1941 Texas Hurricane

The following is an excerpt from a previous post about the Texas hurricane which made landfall east of Matagorda Bay, Texas, in September 1941. It is from my post entitled “Military Service,” dated April 16, 2016. I believe naming hurricanes did not begin until 1953, and this unnamed hurricane was about the same pressure (942 mbar) as Hurricane Harvey (941 mbar) was when it made landfall at 10 pm CDT on August 26, 2017. The linked Wikipedia article offers a small clue of how far technology and meteorology have come since 1941.

When Daddy [James M. Towner] entered into active service [on September 11, 1941], he went directly into artillery, where he said the army was placing all engineers at the time. Before the U. S. entered the war in 1941, he was ordered to duty on his Asst. Lt. Reserve Officer commission for one year and one day active service and reported to Camp Wallace south of Houston, Texas. Daddy wrote that he remembered the hurricane along the coast in 1941 while he was stationed at Camp Wallace. As the hurricane became more severe, he was told to evacuate Pat and one-year-old daughter Patsy from Galveston Island. All residents were being evacuated. He drove their 1941 Ford into Jack Tar Courts, picked up Mother and Patsy and drove them into Houston, where Mother’s brother Fred lived. The highway from Galveston crossed a causeway about two miles long. He drove about five miles an hour in a solid line of cars along and guided by tall poles attached to the edge of the pavement. He wrote, “The water was over the edge of my running board, it was pouring down windy rain. For about a half an hour we could not see land – just barely the car ahead “

Rubbing Elbows with Tex Schramm

Football season is here, and my being a Dallasite and a Dallas Cowboys fan brings me to this anecdote:

From the early 1970s to the early 1980s, my former husband Rick was a banker. Sometime during the latter part of his banking career, he and I were on bank-sponsored day trip to a picnic/bar-b-cue being held at a ranch on a hilltop southeast of Dallas on the road to Kaufman. It was a beautiful place with a panoramic view. Our group included at least two busloads of people who were with or associated with the bank, along with a few honored guests. One of the special guests was Tex Schramm, original president and general manager of the Dallas Cowboys and host of a talk show at the time about the Cowboys and the NFL. He was on the same bus with Rick and me, and Rick did not miss this opportunity to rub elbows with him. At some point on the bus ride to our BBQ destination, I mentioned to Rick on the side that I thought “Aztec” was a odd name for someone. Rick looked at me quizzically and asked what prompted my remark. I answered, “Because his show is called the ‘Aztec Schramm Show.'” (Most people reading this probably know that the show was actually called the “Ask Tex Schramm Show.”) Rick howled with laughter, promptly turned to where Tex Schramm was seated and told him and everyone within earshot (the whole bus) what I had just said. Mr. Schramm, being a gentleman, accepted this in fun and didn’t seem offended. I’m pretty sure, however, that I turned every shade of red.

My Dog Charlie

One fall day when I was about fourteen years old, I was riding in the car with my parents on our way to Sunday dinner after church. I suddenly mentioned that I would like to have a puppy. Neither of my sisters lived at home any longer. It was just me, Mom, and Dad now, and I “needed” a puppy.

Mother commented to Daddy that I was the only one of the three daughters who had never had a puppy. We had a dog when I was younger, but I barely remember it. Daddy replied that he thought he and Mother had agreed – no more dogs. I must have made some convincing promises to take good care of it and to train it to do all kinds of tricks. Daddy wondered out loud if Mother and I had conspired against him. We talked more about it at lunch and decided to stop at the animal shelter on the way home, which I believe was on the edge of downtown Dallas.

We walked into the shelter. Cages lined the walls, and it was crowded with people. I walked directly to a cage on the far side of the room with eight puppies, opened it, and picked up the first puppy I saw when I walked in – a sweet-smelling half-Bassett/half-Beagle male. Daddy encouraged me to look at some of the others, so I put the puppy down and stood across the room watching him. Daddy noticed a young man who was also watching my puppy and told me to go pick him back up before someone else did. Decision made. We paid $15 for our precious fur ball and took Charlie to his new home.

Charlie was very smart, and I was able to house-train him very quickly. He didn’t cry much. Puppy Charlie slept in my room at night in a box beside my bed. Daddy said he and Mother couldn’t figure out why they never heard him cry at night, so one night Daddy came into my room to check on us. I was asleep on the edge of my bed with my arm hanging over the edge into Charlie’s box. Charlie was also fast asleep with his head in my hand. When he got older, he slept with Mom and Dad in their bed. I taught him to speak, whisper, shake hands with both paws, sit up, and roll over. We never quite mastered the “shhhh” command, especially at meal time, when he parked himself under the table and whispered non-stop for morsels to be handed down to him. I blame Daddy for that.

Daddy taught Charlie to fetch the newspaper every morning. Charlie was very pleased with himself, and one morning Daddy looked down onto the back patio and saw that Charlie had fetched five newspapers from nearby neighbors. Then, as we all stood and laughed about it, he came trotting around the corner with another one! We didn’t have much luck “untraining” him to fetch newspapers, so Daddy told our neighbors to let us know if they were ever missing one, and we would return it to them. There was one neighbor Charlie didn’t like, and on one occasion my brother-in-law Larry spoke to the man and figured out why. Allegedly, Charlie had gone onto their back porch and pooped in the man’s special flower box. Daddy said he was probably getting even with the man for throwing rocks at him.

There was a time when Charlie nearly killed our parakeet Mimi. We often allowed the bird out of her cage to fly freely around the house. One of these times, she had been flying for a while, and she got tired and didn’t make it to the curtain rod, a safe distance above Charlie’s head. She landed on the floor, and before anyone could blink an eye, Charlie was on her. He grabbed her into his mouth, and all I could see were green tail feathers sticking out. I screamed, chased him down, pried open his jaws, and pulled her out of his mouth. She was pencil thin and wet, but she was OK. I placed her gently back in her cage where she ruffled her feathers to dry off and soon recovered from the shock. She then perched perfectly still in her cage for a long time. Mimi liked to fly, and Charlie liked to chase things. He was just doing what came naturally.

The Towner family took frequent walks in the woods of Lower Kiest Park, which was just a block or two from our home. Charlie loved to run full speed down the woodsy path with his ears flapping in the wind. He was nearly always off-leash, even at home and on the many Towner vacations and rock hunts he went on. Our backyard was unfenced, but the only time he ventured out of the yard was to steal newspapers and once to chase away a few of my “guy-friends” when they threw pebbles at my window in the middle of the night. When Charlie got hot playing outside or after a long walk in the summertime, he often cooled off by climbing onto the concrete bird bath that Daddy made.

Charlie was my dog to begin with, and I loved him so much; but he stayed with Mom and Dad and continued his travels with them after I left home. Daddy loved to tell of Charlie’s rock hunting abilities and how Charlie once found some “Balmorhea Blue” agate on a rock hunt in west Texas. Daddy loved Charlie even more than I did, and Charlie was my parents’ constant companion until he died of old age. He was the best dog a family could have.

The Buster Browns

My childhood memories of my dad’s cousin Buster Brown and his family mostly consist  of laughter and a lot of lively boogie-woogie piano music. The Browns were a family of pianists. James H. (Buster) Brown, Sr., was my father’s cousin on his mother Petrea’s side. For simplicity’s sake, I will refer to everyone as cousins, but in reality many were  “seconds” and/or “once removeds.” Standing next to my father in the featured family image are Buster and his wife Ethel (Honey).

Unfortunately, decades passed without my seeing much of the Browns; however, after I grew up, married, and had children, the Browns invited my parents, my sisters, me, and our families to attend family reunions, which they thoughtfully held near Bonham so my parents could attend. The ones we attended were held at Tanglewood Resort at Lake Texoma in north Texas in the 1990s and early 2000s. It was fun to reunite with family I hadn’t seen in a long time and to meet some family members for the first time; and I got to hear some more of that good ol’ boogie-woogie music again. I loved seeing Daddy in his advanced years as he reminisced with family, and the sights and sounds of my nearly blind mother Pat at the piano gave me chills. I regret that I can’t put my hands on most of the photos from these events.

 

One reunion stands out in particular:  my kids spent a lot of time in the swimming pool that year, and after dark my son Chris, who was about twelve years old, jumped into the pool and slammed heads with another resort guest. Chris’ head was bleeding and needed stitches. Cousin Fran and her son Jory and daughter Peggy accompanied me and Chris to the closest emergency room in Denison. Chris and his entourage were escorted to the treatment room — a large open area with different treatment stations spaced around the room. Chris’ doctor was friendly and funny, so our family of comedians got along quite well with him. In fact, the doctor reminded us all of Robin Williams. We all (even Chris) spent the next hour or two cracking wise and laughing it up in the ER. The room of doctors and nurses were either really enjoying the display or were about to call security on us. Chris withstood the constant harassment from all sides and braced himself for stitches in his head (or what “Dr. Robin Williams” abruptly announced would be staples). When the doctor picked up the staple gun to begin, he paused, then yelled across the room that he was going to need a bigger stapler. Chris cringed…then laughed, nervously.

It was very late when we got back to the resort, but a few cousins were politely waiting up for us. Oddly, this reunion and the trip to the ER was a great way for us cousins to get to know each other. It was a remarkable evening and night.