Remember When

Round at First Baptist Church, just a block off of Main, was Troop 70, Boy Scouts of America.
The weather was beginning to really warm up and there were bunches of merit badges to be earned. I was in a patrol with several more boys older than me, so you see I had to do most of the hard work Scouts are known for.
To tell the truth, the best thing I liked about the Scouts was getting all dressed up in my uniform. That wide-brimmed campaign hat just topped everything off.

Well, sir, the $199 million school bond was approved by voters. Actually, not many folks even bothered to step out in the chilly weather and vote for or against.
To tell the truth, like a lot of old fixed-income souls, I shout: “Honey, how much more can we stand?” And she answers back: “Somebody’s got to care, you know, we have great-grands in school.”
I shake my head. Lord knows, let’s hope there are jobs for them.

Not all school clubs back in my youth were havens of snobbery where feelings were trampled on. Out in my little cave where I have the freedom to sit and recall stuff that happened years ago, I keep copies of the 1950 and 1951 Lancaster High School yearbook, the Rambler.
There was one club that we called the Fixers Club, with unofficial advisors Mr. W.C. Hawkins, Mr. C.B. Alexander and Mr. C.W. Reece.

Bet there are a few of you old codgers who can still recall the clang of a heavy metal horseshoe striking an iron rod.
I remember those games of horseshoes between mostly grown men in shirts with rolled up sleeves. Usually, the crowd standing around the dusty ground roared after each throw. The winner got no shiny trophy, just the pleasure of being recognized by his peers as a pretty good horseshoe thrower.