Diaper Drama

Warning! Some material my not be suitable for pre-school children (Elementary is probably OK).

About 1957, before I got my driver’s license, I was riding my bicycle one summer day  near Wyatt’s Grocery.  A car was parked against the curb, with a boy about 2 years old inside by himself.  Apparently his mother had gone into the store.  He was wearing only diapers-no shirt, shoes, or pants.  When a shopper  walked by, the kid yelled out the window ( I remember the exact words) “Pee-pee, doo-doo, fart, turd, monkey’s ass, monkey’s ass.”  Of course this caused a startled response by those adult shoppers going into the store, which sent the kid into paroxysms of delight.  I watched him for several minutes, bemused, as he yelled the same thing at several passers by, then dissolved into delighted laughter at their response.  Some acted like they had not heard, others look startled, and a few seemed to be amused.  I thought it was great.  A few minutes later his mother came out, and they drove off.  I don’t know if she ever knew what a show her son put on in her absence. 

Fun at the Car Lot

In the late 1950’s we spent a lot of time thinking about cars.  In fact, people were identified not by name but by what they drove. Driving through the Lone Star Drive Inn Restaurant with the windows down was the 1950’s equivalent of the modern singles’s bar.  For recreation, we went shopping at car lots, even though we had no intention or capability of buying anything.  I  read about how unscrupulous dealers would run back odometers to make it appear that a vehicle had fewer miles.  They suggested that a buyer look inside the door for a forgotten lubrication sticker to confirm whether the mileage shown was accurate.  One time I was in a lot and saw a sticker that indicated the car had at least 20,000 more miles than the odometer showed.  I innocently asked the salesman about the contradiction.  He replied “Sir, I just sell ‘em.  I don’t know anything about ‘em.”  I went back a few days later and saw that the lubrication sticker had been removed.  Another time I was in another car lot, and had drawn in ink a cross on my hand between the thumb and first finger, a sign of the “Pachuco” gang.  The salesman saw the sign and thought it was real.  He said “We don’t want any trouble.  We’re just a used car lot here.”  It felt kind of neat to have the “power” that comes from having people afraid of you.  I tried to get in the Sabers auto club, part of the TCMAA (Tarrant County Modified Automobile Association).  I had a ‘57 Powerpack Chevrolet, but sadly the thing had a Powerglide (automatic) transmission.  An automatic was the kiss of death in those days.   I never knew what auto clubs did  since I only went to one meeting,  but I was told that the cops would sometimes give a break to club members if they got stopped.   

Big Words

In a writing assignment in high school English, we were supposed to write about anything we wanted as long as it was 500 words or more.  I found these assignments boring, since I knew that they were an excuse for the teacher’s not having to talk.  To amuse myself,  I decided that I was going to write a narrative that consisted of as many big words as possible.  I got out my dictionary and looked for the most obscure words I could, then tried to weave a story around those words.   Unfortunately, the words I chose forced me to take the narrative in directions that I neither wanted nor knew how to manage.  As a result, the essay bounced from point to point like an unguided ping-pong ball.   I did finish, and got a “C” on the paper.  The teacher’s only comment was “Do you know what these words mean?”  I don’t think she ever caught on to what I was doing.

Caveness

My high school English teacher, Frances Caveness, and I did not get along.  When she gave me a “C”  for one six week’s grading period when I knew I had a “B,” I confronted her and pointed out her math error.  Her response was “Well, your daily work wasn’t up to par, and that was the reason for the grade.”  I knew this was hogwash, and went to the vice-principal to file a complaint.  On the day of the conference,  Caveness and I were left alone in the vice-principal’s office for several minutes (obviously to work things out).  I remember that Caveness stared ahead the whole time without saying a word.  When the vice-principal finally did come in,  I was determined to state my case politely, so that I would not give her any ammunition.  At the end of the meeting the principal praised me for my courtesy, but said he could not do anything about the grade.  After Caveness left,  I told him that under those circumstances I had to transfer to another class.  I explained that she is probably going through menopause, but that I could not stand her emotional outbursts.  When I said “menopause” I remember he said “Well, I don’t know anything about that,” and looked uncomfortable.  He added that if I could find another teacher who would allow the switch he would approve it.  I did find another teacher, and never had any more trouble after that.  Several years later when I was home from college for the Christmas holidays,  I saw the vice-principal in a barber shop.  I said “Is Caveness still teaching there?”  He said “Yes, but she has improved a lot.”  I felt a little vindicated by that.  I had heard that subsequent generations of students had made complaints about her.

Hydrogen Sulfide

One day before class started in English  in high school,  Terry  Gibbons came in with a vial of hydrogen sulfide and put some of it on the window sill.  The rotten egg smell was overpowering.  When the teacher came in, she accused me (we did not get along).  I denied guilt, but would not tell who did it.  She called the principal, who called me outside.  I would not tell him what I knew either. He told me that whenever he gets in a confrontation with a student  he “always wins.”  I said something like “fine,” and we went our separate ways.  That was the beginning of the end of my relationship with that English teacher.  (See Caveness for more.)

Defenestration

During the final exam in my high school history class my senior year,  I noticed one student, who happened to be the teacher’s pet,  with a stack of notes under her desk.  When she got up to sharpen her pencil,  I got up for the same purpose and snatched her notes as I walked by.  At the pencil sharpener, which was next to an open window,  I pitched out all her papers.    She came back and felt under the desk, then put her head down.  The teacher, a substitute turned full-time peasant looking woman with big lips,  never knew any of this was going on under her nose.  The student suspected that I was the one who had snatched the papers, but was unable to prove it, and certainly could not mention it.  Ironically, she later went to the same university I did (Tulane).  We hardly ever spoke to each other in college.   I didn’t care, since she was just a Pi Phi, a  snooty “second-tier” sorority in my opinion.  The Kappas were generally  better looking, though probably equally snooty. I finally found a Kappa for myself, a plain but  (generally) agreeable one from rural West Texas. 

Pre-Med Wonder

In our sophomore year of college,  my roommate and I visited Dallas one weekend in the fall.  I had a blind date with an SMU student. Her sorority and a fraternity went to a party that night on the shore of what was then called Dallas Power and Light Company Lake.  During the course of the gathering at the lake,  some in our group  ran off a bunch of local high school students.  An hour or so later, the students returned with a large group of their peers, tire irons and bats, and a large fight ensued.  I was with my date off in the darkness, so I was not called upon for any heroics.  Plus I did not know these people on either side,  and felt no obligation to fight for them.  After a few minutes of yelling and swinging bats,  the high school students left in their cars, and we went to Parkland Hospital to treat one of the wounded members of our group.  I was amused by one of the SMU coeds talking to someone about the event , saying that the wounded student was cared for by one of our group, who was qualified to offer medical care since he  had “two years of pre-med.”

Party Time

In our junior year of college, my roommate and I were invited by a young lady from his home town to a formal at Mississippi Southern University in Hattiesburg.  We accepted, and in order to maintain the reputation of our city (New Orleans), proceeded to get quite drunk.  Since Mississippi was dry, we were about the only ones drinking.  During the formal, a policeman kept approaching my roommate (who was very drunk), and kept warning him to settle down.  My roommate continually referred to him as “Venus” to his face.   I thought he was going to get arrested for making reference to the guy’s beauty or something,  but was quite relieved to see the cop’s name tag said “Officer Venus.”  At the “presentation” of the court (both my roommate’s and my dates were on the court),  we had to stand in front of a fake arbor while the members of the court were introduced individually.  They were to walk through an archway, join us, then we were to walk to another area for photographs.  When my date’s name was announced,  I wiggled my finger in a “come here” gesture,  which aroused the laughter of the entire audience.  I suspect that the cause of the laughter was the fact that they knew we were drunk and that we did something to make an ordinary, formal event into something more.  Anyway,  I felt pretty good about my ability to bring down the house.  Later my roommate invited a bunch of strangers from  the formal back to our room.  We started wrestling shortly after they got there,  and began to knock over furniture and lamps.   My roommate hooked the inside of my mouth with his finger and it began to bleed.  Through the fog I heard one of the guests say “We better get out of here!”  They left without a word.  The next day we were sore all over (my mouth hurt particularly bad), but we felt good that we had represented our university and city well.  We never talked again  to the dates that evening, so I don’t know how they felt about everything.

Chivalry is not dead

In high school on a lazy afternoon in the fall, we were taking an English test in the period after lunch.  It was  hot and there was no air conditioning, so all the windows were open, and the teacher had a fan.  The room was quiet, except for the fan.  Our books were kept under our seats on a shelf.  I sat at the very back of the class, with only the late Jimmy Barcus to my side as a companion.   The young lady sitting in front of me bent down to get something from under her chair, and at that moment released what might be called a “windy.”  This was not a small event, however.   Rather than a “peep,” this was a skirt-rattling giant that, once freed from its dank dungeon,  was destined to run its full course, however long that might take.  To her credit, she immediately turned around and looked at me, as did the others in the class when they saw where she was looking.  I was suddenly on the horns of a dilemma.  Do I try to place guilt where it was due, or ignore the whole thing.?  I decided on the latter, and continued to work on the test.   After a few minutes,  it all got the best of me, and I began to chuckle.  The teacher called me up and said ” I know it’s embarrassing, but let’s don’t laugh about it.”  I don’t know from what she said whether she thought I was guilty or not.  Even Jimmy Barcus, who sat beside me, was unsure of the identity of the offending party.   I know that the young lady involved appreciated that I was willing to accept guilt, because she never asked me to return the numerous books I had borrowed from her.

Charging on the Field

In a football scrimmage against Weatherford High School in 1959,  we charged out on the field yelling, which I think was supposed to intimidate the opponents.  As we charged, the loudest yeller was Bob Lake, a muscular kid known as “Barbells.”  Unfortunately,  he stumbled as he ran out and fell flat on his face.  Since he was yelling loudest,  his fall lowered the total yelling volume dramatically.  I was the only one who laughed.  It was almost as classic a moment as the time in the 10th grade when I got into a scrimmage for the first time.  The coach put me in over the center on defense, a position I knew nothing about.  I turned around to ask someone what I was supposed to do, when the other team ran the play right over my position.  I was turned in the opposite direction, and could not get turned around, so they were pushing me down the field backwards, while all the while I was saying “Whoa, hold it” or some equivalent.  I knew my chances for gridiron greatness evaporated at that moment.  When I came off the field our normally serious and humorless coach was laughing uncontrollably, but that time I was not.