Fugitive Memories

1 FUGITIVE MEMORIES A Student’s Progress Train up a child in the way he should go, And when he is old, he will not depart from it. --Proverbs 22:6 George T. Prigmore © MMXI 2 For Ron 3 TABLE OF CONTENTS Foreword. 5 PART I – The Early Lessons Depression . 9 The Fly Swatter & Other Lessons . 52 Coin of My Realm . 93 Pest or Pestilence. 102 A Joyful Noise . 114 That’s Entertainment . 134 Going Places . 155 Cookery . 170 The Eyes of War . 179 PART II – Some More Lessons Some Assumptions . 209 The Great Outback . 229 No Residence Halls . 238 Student Body . 252 Administration . 259 Faculty . 269 More Joyful Noise . 304 So Many Books . 318 Activities . 332 4 Athletics . 337 The Future . 342 Name Change . 346 I Blame Texas Tech . 349 Afterword . 358 5 FOREWORD There is no history, only fictions of varying degrees of plausibility. That was a theory attributed to Baron Jacobi a character in Gore Vidal’s historical novel 1876. Memories are re-creations of largely historical events which often bear the slant of plausibility. Sometimes memories are of what might have been had things been different or are the remaining specters of unrealized dreams. Many years later as I was sitting on the terrace of my friend Julia’s house near the Provençal town of Plascassier discussing her World War II days she reminded me that “memory is selective, not encyclopedic.” Some memories are nobody’s business and it should come as no surprise to learn that such ones are not memorialized in these pages. These essays are my memories, selective, detached and in no particular chronological order though some may be, and I confess to the possibility, indeed the probability, of a certain cleansing applied through the looking glass of historical perspective and the passage of time. Some things that happen in life are completely forgotten and those things will have the effect of shortening this book. Some memories thrive for having lain fallow for so many years. Others take their proper places in the mix of producing a life. “Maybe that wasn’t the way it was, but they’re my memories and I’ll remember them the way I want to.” This was attributed to Jeannie Seely, supposedly a performer of some sort at the Grand 6 Ole Opry. Who am I to argue! These memories of mine are presented the way “I want to.” It is one of the compensations of old age, and a very enjoyable one at that, to remember what I want to and how, just as Agatha Christi observed about her autobiography: “I have remembered, I suppose, what I wanted to remember.” I would like to have a little chat with whoever decreed that books must have Forewords, sometimes called Prefaces. Having read a great many of them in my life, usually after I have read the entire book, I have come to determine that most Forewords have either of two purposes. The first is to provide the reader with a summary of the contents of the book. In this case, having read the Foreword the reader has no need of reading the book and he can go about impressing others with the presumption that he has read it. If he is lucky, he will not encounter anyone who has actually read that particular book and challenged him on some point or other thereby exposing the fraud. The second purpose of a Foreword is to tell the reader something about the circumstances surrounding the writing of the book. The reader learns about the glass of iced tea at his elbow, the bicolor ribbon on his Underwood typewriter, the attractive house dress on his equally attractive wife, something silly one of his two equally silly kids had done that day, the itch of his wool pants or the drip of humidity from the tree moss. There is a long list of other boring nonsense he might reveal to flesh out the Foreword, none of which is interesting to the average reader or has anything to do with the contents of the book. This type of book is usually called a novel. In my estimation a good novel has no need whatsoever of a Foreword or Preface. Where the present book fits in this scheme of things, if it does, I leave to the reader to decide, but I must point out that I do not have 7 an Underwood typewriter (It’s an IBM Selectric II, quite old, but not as old as I.), an attractive wife or two silly offspring. I do, however, enjoy a good glass of iced tea without sugar. I must confess that as I write this I do have a small bowl of toasted pecans nearby to munch on while waiting for memory to prompt the fingers into action on the keyboard. Doesn’t this prove my point? Having said that and having discharged my obligation of providing that unnecessary feature of a book called a “Foreword,” please read on as I indulge myself in the pleasures of memory. I leave the reader to it in the hopes that will be found a mite of history, a bit of understanding of what it was like for a little boy growing up during the two contiguous worst times in this country’s past – the Great Depression and World War II plus a few post-war recovery years -- and a few scattered moments of amusement. If these things are found, or any of them, I shall have fulfilled my obligation. If not, as the French would say: Eh, bien . tant pis!* G.T.P. * Oh, well . never mind! 8 PART I THE EARLY LESSONS 9 DEPRESSION It was not my fault. I will swear to this on that proverbial stack of whatever books you choose to thrust at me. I’m talking about the Great Depression. I will admit to being responsible for the daily white banners, not star-spangled ones, drying on the clothes line in the back yard. I had been born before the invention of disposable diapers. Yes, I had been born before the Great Depression got underway, but only by eleven months. Of course I was much too young to understand what had happened, or why, on that October day in 1929 when the Stock Market crashed precipitating a decade and more of misery for a great number of people in this country and around the world. Actually, I paid it no attention, preferring to poop my way toward my first birthday, meaning no commentary on the then current situation but just obeying nature’s demands. I went along for the ride, such as it was. If I began riding it out in a baby carriage, buggy or pram, I have conveniently forgotten the mode of transportation, just as I have tried to forget the humiliation of being photographed in my christening “dress” at age 5 months 11 days. Actually, the humiliation thing came about much later when I was much older and able to formulate assessments, though I was told that all babies of both genders were put in special “dresses” for christening purposes. At the time I was less than half way to my first birthday and had no sense of the distinction between the masculine and feminine haute couture, and I was never consulted on the choice of raiment for this event that I also didn’t understand. And you will be glad to learn that this was the last time I wore a dress. Since infant mortality was still a concern, my grandparents having 10 lost three infants, Mother waited to see if I would live before investing in that special christening garb. Thankfully that “dress” has disappeared, having been worn only once, I presume, or maybe twice if the photograph were not taken on the same day as the actual christening; but the photograph survives and I believe the expression on my face says all of what I must have felt at the time, something like “What the hell’s going on here?” Or maybe “I’ll get you for this!” Fill in your own caption. The author aged 5 months, 11 days. As I aged, I learned from the older members of my family that the Great Depression was the fault of something called Hoover. Hoover was not what I was being called, so I must have thankfully concluded that I was not responsible. Needless to say I arrived at this 11 conclusion after I had decoded some of the sounds around me by which communication was effected among the upright and walking other primates in my vicinity. But, I had a problem with the explanation as I understood it that Hoover was responsible. You see, periodically my Mother or Grandmother would take out of a closet a big, very noisy contraption that they would push about the house, presuming to clean the floor. That machine was ”Boss” Hoover’s vacuum cleaner and I was at a loss to comprehend how that ugly monster, called a Hoover, could possibly cause the economic disaster that was upon us; if it did, then wouldn’t it have been the thing to do to get rid of that ugly machine and return to prosperity? But, it seems it did . and that was that! Some things just have to be accepted at face value or, like religion, on myth, superstition and faith. There was a lot I didn’t understand. I don’t remember when I sorted out the fact that the president of our country was one thing and the manufacturer of vacuum cleaners was something entirely different and the two were not compatible or even related.

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