Tuesday in Texas

For Whom the Bell Tolls (No Man is an Island),  by John Donne

No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend’s were.
Each man’s death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.

Dennis’ death is a tragedy for his sons and for Lisa, his wife, and for all those who loved him. I’m disinclined to appropriate the grief of others, but I do claim a sense of loss, for as John Donne said, Each man’s death diminishes me. And this time each man is Dennis Black, Texas City High School Class of 1964.

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“Goodbyes” should be short and sweet, and that’s how I hope to end Tuesday in Texas. I’ve revisited a place that will always be dear to me, and a time before everything changed. I’ve made new friendships and renewed old ones. I’ve paid homage to what Texas City suffered, and to my mother, my aunts, and other loved ones. I’ve offered this as a gift to the Class of 1964, a gift that’s been accepted with love, which reaffirms that the greatest gains come from giving.

Still, I can’t say goodbye without a few words of parting and thanks.

50th Reunion, TCHS Class of 1964, Blocker Junior High Group – October 11, 2014.

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History, unpredictable, relentless, and over-whelming, and like water, benign until an earthquake raises a tsunami of change, and you adapt or get swept away, shredded.  The class of ’64 would graduate into an unrecognizable world. And it’s always been so. My aunts, of another generation, all made a similar observation comparing the 40s to the 60s, and it was this, simple but powerful as water: “Things are so different now.”

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I attended my first high school reunion when I was 19 years old. I spent the evening thinking about love and looking for Paula Prentiss. By the end of the event, I learned there’s love, there’s infatuation, and then there’s first love, a thing apart. And Paula wasn’t coming.

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Only a fool would write about love. And so, boldly, I will.

Diane and Joe, side-by-side in the yearbook, together still.

The strobe of young love pulsed through the halls of Texas City High School and led to matrimony many times, yet when I made up my mind to write through this rich material, I discovered that beyond gossip and speculation, I know nothing except the titles.

Kathleen

Tommy

At the top of a chronology would be The Story of Joe and Diane, The Story of  Tommy and Kathleen, and The Story of Virginia and Felix. Joe and Diane’s story continues, as does Tommy and Kathleen’s. Virginia and Felix ended long ago. The story I know best would be Gene and Jeannie. Still together, still happy.

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Big Chief (Photo Courtesy of Al Mitchell, Class of ’65)

“Yup. They hang out in the parking lot of Big Chief. I seen ‘em.”

Thus spoke Johnny, 7^th grader and object of my 5^th grade affection. I made no reply. I had lived in Texas City for less than two years. Johnny lived in TC all his life. Given his age and experience, he should know, and he said Texas City had a gang called the Red Coats, and they hung out in the parking lot of Big Chief.

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Texas City sticker on a Paris merry-go-round.

In the last year of the 20^th century I lived in a beautiful apartment in a gorgeous city. I was miserable. I hated my job. It was January, and my family wouldn’t be joining me until spring. I ended my day by walking from the American Embassy in Place de la Concorde, where I worked, to the rue Jouffroy in the 17^th Arrondissement, where I lived. Even though it was a bitter day, I stopped by the merry-go-round in Parc Monceau to see the stagecoach go by. How the Texas City sticker got on the back of it, I never found out, though I tried. Paris is a champagne city, and I already had too much. I’d been there since September. I wanted to be in Texas. I wanted my family. I wanted my boss to check himself into a mental hospital. Continue reading →

Author’s Note:  Some years ago I had the following story published in The Concho River Review. The protagonist, Roy, is based on someone I once knew. The teachers . . . well, I think you may recognize one or two.

The Only School in Texas That Teaches the Tango

Many years ago, when my mother left my father for the seventh and final time, we had to hide out for a while.  That’s how we ended up in Brindel’s Mill, a Texas town that’s blessed with nothing, not far from Odessa.  It seemed ideal.

On my first day at Brindel’s Mill High, the registrar told me with a disapproving shake of his head that the principal insisted on meeting all new students.  “Just go on in.  Her office is right down there.”

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Tuesday, September 5, 1961 – A tropical storm forms off the coast of Honduras.

By the car on the first day of high school. Tish was in 5th grade.

Labor Day passed, the picnic baskets were put away, the sun set and rose, and the first day of school arrived. Always a celebration, but especially in September of 1961, my first year at Texas City High School. The heat lingered, but the mood shifted overnight. Time for new clothes, new classes, and football. September, glorious as summer, but busy instead of lazy, focused instead dreamy.

Sunshine pounded the treeless patio of TCHS, where I waited with my friend Carolyn for the first bell of the first day. We pretended to be nonchalant, complaining about the heat and the early hour, but excitement bubbled over into our conversation.

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Gloria, Class of ’64, my roommate in the NASA days.

When I worked at NASA, I dated an aerospace engineer, originally from London, charming accent and all. I lived in Houston then, and from time to time an old boyfriend from Texas City showed up, unannounced, to see me or Gloria, my roommate. Sometimes the engineer was there. He was an educated man, successful, a real grown-up (I was 19), but still. I expected a little push-back at this parade of old beaus. I asked him why he took it so calmly.

“I know a gentleman when I see one,” he said. “The young men from Texas City – at least the ones who come to see you and Gloria – are obviously gentlemen. No need for anyone to be rude.”

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