Tag: life

100 years

A young Alva Martaindale on his beloved horse, Flash. (Family photo, originally black and white)

A few scattered memories leading to a point.

(1) My dad was a horse trader to the core. When he bought a convenience store, he used it as a place to show off some of the junk he turned into … well … art. He specialized in old farm implements like a singletree used by a horse to pull a load, or a turning plow that could be pulled by the horse.

Customers would ask if a particular item was for sale and Daddy would reply, “Everything but my wife and kids is for sale.” Now, if that doesn’t make you feel wanted, nothing will.

(2) Our mother would never spank my brother and me, leaving it up to our dad when he got home. He had a rule that if one of us earned a spanking, we both did. He explained that even if one was not involved in the offense, he should at least keep his brother from getting into trouble.

I was about 6 years old and we were waiting for him to get home from work to administer justice. I do not remember what got us into trouble, but I do recall thinking at the time it was pretty petty.

When the time came, I assumed the first position because I was the eldest. That was the procedure. When Daddy laid the belt to me, it was a mild slap, and I knew immediately that he agreed the punishment was not really deserved. I stepped aside and my brother, 15 months my junior, took his licks, then straightened up and said, “That didn’t hurt.”

I probably slapped my forehead; I knew that was a stupid thing to say.

“Well,” the executioner said, “it’s supposed to hurt. Guess I’ll have to try again.” You know how it finished.

(3) The final few years my dad worked at the fire department, the three of us attended most of the Pine Tree High School home football games. We never sat in the bleachers but always stood along the end zone chain link fence. Don’t ask me why.

One highlight for Ward and me was going to the concession stand to buy Daddy a coffee and each of us a cup of hot chocolate. The challenge was navigating back to the fence without spilling too much of the drinks. Without a memory like that, I’d probably assume I always had great balance.

During one game, we were all three standing along the fence. Ward and I were about third- and fourth-graders. He probably was jumping around or something and this older boy tripped over Ward’s foot and immediately took umbrage. There were three boys, as I recall, probably junior high age, and the boy who fell started fussing at my brother, apparently trying to start a fight with this much smaller boy. Ward said it was an accident and probably apologized, but the outrage continued. I stepped in at that time with the classic street gang line, “He said it was an accident!” Yeah, that really showed them. Regardless, they moved on and nothing happened.

The entire time, our dad stayed on the fence and silently watched without a movement or a word. Later, he told me he was proud how I stuck up for my brother. Seriously, when you grow up together, it’s just what you naturally do. However, his words meant a lot to me.

(4) For a guy who didn’t finish high school because he “knew I would farm the rest of my life,” he sure knew a lot about people. I’ve heard him talk someone off a metaphorical ledge, just flooding them with common sense.

But most often, he was trying to make people laugh. He always had a corny joke or some off-the-cuff remark to lighten any situation.

Many years back, I was fairly new in a job that involved managing a dozen people with a wide range of job descriptions. One of them told me about a party many of them had attended and they talked about me, she said. “We decided none of us had ever seen you mad. Then we decided we didn’t really want to see you mad.”

That was my father. Not that he was fearful, but someone who always had a smile was one you shouldn’t want to be mad.

Century

Alva Martaindale, who died 12 ½ years ago, would have turned 100 on this date.

His mother lived to be 97 and he popped off in his later years that he intended to live to an older age than she did, at times even mentioning 100 years. His will to do so wore out after my mother died just two days after his 81st birthday. His final few years were tedious for him; he saw no point in going on alone. Those who loved him and saw him struggle with pain and sorrow, still working to keep up a cheerful persona, recognized that he had earned the reward of peace.

At his explicit demands, his funeral was graveside only and he imposed a strict rule there would be no tears. My eyes are watering now while typing this, but they stayed dry during the service. He ordered it and I did not want to disappoint him.

What’s your name?

Names are important.

Aren’t they?

There’s a line I’ve heard many times and just found it credited to Robert De Niro: “I always say people can call me anything they want as long as they don’t call me late for supper.” I do think that statement preceded him.

There was another celebrity who had particular wishes for using his name. Remember Bill Saluga? No? Well, you’ll remember him as Raymond J. Johnson Jr. If that doesn’t ring a bell, click here for a 35-second YouTube clip from the Redd Foxx show.

And we mustn’t forget the bouncy, fun song The Name Game, sung by Shirley Ellis, who co-wrote with Lincoln Chase (yes, you remember correctly, the first two names used in the song were Shirley and Lincoln) a children’s song that reached No. 3 on the Billboard Hot 100 in early 1965 and No. 4 on the R&B charts.

When my dad owned the grocery store in Greggton (an area of Longview, Texas), a couple came by regularly to service and supply the machine that tested vacuum tubes. They would walk into the store and the man would call out something like, “How you doing, Dave?”

My dad’s name was Alva, though many people pronounced it Alvie. I asked him once why he never corrected the fellow. He just didn’t think it was that big of a deal. To be honest, knowing my father’s humor, he probably just thought it was funny and wanted to see how long it played out.

Also, he could dish it out as well as take it.

We had daily bread delivery from Mrs. Baird’s, Wonder, Sunbeam and Hostess. I loved working in the morning and interacting with these delivery guys and the others we saw regularly. My dad seemed to be particularly fond of a young driver, I believe with Mrs. Baird’s. Dad was always giving him a hard time (in a good way, if you’re not familiar with the concept) and consistently called him Charlie Brown. I’m 98 percent certain that was not his real name, but he answered to it in our store.

 I’ve all my life had poor enunciation skills and that has contributed to me sometimes being called Dave (like my dad mistakenly was, funny enough) when I first met people. I figured it out early in my adult years that when I identified myself as “Steve,” they understood “Dave.” Being aware of it and making a point to speak a little slower and more distinctly decreased the frequency of that mistake.

But one I have absolutely no way to explain occurred at an extremely unfortunate time.

I was one of several guys from White Oak (Texas) in the spring of 1973 who competed in a broad range of events in the Sixth Annual Explorer Olympics at Fort Hood. We had guys competing in pole vault, high jump, wrestling, mile run, weightlifting and gymnastics. I chose the decathlon.

I often talk about participating in sports and I usually make it a point to clarify that, as an individual, I was never that outstanding. I did make small contributions to teams I was on and treasured the opportunity to do so.

This decathlon competition, though, was my singular personal athletic achievement. Unlike the decathlon in the Olympic Games, this 10-event competition was held entirely on one day.

I would love to go through all the events with you. Fifty-two years later, I still enjoy remembering it. To cut to the chase, I did manage to win the gold medal. (OK, it wasn’t really gold, but it kind of looked like it.)

Medal presentations occurred the next morning. Upon arrival, we were lined up and leading the parade of champions were the decathlon medalists. My head surely swelled a bit. As we marched around the track, a band in the stands played “Bugler’s Dream (Olympic Fanfare)” by Leo Arnaud. I soaked it in.

When we reached the podium, I ascended to the top step with the runners-up on either side. The base commander, as I understood him to be, presented our medals, placing them over our heads when we bent over.

In the excitement, I managed to hear the PA system: “Decathlon, first place, Mike Martaindale.”

I’m sorry … what? Who?

Yeah, names are important.

Tomorrow, we’re going to talk a little more about names, particularly about a specific problem some of our names have.

One more thing

Names are applied to more than people. Consider college football conferences.

Their names don’t usually mean much specifically, but there is one thing that stands out. Three of them have a number in their name, originally meant to reflect the number of schools in the conference.

Of course, that’s all gone away now with the movements and additions and consolidations of power. However, I do get a kick out of them.

The Big Ten consists of 18 teams instead of 10.

The Big 12 has 16 teams instead of 12.

And the Pac-12 has two teams instead of 12. However, there are special circumstances as they lost most of their teams to realignment but will be adding teams back for next year. As it stands, they will then be up to … drum roll, please … nine teams instead of 12.

Old beginnings

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

(Go ahead, take a deep dive into the memories resurrected by hearing that question again. Tell us about them in a comment.)

In my earliest recollections, my father was a firefighter, a popular career choice for young boys, but I don’t remember considering following in his boot steps. What I do remember occurred Tuesday, Feb. 20, 1962.

At 8:47 a.m. in the first-grade classroom of Mrs. Aryless Follis, a hushed group of 6- and 7-year-olds listened to a radio report broadcast over the PA system from the principal’s office. At that time, astronaut John Glenn rode his Mercury spaceship Friendship 7 into space. His almost five-hour ride circled Earth three times, the first American to do so.

Even more exciting was the splashdown at 1:43 p.m. our time. By then, I believe, I had decided to become an astronaut.

Of course, we all know how well such plans of a first-grader play out.

Little League probably gave me thoughts of playing professional baseball, but my limited success on the field appropriately rained on that vision. I had a comfortable relationship with math and did reasonably well in the sciences, so something in those areas seemed likely. Exactly what, I never had any idea.

My mother pitched civil engineering to me, but it failed to build any interest. My father took me on a day trip to the Red River valley, where he grew up, to meet a botanist friend – or friend of a friend – who visited with us and showed me some research that involved grafting trees.

And, undoubtedly, there were many other short-lived prospects I no longer recall.

Have you noticed what’s missing here?

Yes, writing. I never, ever, had any thought about making a career as a journalist, as a writer or editor.

Never.

And that’s in spite of the fact I worked two years on my high school newspaper. Still, not even an inquiring thought about working as a writer.

I started college as a math major. About two weeks into the semester, I pretty much tripped over a Friday night job and came to my senses the next morning with a new career field, beginning as a sportswriter for a daily newspaper.

And THAT, my friends is the point to these 861 words: I don’t know what’s happening next, but I keep looking.

Even on this blog, I’ve recently struggled to find a purpose or, more exactly, a method to fulfill a purpose. I’ve been fighting that internal battle the past few years. Then, not unlike tripping into my first news job, I came across a letter from 1998 that lit up my path with a million candlepower spotlight.

Jack Maguire was a noted Texas historian and author who also served 20 years as executive director of The University of Texas Ex-Students’ Association, and nine years as executive director of the University’s Institute of Texas Cultures in San Antonio. He also wrote or co-authored nine books, more the 750 magazine articles, and more the 4,000 columns.

My newspaper was one of his subscribers and, though I never met him, we communicated by letters and telephone enough that I was comfortable reaching out to him for advice during the early years of my newspaper column.

It was his response that I came across the other day:

“I agree with your goals for ‘A Texas Voice.’ You want to make readers think and remember. Certainly, you accomplish that. I particularly enjoyed your column on having cardboard boxes as a kid. And the one on dentistry. Both brought back vivid memories.

“The personal essay has become a highly marketable piece of writing today. … Those who can write such pieces have it made – and you certainly can. So why don’t you focus on this area? Let every column be a ‘slice of life’ (either past or present) … Whether it was only yesterday or many yesterdays ago, your aim is to inveigle the reader by talking about a common event that will make him say: ‘You made me think’ or ‘remember’ or both.”

Thank you, dear reader, for your indulgence in allowing me to share these flattering words that mean a lot to me. If you’ve not figured it out yet (or, perfectly understandable, you don’t completely trust what you think I’m about to say), I am refocusing here on dancing with the one who brung me, with a tip of the hat to Darrell Royal.

Tomorrow’s post will update y’all with some significant changes in our lives. Hope you can sleep well tonight worrying about what it might be.

One caveat

OK, many of you are thinking, “Does this mean an end to your political postings?”

Yes … and no.

My intent is to not focus on politics, to not make it the lead topic of the post. I’ve grudgingly come to the awareness that anyone who still believes in and supports Donald Trump is blinded beyond my ability to help them understand. However, I may close out my columns with a short entry like this one, using it to relate something I feel worth sharing, political or otherwise.

… and counting

This native of the U.S. Virgin Islands doesn’t mind showing his age. Photo by Steve Martaindale

During a time of casual introspection, I discover myself at that delightful age where … well, let’s just look at some of the things I feel make life for this 70-year-old even more of a blessing.

To begin with, I would like to give a nod to Jenny Joseph, who in 1961 at the young age of 30 penned what I’ve seen referenced as Britain’s favorite poem, “Warning.” If the title doesn’t ring a bell, the first line will: “When I am an old woman I shall wear purple.”

In addition to wearing purple clothes and a red hat “which doesn’t go,” she longs for a future when she’s free to sit on the pavement when tired and generally make up for the sobriety of her youth. I discovered “Warning” when I was much younger than 30 but instantly recognized the idea of achieving an age at which one refuses to honor restrictions imposed by others.

Take that bit about sitting on the pavement when tired.

On a recent weekend, we were on the San Antonio River Walk and I was free for a few hours while Leah and Erin attended a bridal party. I had covered most of the river walk, it was a bit warm for the season and the sun was bright, and I was dealing with a bit of a back issue. There are not many places to sit that are not related to a restaurant, so I found a low retaining wall and plopped down. I really hate to get in the way of people, but I did what I could to minimize the inconvenience and decided they’d just have to step around the old man sitting on the pavement.

Now, let’s just tick off some other benefits of reaching “that age.” This is in no way comprehensive and I expect y’all to comment with other advantages.

  • Having enough real-world experience that it no longer matters what others think and therefore feeling free to say what one really feels. Out loud.
  • Brief and pleasant encounters with other people’s cute kids and/or pets.
  • Dressing as one wishes, whether it’s wearing purple and red or Bermuda shorts with Santa socks.
  • The same thing applies to hairstyles, too, by the way.
  • Ignoring phone calls.
  • Allowing a younger person to hold the door.
  • Friendships with people who will always be honest with you.
  • Having “been there and done that” enough for the wisdom to save a lot of headaches and heartaches. Those experiences also make older people more empathetic, though old grouches still get a lot of attention.
  • Being more aware of one’s “finish line” makes it easier to move past the piffle and do what one wants or needs.
  • Traveling whenever is best, not having to oblige any school or work schedule. Going to the movie theater at 11 a.m.
  • The joy of saying something in public that causes the young adults to do a double take.
  • Having stories to fit just about any situation. Ditto for sage advice. OK, this right I’ve been claiming for decades.

A life

Santiago de Compostela street. Photo by Steve Martaindale

We’re approaching the final week of our one-month visit to Spain. We arrived with no more of an agenda than to simply explore what we could, greatly relying on serendipity to provide. While those explorations have been principally in our host’s hometown of Valencia, we’ve made a few trips out, including an overnight visit to Santiago de Compostela.

But I’m not doing a travel guide piece.

I mention Santiago to introduce the 2010 film “The Way,” starring Martin Sheen and directed by his son, Emilio Estevez.

But neither am I doing a movie review.

Instead, let’s look at two lines from early in the movie.

Sheen’s character, Tom, learns his son died in an accident in France. Tom has not been happy with his son because he dropped out of school to personally experience life around the planet. Speaking to his assistant while leaving for France to claim his son’s remains, Tom says with some resignation, “He wanted to see the world.”

In the most comforting manner possible, she replies, “And he did.”

Dreams are like that

The weight of that exchange didn’t really hit me the first few times I saw the movie, but it’s truly an encapsulation of Tom’s transformation over the weeks he spent walking the Camino de Santiago – a centuries-old pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. (Now the beginning makes sense, right?)

Do you identify with those lines?

“He wanted to see the world.”

“And he did.”

Tom did not understand what his son really wanted, so he thought Daniel had failed. In truth, his son had been fulfilling his dreams all the while his father was disapproving. He was seeing, experiencing, influencing the world.

When Leah and I sold our house almost 11 years ago, bought an RV and set about following our dreams, there were many people who did not understand, some who even, indeed, disapproved. I think a large percentage of those might better appreciate why we’re still living this life that may seem strange to them. If not, we’re OK with it; we don’t expect or need everyone to accept it.

Let’s close with another exchange from the movie that helps explain our decision. Tom has just spent his first night in a hostel, known on the trail as an alberque. After the woman stamped his Camino passport, he asked, “Have you ever walked the Camino, señora?”

“Never,” she replied. “When I was young, I was too busy. And now that I’m older, I’m too tired.”