D. O. Caywood

            In my early years I was like a lot of other boys.  Baseball was all that was really important to me.  In my hometown the first baseball team that my high school ever had was formed when I was in the seventh grade. Just about every boy in school tried out for the team. I still remember that day.  There must have been over a hundred boys trying to see if they might fulfill a dream. And even though I had been playing a lot of sandlot ball longer than I could remember I knew that I would never be able to make the team.  I was only in junior high and there were much bigger boys out there.  I did have one thing in my favor, however.  I had always played as a catcher and there were only three of us trying for that position. And because of that, I suppose, I actually made the team.  That was probably the finest day of my life at that time. 

            There was one thing I had to accept, however.  The other two were seniors in high school which meant that I would seldom get to play. I did still enjoy every minute of practice and just waited for my time to come.  It did come the next year and I was playing in almost every game until graduation time. 

            One big reason I was so happy playing was because of the coach, Mr. D. O. Caywood.  He died just a few years ago and it dawned on me that I never knew what those initials stood for.  But it didn’t matter.  He was a good coach and a good person.  He loved the game and he loved his players. He taught me a lot about sportsmanship and the need to work with others as a team and never as a single person. It would take too long to list all he did for me but here is the one thing that has inspired me to write this:

            Mr. Caywood must have gotten up very early every day because I would see him every morning in front of the town drugstore talking to his other early morning friends. Why was I up at that time you ask?  Well I delivered newspapers and that was the time of day I did it.  I normally would just wave and ride on off on my bicycle.  One day he stopped me and introduced me to one of his friends.  He used my name and told his friend that I was a really good catcher.  My head swelled up a bit and I shook hands with both of them.  That was the mistake I made.  Mr. Caywood snarled at me and said in his usually kind voice (but not this time), “Don’t ever hand someone a dead fish handshake!”  I didn’t know what he was talking about.  So he told me. He explained that a handshake was a show of one’s personality.  He said, “When you give a man a handshake, give him one with strength.  Let him know you mean it.  And look at him in the eye and smile.  You have more character than you are showing.”

            Then he made me stand there and shake his hand over and over again until I got it right.  And then he had me try it out on his friend.  I hoped they were having a good time.  They both seemed to be enjoying themselves.

            That was a simple story, wasn’t it?  Well I never forgot that lesson.  I may never be a known athlete or a particularly strong person but I know how to shake hands and mean it.  Mr. Caywood taught me well and for that I will always be thankful.

Thank you, Mr. Caywood!  

              

Mr. L. T. Smith

L. T. Smith

            I was probable not the best student ever to attend Western Kentucky University.  But I did have a good time there.  I had a good job working about forty hours a week, making good money, along with carrying usually about nine credit hours a semester.  That left very little time for the social life.  Yeah, right! I played and partied every chance I got.  And as a result, as you might expect, that showed up on my grades, to the point that I became discouraged as being a student at all.  So after two years there, in the middle of a semester, I quit.  No big deal.  I simply stopped going to any class.

            That is when Mr. L. T. Smith came on the scene. If you ever visit the campus of Western Kentucky University and attend a football game there you will be sure to notice that they play that game in the L. T. Smith stadium.  You see Mr. Smith was well known over the entire area around Bowling Green.  He had been a football coach at Western.  He was the department head of the Industrial Education Department and was remembered among other things as the one who, using a small group of students in their spare time, built what was known as the Barn.  For those who might wonder what the Barn was, it was the first basketball arena at Western. Mr. Smith was a big man, an excellent teacher, and one who put up with no petty stuff at all.

            And he thought my quitting was petty.  I didn’t know how he even knew that I had quit.  I certainly didn’t tell him.  But he was one to keep up with everything and took a genuine interest in every student under his care. I didn’t know I was under his care but I now know better.   I had never been in one of his classes but I did briefly meet him when I first enrolled. And that meeting was not even at the school.  He came into the architectural office where I was working as a draftsman, not to talk to me but to talk to the architect I worked for.  I was introduced to him and he asked me a lot of questions about what I wanted to do as far as my education was concerned.  He listened to my meek answers and left.  I assumed that it would be the last contact I would ever have with him.  But I was wrong again.  And now the real story:

            The morning I stopped going to classes my phone rang where I was working.  It was Mr. Smith.  It was a short conversation.  He simply told me to leave where I was and come to meet him at Cherry Hall – NOW! I didn’t get to say anything.  I may not have been the best student but I was not completely crazy.  I did what he told me to do.  When I met him he was brief as always. He said, “Bill, you have the rest of the day to get to all three teachers you are now taking classes with, apologize for quitting, and beg them to let you back in class.  I will know by the end of this day if you have done it.  If you haven’t done it, I will personally kick your ass around this campus until I get some smart in you.”  That was it. And believe me it worked.  It didn’t take me long to get myself back in all three classes.  By the way, all three teachers were expecting me.  Mr. Smith had told them I would be there and not to be too easy on me but to make me tow the mark.  I went home with mixed emotions but one thing was for sure.  Mr. Smith was not going to have to kick my ass around the campus.

            On graduation day two years later Mr. Smith was standing as I came off the podium with his hand stretched out to congratulate me.  He just smiled and said, “I knew you had it in you.”  That was all I needed to hear.  Even though I barely knew him he stands as one of the finest people I have known.  He really did care about everyone, even me.

Thank you, Mr. Smith!

           

           

Dr. Gordon Wilson

Dr. Gordon Wilson

            It was 1955. I had just been released from the Navy and was about to enroll at Western Kentucky University.  I walked into Cherry Hall not knowing a soul, and feeling lost.  I walked from the front door to the main hall and started to turn right. After all I didn’t know anywhere else to try.  As I turned at the hall I noticed an open door.  No, I noticed where a door should have been but there was none there. I looked in and saw an older man sitting at his desk. He quickly looked up and greeted me, asking my name and wanting to know if he could help me.  When I told him I wanted to register he got up and took me to where I needed to go and helped me fill out the necessary forms.  He wished me well and went back into his office.  That was the only time I ever talked to Dr. Gordon Wilson.

            Until much later.  About three years in fact. I asked someone I thought would know just who Dr. Wilson was.  I was told that he was the head English Department teacher and that he loved everybody.  He wanted anyone to feel like he could talk to him at any time so he had the janitor to take his office door down.  He welcomed anyone and everyone at any time even though he was probably the busiest teacher in our college.

            I began to remember the brief visit I had with him.  He had asked me a lot of personal questions.  I thought at the time that he needed that information in order to help me enroll but everyone I talked to about that informed me that he did everyone like that.  My college roommate, who had been in one of his classes challenged me to test him. So I did.  I enrolled in one of his English classes, which turned out to be the best class I took while I was at Western.

            The first day I entered his class he greeted me at the door (or where it was supposed to be) and called me by name.  Wow!  He remembered my name after talking to me very briefly nearly three years before.  But that was not all. He remembered where I was from, that I had been in the Navy, what I had planned to major in, etc. He almost scared me.  I hoped he didn’t know a lot of my past antics.  Or recent ones for that matter.  But if he did he never mentioned it.

            His class was remarkable.  Each day he always called roll.  When the student answered he greeted him a good morning calling him by name. And each of us learned right away that during each class every student would be called on to answer a question.  He was organized and expected all of us to be as well. We were on time for class, too.  And we never missed a class, either.  He didn’t allow that.  But really nobody wanted to miss a class or be late because Dr. Wilson kept it a fun learning experience. 

            I do not have room to share all the things he taught us. Suffice it to say that if I use only a fraction of what I learned in his class that I could deem myself a well educated man. And he never once indicated that he wanted anything in return.

            Thank you very much, Dr. Gordon Wilson!  You saw the good in everything. I could only hope to do so partly as well.  

Miss Virginia

Miss Virginia

            I was only six years old.  But my mother told me that I should be excited about starting school. So what did she know?  In those days there were no pre- schools and I always could do whatever I wanted to before. But mothers know best I suppose so off I went.  I was determined to not like anyone there and especially the teachers.  I knew about them.  They were all old and ugly and carried paddles around in case one of us needed a swat on the bottom.  And with me that was often.  And anyway I already knew all I needed to know. So what was school all about anyway?

            The first guy I met was Sut Corbet. (That was his real name) He was around sixteen and still in the first grade.  Not too swift I thought.  But Sut quickly became my best friend.  He thought I was smart and nobody else had ever thought that about me before.  As the year went by I helped Sut with the sticks (you know, those little things we used to build boxes with) And if you don’t remember them that is all right because Sut didn’t understand them either. It all worked out well for me, though.  I helped Sut in class and he protected me on the playground. After all he was at least twice as big as any other boy I went to school with. Someday I will write a long story just about Sut but not now.  This is about Miss Virginia.

            The first day in the first grade was a day to remember. I was waiting to see what kind of monster would be our teacher when this beautiful young girl came walking in.  I thought she was another student, maybe about the same age as Sut.  She sure was pretty but I thought must have been dumb to be in the first grade at her age.  My sister, who knew her, told me that night that she was twenty-six and a college graduate. And she was going to be our teacher. Wow! - A teacher who smiled all the time and didn’t even have a paddle.  She was kind and funny and loved all of us. And she even made the first grade seem like fun.  I guess Mom was right. Well then, she nearly always was. From that day on I loved school, all because of Miss Virginia.

            Each day we had a reading session.  And Miss Virginia would put us in a circle and we took turns reading about Spot.  You have probably already read it.  It was about a dog that would run and stuff. Not too good a book but we each got to sit in Miss Virginia’s lap when it was our turn to read.  Then she would always give us a hug if we read well.  I really tried hard. Mom wondered why I loved school so much but my sister knew full well. You see Miss Virginia was good to me.  So good in fact that I told her so.  I told her that I loved her.  Only that happened about forty years later.  I was already married with three sons when I wrote to her and told her how much she meant to me.  And as I wrote that letter it occurred to me that it could have come from many, many other students that she was so very kind to.  And yes she answered my letter.  She said that she even remembered me (probably because I helped Sut all the time) and she remembered my sister, too. She told me all about her happy life and about her kids and her wonderful husband.  I felt really happy when I read it and was especially thankful for her kindness to all of us.  There ought to be more people like Miss Virginia.

            A few years later I read in the paper that she had died. I was not able to be there but I did get to talk to someone who was. He told me that the place was full. It seems everyone who had her in school loved her as I did.

Thank you, Miss Virginia, for all you did for me and those many others!

           

           

             

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Mr. Tate

Linda handed me an article from our newspaper this morning.  I think she expected me to read it so I did.  It was about the writer’s former friends who had contributed so much in his life.  I was impressed so much that I all of a sudden started thinking about the special ones in my life.  So for the next few blogs I would like to introduce you to some very special people in my life.  They will not be in any order so don’t look for your name just yet.

            The first one who came to mind was Mr. Tate.  He was a teacher at the high school I attended.  He also coached the basketball team.  Since I was not a particularly good student and was far too short to play basketball why would I ever remember him?  Well I am going to tell you.  Our school had a football team for runts who were not big enough or smart enough to play on the varsity team called the Peapickers.  Mr. Tate coached that team.  And I played on it.  Well maybe not played on it but I did have a uniform.  I was in the ninth grade and was still one of the smaller players.  But Mr. Tate took me under his wing.  He taught me how to pass, how to run, (he said one could run faster if someone were after him) and most of all how to think on the field.  He even made me a quarterback and he let me play in every game.  It was a wonderful year for me and I will ever be grateful to Mr. Tate for that.  He called me the “brains” of the team, a nickname that still some call me to this day.

            But good times pass.  I learned that if I wanted to play football anymore I would have to make the varsity team in my junior year.  So armed with all of my peapicker success I went out for the varsity.  Those guys were really big.  And they tackled really hard, too.  I was what one might call a fourth team runt quarterback.  But because Mr. Tate told me to, I stayed trying well into my senior year.  So in the last two years in high school I was only allowed to play in one game.  We were already ahead thirty points when the coach told me to go in.  Mr. Tate served as assistant coach that year and I will always believe that it was he who conned the head coach into letting me play that time. I got to play the entire last half. 

            This story is not about me so why have I said so much.  Well it is because of Mr. Tate.  When the head coach told me to go into the game Mr. Tate come up to me and said something that still stays with me today.  He put my helmet on my head and while be beat on one side of it (he always did that when he talked to me) he said in his kindest way, “Brains, get in there and go like a red ass spider!”

            I went into the game laughing.  I knew that nobody was expecting anything great out of me so I had nothing to lose. But Mr. Tate was expecting great things from me.  And somehow I believed him then. And it occurred to me:  All I had to do was go like a red ass spider.  I hardly remember all that happened while I played but I never forgot the words of a real friend and coach who believed in me and let me know it. Many times in my life when I was faced with hard decisions or questionable work to do I shut my eyes and remember those words of encouragement. 

            I would really like to be a good writer.  It may be unlikely but I can try by going at it like a red ass spider. Thank you, Mr. Tate!