From left to right is Adel and Bill Reese then Gladys and J.W. Steadman. J.W.'s letter jacket is from the Fighting Yellow Jackets of Cleburne, TX. The little building in the back is our restroom, and the hoist in the tree was used by Papa to fix his car engine.

THE VERY FIRST ALAMO BOWL

I knew nothing about football games and teams. All I knew was what I played in my front yard with June Cowan, or with other friends on some vacant lot in the neighborhood. I had not yet been introduced to Southwest Conference football, or to announcer Kern Tipps who described the games over the radio. All that was about to change. Our favorite Uncle and Aunt paid us a New Years visit. I had no idea why they were at our house, but I heard something about going to a football game the next day. So, early the next morning Dad woke me out of a deep sleep, I put on my warmest clothes and Dad, Uncle Eldon, and I drove to San Antonio to watch a football game being played in what was called The Alamo Bowl. This was January 1, 1947 and I was 10 years old. I only found out yesterday (December 27, 2006) that game was the first ever played as the Alamo Bowl. It featured Hardin-Simmons Cowboys of Abilene, Texas against The University Denver Pioneers of Denver, Colorado. It was colder than blue blazes. We had to chip ice off the bleachers before sitting down. Hardin-Simmons won that day behind the running of their tailback, a young man they called Doc Mobley. He scored two touchdowns, and their tight end, J.W. Steadman, caught a pass for the third. The final score was 20-7.
That time with Dad and Uncle Eldon at the football game, visiting J.W. and his beautiful wife Gladys in their hotel room after the game - as you can tell it really made an impression on a ten year old kid. You see, J.W. was Uncle Eldon’s oldest son. That would make him my cousin. Of course, J.W. didn’t take after the Ledbetter side of his family - he was over six feet tall and weighed in at 200 pounds. I can still see him now, faking the block on a lineman, then slipping down the field behind all the defenders (who were zeroing in on Doc Mobley) hauling in the ball like it was something sacred and outrunning them to the end zone. It was a gray, cold, icy day, but it burns brilliantly in my memory to this very hour.
My Point Is This: There is some kid in your life. He may even be like me and not have a clue about what is going on - but take him and make a memory. It will stay with him far longer than you can imagine. He will love and be grateful for you all the days of his life. It’s worth your time and effort. Don’t wait, do it now.
Don in Georgetown

WASH DAY

The wash was done, the plug on the old wringer washing machine had been pulled, and the rinse water had been drained into the flower beds. The wash was hung on the line to dry, tenderly flapping in the gentle summer breeze. Mom’s voice, demeanor and intentions were clear and direct to my sister. “Mary Jo, this is the third time I have told you, go bring those close in off the line. If you wait till it’s dark, you’ll have to gather them anyway.” Sure enough, the sun set with the clothes still on the line. I had already gone to bed, not to sleep, but to listen to Red Skelton and Judy Canova on the radio. In the midst of my entertainment, I again hear Mom’s level but insistent voice, “Mary Jo, did you bring the clothes in?” “No Mam.” “Then get out there right now and get them in.” Instant weeping and wailing. “But it’s dark, and I’m scared of the dark.” “I don’t care, I told you, now you go bring the clothes in.” More weeping and wailing. “Young lady, you have a choice. Bring in the clothes or get a spanking, which do you want?” “Okay, I will bring them in.” More weeping and wailing. But in the midst of this character building lesson, an idea struck me like a bolt from the blue. I unlatched the window screen beside my bed, slid through the window and across the porch, down the side of the house and arrived at the back door well ahead of my reluctant sister. I waited. Still weeping and wailing she pushed the screen door open and all I did was raise up with my arms spread, my eyes bugged, and my mouth wide open. Now the weeping and wailing turned to screaming and running in place. Above this frightful den I heard my Dad’s voice, “Donald Lloyd!” I retraced my previous route as quickly as I could, but he caught me coming through the window. I got a whack on my thinly clad pajamaed bottom, one that would usually have stung worse than a nest of yellow jackets, but the prank was well worth the whack. Also, I had to go help her bring in the clothes. I didn’t care, I was still ahead in this game!
My point is this, when God lays something on our heart, especially something that needs immediate attention, it is better to obey. To put it off can be scary and painful, but too often, we choose to put it off. But unlike my prank, the consequences for our procrastination are far worse than we ever anticipated. Like the old invitation hymn says, “Almost is but to fail.“ To obey is good, to obey immediately is far better.
Don in Georgetown

LESSONS FROM TOM AND TOM.

“Here he comes!” That bit of information grabbed our attention, we left what we were doing and scrambled to the end of the city block on which we lived. Mom wouldn’t let us cross the street, but as soon as Uncle Enos got there, we ran out into the street and climbed aboard his wagon, and rode to the other end of the block, bid him good bye, jumped off the wagon and run back to the house to continue what we were doing.
It was in the early ‘40’s. Uncle Enos had a team of mules. He and his mules plowed the ground for the spring gardens, or in order to keep the growth of weeds in check. Every now and then, he would pick me up and allow me to go with him (with Mom’s okay of course) as he did one of his jobs. I noticed one day as he called out his orders to his mules, that he was only calling out one name. “Giddy up there Tom!” he would call out. Or, “Whoa Tom! Gee Tom!” Curiosity got the best of me, so one day I asked the obvious, “Uncle Enos, which one is Tom?” “Both of ‘um.” I was incredulous. “You named both of ‘um Tom? Why’d you do that?” “So’s I don’t have to be calling out two names every time I need something done.” Uncle Enos’ attempt at energy conservation. His energy, of course.
Something else I noticed. He treated those mules with tender kindness. He made sure their shelter was closed and tight enough to keep them out of direct exposure to the north winds during the long cold winters. They had plenty of food, he rubbed them down after a long days work, and some times he even doctored them. He took real good care of those mules and they weren’t the stubborn, hard to get along with creatures that most mules were. They were his pets and when it came time to work, they were ready. He didn’t have to yell, cuss, or crack a whip. They could start early and stay late, and did lot’s of times.
My point is this. Uncle Enos was illustrating that Proverb that says, “A righteous man regards the life of his beast; but the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel.” Without any intention of comparisons, I wonder, how we sometimes treat those who supply our income, bread, or butter? More times than not, people are the ones who supply us with our daily bread, in one way or another. Yet we treat them rudely, or with disdain, lie to them, or cheat them when ever we can. We might learn a good lesson from Uncle Enos. We need to care for those who provide for us.

I couldn’t believe my eyes, but there it was on the front page of the local newspaper. One of my high school coaches was coming to the town where I was pastoring to accept a coaching position at the local high school. As soon as I could, I went over and visited and we recounted old times. When I graduated from high school our local football team made it all the way to quarter finals in the class 3A division. A fairly good feat in the football minded state of Texas. Coach Jim was on that coaching staff, as the offensive line coach. We had a lot of catching up to do. He did come visit our church, but never joined.
Anyway, as football season got under way I went to see the Jr. varsity play, one the young men from our church was on the team. They played on Thursday afternoon, and I was there early. No reserved seating and I wanted a good seat. As I was walking through the gate, Coach Jim spotted me and invited me to sit on the sidelines with him. You have to understand, Coach Jim’s invitations were more like the commands of a drill instructor in the Marine Corp. You didn’t turn them down.
As the game progressed one of the young men on our team did something the Jr. varsity coach didn’t like. He came charging down the side line like a Bradley Tank in full battle array, with fire in his eyes, yelling instructions to the young man in very colorful, but unrepeatable language. As play resumed, he come walking back, still scowling and casting evil glances in the direction of the team in general and the offender in particular. Walking past Coach Jim was not something he should have done and although it was good natured ribbing, he got the verbal jab just the same, “If you coach’em during the week, you wouldn’t have to yell at them on Thursday afternoon.”
The offended coach made some off handed remark as he resumed his position on the sidelines. I looked at Coach Jim and he had a twinkle in his eye. “I love to get under their skin,” he explained. We had a good laugh. My point is this, as pastors, parents, or leaders of anykind, I wonder how much time we spend yelling at people, rather than “coaching” them. The closest thing to coaching we have is “exhortation.” We are encouraged to do that often, in fact daily. So, the next time you are tempted to yell at one of your "plebs", think, “Have I coached them sufficiently in this matter?” Sometimes it seems like fun to yell, but it is more profitable to coach.
Papa Don

Nostalgia



Art Wilson, me, Terry Sears and Dad.

UNCLE ARTHUR

I didn’t know him that well and when I did begin to be aware of him and who he was, he was well into his forties. He was tall, dark, and a quiet man and was married to Aunt Clarise, and had been ever since any of us could remember. Together they had one son, his nick name was “Tuffy.” Tuffy was not as tall as his dad, but was a strong, muscular, athlete. During World War II he was a tail gunner in one of the “Flying Fortresses.” But, he is not the one about which I wanted to talk. It was Uncle Arthur that is supposed to be the center of attention here. He was my Dad’s half brother. He was the third child of my Grandfather’s first wife. Her name was Mina Aloura and she died shortly after giving birth to Uncle Arthur. That posed only a small problem. The woman who was to become his second wife, and my Grandmother already lived in the house with them. Her name was Maud Echo. So as soon as was deemed socially acceptable, Granddad and Grandmother Ledbetter got married. Why? According to Grandmother she didn’t want anyone to raise Arthur but her. And that was the way it was.
Uncle Arthur reached the age of eighteen years shortly after World War I began. He volunteered and went off to boot camp to train for whatever roll they deemed best for him. It turned out, he was one tough cowboy. He could ride anything with hide and four legs. They set him to breaking and training horses for military use. There was not too many mechanized vehicles at that time. When the Army talked about a Calvary Division, they really meant Calvary, like in horses and mules. The Army bought the raw and even wild stock, because they would be cheaper, and it was Uncle Arthur’s job to see that they were ready for use when the superior officer called.
On one occasion, my Dad got to watch his older brother perform. Some of the stock would give up without much of a fight, but then there were some jug heads that would fight to the bitter end. Only giving up after hours of the most physical engagement you can imagine. That happened on the day Dad got to observe his brother “in action.” If my memory serves me correctly, it was a mule he was working with, a large, strong creature that stood quiet and still until his restraints were removed. He would then launch into a low altitude orbit of some of the most intense action you could ever imagine. Dad said Uncle Arthur rode that beast until blood was running out of his nose and ears, and yet he still hung on and maintained his balance on the hurricane deck, as their saddle was called. And like he thought, soon enough, the animal would give in, and Uncle Arthur could pass on another valuable creature to the one who would train him to serve our country.
My point is this, what Uncle Arthur was doing was teaching these dumb animals the true meaning of meekness. The horse or mule just a few minutes before was wild and undisciplined. Now their will was broken, and subjected to the one who would be his master. He was just as strong as before, just as fast as before, only now he had learned “meekness.” That is, the strength of the animal was brought under control so he could serve a useful, practical, and necessary roll in the military. That’s what meekness is and does for you and me. We are still just as strong, intelligent, emotional, and even just as spiritual, only now our strength is under the dominion of our dear Lord. Now we say, not my will but thine be done. Now we are useful for eternal work, we are useful for God’s work.
Don in Georgetown

TREASURE WHAT YOU HAVE!

He would be able to prove himself, finally! Granddad offered Dad a piece of bottom land on which to plant and harvest about twenty five acres of cotton. Dad had to plow it, fertilize it, chop the Johnson grass down so it wouldn’t over run the cotton, sweat out the sun, untimely rains, and even the creek flooding. Finally it all came together and the day of harvest had arrived. The cotton was tall, the leaves about the consistency of tan parchment paper, the bowls had opened, and the cotton was showing snowy white. Dad hitched the team to the wagon before daylight, got plenty of cotton sacks, and carefully slipped the scales under the seat. He wanted to make sure the weights were right, and get all the money coming to him. With the help of a few of his friends, they picked the stalks clean. You could hardly find a white spot in the field when they finished. It’s surprising how well a person can work if the money belongs to him. Anyway, when all was weighed out and expenses paid, Dad had $150 coming to him. That was somewhere around the fall of 1927 or ‘28. Believe it or not, that amounted to a years salary for a family, but this was all Dad’s. It would be a very prosperous and fun year for an eighteen year old.
Now enters Dad’s brother, my Uncle Ray. He had the Sunday afternoon off and decided to spend it with a friend down the road. They loaded up their pockets with .22 caliber bullets and carrying their old single shot rifles they headed for the barn to shoot rats. Something that would offer them fun, and provide a necessary service for the farm. Things were going well until Uncle Ray’s friend fail to practice the safety rules his father had taught him. He fired a shot, broke the .22 down, took out the spent shell, put in the new shell, and then locked it back in place while the muzzle of the rifle was pointed right at Uncle Ray. The gun fired striking him in the abdomen and lodging within a fraction of an inch of his spine. That same bullet is still in his body to this very day.
Of course, the family was devastated, they rushed him to the Dr‘s. office, which was in his home, as quickly as they could. Dr. Yeater, a veteran of World War I, and skilled in wounds of this kind, quickly stopped the bleeding and informed the family that it would be too risky to operate. Uncle Ray was kept immobilized for days until the wound began to heal. The doc looked in on him often and the cost of all of this medical attention was (you may have guessed it by now) $150. Granddad didn’t have the money for the care, he had a family of seven to support. He went to Dad and explained the situation. Although he was highly disappointed he readily agreed to use his money to pay the bills. What looked like a fun year just a few days before would now be reduced to having spending money only when he could find a job. That is, find a job that would pay him money. There was always work to do, you just didn’t get paid for it.
Whether he intended to use this as a character building situation or not is still questionable, even to this day. However, that’s the way it turned out. From that experience Dad learned to treasure what he earned and to carefully administer what he had. “You never know what’s coming to take what you’ve got away from you,” was one of my Dad’s oft repeated warnings. And that’s my point. Treasure what you have right now. You may not get to keep it for long. The more you treasure it now, the easier it is to lose it and not lose your character when its gone.
Don in Georgetown