Tuesdays with Gindy. Fish I Have Known.

My beautiful child bride Suzanne reminded me of a story from many years back.  Well, actually several stories.  They all involve fishing.

The blog post she read asked, “Do you have a fishing story from your childhood?”  I have a few.

When I was about five years old, my father and I went camping.  Just us men.  My brother was not yet born but was on the way.  My father put a mattress in the back of his station wagon and loaded up some supplies and off to the lake we went.

We got there and Daddy (pronounce Dead-E in the South) set up camp.  Then, we went fishing at the lake.  I caught a beautiful rainbow trout.  It was about five foot in length and weighed about 500 pounds. Isn’t that the way fishing stories are supposed to go?

Regardless of the size, this was my first fish.  My father was going to have it mounted.  Daddy went back up to our camp to start supper and I stayed at the lake.  The fishing spot was within sight of the camp.

Shortly, I caught a second fish.  I pulled it in, we were using cane poles, and Daddy came running to help.  He put that fish on the stringer with my other fish and one he had caught and we ate supper.

That night we slept in the back of the station wagon and it began to rain.  Rain?  It poured buckets.  Daddy decided to go back home so he went down to the lake to get our fish.  A turtle had beaten him to it.  The first, second, and ONLY fish I ever caught in my life were eaten by Leonardo that night.

Daddy and I would go fishing several times over the years.  We went camping with the family sometimes and usually fished when we did.  But I never caught another fish.

In high school, I had a good friend, Roger.  Roger would fish in a mud hole if that was all he could find and ALWAYS catch a fish.  Sometimes it was a guppy or two.  Most of the time he would have a pretty good stringer of fish and I would always have a nice clean stringer in my pocket, just in case I caught something.

One day Roger loaded his john boat in the back of Granny’s pickup truck and drove to school.  He planned to fish after school.  He had a bucket of minnows in the truck under the john boat.

During lunch he asked me if I would go with him to check on his minnows out in the parking lot.   I agreed to do so.

 Back then at Crescent High School in Starr-Iva, South Carolina, it was against the rules to be in the parking lot during the school day.  The school was worried that people would steal things from other students’ cars.

 If a student was caught in the parking lot during the school day without permission, there was a “no questions asked policy” that said you would get ten demerits and that would get you suspended from school for three days.

Roger and I were looking in the back of Granny’s pickup when Mr. Green, the assistant principal and head disciplinarian, walked into the parking lot.  He headed straight for us.  As he approached, he said, “What are you boys doing out here?”

Roger told him he was going fishing after school and he wanted to make sure his minnows were okay.  Mr. Green loved to fish and he started asking Roger about where he was going fishing and what he was fishing for.  As they spoke, the bell rang to end lunch period.  The two continued to speak as I listened.

Mr. Green turned to me and said, “Well, Bird, are you going fishing with him?”  I told him, no, I had to work that afternoon, but we would probably meet up on the weekend to fish.

Mr. Green reached in his pocket and pulled out a pad.  He carried two pads, one for issuing demerits and one for passes.  He said, “The bell has already rung, so I guess you will need a pass to get back in class.”  He was looking only at Roger at the time.  Roger took his pass and headed for the building.

Mr. Green looked at me and smiled and said, “Yes, I will give you one, too.”  Thanks, Mr. Green.

Like I said, Roger would fish in a mud puddle and usually catch something.  I would go with him and catch nothing.  Once he and I were at one of his favorite fishing holes and he was pulling them in as fast as he could reel.  The only thing I was getting was a sunburn.

I finally said, “Roger, maybe the fish don’t like my smell.  How ‘bout baiting my hook?”  He baited my hook using his bait bucket.  I threw my hook in the water and proceeded to start catching…

Nothing.  Not even a nibble.

Okay, I rebaited my hook after a while and noticed he was still catching.  He had already caught his limit.  I asked him to swap rods with me.  He agreed to do so and I sat back.  We left his hook in the water where he had been fishing and he came and picked up my rod and started fishing with it where I had left it.

I sat down on the bank and proceeded to catch…

Nothing.  But Roger was pulling his second fish using my rod.  He left his stringer where it had been and I gave him my fresh, never used stringer. We fished until Roger had caught both our limits and we left and went back to Granny’s.

Roger cleaned them and Granny fried them.  I got to eat some, but to this day I have never eaten a fish I have caught.  I have never cleaned a fish and probably never will.

I am sad to say this is a true story.

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Reforming a Drunk

Disclaimer: Many of the stories are completely fictional.  Other stories are fictional accounts of true stories.  Other stories are completely true.  Sometimes the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

This particular story goes out as a shout out to my friend, the Reverend Tony Tilley.

Tony told me and others this story years ago.  Back when we were in the eleventh grade at Crescent High School, Tony would often entertain us with songs on his guitar and tell several wholesome stories.

Now, Tony is a preacher at Freedom Baptist Ministries in Anderson County, South Carolina.  I bet he is a darn good one too.

Tony told the following story, which I have changed just a little because I cannot remember all of the details the way he told it.

And so, without further eloquence, is the story of Reforming a Drunk.

The Bird family lived out in the woods.  This made hunting very convenient because all they would have to do is step off their back porch and they would be in the woods and in a prime hunting spot.

Virgil Bird was a young adult in his early twenties or so and still lived at home.  He worked five days a week at the local cotton mill and, in the evenings and on the weekends, he did his chores like chopping firewood, mowing the grass, household repairs, and would occasionally get a side job doing something for a neighbor.

Most of the time, Virgil was a pillar of the community.  He was usually in church down to

the Freedom Baptist Ministries every time the doors were open. 

Virgil had one problem.  Virgil loved to drink.  He was always sober for work and he was always sober for Sunday preachin’, but come Friday night, he would stop by the local bar and bait shop and pick up two cases of beer.  He would load them in the refrigerator when he got home Friday night and he would drink until they were gone.

Come Saturday morning, Virgil would be throwing up in the sink that was mounted on the back porch of the house.  Papa Bird had installed the sink years ago so that he and the boys could wash up from the woods before they tracked mud in the house.

Mama Bird would scold Virgil and tell him, “One of these days you are going to drink so much you are going to puke your guts out.”

One Friday night, Virgil was participating in his favorite Friday night event and the natural result occurred.  Virgil walked across the back porch to the sink and began to relieve the contents of his stomach into the back porch sink.

Virgil had not turned on the back porch light and, unbeknownst to him, his brother Sylvester had cleaned a very large deer he had killed earlier.  Sylvester was a member of the Flint Rock Rescue Squad and they got a call about the time Sylvester was finishing up with the deer.  He left without cleaning up after himself, so there was a mess in the sink.

Sylvester had left some very large deer organs in the sink when he had to leave in such a hurry.  He had every intention of cleaning them up when he got back.  The call took a little longer than he had expected.  When he got back, he had forgotten about the deer and went to bed for some well-needed sleep.

The next morning, Ma Bird walked into the kitchen and flipped on the light.  She saw Virgil sitting at the table, still recovering from his night of drinking.  This time, he had tears in his bloodshot eyes as he looked up at her.

Ma Bird sat down at the table and asked Virgil, “What’s wrong, dear?”

He replied, with tears in his voice, "You know how you always told me that one day I was going to get so drunk that I would puke my guts up?"

Ma nodded her head and said, “Yes.”

Virgil continued, “Well, last night it happened.   I puked until I couldn’t puke anymore. I turned on the light and saw my guts laying there in the bottom of the sink.  I tell you, I was scared there for a few minutes.  I had puked my guts up just like you said.  There were a lot more of them than I thought possible.  Yep, I really puked my guts up, all of them."

"But by the grace of God and a great big spoon, I got them all back down.”

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McClendon Studios Presents: Fish I Have Known

Fish I Have Known

My beautiful child bride Suzanne reminded me of a story from many years back.  Well, actually

My Father, Sister, and me

several stories.  They all involve fishing.

The blog post she read asked, “Do you have a fishing story from your childhood?”  I have a few.

When I was about five years old, my father and I went camping.  Just us men.  My brother was not yet born but was on the way.  My father put a mattress in the back of his station wagon and loaded up some supplies and off to the lake we went.

We got there and Daddy (pronounce Dead-E in the South) set up camp.  Then, we went fishing at the lake.  I caught a beautiful rainbow trout.  It was about five foot in length and weighed about 500 pounds. Isn’t that the way fishing stories are supposed to go?

Regardless of the size, this was my first fish.  My father was going to have it mounted.  Daddy went back up to our camp to start supper and I stayed at the lake.  The fishing spot was within sight of the camp.

Shortly, I caught a second fish.  I pulled it in, we were using cane poles, and Daddy came running to help.  He put that fish on the stringer with my other fish and one he had caught and we ate supper.

That night we slept in the back of the station wagon and it began to rain.  Rain?  It poured buckets.  Daddy decided to go back home so he went down to the lake to get our fish.  A turtle had beaten him to it.  The first, second, and ONLY fish I ever caught in my life were eaten by Leonardo that night.

Daddy and I would go fishing several times over the years.  We went camping with the family sometimes and usually fished when we did.  But I never caught another fish.

In high school, I had a good friend, Roger.  Roger would fish in a mud hole if that was all he could find and ALWAYS catch a fish.  Sometimes it was a guppy or two.  Most of the time he would have a pretty good stringer of fish and I would always have a nice clean stringer in my pocket, just in case I caught something.

One day Roger loaded his john boat in the back of Granny’s pickup truck and drove to school.  He planned to fish after school.  He had a bucket of minnows in the truck under the john boat.

During lunch he asked me if I would go with him to check on his minnows out in the parking lot.   I agreed to do so.

 Back then at Crescent High School in Starr-Iva, South Carolina, it was against the rules to be in the parking lot during the school day.  The school was worried that people would steal things from other students’ cars.

 If a student was caught in the parking lot during the school day without permission, there was a “no questions asked policy” that said you would get ten demerits and that would get you suspended from school for three days.

Roger and I were looking in the back of Granny’s pickup when Mr. Green, the assistant principal and head disciplinarian, walked into the parking lot.  He headed straight for us.  As he approached, he said, “What are you boys doing out here?”

Roger told him he was going fishing after school and he wanted to make sure his minnows were okay.  Mr. Green loved to fish and he started asking Roger about where he was going fishing and what he was fishing for.  As they spoke, the bell rang to end lunch period.  The two continued to speak as I listened.

Mr. Green turned to me and said, “Well, Bird, are you going fishing with him?”  I told him, no, I had to work that afternoon, but we would probably meet up on the weekend to fish.

Mr. Green reached in his pocket and pulled out a pad.  He carried two pads, one for issuing demerits and one for passes.  He said, “The bell has already rung, so I guess you will need a pass to get back in class.”  He was looking only at Roger at the time.  Roger took his pass and headed for the building.

Mr. Green looked at me and smiled and said, “Yes, I will give you one, too.”  Thanks, Mr. Green.

Like I said, Roger would fish in a mud puddle and usually catch something.  I would go with him and catch nothing.  Once he and I were at one of his favorite fishing holes and he was pulling them in as fast as he could reel.  The only thing I was getting was a sunburn.

I finally said, “Roger, maybe the fish don’t like my smell.  How ‘bout baiting my hook?”  He baited my hook using his bait bucket.  I threw my hook in the water and proceeded to start catching…

Nothing.  Not even a nibble.

Okay, I rebaited my hook after a while and noticed he was still catching.  He had already caught his limit.  I asked him to swap rods with me.  He agreed to do so and I sat back.  We left his hook in the water where he had been fishing and he came and picked up my rod and started fishing with it where I had left it.

I sat down on the bank and proceeded to catch…

Nothing.  But Roger was pulling his second fish using my rod.  He left his stringer where it had been and I gave him my fresh, never used stringer. We fished until Roger had caught both our limits and we left and went back to Granny’s.

Roger cleaned them and Granny fried them.  I got to eat some, but to this day I have never eaten a fish I have caught.  I have never cleaned a fish and probably never will.

I am sad to say this is a true story.

Please e-mail us at: David E. McClendon, Sr.

Read My Beautiful Child-Bride Suzanne's Blog
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McClendon Studios Presents: Fish I Have Known

Fish I Have Known

My beautiful child bride Suzanne reminded me of a story from many years back.  Well, actually

My Father, Sister, and me

several stories.  They all involve fishing.

The blog post she read asked, “Do you have a fishing story from your childhood?”  I have a few.

When I was about five years old, my father and I went camping.  Just us men.  My brother was not yet born but was on the way.  My father put a mattress in the back of his station wagon and loaded up some supplies and off to the lake we went.

We got there and Daddy (pronounce Dead-E in the South) set up camp.  Then, we went fishing at the lake.  I caught a beautiful rainbow trout.  It was about five foot in length and weighed about 500 pounds. Isn’t that the way fishing stories are supposed to go?

Regardless of the size, this was my first fish.  My father was going to have it mounted.  Daddy went back up to our camp to start supper and I stayed at the lake.  The fishing spot was within sight of the camp.

Shortly, I caught a second fish.  I pulled it in, we were using cane poles, and Daddy came running to help.  He put that fish on the stringer with my other fish and one he had caught and we ate supper.

That night we slept in the back of the station wagon and it began to rain.  Rain?  It poured buckets.  Daddy decided to go back home so he went down to the lake to get our fish.  A turtle had beaten him to it.  The first, second, and ONLY fish I ever caught in my life were eaten by Leonardo that night.

Daddy and I would go fishing several times over the years.  We went camping with the family sometimes and usually fished when we did.  But I never caught another fish.

In high school, I had a good friend, Roger.  Roger would fish in a mud hole if that was all he could find and ALWAYS catch a fish.  Sometimes it was a guppy or two.  Most of the time he would have a pretty good stringer of fish and I would always have a nice clean stringer in my pocket, just in case I caught something.

One day Roger loaded his john boat in the back of Granny’s pickup truck and drove to school.  He planned to fish after school.  He had a bucket of minnows in the truck under the john boat.

During lunch he asked me if I would go with him to check on his minnows out in the parking lot.   I agreed to do so.

 Back then at Crescent High School in Starr-Iva, South Carolina, it was against the rules to be in the parking lot during the school day.  The school was worried that people would steal things from other students’ cars.

 If a student was caught in the parking lot during the school day without permission, there was a “no questions asked policy” that said you would get ten demerits and that would get you suspended from school for three days.

Roger and I were looking in the back of Granny’s pickup when Mr. Green, the assistant principal and head disciplinarian, walked into the parking lot.  He headed straight for us.  As he approached, he said, “What are you boys doing out here?”

Roger told him he was going fishing after school and he wanted to make sure his minnows were okay.  Mr. Green loved to fish and he started asking Roger about where he was going fishing and what he was fishing for.  As they spoke, the bell rang to end lunch period.  The two continued to speak as I listened.

Mr. Green turned to me and said, “Well, Bird, are you going fishing with him?”  I told him, no, I had to work that afternoon, but we would probably meet up on the weekend to fish.

Mr. Green reached in his pocket and pulled out a pad.  He carried two pads, one for issuing demerits and one for passes.  He said, “The bell has already rung, so I guess you will need a pass to get back in class.”  He was looking only at Roger at the time.  Roger took his pass and headed for the building.

Mr. Green looked at me and smiled and said, “Yes, I will give you one, too.”  Thanks, Mr. Green.

Like I said, Roger would fish in a mud puddle and usually catch something.  I would go with him and catch nothing.  Once he and I were at one of his favorite fishing holes and he was pulling them in as fast as he could reel.  The only thing I was getting was a sunburn.

I finally said, “Roger, maybe the fish don’t like my smell.  How ‘bout baiting my hook?”  He baited my hook using his bait bucket.  I threw my hook in the water and proceeded to start catching…

Nothing.  Not even a nibble.

Okay, I rebaited my hook after a while and noticed he was still catching.  He had already caught his limit.  I asked him to swap rods with me.  He agreed to do so and I sat back.  We left his hook in the water where he had been fishing and he came and picked up my rod and started fishing with it where I had left it.

I sat down on the bank and proceeded to catch…

Nothing.  But Roger was pulling his second fish using my rod.  He left his stringer where it had been and I gave him my fresh, never used stringer. We fished until Roger had caught both our limits and we left and went back to Granny’s.

Roger cleaned them and Granny fried them.  I got to eat some, but to this day I have never eaten a fish I have caught.  I have never cleaned a fish and probably never will.

I am sad to say this is a true story.

Please e-mail us at: David E. McClendon, Sr.

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Master Control

Master Control

It was early Spring of 1981. I was sitting in what I called my study, which later became my laundry room, of my little one bedroom home at 7520 Burnette Street, Spartanburg, South Carolina.

It was a beautiful Spring day, a Sunday. I had some of the windows open with a very cool breeze blowing through the house. I had the back door open and Abby, my faithful dog, sitting on the back step listening to the sounds of Spring.

I turned on the Dumont stereo sound system with 1.5 watts of power per channel. I tuned in WORD radio on the AM radio and began to listen to a gospel music radio program called Master Control.

The title Master Control grabbed my attention because then, like now, I was an audiophile. That is, I was an aspiring audio engineer.

The program spun in and out of commercial breaks with the station ID slug as well as the name of the program along with the song “Turn Your Radio On” sung by the Hovie Lister & Statesmen playing in the background.

I sat down at my Brother Electric Typewriter to type some letters. From time to time, I would visit local churches on Sunday mornings when I did not go back home to the little town of Iva, South Carolina for the weekend. If I did go back home, it was a given that I would attend my church, Flat Rock Baptist Church.

When I did not go back home, I would sit in my house and write letters on Sunday mornings. I would write to my Grandma McClendon (Grandma Ruby), and Granny. Granny was Charlotte Madden. She was not really my grandmother, but she was closer than my maternal grandmother and as close as my Grandma Ruby.

I remember this particular morning I wrote a letter to the youth pastor at Flat Rock Baptist Church, Eddie Bledsoe. In that letter, I typed a bunch of random characters and at the end of it typed “I found I can type much faster when I don’t try to type actual words.”


After I finished typing the letters to Granny, Grandma Ruby, and Eddie, I sat back and thought, “Is there anyone else I should write?”

The song on the radio, I don’t remember what it was, said “Listen to the Master’s voice.” At the same time I heard clear as a bell, actual spoken words in the room that said, "Why don’t you write to Suzanne?”

I could only think of one person I knew named Suzanne. That was Suzanne Gunter. I had met her at Crescent High School in Starr-Iva, South Carolina, during the 1979-1980 school year. That year was my senior year and her freshman year.

I had noticed Suzanne walking by the Chemistry classroom window several mornings in a row. Suzanne stood out to me because she was wearing a denim skirt at a time that most girls wore jeans or other types of pants. I did not know who she was at the time, but I knew of the girl she was with, Holly Bevens.

I don’t know how I knew who Holly was. I am, and have always been, a very self-centered person. I did not normally know who someone was unless I came into very close contact with them or there was something unusual about them.

Often times I would know of someone and not have a clue who they actually were. I would hear unusual names over the school’s intercom system and the name would stand out because it was unusual, but I would have no clue who the person was. Often I would pass them in the hallway everyday and maybe even say hello to them, but never really know who they were. I have even had classmates that I did not know their names or anything about them. As I said, I am a very self-centered person.


As I said, I knew of Holly Bevens. I knew who she was, what she looked like, what her name was, and that she had some sisters. That is all I really knew about her.

One day during the early part of the year, Holly came to the window of the Chemistry room with Suzanne in tow. She introduced herself and Suzanne and said, “Feel how cold Suzanne’s hands are.” I felt Suzanne’s hand and it was ice cold. Both of them were.

As I held Suzanne’s hands, she giggled. You know that kind of school girl giggle where you don’t know if they are giggling at something you did or if they are just nervous or are just being silly little school girls.

For a while every morning, Suzanne and Holly came to the window and Holly and I talked while Suzanne giggled. I did not even know if she COULD talk. I had never heard her utter a word.

One day I was with the Crescent High School Marching Tiger Band at the McDuffie High School/Crescent High School football game. It was held at McCant’s field, which was at what is now the old McCants Middle School.

Holly came up to me and we started talking. Soon her sister Debbie came up to us and started making eye motions to Holly. Holly asked me “Why don’t you like Suzanne?”

Well, I am a goofball of major proportions. If she had asked, “Do you like Suzanne?” I would have said that I did and would like to get to know her better. But with a lead in like “Why don’t you like Suzanne?", the goof ball got the better of me.

I answered, “She’s probably a virgin and can’t date yet." A totally stupid response and the fact of the matter was that I was also a virgin and was in no real hurry to change that status. It was also very rare for me to date, by choice.

When I did go out with a girl, it was extremely rare for me to ever ask her out a second time. I did not want them to begin to assume a relationship that was not there.

I went on to say that no, really I thought she was a nice girl and I would like to get to know her better. All that got back to Suzanne was the “She’s probably a virgin and can’t date yet’ part.

Fast forward back to 1981 in my house with the voice telling me to write Suzanne.
As I said, this voice was as clear as any I had ever heard before or since. I answered the voice back and said, “I think I really messed that one up.” The voice told me, “Write Suzanne anyway.”


I made a very compelling case with the voice, which by now I was convinced was the Holy Spirit. I told the Holy Spirit, “I don’t know her address.” The voice answered back. “You saw her and her siblings walking along Hwy 81 near Master’s Store. She lives near there.”


I was pretty familiar with the area and knew that this area was at the border of several different postal routes. It could be an Anderson city route. It could be Route 6 Anderson, or it could be Route 12 or 13 Anderson. It could even be Route 1, Starr, South Carolina.

The voice answered, "Mail it to Suzanne Gunter, Route One, Starr. Mr. Ferguson will know where to take it."

Mr. Ferguson, I believe his first name is Allen, had the Route 1 Starr mail route since time began. He knew everyone on the route. He knew when they had new babies and when someone passed away. I said, "It is a long shot.”

The Holy Spirit answered in a very clear, loud voice, “Nothing is a long shot for me; I only deal in sure things.” I wrote the letter. As I was getting ready to type the address, I heard the Statesmen sing “Get in touch with God, turn your radio on.”

Read my next post to find out what happened next.

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Band Night 1977

The band room had burned during my ninth grade year. On top of that the uniforms we were wearing had been purchased in the 1950’s. The football team got two sets of new uniforms every year. What few uniforms we had that survived the fire were falling apart. This year the school board finally authorized the purchase of new uniforms.

See Falling Bells

The old band room had been repaired. New school instruments had been purchased (except the tubas which were reconditioned but not done right). The new uniforms were ordered well in advance. They were set to be delivered in time for the first football game. But they did not show up. 

My mother and Joyce Jarrard stitched and sewed the old uniforms back together as best anyone could and got us into some semblance of being presentable. The first game came and went, no new uniforms. Then the second and the third. Band night was the next to the last game to be played that year.

Papa was always a little hyper and often flipped his lid when things didn't quite go his way. Sometimes this was embarrassing. Most of the time it was cool. Usually he got his way. . 

Papa got on the phone and yelled and threatened lawsuits. The company put the uniforms on an Eastern Airlines Jet and had them flown in. The only problem was that they did not have the breast pocket on them that had the name of the high school (Crescent High School). My mother, Merle McClendon, and another band mother, Joyce Jarrard had to sew all these pockets on. They worked around the clock to get these pockets sewn on the coats.

The day of the band night football game Mom (also now known as Nana) and Joyce Jarrard worked to get everyone outfitted in the new uniforms. We marched out for the pre-game playing of the Star Spangled Banner and the crowd cheered the new uniforms.

Since we had a special show planned and since it was band night we had asked for a half time extension. By taking the half time extension the Crescent football team would have to take a fifteen yard penalty after the half time. Everyone agreed to the extension so that the opposing team's (Saluda High School) band could also perform during the half time.

The Saluda High band marched out and performed perfectly. The Crescent band lined up on the side of the field and was ready to take our places as soon as the Saluda band finished their performance. Just before time for us to take the field the band director, Mr. Johnson, came and told us that we would not perform that night.

As it turns out since the home team was running behind in a very close game the head coach had decided not to allow the half time extension and not to take the fifteen yard penalty. Mr. Johnson had us take our instruments and put them up. The Saluda Band also put away their instruments in support for us. There was no music performed during the second half of that football game. The Saluda band members expressed their disbelief and shock by telling the Crescent band members how crappy that was for us not to get to perform on our own band night.

Papa was upset. He grabbed the head coach and chewed him up one side and down the other. He really let this man have it. He insulted him in every way he could and told him how he was going to contact the district and demand they fire him and all his staff the next morning. As a merchant in the community, a prominent member of the community and big contributor to the school's athletic program this was a credible threat. The problem was the man he thought was the head coach was really an assistant coach.

My father and several other band parents “expressed their concerns” to every school board member as well as to the superintendent, the principal and everyone else they could find. The end result was that for the next football game, which was the last home football game of that year, we got to have the whole half time for our performance. It wasn't the same.

Falling Bells Crescent High School Marching Tigers.

Sometime during early 1977 the Crescent High School band room burned. It was a portable unit that was on the school grounds. Basically it was a trailer. It had a large room to set up to play in and a small office storage room.


It seems that a janitor had turned on the heater so that the room would be warm by the time students arrived. The janitor went to other buildings on the campus and later noticed smoke and called the fire department.

When I arrived fire trucks from the Starr Fire Department were on the scene and the fire was pretty much out. My fellow tuba player, Dan Dyar, was also a volunteer fireman. The local newspaper ran a picture that showed Dan carrying out “His Tuba” that had gotten so hot in the fire that it had fused to the tuba chair. The thing was that tuba was my tuba.


We spent the rest of the year with no band room and did not have actual band class. No more concerts and no more lessons. Those of us who stayed on campus for the final period had to sit in the visiting football team locker room in the athletic building. The school cared so little about the band that we did not even get any chairs to sit on. What few benches there were did not provide enough seating for everyone to sit at.


The school refurbished the burned band room by the beginning of the next year and had new school instruments to replace the ones that had burned up. They did not replace the tubas. Instead they had them reconditioned and refinished.

They were refinished in nickel plating that looked tarnished from the beginning. There was no way to polish them properly. The heat had melted the large bells of the tubas. When the company that refurbished the tubas put them together they did a poor job and so, one by one, the bells broke free from the necks of the tubas and crash they came to the floor.

I had to continually haul tubas to Draisen’s House of Music to have them re-welded. Still the bells would fall off at inappropriate times.