Dad’s roots can be traced back to two uniquely different American families. His father was an 8th generation American whose ancestors were among the earliest Dutch settlers in New York, long before the American Revolution and his mother was a 1st generation American whose Polish family settled in Texas around 1870.
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Family History of Walter A. ‘Rip’ Smock Read More »
World War II – 1945 – South Pacific
Walter (Smokey) Smock, Ralph (Dusty) Fuge & Joe D. Tabor
This photo was taken in March of 1944 on Eniwetok Island, one of the Marshall Islands in the South Pacific
World War Two In The South Pacific Read More »
I suspect that it had something to do with his Polish roots, but there’s no denying the fact that Dad liked his beer. At some points in his life, he drank a lot of beer; some would say too much, but I never saw it as much of a problem. Dad always acted respectfully and very seldom got noticeably drunk since he usually drank slowly and he had a pretty high tolerance for beer.
A short time before we were married, Cherry and I drove out to the farm to see Dad. It was early summer and Dad and the younger boys had gone to sheer the sheep. Sheering sheep in the Texas heat is a hot, sweaty job so I think Dad had doubled up on the Budweiser that day. I noticed right away that he might have had just a little too much beer, but it didn’t seem to be affecting his sheep sheering.
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No Wonder That Ewe Didn’t Have Any Babies! Read More »
Dad, being the old school man’s man type that so many of us grew up with had a policy of NEVER using curse words in front of women, especially not HIS daughters. Well, one day after we were all grown, my father used a curse word in front of my sister Jeanne. Jeanne went absolutely white in shock and queried my dad about cursing in front of her. Dad just looked at her and in his smart aleck way remarked “Well, Hell, I learned it from Julie”.
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As I think back on my childhood, my mind is flooded with memories of my Daddy, “The Character”, as my older brother has so cleverly referred to him. My earliest memories are of Daddy taking care of the yard. Our yard was a two acre farm nestled in the midst of the 5th largest city in the nation. It was one of the most beautiful things imaginable. He created an amazing place to raise his nine children and managed to do it on the meager salary of a Telephone Company Cable Splicer, all the while saving money for his retirement and investing in stocks, making sure that his children would not have to take care of him in his old age, as he once told me. I think my Daddy was a genius with money. I can’t for the life of me figure out how he did so much with so little. He was quite the handyman, however. I don’t think there was anything he didn’t know how to do. He helped to build his house that he lived in for 50 years and continued to build, remodel and maintain it throughout his lifetime. He rather patiently I think, although some would disagree, taught his 4 boys how to do much with little, and of course after teaching them, enlisted their assistance.
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Just in case anyone is wondering how it all turned out, in 1965 when I was 12 years old, I decided that I didn’t want to be a boy. I wanted to be a girl.
At Schwartz Park, which was fortunately, right across the street from our house, we had the opportunity to watch a little league game any night of the week. More important than watching the game was the fact that if you kept score you would get free snow-cones and bubble gum or that if you were faster than all the other kids and you were the one to recover a foul ball that had gone over the fence, you got freebees from the snack bar.
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Schwartz Park 1965 Read More »
If you drive down the fairly uninhabited stretch of beach between San Luis Pass and Surfside, especially in the early fall, you will usually see a few people fishing from the shore with big stiff surf rods. The last time I drove that stretch of beach, I stopped and watched a couple of guys cutting the waves in a small kayak looking boat. I didn’t stay and watch too long, but the best I could figure was that they were anchoring their rods on the beach and then hand carrying the hook and bait out past the third sandbar. Since not even the strongest guy can cast that far, it seemed to me like a pretty good idea if you know how to maneuver the kayak.
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Fishing On The Third Sand Bar Read More »
This is a short story that Dad told me many times over the years.
During the late 20’s and early 30’s, Dad used to stay at one of his cousins farm in Kenefick Bottoms, just north of Dayton, Texas. The farm was in the Trinity River bottom, deep in the East Texas woods. Dad always said that this place was in the middle of some of the wildest country he had ever been in, and that’s saying a lot, coming from Dad. The place was full of wild critters, which Dad and his cousins, both the Maduzia and Polka boys, loved to hunt. As I remember the story, Joe Maduzia and his wife Mary owned the farm. Joe’s son, Robert Lee, was fairly close to Dad’s age. Dad’s cousin, Joe D Polka, who was the younger brother of Joe Maduzia’s wife Mary was living there with them at the time. Joe D was a few years older than Dad and Robert Lee.
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Who Shot The Hole In the Roof? Read More »