Chapter Five: Texas A&M Redux
THE TRANSITION
After a week in Wichita Falls, we rode a Greyhound Bus to Houston and a local bus to Baytown, about 40 miles but at least two hours away. Pat's roommate, with whom she was sharing a garage apartment, was kind enough to absent herself for a few days for us to get reacquainted but she did want her apartment back. Goldie Faye Harper was from northwestern Louisiana and liked her comfort, especially eating, and apparently wasn't faring too well in the local restaurants.
The Funeral Business
I read an ad in the Baytown Sun of a job at the Paul U. Lee Funeral Home that included a rent-free apartment. I applied and should have been alerted by the alacrity with which they hired me. The apartment was nice, over a garage that housed seven vehicles--ambulances, hearses and limousines to carry the mourners. I soon learned that a major part of my job was to keep ALL of them washed, polished, vacuumed, and serviced. I did the hard work, then took them to a nearby service station for gas and oil.
Pat and I had been married for almost three years and had spent about six weeks together; moreover, we were too dumb to engage in premarital sex. Our hormone levels were at their peak and we had a lot of "catching up" to do. Unfortunately, I soon learned why we got the "free" apartment; I had to drive an ambulance for any emergencies after normal working hours. There was a "bitch box" over our bed over which whoever was handling the telephone could call "Sparks, there's an emergency at Buffalo Bayou". I sometimes wondered how they knew when we were in the most intense part of the sex act; they never missed. I learned all the frustrations of "Coitus Interruptus" as a married man, leaping from the bed, throwing on my clothes as I ran down the stairs and driving at unsafe speeds to pick up some turkey who had gone through the windshield and was bleeding to death because he was too stupid to stay home drinking his own whiskey and screwing his own wife.
I must admit, though, that we knew more about what was happening in the Tri-Cities (Baytown, Goose Creek, and Pelly) than almost anyone. One morning while Pat was riding the bus to the Humble Company, a woman said "Did you hear about the man who ran off the ferry slip last night?" Pat, in all innocence, said "I guess that's where my husband was last night". It didn't occur to her until later that the woman's shocked expression indicated she thought Pat's husband was in the car. Actually, Pat was right; that's where I was, fishing for the car with grappling hooks, we hooked it about 9:00 AM.
I had worked hard most of my life, but the funeral home was the toughest job I ever had. In addition to the vehicle maintenance and emergency driving, I also had to participate in the
lucrative part of the business: FUNERALS, that was where the money was. I was soon told that, at a wreck you pick up the dead ones first; if you don't get the funeral you will at least get
the ambulance fee and probably the embalming and that's $150 for a dollar and a half worth of perfumed formalin and a couple of hours’ work.
If you got the funeral the real work began. I was as naïve as most people in the pain of the disposition of loved or unloved ones, but not those people in the funeral business. They were professionals; they knew how to turn on the sympathy and how to steer the next of kin through the casket selection. They had a pretty good idea what the family could afford in the way of coffins and services and they were willing to extend a certain amount of credit. After all, "we don't want to be stingy when our own flesh and blood is going to the Holy Land". Burying people in their own clothes was discouraged; the ones sold at the funeral home were already open down the back and they cost more than a tailor made suit, but who noticed.
The bereaved were ushered into the large showroom, where they were shown caskets that an Egyptian Pharaoh would not have been uncomfortable in down to a fairly plain box for the poor folks. Whatever they settled on, I was given the number of it and sent to the warehouse. The casket selected was ALWAYS at the back, meaning I had to move dozens of crated three hundred pound objects all by myself to get it out. I then removed it from the crate, disposed of the container and muscled the coffin down to the embalming room where we eased the body into the satin-lined final resting place.
The next day, we would move the body to the church, or preferably into the mortuary (we could charge for its use), and the pagan rites would begin. Some families actually hired photographers to record the event for posterity. By this time I was in my brown Hart, Schaffner and Marx suit, escorting family and friends to their seats. After the sermon and as the audience filed down to view the remains, we began loading the flowers for transport to the cemetery: walk decorously with a wreath in each hand until you were out of sight, then run like hell and dump them in the back of an ambulance. We had to move all the flowers from the funeral service to the gravesite and arrange them before the funeral procession arrived. (Have you ever wondered why funeral processions drive so slow?) Sometimes it was nip and tuck; I never sweated as much in my life, but you couldn't look like you were sweating.
After we had had seven funerals in four days, besides picking up most of them, I was getting in some well deserved sack time when Mr. Lee called me on the "Bitch Box", "Sparks, we got a car that needs washing." I very slowly said, "Mr. Lee, if you want that God Damned car washed, you can wash it yourself". When I looked out the window, he was washing it. We started looking for another place to live, but the Lees didn't realize there was a problem. I guess they fought like that all the time.
Anyway, we found a furnished room on the far side of Goose Creek. It wasn't convenient; Pat had to take a bus to work and I joined the 52-20 Club. That was one of the things a grateful government had done for the returning veterans; we could draw $20.00 a week for 52 weeks while we were "readjusting" to civilian life. I bought a casting rod and reel and a few bass lures and began "readjusting".
Fishing and Vet Work
Pat and I would take our lunches out of the refrigerator and catch the bus. She would get off at the Humble Company and I would stay on the bus to the end of the line--Highland Reservoir. I'd spend the day wading the reservoir and fishing for bass, with an occasional break for a cigarette and a cool beer carefully concealed under a tree stump. I made sure I took a full hour off for lunch, couldn't cheat the government on the 52-20 club. The bus driver would honk for me before starting his run that would pick up Pat at the Humble Company.
Most of the time I released the fish as soon as I caught them, but one time I caught a nice one of about three pounds and thought our landlords might like it for dinner. I soon caught a couple more about the same size and took the three of them home on the bus. When I offered the fish to them, the husband said "where did you catch these?" When I told him, he said "will you take me fishing?" and I said "sure, when do you want to go?" "Right now" as he headed for the garage to get his rod and reel.
He parked where I told him and followed me as I headed for the reservoir. Although the reservoir was mostly shallow enough to wade, there was a deep irrigation ditch alongside it. We climbed the bank of the irrigation ditch, with my guest behind me. You crossed the ditch on a slightly submerged 4X12; unfortunately, I forgot to tell him about it and he chose the exact moment I started across the ditch to move alongside me. I heard a splash and looked around to see a straw hat floating on the water. Then a rod tip rose like a periscope, followed by a head and shoulders; both the eyes and mouth were round and wide open. He sank completely from sight again, but I was alert enough to snag him on his next emergence.
He was a good sport about it, accepting my apologies as he spread the contents of his wallet on the dashboard of his car to dry. We did catch a few bass, but the excitement seemed to have gone out of it. I don't think he believed I did it to him deliberately, but he never suggested going fishing again. It would have probably been better if I could have kept from laughing, but that floating straw hat and the fishing rod rising from the depths were more than I could handle with a straight face. I don't think he thought it was quite as funny as I did.
One morning I decided to take the day off from fishing and slept in. After walking down the highway to a cafe for breakfast, I stopped in at a Veterinary Clinic, for lack of anything better to do, on the way back to the room. I figured the veterinarian would be a Texas Aggie (almost 100% of veterinarian in Texas are) and I might know him. He was, but I didn't know him; his name was Naylor and he was a few years older than me.
I couldn't help noticing that his cages and runs were filthy. Just to help out a fellow Aggie, I put on some rubber boots and hosed down the runs, then cleaned all the cages before
I went home. I was tired of fishing alone, so I went back the next morning, and the following one, too. Soon I was feeding the patients, in addition to cleaning up after them; Dr. Naylor was delighted to learn I had been an army clinical lab technician and could do stool samples, identify heart worm microfilaria in blood smears and all sorts of useful chores. He explained to me that his latest kennel man had quit and he was waiting for his longtime helper to be discharged from the army.
On Friday of the second week, (I had been hanging around about ten days) Naylor handed me some money as I started out the door. I was just helping out, but he insisted I take the money. Of course, I then had responsibilities; I walked over on Saturday and Sunday to clean the cages and runs and feed the animals. All the patients were especially glad to see me on the weekends.
I suspect Naylor was a city boy; he was marvelous with small animals but he didn't really like working with large animals. I wouldn't say he was afraid of them, but he didn't get any more familiar with them than necessary. I think he would have preferred to have only a small animal practice, but he was the only veterinarian in town. He usually took me along in his pick up for large animal calls. Some of them were hilarious.
Once we went out to a local mule breeder's place to castrate his stallion jackass. With tractors becoming more common, the market for mules was way down and he decided to go out of the mule business. He couldn't get that across to the jackass who kept trying to get to the mares to perform his duties. The breeder said, "that jackass has made me a lot of money; I don't want to kill him, just fix him so he'll leave the mares alone." He showed us the jackass and went to the house; he did not want to see it.
Naylor said "Sparks, get a rope on that animal and put him down." That was easy and I soon had all four legs tied tightly together just above the hooves. By this time the jackass had figured out we weren't taking him to a waiting mare and became a little upset. Naylor got out the large ball buster and said "Sparks, this is going to smart a little and he might bang his head against the ground. You're pretty big; do you think you can hold his head down so he won't hurt himself?" I wrapped both legs around his neck and both arms around his head with a firm grip on each ear and the weight of my body across his head. When Naylor cracked down that jackass slammed me onto the ground about one hundred times in less than a minute.
Another time we went out into the country to give some kind of shot to a Brahma bull. When we got there, Naylor said "The owner is not home, but he said the bull is gentle as a lamb." I had met some of those gentle Brahma bulls in the prewar past so I was not buying all of it. The bull was standing in the middle of a pen behind the house, carefully scrutinizing us. Naylor said, "Sparks, can you get a rope on that bull and get him over here so we can give him his shot?" I said "I think so" and walked out into the pen, VERY cautiously and with my rope and loop ready for action.
I may have marked my laundry when he snorted and pawed the ground as I approached, but he was a lamb; when I got to him he licked my face and laid his head on my shoulder. I put the noose around his neck and led him over to Dr. Naylor who was preparing a huge syringe and large diameter needle. Naylor said "Sparks, this bull is real gentle, but this shot has formalin in it and it's going to smart; he may not be so gentle when I inject it".
The farmer had the most jerry-built barn I have ever seen, obviously built of scrap lumber, on one side of the pen. Someone, perhaps one of his grandchildren, had drilled large holes with a brace and bit all through the side facing the pen. I led the bull to the side of the barn, pushed him up flush against it and threaded the rope through the holes and around his neck and body until he looked like an insect in a cocoon. The bull seemed pleased with all the attention; he probably would have purred if he had known how, but he did make gentle lowing sounds as we encased him.
When Naylor socked him with about 50 CCs of hot stuff, all Hell broke loose. He bellowed and took off with the side of the barn still attached. He did have a little trouble with it dragging between his legs. He stopped in the middle of the pen and looked at us reproachfully. Naylor said "Sparks, we got to get that barn off that bull and back where it belongs before the owner gets back." With some trepidation I approached the bull again; he was forgiving. He stood quietly while I unwrapped him, going back through the holes with the rope until he was free.
Then we had to put the barn wall back up. Naylor not only didn't have a hammer in his pick up, he didn't even have a tire iron. We found a couple of rocks, and those are hard to come by in South Texas, and rehung the side of the barn with the left over nails. Occasionally we would collapse in uncontrollable laughter. We HAD to get that barn wall back up before the farmer got home; anything less would have been unprofessional.
It wasn't long before Dr. Naylor's "regular" kennel man returned from the army. There was no problem; he was a young black guy who was so happy to be back at the Veterinary Clinic that he couldn't stop smiling, and I had just been "helping out". I did keep going to the clinic to give shots, run lab tests and dock a few tails, but I wouldn't take any more money. Naylor did say to me one day while we were having coffee and a cigarette, "Sparks, you really have a way with animals; why don't you apply for Vet School at A&M? I'll write a letter of recommendation and they'll accept you because you're a returning veteran."
In one of my all-time DUMB responses, I said, "I appreciate that, Dr. Naylor, but I'm not even sure I’m going back to college but I AM sure I'm not going to stay there for five years to get a degree in Veterinary Medicine". "I'm one year short of a degree in Wildlife Management and if I go back, all I want is the degree and a job as a waterfowl biologist or running a fish hatchery. I've been married for almost three years and it's about time I start making a living and raising a family."
Actually, there was more than a little question about my going back to college. Pat, the scholar of the family, (I was the lover and fighter) had a good job an excellent reputation in the Research and Development Laboratory at the Baytown Humble Company. She had numerous friends, many of whom had been classmates at TSCW, and was less than eager at the prospect of going back to the poverty of the academic life at the student level. She correctly pointed out that I had not had a distinguished record in my two and a half years (a straight C average, compared to her almost straight A's) at Texas A&M and maybe I should get a job at the Humble Company.
I applied, and despite the fact that she had a friend fairly high in management (Augie Kraft who put in a word for me), they didn't want me--not even as a security guard. Later, when I was a consultant to the Humble Company and being checked through the gate, I couldn't help smiling at the irony; if they had hired me in security I'd probably be checking consultants through rather than sitting there in a Hertz car and making big money. There wasn't much else going on in the area; I'd quit the Funeral Home and Naylor's regular kennel man had returned-- neither of those jobs had much long time potential. We were living in a furnished room without kitchen privileges, didn't have a car, didn't have any money, I didn't have a job and didn't have any prospects. I told Pat, "I know I didn't make good grades at A&M, but I didn't study at all; I'm sure I can do better. Besides, with this GI Bill, the Government will pay my tuition, all my lab fees, buy all my books and pay me $105.00 a month to go to school. It seems like too good a deal to turndown."
I'm almost certain I would never have gone back to college if it hadn't been for the GI Bill. That legislation probably did more for lower and middle class Americans than anything since the Bill of Rights. It provided the opportunity for us to climb the socio-economic ladder as well as become professionals instead of laborers or, at best, semiprofessionals like my father, the
railroad engineer.
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