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The Tex Kassen Story by Larry Simpson ISBN 1-891429-58-2 Biography, 101-pages $14.95 |
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There’s dedication—then there’s Coach, Lifesaver, Sports Official, Referee, Instructor, Educator and Doctor, Tex Leo Kassen. We human beings come into this world with very few abilities. As we develop, we require education and learning on various levels, the most elemental of which is physical. We require someone to teach us to swim; we need someone to show us how to run, to catch and throw and work our minds. Those are the jobs that fell to “Doc” Tex Kassen, who taught thousands of individuals the skills required to swim, to run, throw, catch, and more. He also taught mathematics, physical education, first aid and lifesaving—even survival; he coached tennis, football, baseball, basketball, and is currently past ninety and still working as a bench official at University of Texas Longhorns’ football games. One only needs to spend a little time with Tex Kassen to realize he is a gentle soul of perfection. He is personable and honest. His attitude is pure optimism, and he concerns himself with the wellbeing of his fellow human beings; he is empathetic, sympathetic and encouraging. And he is an untiring worker helping individuals and organizations, and finding time for his family. If educators were canonized, there would be a day for Tex Kassen on every calendar in the land. He’s just that kind of person.
Includes over 85 photos! |
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The Tex Kassen Story by Larry Simpson ISBN 1-891429-58-2 Biography, 101-pages $14.95 |
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The Life & Legend of Esther Weir by Larry Simpson ISBN 1-891429-60-4 Biography $14.95 |
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“I am against war, period.” —Esther Weir, 2005
ONE Beginnings The world was cast into darkness; a man-made storm erupted from a squabble over leadership of a backwater fiefdom in a remote province of Bohemia. Huge numbers of men and machines were outfitted with deadly contrivances grown from the budding Industrial Age and locked into a mass-produced orgy of steel, dynamite and gunpowder entanglement. Honor and glory sown by governments yielded bumper crops of dismantled viscera and scattered limbs, irrigated by vermilion rivers. Lightning bolts of artillery and clouds of poison gas delivered a downpour of calculated, human rancor in what was The War to End All Wars, The Great War, World War I. A meager gesture of nature, the only thing that would struggle to grow around the hellish blight of war-torn trenches were blood-red poppies. Surrounded by human misery, the blooms stretched and labored, compelled by the cycle of life. Flanders poppies blooming, going to seed in late March, a lone, US Army soldier named Henry “Okra” Purl Compton filled his field jacket pocket with Flanders field seedpods, thinking only of his mama, her jolly face, her buttermilk biscuits, her tears, and her flower garden back home. Across the Atlantic in 1916, a ray of hope was spun in the form of the first breaths of the girl child burst from the womb of professional pianist, Ida Joe Haydon Messick. The baby’s cry was a melody heard across the ages, in notes and meter common to the first tones of one who might have been an ancient Egyptian queen, a Hapsburg princess, an American suffragist, an athlete or a professor. Thirty-year-old Irving Russell Messick swelled at the sound of his new daughter’s forceful song as she wailed and gasped from the timeless swim. Outside the window, herring gulls were making a ruckus. These were local birds that had congregated next to the maternity ward on the Wilmington, North Carolina hospital grounds. Coincident to the baby’s first cries, the gulls became unsettled and began calling to one another. Holding the child for the first time, Irv showed morning’s sun-glow to the baby, whose blurry blue eyes blinked in the intense light as the brilliant orb cracked the horizon. The proud father stood at the open window, where he and his new daughter drew deep breaths of an aromatic ocean breeze. The marine air had a calming effect on both him and the child. The breeze puffed like waves on a shore, the pulsating rhythm of life, the panting of the newborn. A few of the birds flexed their wings and in an oscillating wave the entire flock levitated, momentarily transfixed on the infant and Irv, and turned their flight. Irv thought he recognized the lead bird, who had a distinctive, reddish beak. He’d often seen that particular bird among those feeding on chum cast behind his fishing boat. He watched as the undulating stream flowed like white, fluttering smoke toward the Cape Fear River. He imagined they’d be navigating the Smith Island cut to light on Sheephead Rock, where he often saw their breakwater congregation on the Atlantic cusp. He sighed, worried about his crew and fishing boat, tried not to think about the rumored German U-boats. Together they took a deep sigh of salt air and he hummed a tune to the innocent, button-faced child in an attempt to shut out the war being fought four thousand miles away. He prayed the shadow of war would not ever fall upon the innocent, delicate hatchling in his arms. “Name, sir?” “Pardon?” Irv turned, surveyed his exhausted Ida Joe resting, while gently stroking, holding the glowing babe in his strong arms, careful not to mar her tender face with his hands, calloused from years of handling weathered wood and rough rope. He then surveyed the pointy-nosed, gray haired nurse who had deep, wise eyes and was addressing him. “What do you wish to call the baby, sir?” the nurse asked patiently, clipboard in hand. “For the record, sir.” She had been keeping hospital records since her Civil War teen years at what was then Wilmington’s Confederate hospital. The detailed lines in her face marked her experience and her tender expression toward the child revealed she much preferred to visit life as it arrived. “Look at her,” he said in his soft, Virginian accent. “She is so pure. Hair whiter than a gull’s breast. Clear, like calm water, like pure sunlight. Isn’t this child just perfect?” “Yes, sir, she certainly is,” the nurse replied, softening her vibrato, molasses-sweet Carolinian tongue, swooning a moment over the baby. “She must be special. Those seagulls gave her quite a reception this morning. H’ain’t ever seen so many of ’em here before.” She smiled at Irv, sweetly crinkled her nose and said, “I’m certain they came to see your child’s arrival into this world. Now, what do you propose we name her?” “Maybe they did. Seems I might’ve recognized one of ’em. It appears that at this moment, ma’am, all is right in the world,” Irv replied. “When I look at her and feel like this, I think maybe all will be right. And my mind goes to thoughts of Ida Joe’s own, dear mother up in Irvington. Yes, I know for whom she needs to be named. May I call her Esther, after Ida Joe’s mother?” “That’s what her birth certificate will reflect, then, Mr. Messick. She’ll be named after Esther, who, as I recollect from the Good Book, took care of her people. I reckon your Esther will take care and make everything good and right for folks.” “I’m grateful, ma’am. She surely promises to be someone very special.” “She surely does, sir. Begging your pardon, but I must declare, I witness a lot of births and I do not recollect ever having seen a baby with such a glow. Or an arrival heralded by so many gulls Congratulations, Mr. Messick,” she said, filling in the form. “This is indeed a special day, March 29th, in the year of our Lord, 1916. May your child’s arrival mark a happy, new beginning for this world.” “Thank you, ma’am. Do we not all pray it were so?” ... |
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The Life & Legend of Esther Weir by Larry Simpson ISBN 1-891429-60-4 Biography $14.95 |
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The Standard Bearers of Brady The Vivian & LB Smith Story by Larry Simpson ISBN 1-891429-59-0 Biography, 269-pages $18.48 |
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Beginnings Many of the small town Texas newspapers of the late 1920’s sold office supplies, commercial printing, stationary and greeting cards to supplement their revenues. The Brady Standard was no exception. For the sake of thrift, in addition to regular duties, principals such as editors and advertising managers often doubled as sales clerks to broker these sundries. In December of 1929, the bleak dawn of the Great Depression had yet to darken the spirits of joyous shoppers crowding Brady’s downtown square. High school junior Vivian Samuelson and her friend Ethel Rudolph were Christmas shopping and stopped at 110 West Main Street. They passed through the brick façade, embedded with tiles reading 19|STANDARD|26, to browse the holiday cards inside. Perusing the racks, the school girls giggled and carried on. School girls though they were, Vivian shone like a bright, new penny with her thick, dark umber hair, sparkling blue eyes and trim eighteen-year-old, woman’s buxomly stature. Watching the store was twenty-five-year-old L.B. Smith, the newspaper’s advertising manager. When he glimpsed the girls entering the office, legend has it that he literally fell off his stool. Though his dark suit was serious, he was cast into a playful mood, Vivian having overwhelmed his senses. Brandishing a Christmas card, he approached the girls, jesting in a crisp voice, “How would you like to send me this card? Or this one?” The girls blushed and chuckled. “Sure I would,” Vivian finally gently drawled, momentarily captured by L.B.’s dark green eyes, wavy auburn hair and boyish grin. “But send me this one first,” she suggested, dropping to a rich, smoky tenor and flourishing a card with a grace unsurpassed by even the most glamorous movie star of the day. Ethel bubbled, “Send me this one, mister. I’ll send you that one.” “Where should I send ’em?” And he took the address shared by both girls. Ethel wanted to finish high school in Brady after her folks had moved away and, although Vivian’s people were nearly impoverished they didn’t know it, so welcomed her in. It was a small, comfortable cottage in town with Vivian’s mother, brothers, a wood burning stove, indoor plumbing and electricity. “Crazy as it sounds, see if I won’t,” L.B. laughed. “Surprise me,” Vivian dared, as the girls left the newspaper office to browse elsewhere. The young newspaperman had met and dated a number of pretty girls in his college days, but they all seemed too self-absorbed or haughty or for his taste. In just those few moments with Vivian, he recognized that she possessed a natural, unfettered splendor and was unaware of her own allure. Despite her departure without a sale, Vivian had made a huge purchase on the lonesome heart of L.B. Smith. The cub advertising manager would someday own the newspaper where they’d met, and come to share with the young beauty a home, children and a remarkable life. |
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The Standard Bearers of Brady The Vivian & LB Smith Story by Larry Simpson ISBN 1-891429-59-0 Biography, 269-pages $18.48 |
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