PLEASANTON, TEXAS — think Arlen in "King of the Hill" — rests at the intersections of Farm Roads 476, 5350, 1334 and U.S. Highway 281, five miles northeast of Jourdanton in northeast Atascosa County. It was founded in 1858, when conflicts with Indians caused the settlers to move the location of the county seat from Amphion.
 The mouth of Bonita Creek seemed the perfect location for the new seat, so the county residents voted this area as the official townsite. John Bowen, who later named the town after early settler John Pleasant, donated five square miles of land for development. E. B. Thomas, the first settler, opened the first general store in Pleasanton.
In 1860 Pleasanton became county school district number 1, with W. J. Pepham as the first teacher. By 1861 the town had a dozen families, two blacksmiths, and three lawyers. A log cabin served as the courthouse for nine years. After the new courthouse (left) was built by William Guynes, the log cabin was rented to the school district until 1875, when a rock schoolhouse was built. The old courthouse also served as a church at one time.
By the early 20th century Pleasanton, had two newspapers, the Pleasanton Picayune, which became the Pleasanton Express in 1909, and the Pleasanton Reporter. Although Jourdanton became the county seat in 1910, Pleasanton continued to grow.
In 1912 the Missouri Pacific Railroad linked the town to San Antonio, and in 1914 Pleasanton became connected by railroad to Corpus Christi. At this time the population was 1,500.
In 1917 the town was officially incorporated. Pleasanton profited from the thriving cattle industry of the area and became a gathering place for cowboys driving cattle to Kansas. The Stock Raisers Association of Western Texas often held meetings or conventions in the town.
By the 1940s the population reached 2,074; it had increased by another 1,000 by the 1960s. In 1966 the "Cowboy Homecoming" was begun in Pleasanton (left).
Many a Texas town had its hanging tree, an old oak bearing its ugly legends as well as leaves. But on a more pleasant note, Pleasanton may be the only place in the state – and the world for that matter – that had a cowboy tree.
In a way, it’s natural enough that Pleasanton would have such a tree, unnatural as the combination of the words “cowboy” and “tree” seems to be. The Atascosa County community south of San Antonio has long claimed to be the birthplace of the cowboy.
While proving that the very first Texas cowpoke swung into the saddle in or near Pleasanton would be a bit of a stretch, no one can question that the cattle business and the men who made it happen played an important role in Pleasanton’s past.
An historical marker on the city hall square notes that 43,000 head of Longhorn cattle passed through Pleasanton during the first three months of 1873. Located on the old El Camino Real at an easy crossing of the Atascosa River, Pleasanton had long been a transportation crossroads. When profit-minded Texans began pushing Longhorns up from the South Texas brush country to the railhead in Kansas in the early 1870s, Pleasanton made a convenient stopping place on what became known as the Chisholm Trail.
The Stock Raiser Association of Western Texas frequently gathered in Pleasanton for its yearly convention, and the Western Stock Journal listed Pleasanton as its place of publication. (Source: "Mike Cox Texas Trails")
The citizens of the city decided to commemorate the tradition officially. The festival, which occurs annually in August, has cook-offs, fiddler contests and carnivals in tribute to the cattle industry. Other important business activities of the area are peanuts and petroleum.
The population of Pleasanton was 6,091 in 1980 and 8,042 in 1994. In 1989 the town adopted a manager-council government. Pleasanton has four state historical markers: the Cooper Chapter 101 of the Masons was recognized in 1971, the town was honored with a marker on the city hall grounds in 1973, and in 1984 the First United Methodist Church and the old site of the San Augustine Church received plaques.
Pleasanton High School, although not backward in its place among South Texas schools, left something to be desired. Courses such as physics and upper level mathematics were unavailable, and biology and chemistry were watered-down.
Popular courses such as typing, shorthand and bookkeeping as well as home economics and agriculture filled the curriculum. Extracurricular activities included athletics (football, basketball, baseball and track for boys and basketball for girls), band, dramatics, speech and very basic journalism. Expectations were lower than in larger cities, it seemed.
So what else was there? At the time I did not realize the shortcomings, but now I wish we could have had choir, orchestra, art — opportunities for enrichment in all the fine arts — a better journalism course and electives such as sociology, foreign languages and courses to prepare students for the workforce.
Activities at First Methodist Church (left)— across Main Street from my parents' house — occupied much of my time. Choir practice and youth group activities were midweek activities. Then, summer brought Vacation Bible School for elementary school students.
This was the scene of one of my most embarrassing moments when a visiting group of college students conducted our bible school. The hyper-energetic collegians had us sing a round, a song which had several entry points— such as "Row, row, row your boat."
In this particular round, everyone had been told when to stop singing — except me. And I blurted out: "Row, row, row . . ." all alone. Everyone laughed uproarously, and I blushed and melted into my chair.
Overweight and shy, I finally managed a smile. But it hurt.
Actually, I had a good voice — boy soprano, they called it, but I preferred tenor — and when a touring company came to the Leon Theater (right-now called the Plestex) to stage a local amateur show I signed up to perform. The company's director gave me my selection. And then, practice, practice, practice until it was perfect.
Move to the music, I told myself. To the right, point, back step, point. Look at the back of the audience. Smile, smile, smile.
The big night arrived. The crowd filling the theater applauded loudly for each act. "And next, ladies and gentlemen, here's Chester Hunt singing "Slow Boat to China."
I anxiously made my way to the spotlight, repeating in my mind the lyrics:
I'd love to get you / On a slow boat to China
All to myself alone / Get you and keep you / In my arms ever more / Leave all your lovers / Weepin' on a far away shore / Out on the briny / With the moon big and shiny / Melting your heart of stone / Honey, I'd love to get you / On a slow boat to China / All by myself alone
Then, panic set in as I stood dumfounded in the center of the spotlight. The silent crowd watched expectantly. "I'd love to get you . . .," I began, my voice breaking slightly. I couldn't do it. I stood transfixed, unable to remember the rest of the darned song. It seemed like forever before I started again: "I'd love to . . . "
And I just walked off the stage.
These two musical calamities should have made me beware of music, but they didn't. I played a clarinet for six years before knocking my front teeth silly playing football. I still sang in the chorus in college and performed solo on several occasions.
One in particular is odd. I sang "No Other Love" at my former girlfriend's wedding — ironic, huh?
In this small town environment, much depended on a solid family foundation, which I had.
My mother (right), Ruth Hunt, displayed leadership ability in the late ‘40s and ‘50s as deputy tax assessor-collector of Atascosa County. In 1961, she assumed the top job as a replacement for the retiring official
Traveling each morning to Jourdanton, the county seat, Mom always made it home for lunch with Dad and me. Then, the two settled into the den to watch "All My Children." Amazing, but true. They knew all the characters by name and reputation and kept up with every dramatic moment.
Mother served two terms at the county courthouse (left below) as tax collector before running into organized opposition from a group of wealthy ranchers when she assessed their property fairly and raised their taxes. Boy, were they upset. Because of the wide range of responsibilities performed by the assessor-collector, most citizens deal with this county official more frequently than any other office. It was also the center of idle gossip and rumors.
Mother always knew the dirt on everyone before it became public, not that she was a gossip. That's just part of living in a small town — everyone knows everyone else and everyone else's business. Both my grandmothers were business owners in Pleasanton during that period; Roberta Smith Hunt owned an insurance agency, and Daisy Jones owned a restaurant in North Pleasanton, a suburb — believe it or not — of Pleasanton.
 That's where I learned to cook hamburgers, and I ate a lot of them in the process. Everyone started calling me "Wimpy," a minor character in the Popeye comic strip. Mamaw (right with husband Lyman Jones) , as I called grandmother Jones, enjoyed showing me how to do things in the kitchen, and in return I helped bus tables and clean up around the place. She and grandad had one of the first television sets in town, and the folks and I often watched with them. Not much on, actually. NBC, CBS and ABC were it and they didn't broadcast 24 hours a day. I even watched the test pattern.
Grandmother Roberta Smith Hunt — Nana — (left with cousins Martha and Grace Williamson and Aunt Bessie Williamson) and I enjoyed tuning in at night to the big upright radio; "I Love a Mystery" and "Suspense" made us cringe and sit closer through the scary programs. While we listened, Nana brushed her flowing hip-length white hair. During the day, she wore her hair braided and wrapped tightly around her head. Every morning rain or shine, the petite, bowlegged dynamo clip-clopped to her office five blocks away.
That was her routine until the day she died.
My father (right) loved sports, and he was quite a baseball player in his own right. He played for a bank team in a San Antonio semipro league against Dizzy Dean and other pros who toured the country at that time.
He was once the mayor of Pleasanton and served on the Board of Trustees at the First Methodist Church. Dad's office was in downtown Pleasanton next to the pharmacy and across from Ricks grocery and dry good store, so he also knew all the gossip. People loved to drop in to chat, including Dr. Ben Parker, a jack of all trades — a preacher, a radio station owner, a novelist, a chiropractor and an interesting character.
Parker hired Willie Nelson at one time as a DJ at his radio station KBOP. Legend has it that he fired Nelson for arriving late for his early morning shifts. Parker was the model for a statue standing in the center of the city. Parker and his wife Mona founded the Longhorn Museum on Hwy. 97 E. in Pleasanton.
My
brother, Jack (left, with mother and me), was a coach, teacher and
administrator in the Calhoun Independent School District in Port Lavaca,
Texas. He married Jan Homeyer, whom he met at Southwest Texas State
College in San Marcos. A daughter, Kristi Lea, and a son, Bobby,
completed the Hunt family.
In my formative years, Jack was either
away at school or in the military so I really didn't pal around with him
very often. But one day while he was in town, Jack and a
friend, Lionel Burton, dropped in unexpectedly. I was soaking in the
bathtub, and I hadn't locked the door. They burst into the bathroom,
laughing and pointing.
"Get out of here," I shrieked. Tears flowed.
Lionel felt so bad. He came back later to apologize and gave me a toy from his family's Five and Dime store.
In later years, Jack and I became closer and taught in the same school system in Port Lavaca. He was a good guy.
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| A ham at an early age |
Moving outside the family began when I entered Pleasanton Elementary School in 1942 one year into the Great War. I loved school. Why do kids today pray for snow or a holiday so they won't have to go to school?
First grade was a blast. Only one bad memory comes to mind. We were frantically decorating the classroom for Valentine's Day, and Mrs. Jenkins had us cutting red and pink and white hearts out of sheets of construction paper to put on windows and the elaborate Valentine box. What fun. Attacking my red sheet with my snub-nosed scissors, I placed the pattern squarely in the center of the sheet and started cutting, glancing around to see how others were doing.
Mrs. Jenkins, looking stern behind her wire-framed spectacles, strolled around the room, peering over our shoulders. Suddenly, she stopped behind me and practically shouted, "What are you doing, Chester?"
"Cutting out a heart," I replied, smiling broadly. I loved Mrs. Jenkins.
"You've wasted a sheet of paper," she blurted. WHAM! She slapped my face. Bless her heart, she was really angry. I'm sure she had purchased the construction paper with her own money.
She looked hurt, then frightened. What had she done? Even though Mrs. Jenkins' smack on my cheek smarted, I didn't want to get her in trouble. I never told my parents about the smacking. And I never cut another heart out of the center of a sheet of construction paper.
In second grade, I fell in love. Cookie Cuthrell (left) was her name. The pert blond wore her hair in Shirley Temple curls, and she had deep dimples and perfect white teeth. Her father worked for Humble Oil and they had recently moved from somewhere in South America, I think.
Cookie enrolled late after the first week of school, and she had no place to sit. "She can sit with me," I announced, pointing to an empty seat in the two-seat desk I had. The desk had one wide top and two fold-up seats.
My classmates laughed and started crowing, "Cookie loves Chester. . . Chester loves Cookie." I didn't care. A dimpled darling sat next to me, and they were just jealous. However, the damsel didn't fare as well; she covered her head with her sweater to hide from the taunts.
In third grade, Mrs. Meriwether, my teacher, was a former opera singer and looked the part: upswept hair, rather portly and very dramatic. But she told great stories, and she helped me master cursive writing.
The rest of elementary school blurs in my mind. Good friends, good times as portrayed in the class group portrait each year. Mother always made me wear a coat and tie for the photos. Others wore jeans; many were barefoot. How embarrassing.
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| Mrs. Richardson's eighth grade class |
Then junior high — we were big kids now. recording artist George Strait's father, John, was my Spanish teacher. He spoke Castillian Spanish like a native. Hard but fair — except on the playground. School administrators established a policy that Spanish could not be spoken during outdoor activities, and Strait followed the rule to a T. I recall he punished several of my Mexican buddies with a strap. I didn't understand why they couldn't speak in the language of their parents; I was envious that I spoke only one language. John Strait had a beautiful tenor voice, and he met his wife, Doris Couser, in Pleasanton where they often sang together in special gatherings. Guess George's talent is in the genes.
High school, here we come. We'll be Eagles now.
The freshman year was tough -- My size (nearly 6-foot) and weight (200-plus) made the football coaches salivate. They didn't realize much of that size was still baby fat. But anyway, I reported for football practice in August of 1951 much to my father's delight. It was hot. And the coaches really put us through the drills.
One coach was determined to make a football player out of a chubby kid: Coach Shultz. That guy must have been a sadist in an earlier life. He pulled me aside one afternoon after practice and made me "block the goalposts" for about 30 minutes.
"Harder, Hunt, harder," he snarled.
That was it. Football wasn't my game — at least not the first year. So, basketball grabbed my attention and interest. I made the freshmen team — and over the course of the year I lost about 20 pounds and grew about four inches. Maybe basketball was my game at 6-foot-4 and 180 pounds.
 In a small school, boys are expected to participate in all sports whether they're talented or whether they like the sport.
Each year from sophomore year, I played football (right, returning an interception for a touchdown), and each year I suffered an injury and had to start basketball later than the rest of the team.
The first year classes weren't all that difficult, and I made A's and achieved perfect attendance. I loved school, and it only got better. I made the basketball team my sophomore year and continued through senior year when I made second-team all district. What a surprise.
Theater and speech activities filled a large chunk of time during high school. I played Peter in "Peter, Peter Pumpkin Eater." Cousin Lee Ricks also had a part, so it gave us a chance to work together. We also had roles in the district champion one-act play, "Bread," and a partner and I made up the debate team. We were really bad, but someone had to do it.
Combine those activities with playing first-chair clarinet in the concert band and bass drum in the marching band. My schedule was full.
Finally, the big day — graduation. On May 24, 1954, high school ended with my valedictory address in ceremonies at the Leon Theater. Mom and dad gave a spaghetti party afterward and we all chattered about what was coming next.
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Here I was 17 and ready for
college in San Marcos. |
But I wasn't sure what would come next. I wanted to hit the big time in Austin, but money was something of a problem. I started summer school at Southwest Texas State Teachers College — now Texas State University-San Marcos. My goal was law school, my major history. Summer school at SWT grabbed me. I had a blast and chose to stay in San Marcos and work toward my degree instead of transferring to UT.
Partying played a big part of the decision. So many friends, so many trips to the Devil's Backbone and the Old Spanish Trail. And, because of these jaunts to wet areas outside dry San Marcos, my first C in academics ruined my straight-A résumé.
My faculty adviser, Dr. Bill Pool, a lanky history professor who resembled Ichabod Crane, called me into his office and said I was running with the wrong crowd. I heard but didn't listen. At the time it seemed like an intrusion on my privacy. Later, years later, it sank in that he was probably right. But I loved school — especially the social life.
As a sophomore, I decided to get really involved. Cheerleader tryouts were held one night in front of the campus cafeteria, and I jumped in on a lark with some friends. Did I think I could win? No. But, I thought it would be a great way to meet people. As I jumped at the end of our yell, I slipped on the edge of a sidewalk and fell flat on my fanny. The bystanders roared their approval.
That pratfall probably helped me win a position as one of three male cheerleaders. Trips to games in Huntsville, Kingsville, Alpine and Commerce followed, and this "notoriety" resulted in my selection that year as one of 12 Gallardians — all-college favorites.
My parents attended the gala presentation, and that made me feel good. After all, they were helping pay my way; I wanted them to be proud. I escorted Gay Aoueille, a dark-haired beauty from Kenedy. Gay married her boyhood love, Lenny Von Dohlen, and their son, Lenny, is now an accomplished actor with a number of movies and television dramas to his credit; he has his mother's piercing pale blue eyes.
During the sophomore year, I joined the chorus, under the direction of Dr. Ira Renay Bowles, a graduate of Westminster Choir College. Dr. Bowles could wring music from a turnip; he talked about "color" of sounds and how they fit together into a "marvelous tapestry." His reputation as a choral director made it possible for us to be invited to sing in two operas with the San Antonio Symphony — "Die Fledermaus" and "Manon." "Fledermaus" starred Jarmila Novotna, legendary soprano and soloist of the Metropolitan Opera. Dorothy Kirsten, a well known opera singer whose stage career spanned from the late 1930s to the mid-1970s, sang the lead in "Manon." She was admired as an attractive, intelligent, musical singer and a fine actress.
 Performances were in the Municipal Auditorium in San Antonio (left), and my parents came to see the chorus. Dad wasn't happy about it, but he finally admitted that it "was pretty good." I didn't mention he had the distinct privilege of witnessing two of opera's world-class divas, Novotna and Kirsten, performing their principal operas and his youngest son sang in the chorus -- in French.
The chorus performed in high schools throughout southeast Texas. In one assembly, the principal opened the event with this startling introduction: "It is my privilege to present to you the Southwest Texas State College a cappella chorus under the direction of Dr. Ira Runny Bowels."
The choir risers shook as we collapsed in laughter, the kid pulling the stage curtain had to wait until we gathered ourselves.
This was the year of the name change — 1956. "Chester" became "Chet." Named for the physician who delivered me in Poteet, Texas: Dr. Chester Shotts, I wore the name with pride until television influenced a change of attitude. A popular television series of the time "Gunsmoke," featured Matt Dillon and his sidekick Festus, a bumbling, stumbling kind of guy. Somehow, that name turned into "Chester" in my friends' minds, and that's a sobriquet they slapped on me in fun.
That wasn't who I wanted to be. Friends chided me with descriptive names: Chester the molester, Chester the chicken chaser ad nausea.
At the same time, the news team of Chet Huntley and David Brinkley ruled the television airwaves. The courtly, scholarly Huntley presented an entirely suitable persona. So, I shed "Chester" and became "Chet." As they say in cliche-land, the rest is history.
My notoriety as a cheerleader who fell on his butt paid off as I was elected president of the student body as a junior. College politics were pretty petty, actually. Major things were going on in the world and we were more interested in fraternities and sororities and dances and beer busts.
One good thing came from my presidency. I had dinner with Eleanor Roosevelt. She visited the college on a speaking engagement, and Dr. John G. Flowers, president, invited a four students to dinner in his home; I was one, and naturally I asked for her autograph.
What a woman. She entered the dining room one minute before dinner was scheduled to be served. She interacted with the others as though we were old friends. Later she spoke on the topic "World Concepts of Communism."
My junior year was really my last year. I graduated early. Upon graduation, entrance to law school suffered a setback. New students at that time could not enter in the spring; thus, I needed something to do while waiting.
Dad pulled some strings, I think, to get me a teaching position in Pleasanton High School. History and reading. Reading? I had no training to work with high school students who could not read. A professor at Southwest Texas State, Dr. Empress Zedler, was a nationally recognized expert on reading problems and the first female department head. Perhaps she could help, so off to San Marcos to visit.
Dr. Zedler was extremely cordial and helpful, and she gave me an hour or two of tips.
"Use reading material the students can master," she said. "Use 'Reader's Digest.'" She also suggested that I should start with sounds and flash cards. Bless her heart, she must have thought my task was difficult if not impossible, but she smiled and said, "Whatever you can do to help them will be more than they have had."
So, back to PHS. On the first day of reading class, I greeted a dozen students, mostly freshmen and sophomores, mostly minorities and all male. But upward and onward. Out came the flash cards. As I held up a "T," I asked, "What is this sound?" "Ruh," was the response. "This is worse than I imagined," I thought to myself.
By the end of the spring semester, all 12 students began reading "Readers Digest," and they developed confidence that they were making progress. Years later, I learned that one student had graduated from college and earned a master's degree in special education. Others graduated high school and entered the workforce.
In my history classes, I took a page from the science teachers and introduced the first history fair in which students prepared projects concerning history — dioramas, maps made with flour paste, clothing and other exhibits. The fair was a success.
In another effort to create interest, I asked students to write a paper defending a political philosophy with which they disagreed. We also discussed how in World War II, German soldiers' bodies were found bearing religious artifacts. Were all these men evil?
My second year, I taught speech and worked with theater students. This was a blast. Students in Speech 1 performed "Aria del Capo," "Sorry Wrong Number" and "A Color-conscious Conscience" for an evening of one-act plays. Parents loved it.
Students produced the play, "Teahouse of the August Moon," (right) a production that required extensive lighting and sound effects and learning a "kind of Japanese" language. Any Japanese speakers probably would have been appalled. Some parents complained about the "damns" and "hells" in the production and asked that the language by censored. Principal Joe Mitchell, my high school mentor and former history teacher, stood firm, saying "generals don't say darn and students would have to learn different lines."
In 1959, prejudice and hatred were alive and thriving in South Texas, far away from Little Rock, Montgomery and other hot spots of the Civil Rights Movement. That spring, I chaperoned the Pleasanton High School Eagle band to San Antonio for a University Interscholastic League concert competition. We took the weary and hungry group after the performance to the now defunct Mammy’s Cafeteria in the Sunset Ridge Shopping Center on North New Braunfels Avenue.
Sophomore Dorie Monroe, a bass horn player and the only African-American in the band, lagged behind as his white buddies rushed into the cafeteria, chattering happily and lining up to get their food. John and Harry Jackson, the group’s African-American bus drivers, had walked to a nearby service station to get a soft drink and cheese crackers.
They anticipated what was about to happen. When Dorie strolled hesitatingly into the building at the back of the line, a cafeteria employee raced toward him, shouting, “That boy can’t come in here.”
Dorie’s fellow bandsmen gasped in disbelief at the employee’s scream and then — as if part of a halftime drill —they turned and marched from the building. I was heartsick for Dorie but so proud of his band compadres.
Other African-American students at the high school included senior Pauline Jackson, winner of the Business and Professional Women’s scholarship; junior all-around student and athlete Timothy Winters; and sophomores Clarence Cole, Annie Ruth Johnson, Leo King, John Stevens and Elroy Woodson. The eight students had moved to the white high school because the Pleasanton ISD Board of Trustees had closed the “Colored” school the year before because the ramshackled facility near the town’s sewage disposal plant was declared uninhabitable.
More than 50 years later, Timothy J. Winters (left) is pastor of Bayview Baptist Church in San Diego, one of the largest churches in southern California with more than 2,500 members. Dr. Winters, who received his Doctor of Ministry degree from the United Theological Seminary in Dayton, Ohio, is a dynamic and inspirational Gospel preacher, one of the most sought-after preachers in the nation. He has written four books and hosts a radio show in San Diego.
Winters, or Tim as we knew him at that time, played football and took a leading role in the district championship one-act play. He sang in the choir and won district at the University Interscholastic League declamation competition with his powerful presentation of “God’s Trombones” by James Weldon Johnson. God's Trombones: Seven Negro Sermons in Verse (New York: The Viking Press, 1927, 1955)
I should have known Tim would become a preacher. His booming baritone voice sent shivers shooting up my spine each time I coached him in practice sessions.
At the district contest, the three judges stood and applauded at the final “Amen.”
James Weldon Johnson, the author of “God’s Trombones,” avoided the use of Negro dialect in his readings, wishing to dodge the stereotypes associated with it; Tim also refused to use dialect in his performance, despite my assertion that use of the dialect would improve its power and authenticity. He placed second at the regional contest in Corpus Christi. The first-place winner, a white student, delivered “God’s Trombones” — with dialect. But that’s OK. Tim did it his way.
My final year at Pleasanton High School, 1959, the senior play was "Our Town" by Thornton Wilder, and it was well received.
Three years at PHS and I was off to the University of Texas School of Law to work toward my dream. But it turned out to be more of a nightmare.
Classes in the law school were the most intense I had known. In Contracts, grown men were reduced to tears by Professor Oberor's interrogation techniques. In a Properties class one day, I was unprepared when Professor Fritz called on me to brief a case. "I'm sorry, sir, I'm not prepared," I said. He frowned and went on to the next victim.
About 15 minutes later, he called on me again. I had a fairly good excuse, but I did not bother to give it.
During the year and a half I attended law school, I worked three meals a day as a waiter at Scottish Rite Dormitory for women and afternoons at a law office. At night for awhile, I was the "Night Bite" man, traveling to fraternities and sororities selling sandwiches and drinks.
Finally, one morning in the spring semester of the second year, I just rolled over and said, "Enough is enough." And I withdrew from school.
So, what to do after law school didn't pan out? Teaching had been fun. Maybe I could return to that job. I applied for a teaching position in Hondo, Texas, a small town near San Antonio. The job came through, and I was teaching freshmen English in the high school.
Hondo school administrators used a pure bell curve system to grade. This meant that grades were based on a percentage: if four or five students had a 90 average, only two would earn an A. Then, a larger percentage, perhaps four or five, would make a B; larger a C and then the equivalent percentages would make a D and an F. I hated grading this way. In my mind, if everyone in the class earned an A they should receive that grade. That's an idealistic and naive way of looking at grades, I suppose. But I've never been a big supporter of "grades."
One day I had a disagreement with another English teacher. She stormed into my classroom during a class in progress and chided me for allowing a student to read a book not on the department's reading list. I invited her into the hall and told her that it was none of her business what my students read. He had read a book titled "Hot Rod," which was on the level he could handle. Granted, it wasn't on the list, but it was that or nothing. She never bothered me again.
Hondo lasted one semester, and then it was on to Calhoun High School in Port Lavaca, Texas where my brother and his wife, Jan, also taught.
My assignment was to teach history and government, but Principal Wayman Fitz told me upon arrival that I would have an additional assignment. I could drive a bus or be the sponsor of the Newspaper Club. "Newspaper Club?" I asked. "Yes, and it meets once a month," he assured me.
"Does the school have a newspaper," I asked. "No," he responded. Little did I know that my life had changed by this new and unexpected assignment, and the district lost a bus driver.
"We'll start one," I said, not knowing a thing about advising. So, The Sandcrab was born. I decided we could do a weekly newspaper, which was unheard of at the time. Two seniors were selected to serve as editors, Linda White, a conservative, and Dick J. Reavis (right), a liberal.
Reavis went on to graduate from the University of Texas, and is now teaching journalism at North Carolina State University. He has written for Texas Monthly and The Texas Observer and was a senior reporter for awhile at the San Antonio Express-News.
The year was interesting. Each week, I drove to Victoria with the pages to put them on a bus to Cuero where it was printed at The Cuero Record. We made it through the first year in fairly good shape although it was a pretty bad example of a high school newspaper.
Principal Fitz dropped in on a Texas history class one day to observe, and students were reciting Texas poems they had found in research. One student read a poem about a pig, and the principal could not control his laughter; he had to leave.
Since I had directed "Our Town" in Pleasanton, students asked me to do it again at Calhoun (left). The production was a success, but probably not as good as the Pleasanton version.
When summer rolled around I decided I needed to know more about advising so I traveled to Austin to meet with Dr. DeWitt C. Reddick, the dean of the journalism department. We discussed options and he told me about a two-week workshop at UT. He said I could register, so I did. That changed my life as I returned to P.L. and The Sandcrab won the Award of Distinguished Merit the next year.
After three years, I decided to return to Austin on a fellowship to work toward a master's degree in journalism, and I reached that goal in 1966. On Aug. 1 of that year I handed in my paperwork for my master's degree. At the same time, Charles Whitman climbed atop the tower at UT, from
which he fired almost unimpeded for 96 minutes. The Tower afforded
Whitman a nearly unassailable vantage point from which he could select
and dispatch victims. It was as if it had been built for his purpose. In
fact, in previous years Whitman had remarked offhandedly to various
people that a sniper could do quite a bit of damage from the Tower.
I had never experienced the excitement of such a large university. At first, it was frightening. But eventually things slowed down and working toward the master's gave me a new outlook on education in general and journalism in particular.
Of course, I had been in law school, but this was different. Graduate students in journalism began thinking about a thesis right away and built along those lines.
Dr. Reddick was my mentor and I was his assistant. He, Dr. Ernest Sharpe, Dr. Richard King, Professor Olin Hinkle, Professor Red Gibson and others were supportive and two years later, in 1966, I had my degree. Dr. Reddick allowed me to stay and teach reporting and editing in the department; I'm not sure how he pulled that off because I did not go through any hiring process.
While teaching at UT, I was offered an externship to work in Washington D.C. with the Department of Agriculture. I snapped it up and spent the summer of 1969 writing news releases, magazine articles and radio spots for the department. A coworker and I produced a television show called "Across the Fence" and it won an award from the department.
Washington was a blast — the history, the scenery and the night life. I sat in a bar called Mr. Henry's and watched American Neil Armstrong become the first man to walk on the Moon.
The astronaut stepped onto the Moon's surface, in the Sea of Tranquility, at 0256 GMT, nearly 20 minutes after first opening the hatch on the Eagle landing craft. Armstrong had earlier reported the lunar module's safe landing at 2017 GMT with the words: "Houston, Tranquility Base here. " As he put his left foot down first Armstrong declared: "That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind." He described the surface as being like powdered charcoal and the landing craft left a crater about a foot deep.
The historic moments were captured on television cameras installed on the Eagle and turned on by Armstrong. Armstrong spent his first few minutes on the Moon taking photographs and soil samples in case the mission had to be aborted suddenly. He was joined by colleague Edwin "Buzz" Aldrin at 0315 GMT and the two collected data and performed various exercises - including jumping across the landscape - before planting the Stars and Stripes flag at 0341 GMT.
A large group of NASA workers were assembled in the bar, and they were laughing, shouting and crying with happiness at the sight.
My time at UT ended upon my return from Washington D.C. when two full professors returned from sabbaticals and the department's budget for me ran out.
It was a time to make decisions. Two jobs were open at the time: Memorial High School in Houston where my friend Elaine Pritchett had taught for many years. Pritchett was a National Journalism Teacher of the Year winner, and I knew it would be difficult to follow her.
 The other job was at Robert E. Lee High School in San Antonio. I had known the teacher there several years earlier, but the publications had gone through some tough times. It seemed like a good place to do a rebuilding job. During my interview with Principal John Taylor ( right), he asked if I thought I was conservative enough to teach at the school. I had just shaved a full beard but he did not know that.
"Sure," I replied. "I can be whatever it takes to get the job done."
He laughed. "You know, we like to win here at Lee."
"I'll bet you a six-pack that we win Tops in Texas the first year," I said, looking him square in the face. "That is if I can get top students to work."
He promised that he would help recruit top students. And, he followed through on that promise. Eventually, six National Merit semifinalists signed on to work on The Bugle Call, the biweekly newspaper.
And, at the University Interscholastic League Press Conference that spring, we were announced as Tops in Texas for the first time in school history.
Jay Brandon, who wrote a column called "Agent Fred," is now a San Antonio novelist with 17 best-selling books to his credit.
At the end of the semester, I was invited to a barbecue at Principal Taylor's home attended mostly by coaches. With great fanfare, he presented me with a six-pack of cold Budweiser.
The Lee yearbook, Traveler, had never had a cover any color other than red, gray or black -- at least that is what I was told. But, the first year, the cover was bright yellow and tan and black with artwork by a student who went on to achieve honors with her art, Rosario Carillo. And the cover material was burlap. I'm not sure how the students liked the change, but it was refreshing for me -- I don't think the staff members liked it very much but most of them went along with the changes -- perhaps to humor me.
 There were many happy moments during my six years at Lee, one of which was meeting my best female friend, Lillian Levy Brinkley Parker (left), the French teacher at the school. Lil and I had a blast, and our friendship continued after I moved on to San Antonio College. Lil was one of a kind: loud but loving, profane but super-intelligent, always loyal and trustworthy.
 Another good friend at Lee was Bessie Brite Cutcher (right), an English teacher. Bessie did not look as smart as she was. She had moved from teaching in a high school on the Gulf Coast where she had worked with enriched senior English students. She was placed teaching slower learners at Lee. She did not complain. "I'll take whoever they send me," she said. She filled her classroom with posters of teen interests: football players, movie stars, TV personalities.
She had rules. For example, at the end of a class period, all the boys had to remain seated until the girls could exit the room. One would think students would find this strange, but they loved her.
She died during my last year at Lee. At her funeral, the Lee choir sang "Dixie" and one of her students delivered a touching eulogy about how much she meant to her students.
During the six years, The Bugle Call won Tops in Texas three times, and the yearbook, Traveler, won the prestigious Trendsetter award from Columbia Scholastic Press Conference in New York City — the first ever won by a Texas high school I was told at the time. Because of this success I had the privilege of working at summer journalism workshops in Austin; Norman, OK; Las Cruces, N.M.; San Angelo; Dallas; Arlington; College Station; San Marcos; Huntsville; Commerce; Columbia, S.C.; Kingsville; Kilgore; and San Antonio.
Students on staff have gone on to become newspaper reporters, editors and graphic artists as well as judges, teachers and a range of occupations -- and have grown up to be good productive citizens. Recently this year, I have re-established contact with many through Facebook.
In 1976, the University Interscholastic League Press Conference named me Journalism Teacher of the Year, and my colleagues named me Teacher of the Year at Lee. Life was good and I was blessed.
The next year, I was asked to teach two additional government classes plus my journalism classes and both publications. I told Principal Bill Evans I couldn't — no wouldn't — do that. I quit to take a similar job at Roosevelt High School where my old friend Tom Mosely was principal. Lil Parker also had transferred to the school so I would have a friend there.
I lasted one semester at Roosevelt because I decided I wanted out of journalism and moved into teaching American History to freshmen. Freshmen? I had not worked with that age group for many years.
The final straw came one day when I was called into Tom's office. A teacher whose name I can't recall had nabbed one of my students out of class smoking marijuana in the parking lot. She had come to me during class and said she had a personal problem and could she go to the restroom. I let her go, and she did not go where she said she was going.
Later, the young woman apologized for getting me in trouble. But it was too late. They drove me batty; finally, I told Tom I needed out. I quit in the middle of the semester near exhaustion and breakdown.
For several months I had no job. I did odd writing jobs like a drivers education booklet for a San Antonio driving school and public relations copy writing for a free-lance graphic artist.
At that time, my friend from summer workshops, Dub Daugherty (left), who was chairman of the journalism department at San Antonio College and one of the top community college advisers in the nation, asked me to apply for an open position to teach Introduction to Mass Communications, Magazine Editing, Introduction to Public Relations and help advise The Ranger and The Fourth Write. I had been teaching a night class there for awhile. I applied.
In 1978, I was hired to teach in the Journalism-Photography department at San Antonio College, and I was thrilled to join a dynamite team of educators: W. B. "Dub" Daugherty, Lynnell Jackson and Jerry Townsend.
One of my former students at Lee commented that he had heard I was hired "for laughs." But, for whatever reason, I couldn't have been happier.
My main teaching assignment was Introduction to Mass Communications, an introductory course required of all journalism majors. So, over the 28 years I was at SAC I have had students who have gone on to successful careers in media work. See Former students and Legacy, the exes newsletter.
About that same time, I bought my house (left) in Northeast San Antonio at 408 Pike Road, a two-bedroom, one bath once owned by a Secretary of Agriculture whose daughter and son-in-law owned the house next door.
The two properties were separated before I bought my house.
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| Katie has the run of the house. |
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| Mister in his outside spot. |
The house has seen good times -- a party after a wedding, for example. I have had housemates from time to time, one dog and my deceased feline loves, Katie, and a big black buddy named Mister.
Over the years I also taught Principles of Public Relations, Introduction to Advertising and Magazine Editing -- courses that were sort of peripheral in nature.
I helped advise the student chapter of the Society of Professional Journalists and was a co-adviser of The Ranger and The Fourth Write magazine. When The Ranger became an online publication, I was the adviser and I loved the challenge and followed instructions from the students who knew more than I did.
I continued to teach at summer workshops for high school students (left) at the University of Texas at Arlington and UT-Austin as well as workshops in Oklahoma, New Mexico and South Carolina. It was good to keep working with high school students as it kept me "thinking young." Unfortunately, we lost Dub to AIDS on June 17, 1995, and Lynnell moved to The San Antonio Light as editorial page editor. Marianne Odom joined the staff and Irene Abrego also came on board -- they taught the reporting and editing classes, Jerry continued to teach photography and Introduction to Mass Communications. Other additions to the department were Sue Merkner and Dr. Edmond Lo.
During my time at Lee and San Antonio College, I was extremely lucky to be recognized for doing what I loved doing.
To wit: High School Journalism Teacher of the Year (1976) from the University Interscholastic League Press Conference; Journalism Achievement Award (1971 and 1972) from the Dow Jones Newspaper Fund; editor and managing editor of Acequia, San Antonio College's faculty journal (four years); "Legend of Texas Scholastic Journalism" by Interscholastic League Press Conference in 2002; 2005 NISOD recipient; Edna McGaffey Media Excellence Award, sponsored by The San Antonio Express-News, from The Association for Women in Communications in 2007; Trailblazer Award from Texas Association of Journalism Educators, 2008.
I became chair of the department (above) and served in that position until my retirement.
Twenty-eight years later, on Aug. 31, 2006, I retired.
It was a great run at Lee and at San Antonio College, and now I'm in my golden years of retirement. I volunteered to work with students at the college on The Ranger advertising. I enjoy Facebook, keeping in touch with former students. And, I enjoy blogging. Once upon a time, my favorite hobby was gardening, but in San Antonio's weather, I've changed to indoor stuff.
Here is some of what I've done over the years.
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