November 7

My first summer in Lake Worth was one of astounding growth and wonder at the world around me.  We lived in a subdivision off of a semi-major road overlooking the rest of the town and the local drive-in theater.  Lake Worth wasn’t a large school system (I would have 76 students in my graduating class) but we were a suburb of Fort Worth which was in the beginnings of a major growth spurt that continues to this day.  I spent the last half of my twelfth year, the last year before I was officially a teenager, in a large metropolitan area after having spent the previous eight years in the wilderness.  It was a drastic change and I quickly forgot about Big Lake.  I didn’t have time to remember.

I spent most of the rest of the summer of 1973 hanging out with kids I met at church, mainly Randall Tate and his sister Kelli.  Randy was the ultimate ‘cool kid’ to me.  He had longer hair, he was fairly free to roam about, and he smoked cigarettes.  I picked up the cigarette habit fairly easily.  I was soon smoking in secret at our house by hiding them in a crawlspace underneath which was accessed by a small wooden door on the side.  Mom claims to have known what was going on but I don’t recall her confronting me on the issue.  I would often walk the mile down Azle Avenue to the 7-11 where Randy and I would meet, then we would take the shortcut to his house, often stopping and climbing in some trees and smoking and drinking soft drinks and talking.  His house wasn’t large and he shared a room with Steve, his older brother.  His older brother had albums and a record player.  My favorite was Cheech and Chong’s Big Bambu, which came complete with rolling paper.  It was my initiation into drug culture and comedy and the Mexican accent.  (Thanks Cheech and Tommy!)

By the time the school year started I already had a few acquaintances so the transition to full classloads and the new facility was not too traumatic.  I was ‘going steady’ with Randy’s sister, Kelli, by this time and I was a grade behind Randy so I didn’t see him except for breaks or ‘recess’ time and maybe lunch.  Many times we would walk to the far side of the elementary school playground and smoke cigarettes.  Randy was an old hand, blowing smoke rings now and then.  One day he announced that we were going to the fast food burger place up the street so we went.  It was just me and him, but I enjoyed the off-campus trip.  Unfortunately my joy was short-lived.  The school principal was Mr. Kittrell, a long-time resident and former star football player and coach.  I was a bit surprised to see him walk up to the door, but I was even more surprised to see him stick his head in and invite Randy and I to a little visit to his office immediately after lunch.  I asked Randy what this was all about, and he seemed to think that I had lost my mind.  Evidently I had been under the impression that we had an open campus policy for lunch, when in fact we were strictly forbidden from leaving campus during school hours.  Randy thought I knew this, but I most certainly did not.

After lunch we joined the other boys Mr. Kittrell had caught during his lunchtime round-up.  He went down the line, one at a time, asking each boy if he knew that lunch off-campus was against the rules.  One by one each boy dutifully repeated “Yes, sir.”  And then he got to me.  “No, sir.”  He evidently couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and asked me again, and I attempted to explain that I thought it was OK to leave.  This seemed to anger him.  The audacity of this kid to not only break the rules, but to then LIE about his innocence!  I thought I could feel a little extra zip in his swing when it was my turn to get paddled.  Welcome to the big city!

When the sign-up list for the track and field team went around I was interested, but for some strange reason I declined, thinking that my parents wouldn’t allow it or wouldn’t want me to, something they denied when it came up at a later date.  I’m not sure why I made that decision, but I’ve often wondered how things might have turned out differently if I had signed up.  Instead I signed up for band class and continued my percussion track.  Interestingly enough, due to the size of our school junior high music students often played with the older band members in parades and concerts.  I don’t remember if we played at football games, but I think not.  I do remember starting off with the cymbals which, unfortunately, were not traditional drum and bugle corps cymbals but much larger, heavier symphony band cymbals.  I occasionally attempted to do fancy spins but one wrong move and they would either break a wrist or take your head off.  I was always sore after each event from muffling the crash by driving the cymbals into the space between my chest and arm.