April 28, 1950 (1)

The Clyde Tornado: A Day I’ll Never Forget

April 28, 1950 is firmly etched in my memory as one of the defining moments of my early teen years, and even a defining moment of my life.  I know I thought that about the outbreak of war in Korea, but this was something totally different, and quite personal.   At times, I wake up in the night having dreamed about a threatening tornado.

To set the scene for my story, let me go back to the day before.  Jeff and Alene Giffin lived in the house where we had lived upon our first arrival in Clyde in 1941.   They had three boys, whom I sometimes spent time with.   For some reason, they invited me to stay for supper on Thursday night, the 27^th.    The family was not religious, and Jeff was openly antagonistic to the Christian faith.   I once heard him say,  “The best thing that could ever happen to Clyde would be to set off a stick of dynamite underneath all the churches.”   The rest of the family was respectful of my faith commitments.   As we sat down to eat that night, they said, “Norman’s family usually prayers before supper.  Don’t you think we ought to give thanks?”  Jeff said, “Nah, I have to work for what goes on this table.”   I didn’t think much about it at the time, but I was about to have a reason to give serious thought to his irreverent comment.

The next day was Friday, and I didn’t go to school, which meant I wouldn’t be stopping by the Griffin house to socialize with the boys.   Instead, Oliver Werst took us took our 4-H team to a dairy judging contest in Eastland.  It was a prep event for our trip to Texas A and M, which I’ve already described.   Our “enemy,”  the Fisher county team, was also there, so we had plenty of time to deepen our rivalry, and feed our resentment before going to Texas A and M.  Later I would realize that if I had not participated in that judging contest,  I might have gotten caught in the storm.

The whole day was cloudy and still.  I came home at about 4 o’clock, I would guess.   Daddy needed a haircut, so we went over to Murl’s house.  Murl was his twin brother.  Mama stayed home.  Murl sometimes did his barber work. These were the days before storm warnings were issued on the radio.   My aunt kept watching the clouds.  She made two or three trips back into the house to ask my uncle and my Dad to come look at the clouds.   They kept teasing her.  I remember Daddy saying, “Are you going to run from clouds the rest of your life?”

After her third trip she persuaded the men to come to the door.  Daddy was only half way through his haircut.   We stood at the door and watched the swirling clouds.   Suddenly a funnel dropped to the ground.   I couldn’t exactly judge the distance, but we all thought it was right over the barn.   In reality it was more than a quarter of a mile away.  We didn’t know whether it was coming toward us or moving away from us, although we now know it was moving away from us. 

For just a few seconds we stood there in a daze, knowing what had happened but still unable to accept the reality of it.  We quickly decided on a place of refuge.   There was a pump house next to the well.  It was semi-sunken, so we figured we had the best chance there.   There were five of us cramped into a space about 3’ X 6’.   At least that’s the best I can remember it.  It was really small for five people.   The grownups would say, “you kids don’t look.”   But you had to look.  I describe this scene in my book on holiness, and give it as an example of what is theologically known as “the mysterious tremendum” – the awful mystery.  It was a bit like being drawn to the fascination of a  horror movie and scared to death at the same time.

Daddy and Murl stood outside for a few minutes and decided that it was too dangerous to attempt any other plan of refuge.  We had a storm cellar at our house, but it was a good half – mile away.  My grandparents, were probably three hundred yards away.  Both places had cellars, but we weren’t sure we could make it, so we decided to take our chances in the pump house.

Talk about scared.  That’s the worst fear I’ve ever known in my life.  At one point I began urinating down the side of my leg, and I couldn’t stop.   I said, “I’m peeing in my britches, and I can’t do anything about it.”  The humor broke the tension for all of us and made our wait easier.  Scriptwriters often insert comic relief into tense situation just to make the tension easier for the reader or the viewer to handle.   We had our comic relief, and it was at my expense.

At one point, we were so sure that the storm was going to hit where we were, that we locked arms.  Daddy and Murl got a firm grip on the pipes, and we waited for the crisis that never came.   In a few minutes, they decided to chance another look and the storm was gone.

Academics

Math, Sentence Diagramming, History, and Shakespeare

By the time I entered ninth grade, I was beginning to get a handle on academic subjects.  Had I been better in Math, I might have graduated as an honor student.   As it was, I was on the borderline between an A and a B average.

A couple of things stand out in the early high school years.   First there was my struggle with math.   I don’t really think I’m dumb in math, but I was slow catching on.  You know how it is.  By the time you get addition and subtraction down, they throw multiplication and division at you.  Then they want you to learn fractions, followed by decimals.  After that you go on to long division, and so it goes.   I took General Math in 9^th grade, which was sort of like a pre-algebra course.  

In order to give more attention to individual students, they divided the class according to academic ranking.   I was in the slow moving group.  I was right at the top of that class, but one day they walked in and said, “We’ve got three students from the other class, who need to come down here, so we’re moving the top three into the advanced class.”   I was selected to move up.  Immediately, I was over my head.  I had been coasting through the slow moving class.   I didn’t measure up well with members of the new class.  Besides that, I sloughed off on home work.  I remained at the bottom of the advanced class.   One day our teacher, who was the football coach, said, “The students in this class are going around ole Bales like a Chevrolet going around a Ford.”  That comment reveals something about my academic performance as well as his preference in cars.

The other thing was my fascination with subjects like history, English grammar, and history.   I did very well in those subjects, mainly because they peaked my interest.   I would do a better job of thinking logically and balancing my checkbook if I had paid more attention in math class.   But in the other classes, I learned how to conjugate verbs, the parts of speech, and how they are put together in sentences.  I still think it was a mistake when our academic experts decided to eliminate diagramming sentences.   I did that pretty well. Unfortunately it’s a skill that’s not in great demand these days.  I love history – ancient history, European history, and American history (especially the Civil Period). In 9^th grade we were introduced to two important literature personalities – Shakespeare (Julius Caesar – I can still quote parts of Mark Antony’s funeral oration) and Robert Louis Stephenson.   As an adult I would have the opportunity to visit Stephenson’s grave in Western Samoa.   I love English and American literature – all the way from Shakespeare to Louis L’Amour.  I’m guessing modern day lit teachers don’t think much of Louis anymore.  Of course we didn’t have him when I was growing up, but we did have Zane Grey.  The first book I ever remember checking out of the library was Riders of the Purple Sage.

Father and Son Banquets

The “Father and Son Banquet" was an annual FFA event.  That within itself suggests a different era in time.  I’m sure there were single mothers raising boys back in those days, but I didn’t know very many of them.  It was assumed that every boy had a Dad, and we were able to share this annual event with our fathers.

We didn’t learn much about farming at these events.  The guest speakers didn’t discuss crop rotation.  I did learn some valuable techniques of public speaking from those who were our guest lecturers.  I learned that if you don’t know much about your subject, you go for humor.

One year the guest speaker was the local Baptist pastor.  He talked about the family experience of trying to find a project for his son.  Apparently, they settle on a chicken – not chickens, but one chicken.  This created a great deal of family consternation. Do you name your chicken?  If so what you name him or her.  I think it had to be a her because he indicated they expected eggs.  Of course he may not have known that roosters don’t lay eggs.  Where is the chicken going to sleep?  Does it eat with the family at the table?  If it does lay eggs, where would you expect to find them?  on the couch? on the kitchen cabinet (that would be convenient)?  Or would it be a hide and seek game.  As you can see it has endless possibilities for a humorous talk.

On another occasion a politician came.  He was equally uninformed about farming.  He told a story about another speaker who was invited to address a group of farmers.  This fellow had one subject that he lectured on  - Patrick Henry.  He was a Patrick Henry devotee and was well informed on his material.  Unfortunately, the farmers assigned him a topic – “Colic in Mules.”   But the guy was an ingenious speaker.  He knew how to work his expertise into any topic.  He said, “Colic in mules begins in the alimentary canal.  There’s a great war that rages between the while corpuscles and the red corpuscles and on each side the combatants are screaming, “Give me liberty or give me death.”

On another occasion I attended an FFA event at Tarleton College in Stephenville.   At the beginning of the program the MC announced that the speaker was late because his plane had not landed at the airport.  He kept fumbling around for time, and at one point he introduced a West Texas rancher, as a VIP in the  audience.  He talked a little more and the speaker didn’t arrive, so he asked the rancher to come up and say a few words.  The rancher stuttered, and stammered.   He was nervous.  If you remember the Don Knotts character on the Steve Allen show many years ago, it was something like that.   He had trouble making words come out right.  In a little while they began to sound funny, but you were afraid to laugh because the speaker was obviously embarrassed.  Then it become so hilariously funny that you had to laugh.   Of course the whole thing was a ploy.  The speaker was not delayed by a late arriving plane.   The West Texas rancher wasn’t a rancher at all.  He was a highly polished public speaker with an incredible sense of timing.

Corporal Punishment

Getting Acquainted with Ophelia

When I was in school no one thought too much about corporal punishment for wrong doing.   The first time I got it I was in the second grade.  I don’t remember the infraction, but I had to hold out my hand while the teacher paddled it with a ruler.  It stung a little, but it was no big deal.

After I moved Elmdale, Mrs. Sheffield paddled me one time for the great infraction of talking when I wasn’t supposed to. Imagine that!  The worst punishment I got from her was one she threatened and never carried out.  I got caught fighting on the playground.   I was taken to the principal and forced to memorize poetry, which wasn’t that bad, but I had to recite it before a group of older kids, and my brain turned to mush.   When I went down to see the principal, Mrs. Sheffield said, “When you get through with Norman, send him back to me. I’m going to give him a paddling.”   As it happened, I didn’t get sent back to her that day.  I dreaded it so much that I faked illness and convinced my parents that I was too sick to go to school the next day. I went so far as to allow them to dose me with Ex Lax.  It was coming up on the weekend, so I didn’t get back to school for three days.  I dreaded it the whole time.  When I got back Mrs. Sheffield didn’t do anything, but I worried about when she might jerk me up and apply the board of education to the seat of learning.  It never happened.  It would have been better if it had.  Then I could have put it behind me.   One thing is for sure.  I never got caught fighting again.

Corporal punishment was a regular thing in high school ag class. Ag boys tend to be an unruly bunch, and the teachers had to be heavy handed disciplinarians to keep order.  On the first day of class, our Ag teacher, Mr. Snow, introduced us to “Ophelia” (with emphasis on the “feel”).   Ophelia was 1”x4” board with a handle on one end.  She hung in a prominent place in the classroom.  Discipline was swift and punishment was certain.  However, you always got a trial.   When an accusation was made, your fate was voted on by your classmates.    There was never anything but a guilty verdict.   The only question was whether you got one or two licks, which doesn’t sound like much, but believe you me, Mr. Snow could just about raise you off the floor with Ophelia.   There was another rule.  The class would laugh at you, and if you didn’t laugh too, you would get another lick.  Everybody who got spanked laughed not matter how much it hurt. 

I got it for chewing gum, and I think I got another one for talking too much one day.   I’m still not wild about chewing gum, but it didn’t do anything to curb my talking.  Compared to the stuff that goes on in school today, my indiscretions sound pretty tame.    Mr. Snow was replaced by Mr. Barron, who was red headed.   Everybody in town called him “Red.”   But woe to any student who would ever address him as “Red Barron.”

I don’t think it damaged my psyche.  My parents didn’t complain to the principal about it.  As a matter of fact I never told them. I’m sure there probably some brutal instructors who abused kids, but I really didn’t ever see it.  I don’t have any bad feelings toward the teachers who spanked me.  I still regard them all quite highly.  If any of them are still alive, I would probably address them as “Mr.” or “Mrs.”

The End of My 4 - H Club Experience

When we rode back from Texas A and M, none of us had any idea of how the world was about to change for all of us.   Ironically my personal world changed about the same time although I didn’t see it coming.  It’s takes the perspective of time to know just how much it changed.

After we returned home, the next big 4-H event was a six-county 4-H club camp. By today’s standards, it wasn’t much, but on the other hand it didn’t cost much either.  There was no registration fee, but before the camp started, we were told to bring so many eggs, so much bread, so many pounds of pinto beans (I especially remember that one.  We could have all the beans we wanted), so many potatoes, etc.   We turned it all over to the county agent.  He pooled his collection with the other county agents.  I don’t remember exactly how they went about meal preparation, except that I do remember the pinto beans being cooked in a big washpot.

I used to think that I wanted to be a county agent, but they really went through a lot of stuff in attempting to help rural kids grow up.   I now know they weren’t paid very much.  They certainly didn’t do it for the money.

We went to Lake Cisco, which was about 30 miles or so east of Clyde.  Daddy had trouble with that one too.  He said, “Why don’t you just ask to go to Fort Worth?”  It’s a wonder he didn’t say, “Why don’t you ask to go to New York?”   It couldn’t have been any farther as far as he was concerned. But he caved in again

There were a big park area at Lake Cisco, but there were no cabins.  We brought quilts and pillows and slept on the ground.  There were some buildings in the park, but none of them were air conditioned.   We never gave it a second thought.   The only place that had air conditioning was the movie theater.

I had never heard of a sleeping bag.   It made perfect sense to me to pull the covers off my bed at home.  I found a big flat rock and threw my quilts down on that.  It was better than sleeping on gravel.   I don’t think I slept too much, but the camp was a magnificent experience. 

We had all kinds of sports competition, and the park had some pretty decent recreational facilities.  I think I still have my red ribbon, which I got for playing on the softball team that ended up in second place in the tournament.

There was a huge swimming pool, much larger than an Olympic pool.   I’ve never figured out how they ended up with a swimming pool like that.  I think it was probably a WPA project from the 1930’s.   I could barely swim when I got there, but I was swimming pretty well when I left.   Nobody gave me lessons.  I just did it.  I watch people swim and finally figured out how to move along in the water without my feet touching the ground.  One end of the pool was shallow.  I stayed there the first day.   The other end was deep, and I moved to that one the second day. They had a tall tower, and the braver boys seemed to enjoy diving from it.   The tower had three levels, and you could dive from any one of them.  The first one was about ten feet high.  I managed to work up enough courage to go off the lower level, but I never had the courage to even climb to the top level.

They also had a roller skating rink.  I didn’t know how to skate, but I had to try.  I eventually turned loose of the rails on the side.  While my attempts at skating weren’t graceful, I eventually learned to circle the rink without falling.  I felt a great sense of accomplishment at learning to swim and skate.

The whole thing was magnificent, but it was the end of an era.  When we got home we learned that the United States had begun fighting in what became known as the Korean Conflict.   I was 15.   It occurred to me that I would be draft age in three years, and I began to contemplate a future that might be quite different from anything that I had expected.  Suddenly the fun and games didn’t look like that much fun anymore.

Some lesser changes were also talking place.  I had to choose between the FFA and the 4-H.   It was a hard choice, but I think I was swayed mostly by the fact that all my peers were in the FFA.  It was kind of ludicrous, because I was one of the few farm boys in the organization.   You were supposed to have some kind of project and keep records on that project.   I don’t think most of them had projects.    I said “good bye” to the 4-H experience, and that was a sad thing.