Allen Thrower

Schools in those days had “low” and “high” grades, ie., the low first grade, and the high first grade. If one failed the low first, he/she was not promoted to the high first, etc. Both, the highs and lows were taught each semester. Completing the high first, one was promoted to the low second. Students who excelled were “double promoted.” It seems that I remember that Bobby was double promoted, or triple promoted; I think he skipped the entire second grade. I was never double promoted, but I was never held back, either. I don’t know when they stopped having the low and high grades.

The second semester that year Jim started to Fullmore Jr. High in the “low seventh.” He has reminded me that he was a street crossing guard at school. It was during that year that the state of Texas added the twelfth grade to the public schools, and I recall that Jim was just not real happy about that.

Mad Dog!
We loved to play. Usually we made up our own rules to the games we played, often making them up as they went along. “Play like…” was a good way to make an addition to what we were doing. Play like Jim’s the daddy and Peggy is the mommy (or the little girl) and Bobby and I are the little kids (or uncles, or strangers, etc.)

One of our favorite games was “mad dog.” In this game we’d lay all the kitchen chairs on their sides, along with any other boxes or little furniture available, including a black box with a lid on it that Dad used to develop pictures. These were walls, doorways, etc. Someone would be “IT.” The object of the game was for the rest of us to get across the room without the mad dog touching us. If we were touched, we became “it” and the former mad dog was just another player. We played this game by the hour,–screaming from “fear”, laughing a lot and we were very loud. Somehow Mother tolerated this game for long periods of time. It was one of the best games we could play when the weather was cold and rainy outside.

Pirates!
A game we played was to be pirates. We fought with stick “swords”, swinging and clacking away. Sometimes we would pretend to stab another, who then fell down and died. As soon as he was down, he “came back” as “another man” and began to fight again. A cat may have nine lives, but our lives were without number, but always as another person. The same rule applied when we played cops and robbers or cowboys and Indians .

As pirates, we had lots of jewels and money. The money was almost real. Bobby and Jim made it from rolls of receipt tape. They made hundreds of dollar bills of various denominations.

During the summer Jim and Bobby both caught the chicken pox and mumps (or measles and mumps) at the same time. They were very sick, and had to stay in bed. They were miserable. I did not get sick. Somehow, I was required by my sick brothers to go out one rainy day and dig up a lot of the dollar bills we pirates had buried in a “treasure chest” the back yard. I guess my retrieving that treasure was some comfort to my brothers-in-need.

There was a neighborhood grocery store, but it was quite a long walk form our house. One day when I was five years old, Mother and I went to the store, crossing many acres of bluebonnets, Indian paintbrushes and pink buttercups in bloom. That is one of the most beautiful of all my memories. Then we entered the woods where the bob-whites and the whipor-wills their enchanting eerie cries to the beauty of it all. The store was down the hill, on Barton Springs Road near the railroad overpass. It was a small, narrow wooden building with wooden floors. I remember the meat market as well as the shelves of groceries. Mother was there to buy only a few things. Well, I found the marshmallows! One of my worse traits came out at their sight and at my desiring for them. I whined for Mother to buy me some marshmallows. She shook her head. I kept it up, much to her dismay. I kept whining, and she finally began to cry. She told me that she didn’t have enough money to buy the marshmallows. Seeing her cry made me hurt inside so much that my stomach still churns when I just think about it. I had learned a bit of humility and an important lesson in obedience and respect for Mother’s special and very kind disposition.

We lived at 901 Bouldin Ave. in south Austin. Every Saturday Jim, Bobby and I would walk to town to see a Western at the Queen Theater. On Saturdays they had singing with the bouncing ball, previews of movies to come, a cartoon, a Western movie, and a “serial.” The serials I remember most were Batman and Robin in their baggy cotton leotards and “The Perils of Pauline.” (Will she get away? She has to; or, there wouldn’t be a next chapter to “The Perils of Pauline.”)

Our trek of over a mile to town was the same every weekend. I don’t recall any of us ever having any complaints about that great trip to town and back. We’d walk north down the hill that was Bouldin Avenue, then turn East on Barton Springs Road to Congress Avenue, where we’d turn north, crossing the bridge over the wide Colorado River. While on that bridge we’d always look over the railing at the river far below. As result, in years to come I had some really dramatic dreams of that river,–dreaming of it in flood almost up to the capitol grounds, with only wooden planks on steel cables over the torrents below the riverbed, forming a makeshift long bridge that replaced the original one that had recently washed away.

One day as we three boys were walking on the west sidewalk of Congress Avenue Bobby spotted one of the then brown-uniformed policemen, walked over to him, extended his index finger and said, “Pull.” The policeman pulled, and much to my horror and to his own delight before running away Bobby expelled prolonged rumblings of natural posterior emissions.

(A lesson in history, written April 28, 1992)
How old are you, Reader? Fifteen? Twenty-five? Fifty?

When your parents talked of things in their memory, but before you were born, didn’t that strike you as ancient history? Well, reflect on this:

When I was four years old, I knew a man who was 103 years old. He would tell me stories about “The War.” I would listen, but I didn’t know what war he was talking about until I was grown; and, I don’t remember any of his stories to this day.

But, one day I got to thinking, “When I was four years old, the year was 1939. That means my elderly friend (Ezra) was born in 1836. And, that means he was 25 years old when the Civil War began in 1861.”

I KNEW A MAN WHO FOUGHT IN THE CIVIL WAR! HE WAS 29 YEARS OLD WHEN PRESIDENT LINCOLN WAS ASSASSINATED.

Let’s pretend that when my friend Ezra was 4 years old, HE had a friend, John, who was 103 years old. John would have been born in 1737. To make our story more realistic, let’s say that John was born in Leipzig, Germany and spent his early childhood there. John attended a certain Lutheran church in Leipzig. In 1749, John would have been twelve years old. Sometimes on a Sunday, he would walk to church, which was a short distance away. On the way, he would sometimes stop by a neighbor’s house, and they would walk to church together. This neighbor would always be accompanied by his wife and a multitude of their children on the way, for they had many; he played the organ at the local church, and his name was Johann Sebastian Bach. At that time, Bach was the same age that I am now,– 56 years old. Bach was born in 1685 and died in 1750 at the age of 65.

Now, let’s pretend that friend John came to America just after Bach died. John would now be thirteen years old, arriving in Boston in 1750, a city of about 15,000 population and was rivaling Philadelphia as the cultural and political center of the colonies in America. Among the citizenry were Paul Revere, John Adams, Samuel Adams, John Hancock, and James Otis. John got to know all of them very well.

(Written 11-25-2000)
The Cameron family owned a lot of land, and eventually deeded 500 acres of it over to the city of Waco for Cameron Park, which we enjoyed for many years.

Cameron Park had a wonderfully large and well-equipped playground with many tall swings with chains instead of ropes, see-saws, merry-go-rounds, jumping boards, slides, and lots more. We loved to play in the sand. That was the best playground I have ever seen, and we went there often, with family or just a bunch of neighborhood kids. I can still see my siblings and cousins playing there: Peggy, Bobby, Jimmy, Harris, Frankie and Jackie, Susan and Mark, and others.

At the playground was a large covered pavillion that we used a few times for the Thrower-Miles Family Reunion. I can still see in my mind’s eye Dad, Grandad Thrower, Joe Thrower, Jim Moody, Frank Snasel, Jack Arthur, Lloyd Ferguson playing dominoes or pitching horseshoes or washers while the women–Mother, Mama Thrower, Big Sister (Juanita), Bonnie, & Baby Sister (Faye)–visited and later laid out the prepared meal of fried chicken, meatloaf, vegetables, cakes, pies, and cookies, bread and cornbread, tea, sweet sassafras tea in a big ceramic crocks, and lots more. It was always a feast.

Other features of the park were the huge, really beautiful fountains, big enough for several people to swim or wade in. Also, there was a small zoo, including monkeys, ducks, some exotic chickens, and a big black crow that could talk. You could hear him from a long way off, saying, “Hello! Hello! What’s your name?” and such things as that. I loved to watch the monkeys. They had lots of thing to climb on and to swing on, including some car tires on ropes. One day while I was watching them the zookeeper came along with a bucket of food. Actually, it was just a bucket of slop. The monkeys all ran for the food and started eating. One of them picked up an onion and peeled off a slice of it, then put it in his mouth and started chewing. After just a few chews he spit it out and began to yelp and to jump up and down. He grabbed that onion, ran over to the water trough and began dunking it up and down into the water. (Onions were really hot in those days.) Jim Crow was a real hit until someone taught him some bad words and they had to get rid of him. But, I always enjoyed that wonderful zoo. Some of those chickens were really beautiful.

One other aspect of the park was just walking in the woods. There were tall trees. Grape vines were available to swing on just as in the Tarzan movies. The wild grapes were a deep purple and were tangy, but sweet. Delicious!

(Written 11-25-2000)
During most of World War II we lived on McFerrin Street in north Waco. Bobby and I shared a bed. He got his smallpox vaccination and it was all puffed up, as was normal. I had a mosquito bite on my upper left arm. As we slept, my mosquito bite rubbed against Bobby’s vaccination and I got infected. Doctor Saddler later said that my vaccination took and that it was probably permanent. I have a very small scar from that, and never since then have I had a vaccination that “took.”

(Written 3-4-1997)
It was about 1938. Mama Sutton and Grampa Davis were building a house in Bellmead, a suburb of Waco, Texas. I remember the foundation of unpainted pine. Later the studs went up for the walls. If I remember right, it was a two-room house to begin with. Other rooms were built years later, long after Grampa Davis had left for good.

The living room had a very low ceiling; so, I suspect that Grampa Davis left before the house was completed. But, he dug a well in the front yard. It was hard work, for he had to go into the hole and somehow get the dirt out. He rigged a bucket on a rope and a pulley. I suppose he climbed a ladder to get out to empty the bucket, for it was a bit too deep to throw the dirt out.

Then, he brainstormed a better method. He took me down into the well and showed me how to fill the bucket while he stayed top-side. Then he would pull the filled bucket up and empty it and lower it back to me.

After a few loads I got really scared, fearing the full bucket would fall and hit me. I began to cry. Not because of the work, but because I didn’t want to get hurt. Also, I was afraid of the dark.

So, Grampa came down and got me out. He wasn’t just real happy that I was not much help; but, I don’t think he ever told anyone about this matter.

Epilogue: Years later that home was moved so that the well was in the back yard from then on. It was a shallow well with good water. It had a hand pump that had to be “primed” before any water could be pumped; so, a bucket of water was always available by the pump. The well was covered, so it was safe from anyone falling in.

Some people used to lower buckets into their wells. (Uncle Jim Moody’s well was 103′ to the water) and haul the water out with a crank. But, we had a hand pump.

That water was always cold and tasty.

(Written 11-8-1998)

Andrews, TX – summer of 1947.

My first full-time job was washing dishes in a cafe. I was 11 years old, and could not get paid until I had a Social Security card at age twelve. When my first pay check came it was a big one. At 35 cents an hour, every forty hour week meant $14. Also, I got two free meals each work day, and the food was very good. Mostly I ate two hamburgers each meal or chili and crackers. My choice!

The cafe was in downtown Andrews. Across the entire length of the builing, in letters a foot tall were the words:

“AMERICAN AND MEXICAN FOOD * NO MEXICANS ALLOWED”

(But, Negroes could eat in the kitchen, as was the local custom.)

My work hours were from 4 P.M. until 2 A.M. But, the owner of the cafe made me stay after 2 A.M. and wash all the pots and pans for free, saying that I had to do that chore before I could go home. I hated washing the pots and pans because they had accumulated all day long and the food in them was dried and hard to scrub out; it was always a 2-hour job! At 4:00 A.M. I walked home.

One night I got sick and needed to go home. The owner wouldn’t let me. I went to the bathroom and threw up several times during my shift, and still had to stay and scrub the pots and pans. I was not only sick, I was angry that he would take advantage of me like that.

The next day, I showed up for work at five minutes before time to go to work. I met the owner at the cash register as I entered the building. Lots of customers were there, mostly drinking their afternoon coffee. I told him that I quit, and that I wanted my pay. He replied, “You can’t quit. You have to go to work in five minutes.” I said, “You should have thought of that before you made me work last night when I was sick. And, I want you to pay me for all the overtime you made me work.” He said that I didn’t have any overtime coming; that was just part of the job.

I replied in my natural slow drawl, “Well, I guess I’ll just go talk to the sheriff then,” and I started out the door. By then, everyone in the whole place was roaring with laughter. The owner was at the front door before I was, and he said, “All right. All right, I’ll pay you.” And he did, including the “overtime.”

I walked home and went into the tent where Bobby, Jimmy and I slept. I sat down on my bed, and was concerned that I no longer had a job.

About an hour later, Mr. Jeffrey (who owned the other downtown cafe) drove up to our tent and wanted to talk to me. He said that the story of my quitting my job was all over town, and that if I wanted to work for him to get in the car and I could go to work right now. I did, and he was always exceptionally nice to me. And, he paid me 40 cents an hour (that’s $2.00 more each week) and he never make me wash the pots and pans except on my regular shift.

(Written on 11-25-2000)
It was on McFerrin Street in the late 1930′s. I must have been about three or four years old. Dad was a smoker. One cold, rainy winter day I asked him if I could have a puff of his cigarette. He said that cigarettes shouldn’t be shared, but that I could have one of my own. I thought that was really nice of him. So, he rolled me a cigarette and when I put it to my mouth he struck a match and sucked in, lighting it. A couple of puffs later I had coughed a bit and the smoke burned my lungs. I had had all that I wanted. I told Dad that I was through. But Dad, in his wisdom, told me that cigarettes shouldn’t be wasted and that I had asked for one, and that I should smoke the whole thing. So, I agreed to do it. It didn’t take long for me to get pretty sick. When the cigarette got too short for me to hold it, to prevent waste, Dad got a toothpick and stuck it through the cigarette near my mouth, and had me smoke it as short as possible. Then he asked if I was through, and I nodded. Then he let me go about my business, which was to go out the back door into the rain and throw up until I was empty all the way down to my toes. I didn’t bother to ever ask my Dad for another smoke.