Pics from the Past

Wow. Mom's finally pointed me to box after box of old pics, mementos, and old documents. I'm speechless. For now, I'm posting only a couple of pics of Dad that I've uncovered. More, and the stories that accompany them, will eventually follow.



Dad's Platoon. Below is what he marked on the back of the photo.



And here's what I assume to be Dad's first Dow employee badge. I hear that these things are worth some money. Thanks anyway, but I'm keeping this thing.



And here's my when he married my mom.



There's more to come. Thanks for checking in.

Pics of Dad

We're here at Mom's house for the holidays, and I've discovered that she not only has a scanner, but has tons of family pics. Many of these are hidden in frames behind other pics. You see, she never actually takes them out of the frames...she just adds newer ones in front of the old ones.

Anyway, here are some pics I've recently found. I'll do my best to put them in order from oldest to newest. If anyone knows his age or anything else about these pics, feel free to let me know.



Dad and sister Bessie. He's a teenager here.



Dad lied about his age to enter the military. He's about 17 in this shot, on the left.



Here's all of his brothers and sisters. From the left, Bessie, Joann, Ollie Mae, Sissy, William, Buddy, and Johnny.



Not sure how old Dad is here...probably early 20's.

Since I'm here with the family, I'll be collecting more stories and pictures. As always, if you have any you'd like to share, send 'em my way!

A Note from Brian Briscoe...

Little kids accept things. They just do.

And when I was little, the sky was blue, the grass was green, and Whit's father had one hand.

It was barely a source of curiosity even. I remember Whit pointing out a photo once. It was a group of men standing together. I think it was a bunch of coworkers. And Whit asked me if I noticed anything different about his Dad.

I stared and stared, but couldn't figure anything out.

"He has two hands in that picture," he said. I found this rather puzzling, until Whit explained that for the purposes of the photo, he'd worn a prosthetic hand.



I was so accustomed to my worldview that included one-handed Whit's Dad that I was puzzled as to why in the world he would have worn that.

Honestly, I still am.

Because it was no factor in his life, or none that he ever let on about. I remember Whit's mother struggling to open a jar of pickles once. She handed it over to him. He wrapped it up in the crook of his arm, grabbed it, and wrestled it open.

That's just the way it was.

Many a night he was tasked with driving me home after a visit. We'd hop into his truck, and take off for my house. In his truck. The one with the manual transmission.

My father ran around with him just a bit here and there, the way dads of best friends will do sometimes. They weren't tight, but they had the occasional fishing trip or visit together. Mac was a good 20 years older than my father, and I wonder if it made any difference to my father to be about 30 and running around with a guy of about 50.

And yeah, when Whit and I were teens his father was flying ultralights. I remember the parts in the driveway, the wheels, the motor that looked like it had been on a lawnmower sometime not that long ago. I remember the orange helmet too.

Dad told me how Mac had explained that he'd "never landed it without crashing." Again, the man was in his 50s at the time.

I have always had modest tolerance for peppers and spicy things. Mac could eat peppers like they were M&Ms.

And he drank straight buttermilk.

I don't know what Whit's father was made of, but it wasn't the same stuff as the rest of us, and any person who knew him in the least would be quick to agree.

Come to think of it, that would explain a lot.

These Sneakers Were Made For Walkin'...

A little over a year ago, Dad was 79 years old, used a hearing aid, and had lost most of his vision to a side effect from some medication. Nevertheless, he pretty much did what he wanted to do, and how he wanted to do it. Snowblowing the driveway at 5am? Yup. Gardening? Yup. Fixing cars? Yes, he still did some of that as well.

One day, Mom came home to find a massive, beautiful bouquet of flowers on the kitchen table. Knowing that Dad must have bought them for her, she asked him who had come by to pick him up and drive him to the store.

"Nobody's been here today. Just me."

"What? Then, how in the world did you get to the store?"

"I hitchhiked to Martin's Supermarket and bought them myself. A nice lady picked me up and drove me there, but danged if she didn't leave without me."

"Well, how'd you get back here?"

"I just walked home."

At the time, Dad could only see shadows and shapes. However, little things like that never deterred him from doing things, so he just walked along the road, carrying a huge bunch of flowers in his one hand.

Did I mention that it's nearly 5 miles to Martin's Supermarket?

Two Against One...Hopelessly Outnumbered.

Mom and Dad used to play a lot of tennis while I was growing up. Dad was never what you might call a natural athlete, but he absolutely loved sports like baseball, kart racing, water skiing, bowling, golf, and tennis. He might not have been the best athlete, or the most graceful, but the man didn't have an ounce of "can't" in him, so he continued enjoying his activities long past the time when his cronies had given up such things. And he made his opponents look bad almost every time.

Two of my uncles (on Mom's side) were in their early thirties while Dad was in his early fifties, and they had tired of the butt-kicking they had been getting from him on the tennis court in recent months. They finally hatched a plan: one brother would start off the game and do his best to tire my Dad out, and then the other brother would jump in and finish him off. They chose a hot summer day that they felt would stack the odds in their favor (surely, that old man can't play for long in this heat!), and set up the game.

Uncle #1 started the game, and Dad starting winning. Nothing fancy, nothing pretty...just winning. Sweat was pouring off of them both, and Dad could not have been happier. He used that odd, gangly footwork of his to run down every ball, no matter where it flew, and sent it zooming back to Uncle #1. It was a tough game, and the hot sun beat down on them both.

Eventually, Uncle #1 reached his limit, and signaled for Uncle #2 to jump in to take his place. Uncle #1 barely made it to the shade before he collapsed. I don't remember if anything was said about the switch, but I do recall that it made absolutely no difference to my Dad. He'd have played against the devil himself that day. Hey, that's just how he rolled.

Uncle #2 was fresh and ready to go. I recall he had a smirk on his face when he tossed the ball up in the air and slammed what I assume was his best serve towards Dad. TH-WACK!! The ball came back like it had been shot out of a cannon, bounced just inside the baseline on Uncle #2's far side, and got stuck in the chainlink fence beyond. Uncle #2 turned to Uncle #1, who was still flat on his back in the shade, breathing heavily, and hollered at him.

"Hey, I thought you were supposed to tire Willie out?!"

A lazy wave from the shade accompanied the wheezy response.

"Look, I did the best I could!"

And Dad laughed that laugh of his, and told Uncle #2 to stop bellyaching and get back to the game. They had forgotten that Dad had spent much of his youth working manual labor jobs in the hot sun, and later spent many years working in the magnesium cells at Dow Chemical in Freeport, TX. He worked in rooms that processed molten magnesium. You know, "molten"...like hot lava from a volcano? Dad was not only accustomed to the heat...he LOVED it!

My poor uncles never had a chance. He kicked the crap out of them that day. They should have brought Uncle #3 with them, I think.