Part 5

I was better prepared on account of the trials I had endured during my first year of school at Ranger Lake when I started attending school at Tatum, where there about two hundred other children. Some of these were not at all friendly at first, but at least they were more respectful as I stood up for my rights and refused to take any abuse.

In school at Tatum I competed in organized athletic events for the first time ever. No one in my classes could beat me in sprints through the 440, and I could outrun many boys several grades above and years older than myself. The first praise I ever received for a public performance was while running track.

In contact sports I became known as the "Little Bulldog," and loved the acclamation I received. I exerted tremendous energy, even in those early grades, to maintain an image of myself as a competitor who never gave ground and always was on the attack.

The years went quickly by as the triumphs and failures of my lower grades faded. Summers on the ranch brought increasing responsibilities. School playmates were constant by this time since there were so few in my age group. Henry Pittman, Waldo Duncan, and Son Anderson were best friends. Georgia Anderson, Lexie Hall, and Velma Lee Kay were best girlfriends. We were unbelievably uninformed and enjoyed the smallest scrap of information however it came to us, whether from our teachers, our parents, or by talking with each other.

There was no other way to learn except to read and study. We had no library readily available to us. What reading we did was from school books. We would read these in a few days, then read them again as we studied for our lessons, and we believed anything and everything we read. There was no reason to question these writers or our teachers. We had no outside source for current news. Newspapers that came our way were brought from Roswell or Lubbock, and were always several days or even weeks late. We were ignorant, innocent, naive children. Our parents in many ways were equally uninformed when it came to current events and world affairs.

The first radio at Ranger Lake was installed in the school room during my first grade year so everyone could come in and listen to voices coming to us through space. I excitedly took part in the installation, having been selected to crawl under the floor of the building pulling wires after me to feed them through a hole drilled in the floor. Everyone in the community who could possibly get there sat assembled in rapt attention that afternoon while Mr. Falconi explained the principles of radio and what it would mean to the community as a continuous source of information.

The snap of the on/off switch was heard as the Attwater Kent Radio Phone, with its row of mysterious dials and knobs, was turned on for its first test. Nothing happened. A short time later, as the tubes in the set warmed up, whistles, screeches, wails, and moaning noises came out of the speaker horn, much to the delight of everyone. No words were heard coming forth, but every time Mr. Falconi turned a knob a new wail or screech developed.

Some were sure they heard a few words a bit later, however no one could agree on exactly what they had heard, so ultimately no one was positive. This brought speculation by some and conviction with others that it was just plain silly to think you could hear someone talking all the way from Roswell. After all that was 80 miles away. It was about all you could do to hear Mr. Bass calling his cows from two miles away, and everyone knew he had the strongest voice in the community.

The new radio thing never did work. Mr. Falconi gathered up the wires, insulators, and batteries, put them in a box, and took the whole lot all the way back to Roswell. When World War One was finally over the news came to our community in the good old slow but reliable word of mouth manner.

There were several families in the community who had sons in the armed forces. Glendon Hooper's brother Bill was the first soldier I ever saw in uniform. The exact neatness of the rows of brass buttons on his coat, with leggings wrapping each leg from knee to shoe top in perfect spirals, was so impressive to me that for days I wrapped my own legs with "leggin's" so I would be properly attired for playing soldier. Bill brought home his metal helmet with a bullet crease in it, and we never tired of listening to him tell of being "knocked down like a pole axed ox" when that bullet struck his helmet.

Our knowledge of what war was like was purely imaginative. Anything we heard was accepted as God's own truth, yet Bill's story telling ability was limited. We were told "not to pester Bill, he doesn't want to remember those horrible things." Carl, Pete, Guy and Sylvester were the other Hooper boys, and they couldn’t get much out of Bill either. I never knew for sure why Bill drank so much as time went by, but believed it was because of his "war memories." People seemed to agree that was the reason.

When Betty Flo was three months old Carl Hooper came to our house to visit. He had been away for a year, working in the copper mines in Arizona. He had new clothes, a pocket full of money, and was excited when he talked about how much money could be made and how easy it was to get a job. He asked our father, "Why don't you and Beulah come to Arizona? Sell your old place and I'll get you a job the first week you're there, then you can get the kids into some schools where they'll get a real education." It was that thought that persuaded my mother, and she finally convinced Dad we should make such a move.

The dream of being a land owner was one my dad had made real at Ranger Lake with years of hard work. But the hard fact was that our homestead ranch did not produce a good enough living for a growing family, and that was a sad certainty. The thought of selling our animals and tools and leaving grandfather was almost too much to consider. The anticipation of such a long trip to a completely unknown place like Arizona was frightening to think about. After days and weeks of talking and planning, and another letter from Carl urging dad to come because the mines were hiring, the decision was made to sell out and go to Arizona.

Friends and neighbors came from all over to help out, many hoping to buy some of our goods and livestock for less than what it was really worth. This did not happen. Russ Anderson, a large rancher and close friend, made a fair offer for all of our livestock and ranch lands, with our family retaining mineral rights to the property. He agreed to buy whatever stock we still had on the place when we were finally ready to go. This allowed us to sell everything at a good price.

Never had we known such conflict of emotion as was involved with our preparations to move. Each day animal after faithful animal, the furniture in our ranch house, plows, wagons, tools, saddles and harness, piece by familiar piece, was hauled or driven away. Finally the day came when we had only our beds, kitchen utensils, and the clothes we would take with us packed in the small trailer we would tow behind our Model T Ford. With everything gone the place didn't seem at all like home any longer.

Grandfather Hodge was not sure we were doing the right thing. In fact, he thought it was just plain foolish for us to leave. Although he repeatedly assured us he would be all right, you could tell he was worried about being alone and lonesome, and was trying to reassure himself as much as he was us. However he was the Postmaster at Ranger Lake, and would have people coming after their mail everyday, so he would not be without care or help if needed.

As our days together became fewer and fewer, grandfather and I spent much time together. We talked of things we had done, and things we would do again someday soon when we had ourselves settled and sent word for him to come live with us. I did not question the certainty of this happening, but I am sure grandfather doubted he would ever see us again, and he was right.

Not long after we left grandfather was thrown from one of his horses and broke a hip. Before he had completely recovered, while staying at Tatum where he could be cared for, he was writing a letter to us and his great heart simply stopped. He died with his head on the desk and his pen in hand lying on the uncompleted letter.

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