Lash LaRue

When we moved from Ohio Street some time in 1950, my dad bought a small mobile home (8 X 28 foot), which he set up behind a lumberyard on Broad Street between 6^th and 7^th Streets. This was a new world for me. I was half a block from the Boys Club, and across the street from the Wichita Falls Memorial Auditorium. The mobile home was small, and didn't have a bathroom, but it was probably as big as the little apartment we lived in on Ohio Street for three years. There was a storage room in the big house, which had a bathroom for our use, a step above an outhouse. We had to take baths in a washtub.

            I joined the Boys Club and it became a home-away-from-home for me. It had a library and a workshop where I learned to make things on machines, a gym with lots of activities, and the employees saw to it that we had things to do every day. Across the street from the Boys Club was an orphanage with a fenced-in playground. I felt sad for the children inside, for they would stand at the fence and watch us playing outside, and were unable to join us. A block and a half from me was 8^th Street Park - those further up the road called it 9^th Street Park. It covered the whole block and had slides, swings, and merry-go-rounds; in later years, it was given the official name of Bellevue Park, the swings and slides removed, and million-dollar architecture was added. Ugly.

            The lumberyard had a wooden trailer parked in front with wood scraps and National Geographic magazines tossed inside, free for the neighborhood. It was some benefactor's way of seeing that the kids had something educational to read. The free scraps of lumber were a novelty also. Try going to a lumberyard today and asking for free scraps!

            My little world had suddenly changed from sidewalks and winos, theaters and 5 & dimes, to parks, playgrounds, and the Boys Club. I didn't miss Ohio Street, nor did I ever go back. I would visit Indiana Street once in a while, but for some reason I was afraid to venture back to where I had spent three years of my life.

            The Memorial Auditorium was open during the weekdays, and I had the run of the place, often helping out the office workers when they needed someone to run an errand. It wasn't all concrete and parking lot at the time, either. There were large grassy areas on both sides of the building, and these became the local children's playground in summer and winter. We would ride our bikes down the hill in the summer, and slide cardboard boxes down it in the winter. No one said anything to us. My sisters and their boyfriends also set pallets on the grass and made out when they could get rid of me. Usually that cost their boyfriends a dime or quarter. I would still run home and tell my mother that they were kissing their boyfriends!

            Something else about the Memorial Auditorium, they brought shows to town. I'm sure they charged for them, but I was always given a free pass. We only lived in the mobile home about a year, and when my dad couldn't make payments on it, we had to move. So the time would be around 1951 when one of my heroes came to town. I was given a pass for the show that night, and onstage was Lash LaRue and Al "Fuzzy" St. John, western stars I had watched at the picture shows downtown on many Saturdays. Lash would pop that 15-foot long bullwhip, and Fuzzy would roll a cigarette with one hand, then they would put on a mock fistfight for our entertainment. I sat in wonderment, as only an eleven-year-old boy could throughout the show. Then when it was all over, Lash and Fuzzy visited with the audience, and spoke with us. I even got a pat on the head from Lash LaRue!

            However, there is sadness even in such glorious times as this. Much later, I learned that in 1951 the B Westerns were dying, and all of the western stars were making the rounds trying to promote interest in a dying entertainment industry. Their contracts were up in 1951 and '52, and the studios were not renewing them. Westerns were growing up, and TV was taking the place of the Saturday Matinees. Cowboy stars like Lash LaRue were drifting away, their careers finished.

            About ten years after his last movie, the police found a man passed out in the gutter and threw him in the drunk tank to sleep it off. Someone at the station recognized him and notified the newspapers. The next day, the headlines read,  "Cowboy movie star, Lash LaRue arrested for public intoxication!" What could have been the final nail in his coffin actually revived his career to a small degree. TV networks heard about the arrest, and it wasn't long before Lash LaRue was making special appearances on network television. Conventions also started asking him to appear as Guest of Honor. Kris Kristofferson and Willie Nelson hired him in a bit part for their television remake of "Stagecoach". He died in obscurity at age 80 in 1996.

            They looked so much alike that Lash LaRue could have passed for Humphrey Bogart's twin. The likeness was often a curse for Lash, as people would often mistake him for Bogart. He enjoyed telling one story at conventions that went something like this: One day an actress he worked with asked him:

            "Are you related to Humphrey Bogart?"

            "I don't think so," he replied.

            "Humm," the actress continued. "Did your mother by chance meet Bogart before you were conceived?"

            When I met Lash LaRue in 1951, he was a giant. Perhaps his only claim to fame, besides his resemblance to Bogart, was that of a B Western movie star. But for kids growing up in the 1940s and '50s, our heroes were bigger than life. They were the good guys that we needed. The fathers we didn't have. They brought justice to the West, and gave us someone to emulate when we grew up. And that wasn't a bad thing.

Hard Times

The above picture was taken of me and my dog, Joe-Boy, after leaving Ohio Street. The Memorial Auditorium is in the background. I am about ten years old in this shot.

When the city was first laid out around the railroad, Ohio Street became the first main street of Wichita Falls, just a half block from the tracks. Buildings that first sprouted up catered to the many businesses that served the needs of the people and the railroad. Many of these businesses were two-story structures, the business on the ground floor and living quarters on the floor above. In the late 1800s, Ohio Street was the main hub of activity. But by the 1940s, it had become a street of bars, winos, and lower class families trying to etch out a living, while the main business district had moved a block away to Indiana Street.

            The apartment where we lived was above a bar owned by an older woman who lived in a nice home at the edge of the city. Her daughter ran the establishment, and lived in the apartment at the top of the stairs. She had a son my age, and we played together and went to the same school. I never knew what had become of my friend's father, but he and his mother were alone - most of the time.

            In 1947, it seemed that everyone was struggling. I don't remember very many of the dwellers, although the Martin family lived across the hall from us. They had two daughters and a son. Their son was a teenager, and rode his bike to Reagan Jr. High every day. I didn't know him very well, but I do remember that bike. It was my duty to go for milk and bread every morning, and at the bottom of the stairs was usually a wino or drunk, passed out from the night before. And I always had to jump over one of them to reach the outside door. My heart would stand still until I was on the sidewalk and safe. I would then pray that the sleeping man would be gone by the time I returned. Sometimes they were, but most of the time they were not, and I would have to climb over them again. It was scary! But when the Martin boy left for school, he rode that bike down those stairs, and made the most awful racket you ever heard as the wheels hit each step. Before he reached the bottom, the doorways would be clear of drunks!

            Another man I remember was a big redheaded fellow. I heard he was recently discharged from the Army. But now he was setting up illegal card and dice games in the rear of businesses along Ohio Street, and staying one step ahead of the law. I don't know if they ever caught him.

            Another product of the Army was an abundance of photographers. There must have been several from Wichita Falls, for we encountered them quite often. Returning from the war in Europe, they had no skills, except for a camera. Some got jobs with studios or the newspaper, but others turned to freelancing, and would approach families in cafes or stores hoping to take their pictures for a little bit of money. The "man on the street" usually worked for a studio. For a while they were tolerated by the businesses, but by the 1950s, I think they were ran off from the downtown district. Later, I would see them in little communities going from door to door, trying to take pictures of families. By the 1950s, they got smart, and a few brought small ponies around, with little cowboy outfits, and talked parents into having their children's pictures taken on the pony!

            But even in the late 1940s, there was a demand for other type photographs. Some of the photographers ended up taking pictures of nude women to sell. My older sister, age 13 or 14 at the time, answered an ad in the newspaper for a babysitter. When she arrived at the house, there was a man who told her he wanted to take her picture, and started undressing her. Just in time, the police broke in the door and arrested him. They had been watching his house ever since he placed the ad in the paper. Evidently, he was a known pervert. I don't know if he was going to take nude photos of my sister, or molest her. But the police warned my mother not to let her answer ads in the paper after that.

            I mentioned my friend and his mother. Every so often my friend would tell me that he had a new father the night before. At the time I didn't understand, as these things were beyond the knowledge of little boys. But the same oddity was happening down the block. We were only a couple buildings down from the Holt Hotel, and around 1950 I started selling newspapers along Ohio Street. I used to sneak into the hotel and go from room to room, knocking on each door, trying to sell newspapers. I often saw older men with younger women, but never thought anything about it. One old man started to run me off, when the young woman told him to buy a paper from me … because they had time. I even ran into my math teacher at the Holt Hotel one morning, and I don't think he was married. He told me not to tell anyone I saw him there. Of course, I didn't understand that, either. I saw just about everyone at the hotel at one time or another. The teacher went on to become the principal of my school. Today, I sometimes wonder who was with him that day, another teacher, the parent of one of his students, or a "friend"?

            Even though the Korean War started in 1950, there was a boon in the economy and jobs opened up. People were moving to the suburbs, and soon there would be TV in just about every home, along with a two-car garage. I'm sure that everyone was glad to see the 1940s come to an end. We moved from Ohio Street, and I left the winos behind. But for some families, life did not change much.

            My dad started drinking more, and we had trouble paying our bills, and never had enough to eat.

            Times were still hard for some.

Death's Dark Domain

Death’s Dark Domain (Doc Savage)

By Kenneth Robeson (Will Murray)

Altus Press www.altuspress.com/

ISBN #978-1618270825

$24.95 Paperback

325 Pages

Rating 5-Stars

“A Thrill-A-Minute Ride!”

When Pat Savage receives a strange package, it sends Doc, Monk and Ham off to Europe where war drums are sounding between Tazan and Egallan. Long Tom has already departed by ship. It seems John Sunlight had sold super weapons from Doc’s Fortress of Solitude to the two warring neighbors. Doc wants the deadly weapons back, but complicating the situation is the terror-field area between the countries, called Ultra-Stygia.

Hold on to your hat. Things are going to get wild. Just in time for Halloween, Will Murray takes Doc Savage where Lester Dent could never take him. In a land seeming to be infested with vampires and werewolves, you can add invisible Cyclopes to the mix for more fun. A deadly spore may have infected poor Pat, so she is left behind in the care of doctors.

In this latest Doc Savage adventure, Will Murray proves once again that he is the rightful successor to the character. Doc and his aides are in top form, and the story moves full steam ahead without let-up. As much as I loved the previous entries, Death’s Dark Domain out does them all in fantastic adventure, and the man of bronze tackles the action head-on in a non-stop thrill-a-minute read.  The book production and design by Altus Press, along with the new cover by Joe DiVito makes this book a gorgeous keepsake.

Tom Johnson

Echoes

Calvin's Beanie Cap

As we reach our so-called Golden Years, some of the simplest things can often bring back memories of our childhood; perhaps our inner child is just waiting beneath the cloudiness of our minds to come forth again, to relive a past still grieved for. The glory days of our youth.

            I experienced such a phenomenon a few years ago while reading the current story line of my favorite comic strip by Bill Watterson. For those that may not be familiar with Calvin And Hobbs, it was about a young boy and his imaginary friend, a stuffed tiger. Every mother would have recognized something in Calvin that reminded them of their own son, or perhaps a daughter. For the comic strip boy was a little of all of us.

            In this particular story line, Calvin has found an ad on the back of a comic book for a beanie cap, one of those ball caps with a propeller on top that would whirl in the wind as he ran. He sends off for this special cap, and now must wait for several weeks for it to come in. The story follows Calvin for the next several weeks, as he anxiously thinks about this special toy he has ordered.

            Whether Watterson intended it or not, the strip jarred a lot of memories. I know it did mine. I was ten years old again, and living across from the Memorial Auditorium in Wichita Falls. My older sister had just married, and her husband got me a job as pin boy at a Bowling Alley. Back then, they used small boys to set up the pins between the bowlers' turns because we were fast and could easily get into the pit. If I remember correctly, a little light would flash when our lane was to be set up, and we would drop into the pit, set the pins in place, then get out again before the next ball was thrown. At least that was the way it was supposed to happen. I worked as pin boy for a several weeks, until one night a drunk clobbered me with a bowling ball while I was still setting up pins. After tangling with that bowling ball, I quit. Remember, I was only ten years old. If that happened today, parents would be millionaires after the lawsuit.

Back then I was probably paid twenty-five cents a night. Or at the most, fifty cents a night. But it gave me some spending money. And this is where my beanie cap comes in. Well, it wasn't really a beanie cap, but the principle is the same. At the time, my favorite radio drama was a program called Straight Arrow, about a white cowboy in the West that dressed up like an Indian to fight outlaws. When Straight Arrow was needed, the cowboy would head off to a cave, where his Indian pony and outfit were hidden. When he rode out of the cave, he was no longer the white man, but an Indian. Remember the Lone Ranger always used silver bullets? Well, our Indian hero used arrows with golden tips!

There was also a Straight Arrow comic book, and one day I found an ad on the back of an issue; for twenty-five cents and fifty Popsicle wrappers, I could have my very own Straight Arrow bracelet with a hidden compartment! I asked all my friends to save their Popsicle wrappers for me, and when I had enough, I mailed them off with a quarter. For the next few weeks, I anxiously awaited my golden bracelet with the hidden compartment.

My excitement rivaled that of Calvin's when the package finally arrived, and I tore open the wrapping to find the cheap gold colored bracelet inside, and opened the secret compartment to find - a golden arrowhead! Well, it too was a cheap toy, but I was thrilled. I wore the bracelet until it was lost or stolen by another boy. Like Calvin, it probably didn't last me more than a couple of weeks.

I would fall for these gimmicks two more times. When my parents lost the small trailer house, we moved to Broad Street, between 3^rd and 4^th Streets, a half block from San Jacinto School, and behind the Boys Club. I was now eleven years old, and my remaining sister married and moved away, leaving me the only child left at home. Plus, I now had a room to myself, and a friend gave me a little plastic radio to listen to the many programs for entertainment. My next experience with mail order came when I found an ad on back of another comic book for walkie-talkies. My buddies and I were using tin cans with a string tied between them to talk to each other. But the picture on the comic book made these items look like the real things. So off goes my twenty-five cents. Sadly, a few weeks later, I received two tiny, plastic toys that were supposed to be walkie-talkies - attached to a thin string!

I should have learned my lesson with the second order, but youth is forever optimistic, and once again I was bitten by an ad on the back of a comic book. This time, no kid in their right mind could pass up this opportunity! For twenty-five cents, I could send off for a miniature spaceport that glowed in the dark. Oh, be still beating heart. The whole back cover of that comic book was devoted to the spaceport, and all the pieces I was going to get for my quarter. It didn't take me but a minute to fill out the order form and put it in an envelope. Oh, I waited and watched for the mail every day, until it finally came. But the package was so tiny, how could the spaceport fit in such a small box? Tearing into the wrapper, I found the little box with miniature objects that passed for rocket ships and launchers, and all the other stuff that a spaceport needed. I was heartbroken, but there was still hope. Tonight, with darkness, I could turn my lights out, shut the door, and surely the spaceport would light up my room, and I could see those tiny rocket ships. That night, the disappointment was complete when the spaceport barely made as much light as the hands and numbers on a wristwatch.

  That was the last time I ever ordered something from the back of a comic book. But I shouldn't be too critical. The items offered on the back of comic books were either for a dime or twenty-five cents. If I had kept those little toys, they would be worth hundreds of dollars now. Antique dealers and collectors sell these items for lots of money today. Even the comic books I ordered them from are worth a small fortune!

Calvin, like Peter Pan, will never grow old. And as a little boy I never wanted to grow up. When I look back on the days of my youth, the little boy within me smiles, and I wonder if I ever did …

A Time of Heroes

At the end of the school year in 1947, we moved to Wichita Falls. My dad had rented a small

apartment above a bar on Ohio Street, across from the Gem Theater, between 7th & 8th

Streets. We would live here for the next three years.

Downtown Wichita Falls was my playground. I ran barefoot along Ohio, Indiana, and 7th and 8^th Streets. If you've never stepped on a burning cigar or cigarette in bare feet, you've never lived! It's an experience you'll never forget! I would visit the Train Depot when passenger trains came in, and was fascinated by soldiers in uniform returning from Europe, with pretty patches on their shoulders, stripes on their arms, and medals on their uniform jackets. I listened to their stories about places I had never heard of - Germany, France, Spain, England, and elsewhere. It was like another world to me. The Depot was just around the corner from where we lived.

An Army & Navy Surplus store was on the corner of 7th and Ohio, and I loved to roam through the place for hours, looking at all the neat stuff! There were things in there I wanted so badly. Weird gas masks, and empty brass cartridges! There were uniforms from every branch of service. Web belts, holsters. Knives, medals, and patches!

The police department was further up Ohio Street, and I stopped in there when I had a chance. Inside the door was a large frame of pictures hung on the wall. Who the pictures were of, I'll never know. I often wonder if they moved those pictures to the new location? I would sure like to look at it again.

Down 7th Street, between Ohio and Indiana, was a meat market. It was a small place, and had a cow's head hovering over the sidewalk above the door. Gosh, how many times did my mother send me to that meat market?!? I wish I could remember the name of the market.

Further down 7th Street was a magazine exchange, where they sold used pulps and comic books. This was the first time I had ever seen comic books! Comics or pulps were priced the same. Those with covers and in good condition cost a nickel. Coverless or bad condition copies were two for a nickel Oh, I loved those Bat Man and Superman comic books! I bet I held the first issues in my hand at one time, bought for a nickel at that old store. However, I never bought a pulp. Heck, I never paid them much attention at the time. Those comic books were what I was interested in. One day, I ended up with a whole quarter to spend, and bought ten comics in bad shape, stuck them inside my shirt and walked down Indiana to Kress's, where I looked through their new comic books. To my horror, when I started to leave, the woman at the counter stopped me and they pulled those comics from my shirt, thinking I had stolen them! Thankfully, it didn't take them but a minute to determine these were all second hand comic books, and let me go, but with a warning not to bring other merchandise into Kress's in the future. Believe me, I learned my lesson, and never repeated that act!

Ah, Kress's Department Store. Of all the five and dime stores downtown, I liked that store best! I loved to look through the toys and comics. I had the run of the town, and l always ended up at Kress's at some point during the day. That's where most of the "Man on the Street" people usually stood also. A "Man on the Street' being either a man with a radio mike, interviewing people. Or a man with a camera, taking pictures, and handing out cards, inviting you to come to their studio for a setting. Gosh, those were the days! It was always fun to see a radio personality interviewing someone. I even got my picture taken once outside Kress's.

The Miller Drugstore was on the comer of 8th and Ohio. The door was set back a ways; with a pillar out front, allowing a shade for the doorway. Being set back, the door actually faced both directions, and you could enter from 8th or Ohio. As you entered, on the immediate left, below a long window, was a rack of pulps and comic books. But these were new, and cost a full dime each. But it didn't stop me from looking at them. And here, I got my first real view of the Bloody Pulps. Those wonderful old action covers, whether western, science fiction or super hero titles. I especially loved the science fiction covers, but didn't have any idea what they were. Just that the covers were... fantastic, amazing, thrilling, wonderful! Straight ahead was a counter for ice cream and sodas, with stools in front, and I think the medicine window was to the far right of the counter. In the middle of the floor were a number of small tables. The chairs were actually attached to the tabletops in some way, and swung out when you wanted to sit down, and folded inward when you left. There were either two or three chairs per table. I don't really recall, but I do remember they were tiny tables. I took my first girlfriend there for an ice cream once. Our parents gave us some change and laughed as we went on our first date. We were 7 or so years old at the time. Her name was Dottie Ann Martin. I'll never forget. I eventually married a Martin girl, though she wasn't related to Dottie.

Ah, but none of these places, as exciting as they may have been, were the true wonders of downtown Wichita Falls. That honor goes to the many theaters scattered about the city at the time. As already mentioned, the Gem Theater was directly across the street from the apartment where we lived. Around the corner, on 7m, close to Indiana, was the Ritz. This theater changed names several times while I lived in the area, but I remember it as the Ritz. On the corner of Indiana and 7th was the Tower Theater, and down the street, towards the corner of Indiana and 8^th was another theater, named the Texan; it came and went with the rising tide. J.C. Penney's Department Store was next door, and I remember at one time they had a type of peep show, where you looked into an enclosure at a pair of feminine legs wearing leg stockings. They were advertising the leg stockings, of course. However, I think some dirty old men would often stand there staring at those legs. Later in life, I often wondered if they were real, or if it was a mannequin in the enclosure.

Still on Indiana, between 8th and 9th, the State Theater was one of the more expensive of the movie houses, as was the Wichita Theater another block up Indiana, and around the block, where the Strand was located. These were the ones a poor kid avoided. I think the State, Wichita, and Strand cost 25 cents. The Texan was a little less expensive at 12 cents. The Tower cost a whole dime, while the Ritz and Gem were both nine cents. A quarter would get you a candy bar (or popcorn), soda, and a double feature movie.

What you got at the cheaper palaces on Saturday were double features, a cartoon, and a serial, and the box office was open until closing time. You could go in during the middle of a movie and stay as long as you wished. There were days when I would spend all day in the picture show, watching the movies over and over again. Especially on Saturday mornings, you got a double feature of westerns (Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Lash LaRue, Hopalong Cassidy, or Durango Kid), The Bowery Boys, or jungle movies like Tarzan and Jungle Jim, and other action flicks. Gosh, those were the days!

And the serials, how great those things were! Twelve or fifteen chapters, one chapter per week, each chapter somewhere around fifteen minutes long, and each one ending in a cliffhanger, insuring you would return to that theater next week to see how the hero or heroine escaped from some death defying action the week before. Sure enough, each week, someone was bound to drive off a cliff, or be knocked out in a house burning to the ground. You just knew the hero was going to die. But next week, miraculously he or she would escape - until the end of the current chapter, when another death trap popped up to snare our luckless hero!

In 1948, I think I watched the ultimate serial for an 8 year-old boy. Superman. For fifteen chapters, one week at a time, I thrilled to my comic book hero on the movie screen. I didn't think it could ever get any better than that! I remember the day of the final chapter, as we got up to leave the theater, and we walked into the lobby and stared in awe at the giant posters plastered all over the theater. The next serial, beginning next Saturday, was Bat Man! Oh my, there they were, pictures of one of the greatest of the comic book super heroes, even more fantastic than Superman. Bat Man and Robin would be showing at the Tower Theater next week!

Either I forgot, didn't have the money to go to the Tower, or found westerns at the Gem Theater more interesting. Eight year-old boys sometimes forgot the important things in life! Whatever the case, I didn't see the Bat Man serial that year. In fact, I wouldn't see it until twenty years later, when I was waiting for a plane to take this Army soldier overseas. Stuck at an AF flight line in Northern California, waiting for our plane, we watched an all night TV station playing that Bat Man serial! I finally got to watch my hero in that exciting cliffhanger. Unfortunately, it wasn't the same as watching Superman in the Tower Theater. I would never be 8 years old again.

Those were simple times, and although we were poor, a young boy of eight could still find heroes in everyday places. Whether they were returning soldiers wearing uniforms covered with medals, or comic books at the magazine exchange, or even a fifteen chapter serial at the Tower Theater. Perhaps we can never go back, except in our memories, but I am glad I was young in a period of such fascinating times!