior Year

This, I told myself later, will change things.  In the exalted office of President of the English Club, I will undoubtedly be seen by the girls as what might be referred to as Really Something, and my social calendar, up to that point devoid of interaction, would undoubtedly soon fill up.  I would have to await the beginning of the new school year to see any benefits, but being the upcoming President of the English Club certainly put an extra spring in my step.

The beginning of the 1972-1973 school year, my junior year, finally arrived.  I had been looking forward to being a junior for a long time.  Juniors got to sell those World's Finest chocolate candy bars, which cost fifty cents each and were twice as thick as the dinky little World's Finest chocolate bars that you get today.  Juniors also got to order their Senior Rings.  I can still vividly recall the meeting where we met with the representative from Balfour, the company that made our rings.  The guy passed around some sample rings for us to look at, and the excitement grew as we grew closer to selecting the ring we wanted.  I personally was going for the most economical ring, which was the basic gold with a blue stone.  The cost of my ring was $32.  The Balfour representative explained the reason for such an exorbitant price by telling us that the price of gold had gone up to $77 an ounce.  I saw on the news the other day that the current price of gold had passed $1,500 per ounce.  If I only knew then what I know now. 

But, I digress.  Back to the English Club.  As time for our first club meetings of the year drew closer, my anticipation increased proportionally.  I would be leading the largest club on campus.  Could I handle the responsibility?  What lasting impact would I leave on hallowed WHS?  Would I maybe get a date out of this?

On the morning of club meeting day, Mr. Davis, our principal, made an announcement about participating in clubs.  In so doing, he delivered a bombshell.  WHS, he said, was very proud to announce a new club:  The Student Arts Guild.  This club was designed for students interested in music, art, and theater.  Oh, brother.

The Student Arts Guild.  First of all, it didn't even have the word "club" in its name.  Suddenly, the English Club, Spanish Club, and all the other clubs sounded a bit archaic.  The Student Arts Guild sounded cool, and fun, and oh, so seventies.  As you might expect, on the first day of clubs, students flocked to the auditorium to sign up for the Student Arts Guild.

There was, however, a reservoir of traditionalists, and we gathered defiantly in the library for the first English Club meeting.  Actually, the turnout was pretty good, considering.  With Mrs. Owens' assistance, I led the meeting without too many stumbles, and my tenure as President of the English Club was off and running.

Melba Owens, a kind and gentle teacher

The Halloween Hayride was our first big event.  The hayride was conducted at the Fox and Wolf Hunters ground at Keener, and I remember we had a sound system set up and I had to reluctantly get up and speak into a microphone for a bit.  We then loaded onto a trailer that was connected to a tractor being driven by Melba's husband, Mondell, and had a pleasant little drive along the back roads of Keener.  Overall, a very nice evening and certainly a success.  (Mondell, by the way, once told me that we were distantly related, and so everytime he saw me he would drawl, "Hello, Cuz.") 

Problems occurred, however, with our next big event.  We were constructing our float for the homecoming parade, and we were building it in the parking lot of the old, old bus shop, just east of the gym.  Several of us were going to go work on it during our study hall, and Mrs. Owens was kind enough to tell us that we could go over to Kathy's Candy Store and get Cokes to drink while we worked.  Well, the WHS campus had been "closed" that year, and technically we weren't supposed to go off campus, but Kathy's was adjacent to school property so we didn't think it would be that big of a deal. 

Gilbert Davis.  Probably a nice man in real
life, but he wasn't going to let any of us know it.

We were mistaken.  As we happily worked on the float and sipped our Cokes, we were surprised to see a dark, ominous presence in the form of one Gilbert Davis, Principal, suddenly in our midst.  "Someone called me," Mr. Davis strongly intoned, "and told me that you were drinking Cokes up here.  You are forbidden from leaving this campus."  Mr. Davis looked around the group with cold, steely eyes.  "I had better not hear of this happening again."  With that, he left us, chagrined, to finish our Cokes and ponder the error of our ways.

Assuming the mantle of leadership, I decided that I should report to Mrs. Owens exactly what had transpired.  I went into her classroom and told her what had happened.  She never demonstrated any disapproval of her boss, but judging by her facial expression, I'm pretty sure she didn't agree with his actions.

Well, the rest of the year tooled along uneventfully.  We had occasional meetings, didn't do much, and couldn't help but feel a bit left out as we saw the multitudes flocking to the Student Arts Guild meetings.  Then, it was spring again, and another election was held, and someone else got to be President of the English Club.

As a senior, I couldn't bring myself to join the Student Arts Guild (the interlopers!).  So, I once again joined the English Club.  If nothing else, I'm consistent.  But, with everything going on that goes on during your senior year, club meetings didn't retain much space in my memory.  I suppose we had a hayride, and I suppose we made a float, and I'm pretty sure it was built without the destructive influence of Coca-Cola.

If you look at my senior picture in the 1974 yearbook, you will see a minimal listing of activities next to my name.  But, sure enough, if you look closely, you will see forever immortalized the words President, English Club.