Canvassing local art. Really local art.

One of my oldest friends has a picture he won in a raffle a few years ago. It hangs in the back of his family business where few get to see it, but I've always liked it. I make a point to go look at it when I visit. To the untrained eye (or the unfamiliar), its nothing special. Just a two lane road that runs underneath a canopy of trees. Other than the leaves and branches that hang over the path, the yellow stripes in the middle are about the only features that stand out. It's a large photograph in a nice sturdy frame and anybody would be proud to hang it on the wall.

One time I helped him move and the back seat of my old truck was where we transported this picture, along with all his other pieces of artwork. Other than the paintings and drawings of ducks, duck hunting, and retriever dogs; I noticed most of his collection was made of artwork crafted by people from our hometown. People from our past. Our childhood. Talented storytellers. Some of whom died long ago. But their work is still on canvass or picture paper for us to look at.

The picture of that narrow road was taken prior to 1995. The highway department cut those trees down and put in a new road and bridges where US 259 cuts across the Sulphur River on the way to Omaha. As a kid, it was often the spooky part of any trip south. Any time we were coming home from some place or another, you always knew you were 16 miles from home went you passed through the tunnel of trees around the Sulphur. It was shady all day on that road back then. The only break in the canopy was when you crossed those narrow old rickety bridges over the river and the flood relief slough.

The picture on the wall doesn't capture that essence, but it brings those memories. It probably brings about similar memories for anybody who stopped long enough to look at it.

That friend of mine is one of several back home who collects local art. My parents are local collectors too. My Daddy has a copy of an old railroad map from a hundred plus years ago hanging on the wall in his room. I love maps so I naturally gaze at it when I get the chance. That map shows the old Texas & Pacific rail line as it spanned north and east Texas. Towns that aren't even around anymore are dots on this extra long drawing.

My Mother has dozens of paintings. Some of them have been hanging around since before I was born. There are a few from Mrs. Lollie Moser. Over on another wall is one painted by Pam Prather. My aunts Betty Sue painted a while. Mama has some of her work.

Erma Shumake painted one of the old Shumake house near New Hope. My Great-Grandfather Ed Shumake was raise in that house along with his brothers and sisters. His brother Uncle Penn Shumake raised a large family of his own there. My cousin Shirley still lives there today.

The hometown isn't known to the outside world as an arts oriented place like Salado or Marfa but its people have produced treasures any serious collector ought to be interested in.

They came to play dominoes...

As a child/grandchild of downtown De Kalb merchants, it wasn't long before I got bored hanging around the flower shop as a kid. My grandparents were florists for decades and I loved to spend time in their shop. But it doesn't take much for a boy my size to get restless.

I often wandered to other businesses to see what was going on. There was L.B. Barrett's grocery store. There was D&C Dept. store. The De Kalb News. King's cleaners (and later pawn shop). I remember Perry Don, Lamar, and Smitty at Hawkins Appliance. Pete Evans over at the shoe shop. Don Hodges at the Austin Hotel & State Farm Insurance agency. My classmate John Telford often spent his afternoons at his family business, Telford Gas & Furniture. Robb Bates was around my age. He was based out of his family business, Bates-Rolf Funeral Home. We were always running around the alley or the sidewalk looking for adventure.

Then there was the pool hall. Some called it the domino parlor. The official name (or close to it) was the John H. Moore post of the American Legion. For several years, I was NOT to go into the pool hall. It was just down and across the street from the flower shop.

For a good while, years maybe, I obeyed the directions of those who looked after me. I always wondered why not go in there? I'd seen mail addressed to my grandfather from the American Legion. It turns out, the order to stay out had nothing to do with the organization. It had nothing to do with the men who frequented the place. It had everything to do with a curious kid, who was known to ask a lot of questions. Children are meant to be seen and not heard. In this case, it was probably best they not even be seen either.

I never got a straight answer, but thinking about it years later I think I might know why Grandma didn't want me to go inside. It was the group of men who gathered there. They came for a purpose. There was the recreation and enjoyment of the company of other men with similar backgrounds. The last thing they needed was me hanging around and bothering them.

But I got older. I'd forgotten the fact the American Legion post was off-limits. I went in. Nobody seemed to mind. If they did, they never said anything to me. It didn't take long to recognize the men there. I knew them from church, or the corner store where they drank coffee and swapped stories. Some I knew from their part-time jobs as school bus drivers. They came from all walks of life. They shared a bond more common than being from the same town. They'd served in the military. Many of them served in war time. There were even a few who carried the scars from battle wounds. One or two walked with canes or crutches and not because of old age. A few of them were amputees.

And despite my gumption for asking questions. I knew better than to ask about those wounds. I also knew better than to stare. "Don't stare," was a big rule as a kid. It was right up there with, "Don't step on the graves," which were standard instructions anytime we went to the cemetery.

The most I think I ever asked about their pasts was, "When did you serve?"

One old man quipped back almost immediately, "Spanish-American War!" and laughed until he couldn't laugh anymore. Then his laughter turned into a coughing fit. Once he was done with the coughing fit, he kept laughing at his inside joke. It was probably because at my age, I had no idea he was kidding. I had no idea the Spanish-American War was before his time.

That was Mr. Provins. He used to live at the town's boarding house and drove an old riding lawn mower the 2 blocks to the American Legion. Eventually, Mr. Provins traded in the old mower for one of those scooters that are now common among the elderly who can't get around. He was one of those at the domino tables just about every afternoon. He was full of stories about his actual time in the service, but he rarely shared them. He was more inclined to talk about making birdhouses out of plywood or how the evening meal was at the boarding house. Or how some buddy of his was good at the game of 42.

Mr. Provins' favorite subject was his family in Traverse City, Michigan. He talked just about every day about going back to Traverse City. One day he asked me if I'd be kind enough to look into how to buy a train ticket. He said he could get a ride from the VA to the depot in Texarkana. All he needed to know was how much it costs to ride the train to Traverse City. That was a tall order for a boy my age. Of course I couldn't imagine riding on a train that far away, but it was all he could think about.

Eventually, Mr. Provins found his way to Traverse City. If he ever came back to
De Kalb, I don't know. The tornado in '99 destroyed the American Legion hall. The men who show up there eventually found somewhere else to go in the afternoons. The boarding house is gone too.

Every year, people remember the servicemen and women and veterans who give to their country. I remember them too but I fondly recall those who found a common bond around a domino table. I remember those men who didn't want the recognition a veteran deserves. I remember the plastic pans full of sawdust on the floor where the men spat tobacco. I remember the smell of the wood burning stove. I remember the stories- the few that were told within earshot. I remember how the World War II veterans liked the game of 42 while the Korea and Vietnam veterans mostly seemed to prefer the snooker pool table.

I remember the plaques on the wall for American Legion accomplishments. I remember the picture of John Hartwell Moore. He was the post's namesake, a
De Kalb native and casualty of World War I. I remember a lot about home. But I remember them. I remember them all.

Mr. Haldeman goes to Washington

Almost a year ago, I took a trip to Washington, D.C. on some business for the television station and I still think about that trip. It was the second time I'd been, but I barely remember the first since I was on a 6th grade field trip.

I remember how easy it was to get around. While the landmarks and culture of that city are obviously different from home. I enjoyed taking note of the very subtle differences. I like how virtually veryone in that town walks wherever they go. We weren't there very long, so once we all got used to getting around and not getting lost- it was time for us to go home.

Have you ever taken a trip that you think about off and on long after you've returned home?

He landed a helicopter in Cash's yard...

and gave him a song.

Kris was a helicopter pilot. He flew in Vietnam. He came back to the states and chased after a dream of making music. He even moved to Nashville where he had the glorious job of sweeping up the floors at a then-well known publication called "The Music City News."

The janitor who worked at the country music trade publication played music when it could, saved a dollar or two here and there, and rented a helicopter.

The way I heard the story, Kris wrote a song with Johnny Cash in mind. But he was a nobody. He was less than a nobody. He wasn't anybody John R. Cash's people would've let in their office door. So how to get the song to the man in black? The answer? Deliver it personally.

I read Cash's biography several years ago. They went on to make a movie based on that book. Maybe you saw "I walk the line."

The part about the janitor in the helicopter didn't make it into the movie, but it still makes for an epic story.

Kris landed the helicopter in Cash's yard at his place on Hickory Lake outside of Nashville. Got out of the chopper and greeted the puzzled singer with a gentleman's introduction, a handshake, and handed him a reel-to-reel with his version of "Sunday Morning Coming Down."

The rest they say...

is history.

Why I thought to tell the story, I don't know. I thought about Kris and his life's adventures after seeing a link of his one-time girlfriend, Janis Joplin. She was performing his song "Me and Bobby McGee" which is probably the only one of a handful of songs that I know every word.

They're gonna tase you, bro.

Hello from the moderately cluttered desk of a news director. So far today, we've had a brief meeting with one of the technical engineers about the names of 2 computers in our Ardmore newsroom.

When you log in to Computer 4, you have to use the name "Computer 5." When you log in to Computer 5, you're supposed to enter the name "Computer 6." The technician is a nice older gent who explained he was only doing what he was told. I couldn't help but smile. Maybe that wasn't the correct reaction, but it was the most peaceful one I could think of. As of this writing, the problem still exists.

After this productive conference, I spoke with a gentleman who wanted to know how much we charged to come out and cover an event as a news story. Sorry, Sir. We don't do that. Even though I'd love to have the extra money.

After going through the emails and hyperlinks and whatnot... I ran across a story about an overzealous fan at a baseball game. This teen jumped the fence and ran across the field during the game because he was bored. The security detail not only chased him, but they TASED him. I thought Tasers were only for people who were a threat to others. I guess these powerful shock devices are being used out of convenience now.




Now I'm gearing up for city and school board elections. They're coming up this Saturday. We have a long way to go before we're ready to dish out the latest race data from place like Honey Grove, Muenster, and Sivells Bend. Then there are no less than a dozen people running for the city council over in Bells. Only 3 or 4 of them will win. Good luck!

Connecting with the home crowd

The other day I was driving to work and thinking about all the items on my to-do list. I have several of them. One of those lists is specifically for work items. It lives on a legal pad and constantly fills a page and a half. Some days are successful and I mark off an item or two. Other days aren't so successful (at least when you measure it by the to-do list.) My personal to-do list isn't kept on any piece of paper or in any notebook. If it did, it would probably drive me crazy.

On this short trip from the house, my mind wandered from the list to people who live around here. People I know, but not really. The difference is, I haven't met them even though I know them. Maybe it's better to say they know me. OK, I feel like I know them.

Paula Booth is the court clerk in my hometown. I know her well because my mother happens to be the judge. Together they work to keep the law in the town (while the police officers keep the order I guess?). Her mom & dad live here. Paula grew up in the Sherman area.

Marsha Telford's brother is a professor at Southeastern Oklahoma State across the river in Durant. Mrs. Marsha taught me and a few thousand others Sr. English. I learned about Chaucer and Shakespeare and a few others that stick with me.

Then there are Steve McMichael's in-laws. I believe they live over in Pottsboro. That's a stone's throw from Lake Texoma. I hear about them from time to time through facebook.

And then there are the Lenoir sisters.

"Oh, have you run into the Lenior sisters?"

That's the question I'm probably asked most often when I go home and mention my current city of residence. Regrettably, I have to say no, I have not run across the Lenoir sisters. But they must be quite a pair. I've been asked about them no less than a dozen times in the last 4 years from various town folk in De Kalb. Apparently, they've lived in this part of the country for quite some time. But their years in North Texas hasn't diminished their stature in West Bowie County. They may not know it, but if they did I would hope they'd find that something to be proud of. I know I would.

One time during a short visit to my house to see great-grandchildren, my own grandmother and a few other family members were sitting around the dining room table and the Lenoir sisters came up in conversation. Grandma Suck (pronounced like sook) even pulled out a Sherman-Denison telephone book and looked them up. We never called them though because it was late in the evening. We were afraid we might disturb them I suppose.

Then there's Mr. Arnold. I can't remember Mr. Arnold's last name. He approached me at one of those television station meet & greet events to say hello. We made small talk and I learned he retired years ago from the Comptroller's office. Even though the Comptroller of Public Accounts of the State of Texas has many employees, I figured why not ask if he knew my Uncle Henry Tidwell. Well, of course he did. He and Uncle Henry worked together many years in the Longview area.

And there's the nice couple who come to the Proctor family reunions over at the FBC De Kalb Family Life Center every year. I've seen them around here too. They told me last week they may not make it to this year's reunion because they're taking their grandson to New Mexico on vacation. Maybe next year. (Side note- my great-grandmother was a Proctor. Her father, Papa Ben Proctor's descendants number in the hundreds and they're spread across the globe while many of them still keep a De Kalb or Simms address.)

And maybe I'll run into the Lenoir sisters one of these days. Maybe before next time I'm asked about them when I go home. This has turned out to be a to-do list I don't mind having.

The joy of books

I'm hearing more comments about the decline of paper lately. I don't mean to say paper is going away, but fewer people are using it for what used to be common uses. Take the mail for example. When was the last time you wrote a handwritten letter to someone just to say hello?

I can't remember either.

More places are accepting your monthly bill online. I never carry cash anymore. I usually swipe a debit card. The only paper I usually see is the thin slip of thermal paper they give you when you've paid for something.

The other day, I picked up an old book I've been meaning to read. I first read it in high school and I forgot how the plot played out. I wanted to revisit it. I believe my mother gave me a used copy a while back, so I picked it up and started to follow along.

The story was better than I remembered. The book itself was a good one to hold. It even woke me up a few times as I dropped it on my face when i dozed off late at night.

Red hard back. The pages browned with age due to the acid in the pages. It smelled old. The story may be old too, but the mental images it brought me were as fresh as any movie.

With the rapid technological revolution upon us, I wonder how many more years it will be before we're done with paper books and bills and other items altogether.

It wasn't that long ago "record" stores began selling 8-track tapes. Then there were cassettes. Then along came CD's. But those mp3 files and web applications like i-tunes took hold. One day I looked up and the only 'record' sections I could find were at Wal-Mart or Hastings bookstores.