Memoirs of Bill Simpkins

In April 1999, at the urging of family and friends, I began writing memoirs of my life.  This covered the time up to my retirement and filled 18 pages including numerous pictures.  I have continued to make additions, but these have been to give an account of vacation trips, home moves and commentary on current events.  The additions will not be included here, with one exception.  I will include my December 2002 story of celebrating 50 years of marriage to my lovely wife, Patricia (Patty).  Our celebration was a very memorable event.

So, let's look back to the point at which the Richardson Family Tree begins in Steve Richardson's Web-Site, and follow branches to bring it up to the present for my family.

In 1832, James R. Richardson married Mary Elanor Chandler.  James and Mary produced six children, the second of which was Samuel Rankin Richardson.

In 1859, Samuel Rankin Richardson married Emily Taylor Pitcock.  Samuel and Emily produced eight children, the fifth of which was George Henry Richardson.

Sometime in the 1890's, George Henry Richardson married Ellen Alemeda Blaze.  George and Alemeda produced five children, the first of which was Iva Melvina Richardson.

Iva Melvina Richardson married Richard Howard Johnson sometime around 1910-1912.  Richard and Iva produced seven children, the first of which was Frona Beatrice Johnson.

Iva Melvina Richardson married Richard Howard Johnson sometime around 1910-1912.  Richard and Iva produced seven children, the first of which was Frona Beatrice Johnson.

In 1926, Frona Beatrice Johnson married Berl Dee Simpkins.  Berl and Frona produced seven children, the third of which was Billie Waine Simpkins.  That is me, and that is where my story finds it's beginning.

It is my hope that some of the personal and family recollections that will appear in this memoir will bless them and others as well.

I embark upon this project, not because my life was so interesting, but because life as I remember it was interesting.

n an obscure corner of Montague County in Texas, there is a rural wide-spot-in-the-road named Bowie (pronounced Boo-ee).

I'm sure this name was given in honor of the famous Jim Bowie, who died trying to help defend the Alamo, and after whom the Bowie knife is named.  The population of Bowie, Texas had to have been tiny in 1933.  Here is a photo of me taken in June of 1975, standing beneath a roadside sign in Bowie, Texas, declaring the population at that time to be 5,185.  Always a small town with no special credentials, but it was there that I was born on a cold winter night, December 22, 1933.  My father had no more than a 3^rd grade education, so he took whatever work he could get.  Farming was the only real work he knew, which explains why he had taken my mother and two older brothers, Orval and Kermit, to this forsaken place.  It is rich farm land today, just as it was then.

Life was a day-to-day existence for them.  Having a nice home in which to live was not an option.  Neither was paying hospital and doctor bills "just to have a baby."  And so, in the back living quarters of an out-of-business gas station, little Billie Wayne Simpkins was born.  It was just three days before Christmas, but that meant practically nothing to my parents, Berl and Frona Simpkins, because there was no money to make it an enjoyable time for their children.

When I visited there in 1975, my Uncle Walter Simpkins and his wife, Fay, still lived in Nocona, a small town just a short drive from Bowie.  They were gracious hosts and most considerate to drive us to Bowie.  We looked for the location of the old gas station site where I was born, but concluded it had been torn down and removed.  There was a bare lot on one corner of the little town, and my uncle said he was pretty sure that was where it had stood.  We did not attempt to confirm that, but I had the wonderful sensation as we stood there, that it was indeed the place, and my heart was singing.  I have included a picture here of the Courthouse in downtown Bowie as it looked in 1975.

When or why my parents left Bowie, I am not sure.  My brother, Kenneth, was born about 16 months later in a nearby town named Alvord.  In this old picture, Ken was less than a year old and I might have been about two.  Our mother can barely be seen peeking over Ken's head.  My earliest recollections, at around age six, places us in another small town near Wichita Falls, Texas, named Burkburnett.  We were poor, but somehow my folks managed to rent a small house on E. Main Street in Burkburnett.  We did have running water inside the house; cold only, of course.  For hot water, large pots were filled and heated on an old kerosene cook-stove.  That, when added to the cold water that partially filled a #2 washtub setting in the middle of the kitchen floor, was our bathtub.  It was quite an exercise to take baths.  More of an ordeal, actually.  But we did that with some degree of regularity.  Probably once a week or so.

I wanted a pair of cowboy boots so bad I could taste it. Christmas was coming and I registered my request.  On Christmas day, my present was indeed boots, but not the cowboy variety.  They were like lumberjack boots.  Very practical!  I was as disappointed as a little kid can get.  I shared that story with my kids as they were growing up.  On the Christmas that came just three days after my 60^th birthday, my adult daughter, Brenda, told me I had to read the card that accompanied my present from her before I could open it.  "Once upon a time, there was a little boy who wanted a certain Christmas present," the card read, "but because money was short, he did not get what he wanted.  Things are better now, and we think it is time he got his wish.  " A lump came into my throat and tears filled my eyes.  I did not have to open the present to know that some fifty years after my request, I was finally getting my cowboy boots.  There is no present she could have given that would mean more to me, and the picture here shows me trying them on.  I love them and take very good care of them.  I am blessed to have such a thoughtful daughter.  Creative, intelligent and accomplished; that is my Brenda.

Sometimes daddy worked as a share-cropper, in which he worked a plot of land, growing vegetables and staple crops, for a "share" of the produce.  Some of this was sold, but much of it supplied our table.  He took odd jobs, too.  How I got involved on this one occasion, I'm not sure, but I remember walking with him across the bridge that spans the Red River, which was about a mile from our house, and which separates Texas from Oklahoma.  He had a short-term job on the Oklahoma side of the river, hoeing weeds on a school-ground.  He tried to teach me the correct method for hoeing weeds so the cut ones were kept out of the way as you progressed.  That was not a lot of fun, but I was excited when I discovered a nest of baby rabbits among the weeds.  That made my day.

Those early years in Burkburnett were tough, but little kids are resilient.  As my brother Ken and I have occasionally reminisced about those days, we remember mostly good things.  We were happy and enjoyed being kids.  We played outside a lot, wandered the town as much as we cared to, and our parents would never have to wonder if we were safe.  We liked to sit on the benches at the train station and watch the old steam engines pulling long trains of cars.  We could poke around the cotton gins and see most of the operation from safe vantage points, or watch wagon-loads of grain being processed at the grain elevator.  The workers enjoyed our interest and never discouraged us from watching.  People were considerate of one another, and dangers that are so prevalent today were virtually unknown there.

Burkburnett is in storm country.  While no twister ever hit our house directly, they often came through the territory.  That was scary.  For that, and the hail storms that we would sometimes have, our protection was a dirt cellar in the backyard.  When threatened by a cyclone or hail storm, my mother would have us open the sloped door covering the cellar, crowd inside that dark hole, close the door and wait it out.  Until you have heard the scream of terrible, hurricane-like winds, or the sound of hailstones the size of golf balls hammering on an old wooden cellar door, one might say, "you ain't lived!"  In contrast, summer rain storms were fun.  If there wasn't a lot of lightening, it was safe to play outside in the warm summer rain.  We would get soaking wet, but after it was over, momma would have us strip down, dry off and put on fresh clothes.

Television had not been thought of, but we had radios.  Wow!  That was great!  Some folks used an interesting contraption attached to a speaker by wires, that required dragging a metal pin across a crystal, which looked like a small, flat metal rock.  Different radio stations would sound through the speaker as the pin was moved around.  When you found a station you liked, you left it there.  It was called a crystal set.  But we had an actual radio, with a lighted dial and built-in speaker.

We listened to programs like Let's Pretend, The Green Hornet, Inner Sanctum, Amos and Andy, Lum and Abner and many others.  What kid would not develop a keen imagination when such exciting stuff was on the air.  My dad used to say that Amos and Andy had been on the air so long, that when the radio was invented and tuned in, they were already broadcasting.  On Saturday nights, we listened to the quartet singing on The Old Time Gospel Hour.  I loved that kind of music then and I love it still.

Farmer's irrigation ponds were wonderful for wading or swimming.  They were also great for cat fishing!  Catching grasshoppers, June-bugs (cicada) and horned toads were wonderful summer activities.  Playing hide-and-seek when it got dark could amuse a whole neighborhood of kids, night after night.  I am not sure I remember ever having a nice toy from the store, but I was never without toys.  And never bored!  If I have any qualities of self-content and creativity, those "poor" times are probably the reason.  This picture was taken during those times, probably in about 1943.  Momma is holding Naomi and Ken is standing next to her.  Daddy is in the back, I am just in front of him, and David is in front, looking up at momma.

I have always had goals and ambitions, and the roots of those motivations, I am certain, began to grow in those challenging times.  I think it is wonderful that we can afford to provide so generously for our children today, but I often wonder what qualities of character they are cheated of when there is so little of the fundamental struggles of life to challenge them.  My memories of those years between the ages of six and eight are good ones.  Nothing terribly eventful broke the routine of daily life, and the things I saw and did each day is what I expected to see the next day as well.  Not in my wildest dreams could I have imagined the news that would descend upon us one cold day in early December of 1941.

Being just short of eight years old, I had no real concept of what this meant, and certainly no way of knowing that this event would bring about many changes in our lives in the days and years to come.  My father was too old to be a candidate for the military, and because of arthritic conditions could not have passed a physical for duty anyway.  So he was destined to continue going from job to job, wherever he could get one.

The advent of war seemed to make "Burk" even more community-minded than it already was.  Having a common enemy and cause brings people closer together than common goals.  The main part of town was really only three blocks long, but during the earlier months of the war, some unifying community events were held there that will be vivid in my memory all my life.  Town pot-lucks would be held and speeches made by important people.  Wonderful food was spread out on open tables, and huge watermelons from nearby fields were iced, sliced and shared.  The atmosphere was very festive.  The spirit of the people, united in their determination to support the war effort and "our boys on the front" was outstanding.

Soldiers from the army air base in Wichita Falls would bring cannons and war machinery to exhibit, shooting off blanks from a cannon when someone purchased a "war bond." Firemen would attach a big sliding, balloon-like gadget to a cable and raise it about twenty feet off the ground, with the balloon in the middle.  Then two teams, one on either side of the balloon, would shoot a stream of water from their fire hoses at it.  Whichever team was accurate enough with their water stream to slide the balloon to the far end of the cable, overcoming the attempts of the other team to prevent it, would be the winners.  Everybody had a favorite team, and there was a lot of shouting and laughing as just about everybody got wet.

Other fun-type events and competition took place as well.  There was goat-roping, goat-riding, chasing greased pigs, and even a hog-calling contest.  When later, the same event was introduced as a husband-calling contest, my mother entered, and won first prize.  I can still hear her calling at the top of her lungs, "Berl, come to dinner!"  Well-known country bands would come and play, and there would be dancing in the streets.  Everybody understood the serious matters that brought us there, but were determined to address them in an atmosphere of happiness.  To an eight year-old boy, these were times of absolute ecstasy and awe.

One block off Main Street, facing one another across 4^th Street, were two of the most impressive red-brick buildings in town:  First Baptist Church and First Methodist Church.  I don't remember ever being told this, but from my eight year-old perspective, I assumed the Methodists must be a little strange.  Why, everybody knew the Baptists had it right!  But even with such childish views, it was there in that Baptist church, at the age of eight, that I accepted Jesus Christ as my Savior.

I have been asked many times in my life if I really believe that was an authentic decision for a kid so young.  My answer: absolutely!  If you ask me to do so, I can describe that day, that moment, that experience with clear recollection.  That decision was to have a powerful effect in my later life.

Thinking back on that in later life, I realized that to rebuke a child with foolish notions is counter-productive.  It is far better to encourage such dreaming with the reminder that, while the dream is wonderful, if it doesn't work out, something else will, and it may be even better.  Some of the achievements of my life have been because I was not afraid to dream; even if the dreams seemed unachievable.  Everybody subscribes to the notion "if it's worth doing, it's worth doing right."  But too few understand the importance of trying, and thereby miss the exhilaration and experience gained from the notion that "if it's worth doing, it's worth doing wrong."

One of the things I remember best about my dad is that he just about always thought he could, so he tried!  It didn't matter much what the subject was.  His limited education did not slow down his inquisitive and determined mind.  He wanted to know how things worked, so he found out; usually by taking them apart or thinking things through.  He was a "make-do" kind of man.  I think I caught that from him.  Like him, I can't always figure things out, but I give it a good thinking before I concede that point.  He knew about animals, farms and machinery.  Each new discovery elicited from him a "Well, I'll be!" exclamation.  Because of his example, even at the age of 65, I am always eager to learn new things.  I hope I never lose that.

I believe those genes have evidenced themselves in my son, Bruce, as well. He is a never-ending source of surprise in the things he does and knows.  Always learning new things.  Every problem is viewed with keen logic and he makes the pieces come together.  He is a fixer and a maker.  He has a well equipped wood shop and can display some creative things he has made.

Perhaps it is the male heritage in this family to appreciate our fathers.  He recently gave me a matted and framed tribute that must have taken hours to develop.  It is a list, entitled "Words that describe my father."  It is beautifully printed on the computer, using different colors for accent.  On it, there are 96 words and/or phrases that reflect attributes, characteristics, traits or interests.  I don't deserve all that is implied by this tribute, but it is a distinctive honor for a father to be given such a gift by his son.  Well, I'll be!"

The family could not return home in the middle of the night, so dad's parents had brought about all the bedding they owned to stay through that cold New Years Eve night.  For themselves, they made a pallet bed on the ground next to the wagon.  My dad and his siblings slept in the open wagon bed, heavily bundled up against the cold.  To that six year-old boy, it was a memorable and unforgettable time.

About fifty feet from the house, near a water well, there is a crude box-like trough, about two feet deep, three feet wide and eight feet long.  Here is a picture of me standing next to it.  I was told that while still trying to make the old farm work and keep the siblings together, my dad had made this structure out of cement to use as a watering trough for the animals.  Looking closely at the side of the trough, I saw rough lettering that had been scratched into the cement when it was still wet.  It was clearly readable.  I recognized the writing as my dad's work.  It read: " B D Simpkins, October 12, 1914."  In my vision at that moment, there were horses tethered to the iron ring on the tree, and thirsty livestock at the cement trough, with their muzzles deep in the water.  Keeping watch over it all, there stood a young version of my father, already showing the effects of a hard and weary life.

Another vision in my mind at that moment, that I could not dismiss, was an image of the two crudely made tombstones I had seen, now pretty much obscured by overgrowth and the effects of time, under which lay the remains of my father's parents, whom he had helped to bury there.  In those moments, a new appreciation for my dad seeped into my soul as I suddenly realized, in all the years I had known him, he had never once complained about what he had endured.

The war did have an effect on the home-front.  Primary provisions such as food, gasoline, automobile tires and other rubber products, appliances and tobacco all came into short supply.  Just about everything was rationed by the government.  Many substitute products were quickly invented and put on the market. Some of it was not too bad; most of it was awful!

I remember discussions around our table about whether we would be able to get real coffee instead of the awful Postum that was offered as a substitute.  Oleo margarine came along.  It was white, like lard, but it was marketed in a clear, pliable bag, in one inside corner of which was a small container of orange dye.  By squeezing the package, one could pop the dye, then knead the package well to spread the color and make yourself believe you had butter.  Even such things as these were rationed.  And just being fortunate enough to have the ration stamps that were issued by the government did not assure you would get the product.  The supplies might not be available.  All this was a bother, but people knew their sacrifices were to benefit our boys in uniform; fighting a war for us in foreign lands.  Life was a mixture of good and bad, but to a ten or eleven year-old, everything was tolerable.

Oh! And I went to school, which I enjoyed very much.  Sunnyvale Elementary School!  It has long-since been torn down and replaced with a shopping mall.  In school, I entered spelling bees, acted in plays and played all the sports that were offered.  Then, in the summer, I got work picking apricots and prunes.  Other times, I would work at the apricot cutting shed, cutting and pitting apricots for drying.  It earned a little money and I felt good about it all.  I also had a newspaper route, with about 100 customers.  On weekends, I even carried a shoe-shine kit downtown, shining shoes on the street corner for a nickel.  My best customers were the sailors and soldiers who came to town while off duty.  In my closet, I still have the shoe shine kit I made and used for that, fifty four long years ago.

About the time I was ready to graduate from grade school, the hard life had finally taken a large toll on my mother.  She made a decision that probably did not come easily, but that made it no less troubling for us.  She left the family and went her separate way.  Divorce papers eventually came and each of us had to deal with this in our own way.  It was not an easy time.  My dad was no longer able to work due to crippling arthritis.  He was a very sick man, requiring a good deal of help and care.  We were forced to request public assistance and were on the Welfare roll during all of my high school years.

My oldest brother, Orval, was married and raising a family of his own.  My brother Pete was soon to join the navy and would be assigned far away from Sunnyvale.  After that, I was the oldest of the kids still at home.  We probably did not do too well, but we accepted shares of the domestic responsibilities, and somehow managed to get by.

I played rhythm guitar with a little country band and learned that playing in public was a lot of fun but not something I would plan to do for a livelihood.  Guitar players were a dime-a-dozen, and always looking for work.  A friend had talked me into entering a singing contest at Austin's Barn Dance in Mt. View, and I won the contest.  As the winner, I even got to sing in the band's radio show on KIBE in Palo Alto.  It was fun, but that was as far as I took that interest.

In school, I was too small and light to play football.  Those big guys would have killed me.  And the boys who played basketball towered over me.  So, I became a long-jumper and discus thrower on the track team, and a pretty good wrestler.  The most appealing extracurricular activity, however, was the school orchestra and marching band.  That gave me the opportunity to enjoy the thrills of basketball and football games without being checked or knocked to the ground by an opponent.  At the same time, I was exercising my love for music, even though I was playing drums instead of a brass or reed instrument.  I am second from the right in the front row in this picture.  This seemed like the best of both worlds to me, and it turned out to be providential.

ur marching band was always transported by school bus to the "away" football games.  I had a car, and would leave it parked in our school parking lot.  Returning from a game with Mt. View High, my band director came to me on the bus with a request.  A new student in our school needed a ride home.  When I saw the cute blond he was talking about, I quickly agreed to provide that courtesy.  Her name was Patricia Jeanne Batty.  I gave her a ride home and soon thereafter, asked her for a date.  We went roller-skating.  With that, I began courting that young lady and eventually proposed to her.  She accepted!  In this picture, we were at a Sadie Hawkins Dance and having a mock wedding ceremony performed by "Marryin' Sam."  We were truly married the same year we graduated together from Fremont High in 1952, and recently celebrated forty six years of marriage.  Our plans to marry were in place before we graduated, but I needed a job.

The Korean Conflict was in full battle and I was ripe for the draft.  No company wanted to hire a fresh high school graduate when he might be called into the military the next week.  It seemed the only logical thing to do was to enlist and get the military obligations satisfied.  Marriage was put on hold until we could determine what would happen.  I enlisted in the Air Force for four years.  Upon completion of Basic Training at Parks Air Force Base in Pleasanton, California, I was assigned to Lowry Air Force Base in Denver, Colorado for special training.

My dear Patty got a job and managed to save up enough money to pay her train fare there.  For her, this was special; a return to her roots.  She was born in Denver, Colorado on March 23, 1934.  It pleased her to know she was returning there to be married.  We were to be married as soon as possible after she arrived.  The first obstacle was getting permission.  In Colorado, being less than 21 years old, I had to get an affidavit of consent from my father before the license would be issued.  At considerable bother, my dad got a notarized affidavit into the mail, but it never arrived.  After repeating the whole process, it finally came.  Blood tests were still a part of the process at the time, and Patty's got broken in transit from the clinic to the laboratory and had to be repeated.  Boy, did she hate that.  She still hates to have blood taken.

The delay in getting our marriage license was frustrating, but even more frustration was to come.  It seems that some of the physical exercises we enlisted men were required to do had caused my tail bone to become very painful.  The doctors said it was a pilonidal cyst that would have to be surgically removed.  Fortunately, Patty had a place to stay with family friends, because I was in the hospital for nearly a month.  An "old maid" aunt of Patty's, who lived there in Denver, proclaimed that we were not destined to be married because of all the problems, and recommended that we cancel our plans.  We ignored that advice.  Finally, out of the hospital and healthy again, we were married in the minister's home on a Saturday morning, December 17, 1952. That was the finest day of my life.  In this picture, taken immediately after the ceremony, we are standing outside the minister's home and proudly displaying our marriage certificate.  What a lucky guy!

Having a lot of snow on the ground was not a familiar sight for Patty or me.  Denver gets plenty of snow, however, and our first winter was "wonderland."  Patty's family connections gave us several contacts there, and my uncle George Simmons and his wife Betty were there also.  So we were not lonely on our first Christmas together.  We visited relatives and had a joyous time.  This picture was taken in the living room of some dear friends, Chuck and Ruth Elkins.

ilitary duty had good points and bad.  A lot was demanded of a young man, but the training was excellent.  I have benefited from that in many ways.  The objective set before me was to become a gunner on a B-26 or B-29.  Both used similar operating systems.  Preparation was divided into two parts.  The first was to learn about function, maintenance and repair of the gun turret systems.  This involved extensive training in electricity and mechanical devices.  Upon successful completion of that training, the second phase was to fly on the aircraft and learn how to kill other planes.  The sheepskin flying jacket I am wearing in this picture was no longer standard gear when I was flying, but it made a nice picture.  This phase of my training was exciting and I enjoyed flying, but did not miss the point of the psychological training that was an integral part of it.  Before each training mission, our aircraft commander would perform an inspection of our clothing and flight-gear.  The equipment would be placed at our feet as we stood in a line for inspection.  We were called to attention, then parade rest.  The next order was to turn and look at the man on our left.  "Tomorrow, he will be dead," the commander would say.

The mortality rate for combat aircraft and crew in Korea was 50%.  I never wondered which half I would be in.  Standing in that inspection posture, I knew another crew member was looking at the back of my neck, and it became an accepted probability.  But just as I completed this training in 1953, a cease-fire was called in Korea and after two weeks of negotiation between the warring factors, a truce was signed.  I never had to test the probabilities in a combat situation, and I was reassigned to a new training program at Shepard Air Force Base in Wichita Falls, Texas.

 felt as though I had come full circle. This assignment to study maintenance and repair of aircraft and engines was just fourteen miles from Burkburnett.  I learned a lot in the training classes there at Shepard AFB, got to visit quite a few relatives still living in that area and introduce them to my beautiful bride, who by now was obviously expecting our first child.  Bruce William was born at the hospital right there on the base, on November 22, 1953.  There could not have been two happier parents.  This picture is of Bruce when he was just two months old. What a great little guy!

Patty's paternal grandmother, Edith Batty, came from California to spend a few weeks and help us with the new baby.  That was a blessing.  We learned a lot from her about beginning parenthood and benefited from her skills as an excellent cook.

I completed the training at Wichita Falls in the spring of 1954, and the top 10% of our class was offered the opportunity for advanced training on jet engines, at the Air Base in Amarillo, Texas.  That sounded appealing, so to Amarillo Air Force Base we went.  The training was good and I was offered the opportunity to take an additional course in Instructor Training and remain at Amarillo, teaching the subject I had just completed.  I was teaching a class one day in January, 1955, when I was summoned to the office.  There, they told me that airmen with my skills were needed to service aircraft engines in Japan, and that I would be going.  That was a bombshell, because I knew I would not be able to take Patty and our baby, Bruce, with me.  Further, Patty was expecting our second child.  But in the military, you do what you are told and you go where they send you.

Carl and Broma Jean were missionaries in a town near Misawa, called Hachinohe.  I visited with them often.  It was a short train ride to their town and they were most gracious.  Carl taught me how to help him in some of his missionary work.  He and I would ride bicycles from their house into neighboring villages, and with my limited Japanese I would talk with the children while Carl talked with the adults about Jesus.  I had a small Japanese vocabulary, sufficient to engage the children, of which there seemed to be no shortage. I could tell them a little bit about God and have them join me in children's Sunday School songs, which they learned very quickly.  At times, the days and months in Japan would drag by slowly, but these wonderful experiences made it all worthwhile, and over all, the year and a half I spent there seemed to pass quickly.

All the time I was in Japan, Patty and I corresponded just about daily.  How I looked forward to "mail call."  No matter how boring or routine the day may have been, mail from home made the day brighter.  Sometimes, the postal deliveries got off schedule, and there would be no letter for me.  How disappointed I was.  But I knew that the next time I would get two, or even three letters.  As often as possible, we would send photographs to one another.  Here are two Patty sent; one with Bruce sporting my father's old hat, and the other with Brenda in her crib, just ready to say, "Daddy" I was sure.  On a couple of occasions, we exchanged cassette tapes.  Those were great, but for some reason, harder to do than letters and pictures.  They don't print well in memoirs, either!

One of the highlights of those days was when I received a telegram sent by the Red Cross, announcing the birth of our "baby girl."  We had agreed that if the baby was a girl, her name would be Brenda Jeanne.  I immediately wrote the name, in ink, in the front of my bible.  It was a surprise when I got a letter from Patty a few days later, telling me she had named the baby Brenda Lynn, not Brenda Jeanne.  She had made a unilateral decision not to use her middle name for the baby, and changed it.  While surprised, I was pleased with that decision.  And so it was, that Brenda Lynn was born on August 7, 1955, at Parks Air Force Base in Pleasanton, California, the same base where I endured my Basic Training in 1952 and point of debarkation on my way to Japan.  When I returned from Japan, Brenda was just two weeks away from her first birthday.  I felt privileged to be home for that big event and take part in the celebration.  In this picture, Brenda was about to enjoy the first birthday cake of her life.

he day finally arrived when I was to return to America and receive my honorable discharge from active duty.  Words cannot describe the elation I felt when my troop ship glided into San Francisco Harbor.  I looked through the enormous crowd of people waiting on the dock, and there was my Patty, with the biggest smile she had ever produced!  We had a wonderful, if short reunion there, then I had to board a bus that would take me to the processing center for my discharge.  Once again, I was at Parks Air Force Base, where my military career had begun and my baby daughter had been born.  My release came in just a few days and I was back home to stay.  I enjoyed a couple of weeks of doing nothing but getting reacquainted with Patty and Bruce, and newly acquainted with Brenda.  Then, facing civilian life, it was time to find work!

While searching for a permanent job, I worked at Libby's Cannery.  That was hard work and I came home dirty and smelling of apricots or peaches.  Before long, however, I found employment at Sylvania Electric Products in Mt. View, as an electrician.  During the 20 years I spent with that company, I held a number of positions.  From electrician to electronic technician, to cost estimator, to estimating department supervisor, to accounting supervisor, to contract negotiator, to accounting department manager.  This newspaper article is yellowed and nearly unreadable now, but it is a reminder to me of those many years in corporation life.

In 1978, Dr. Lavender persuaded me to assist him in leading a tour group to the Holy Lands.  I felt I really did most of the work anyway, so the following year I sponsored a similar cruise/tour on my own.  My secretary, Sharon Reed, had done a ton of work as well, so the second year she and her husband, Bob, accompanied us.  Sharon was a hard-working secretary and Bob had become my best friend and my back-packing and fishing buddy.  In this picture, we were standing on the banks of the Jordan River, thinking about the many bible events that had taken place, perhaps on this very site.  How meaningful this experience was for all of us, and what a wonderful time we had.

Toward the end of 1982, the pastor at our former church in Santa Clara called me.  "Would you consider returning to Santa Clara First Baptist Church to be my associate pastor?" he asked.  And so began another full circle move.  After nearly six years at the Bakersfield church, a host of friends gave us a wonderful farewell dinner.  We were sad to leave, but blessed when a multitude of friends welcomed us back to Santa Clara with open arms.

he ministry at SCFBC should have been wonderful.  And it was for a couple of years.  But when the pastor began an attempt to make the church become something they did not all want to be, there was a lot of dissension and opposition.  Privately, I told him I objected to what he was doing, but publicly I felt I needed to support him.  I refused to talk about him behind his back or collaborate with those who wanted to force his resignation.  His stigma effected my own ability to effectively minister there.  Even after he did resign and leave, I did not feel I had a good standing with many of the people, and it would be best if I left as well.  A group of about eighty of the members felt badly about the situation and wanted to form a new church.  They asked me to be their pastor.  I agreed, and this picture is "Pastor Bill and Patty" as we looked at that time.  My agreement to serve this congregation was on the provision that my primary ministry would be one of reconciliation and restoration of broken relationships.

I believe God endorsed that ministry purpose in our Good News Christian Fellowship church.  We did not grow.  As members would move away, no one came to take their place.  In less than four years, our membership was half what it was when we began.  My theme had constantly been to forgive and reconcile, so at one point late in 1988, I told them I thought it was time to do so.  We elected to dissolve the church.  I had developed a wonderful relationship with the new pastor at SCFBC, and many of the remaining members of Good News joined me in the pews at Santa Clara.  It felt wonderful to be back among the laity again.  We are still there.

Music has always been an important part of my life.  Learning to play guitar as a kid was a wonderful experience.  Being in the High School orchestra and marching band was exciting.  But I think back to those childhood days when we listened to the quartets singing on the radio, and something just grabs my spirit.  How I did love that.  From it I developed an ear for harmony, and have enjoyed singing with church choirs over the years, and some barbershop quartet singing back in my thirties.  In 1995, a quartet that had emerged within SCFBC had lost their baritone, and I was asked if I would be interested in filling the spot.  This began one of the most rewarding things I have ever experienced.  We are known as the King's Fishers Quartet.  We began primarily as a gospel quartet and have expanded our repertoire over the years to include spirituals, barbershop and even a little country harmony.  We have performed many times and I love it.  The guys have all made the quartet a priority.  Here is a snapshot of the "King's Fishers Quartet" in performance.  Left to right, singing 1st Tenor is Russ Jones, 2^nd Tenor is Ralph Knight, Harold Wright sings Bass and I sing the Baritone.  Russ introduced me to some computer software to write and arrange music.  It has captured me.  I spend a great deal of time arranging music for the quartet, and in occasional moments of inspiration, doing a little composing.  I can't imagine being without that dimension of music in my life.  I see many years ahead of wonderful music projects and quartet singing.

While our anniversary date is December 17^th, I knew that would not be a good day to have the party, because it fell on a Tuesday.  The weekend before, specifically Saturday the 14^th, would be far better to accommodate those who would attend from out of town.  I was able to line up a location, a caterer and entertainment without much trouble.  But the most important thing I did was line up collaborators.  All the planning had to be done without Patty's knowing about it, so I relied heavily on several very close friends to make the plan a success.  While Patty was out shopping occasionally or while doing her weekly visits with residents at a local retirement home, I could hastily make phone calls or exchange e-mails with the dear friends who conspired with me to put this all together.  It could never have been kept a secret without their help.  For the reader of this memoir, the credits I want to give will not be as meaningful as they are to me.  So I do this more as a tribute to them than a record of life events.

First and foremost, I appreciate the tremendous amount of effort put in by our very dear friends, Bob and Sharon Reed.  When I explained to them what I wanted to do, without hesitation they volunteered to help in whatever way would be most helpful.  They sent out advance letters to let those on my invitation list know that an invitation would be coming, so that the date could be reserved.  Then they sent the invitations at the first of November.  They handled many phone calls and e-mails during the planning stages and right up to the day of the party. Bob and Sharon coordinated the table set-ups and all the decorating.  They purchased a wonderful scrapbook for pictures, cards and letters, and custom-made several extra pages to assure that it was just right for what we would want.  They were the principal contact for invitees and other collaborators as well.  There is no way this party could have been kept as a surprise if it were not for Bob and Sharon Reed.  They have been our best friends for nearly twenty five years and in spite of getting together often during this planning time, they never once even hinted that anything unusual was going on, and Patty was the great beneficiary.  It really, really was a surprise to her.  Thanks to Bob and Sharon.

Earlier in this memoir I mentioned our friendship and association with Bill and Billie Taylor.  They have been dear friends for over forty years and we have enjoyed many happy times together.  When I left our Bakersfield church in 1982 to return to Santa Clara First Baptist, Bill remained on staff here and continued his ministries.  He retired a few years ago, but has continued many of his ministries as a layman.  Now that we are living in Bakersfield once again, I arranged to have our anniversary party in one of the small banquet rooms at the church.  Bill was in an ideal position to serve as liaison for our party. He was the "go to" guy for being sure we had the room prepared and in perfect order.  Also, Bill and Billie knew many of our relatives and friends who would be coming to the party, so they were ideal for greeting guests as they arrived and making them feel welcome.  They are so personable and friendly that I could not have asked for nicer conspirators than them.  They, too, were able to keep the whole operation a deep secret.  What wonderful friends we have in Bill and Billie Taylor.

When I served on staff at our Bakersfield church, it was my privilege to get to know the man who served as minister of music, Phil Dodson.   He was a lot of fun to be around and an absolute genius, in my opinion, in the musical arena.  Highly respected as a leader in community musical productions and within church circles, he was one of my favorite people in all the time we lived here.  He is a gifted pianist and organist, and his wife is equally gifted as a violinist.  He served as music minister here for over thirty-eight years, finally retiring at the end of the year 2000.  It was not a big decision on my part to ask Phil and Jean Dodson if they would be willing to provide some musical entertainment for our celebration party.  We could not have been happier with the music they provided, which included a beautiful rendition of "The Anniversary Waltz."They certainly helped to make this one of the most memorable events of our lives.

As the plans for a celebration had begun to develop in my mind, one of the things I really wanted to do was write words and music to a song that I could sing to Patty at the party.  Much of it came together early on and I knew I could record an accompaniment sound track for the song on my computer.  This meant I would need equipment to play the CD, and someone to operate the equipment when needed.  I knew that one of the couples I would invite could take care of that easily, so I asked Jerry and Vicki Boyce if they would do that.  I was able to sneak the CD to Jerry a few days before the party, and when we arrived, the equipment was all set up and ready to go.  Thanks to them!

One of my most challenging concerns was how I could get Patty to the party without arousing suspicion or provoking questions that would be hard to answer.  To solve this dilemma I enlisted the aid of another couple, Glen and Barbara Williams.  When I called them, Barbara told me that the very next day after our party would be Glen's birthday, and while they were not planning to do anything special in that regard, how about pretending she was giving him a party that Saturday evening and inviting us to come?  This was perfect.  I made up a fake invitation for Barbara to send to us and a few other conspirators who would be in on the subterfuge, got them to her in one of my free moments, and she mailed them out about three weeks before our party.  When that invitation arrived in the mail, Patty was pleased we were asked to attend Glen's birthday party and started shopping for a nice birthday card to give him.  We had occasion to visit with them during that time and amazingly, not one of us let the cat out of the bag.  We will laugh with Glen and Barbara about this scheme for many years to come.  What dear friends!

And finally, I must give credit to our son Bruce, who is a professional videographer.  Under the pretext of putting together a family history on video, he asked us to send him about all the old family photos we could dig up, then he and his wife Cathy spent countless hours preparing a very special video montage of our lives, and showing it for the very first time at our party that evening.  They even included a brief video clip they had taken several years ago, and a short clip from an old eight-millimeter home movie that was over 30 years old.  They entitled the video "A Half Century of Memories."  So beautifully and professionally done, it is such a wonderful expression of love.  That is a timeless keepsake from Bruce and Cathy Simpkins, shown here at the party with the kids and daughter-in-law.

When I listed the friends and relatives I would like to invite, a list of about seventy five people, I fully expected many would not be able to come.  But I wanted them to know we would like them to come if they could.  My estimate of the number that would actually be able to attend was approximately forty.  I was so blessed when I discovered that about sixty were planning to come.  Two couples had to renege at the last minute due to some severe stormy weather, but the actual count at the party was fifty-two guests.  What a great time we had.  Those who traveled the greatest distance included my brother Geary and his wife Ann who drove down from Oregon, my sister Naomi who flew in from Oklahoma, our son Bruce and his family who flew in from Idaho, and Patty's sister Judy who flew in from Vermont.  Others drove several hours to get here, and we had quite a few long-time friends who live locally who joined us for the celebration as well.  We had friends and family from just about every phase of our lives helping us celebrate, including Patty's ninety-six year old aunt Marguerite Batty.

Bob and Sharon did a spectacular job arranging tables, making place cards and decorating the room for the party.  In addition to the wonderful scrapbook they got, they provided a guest register book as nice as any you've ever seen at a wedding.  Bill and Billie greeted guests as they arrived and had them sign the book.  It is a treat to look that over occasionally and think fondly of such dear friends and family who came to help make this event special.  Flower arrangements were placed on every table, gold napkins and gold and white balloons made the table settings a tribute to our golden anniversary, and the cake table capped off the scene.  When we were married fifty years ago, it was very informal and we did not have a wedding cake.  This was a great treat to have our symbolic wedding cake to be cut and served fifty years later.

We were later told that as guests arrived, there was a great air of camaraderie, as all seemed to enjoy the prospects of pulling off this surprise for Patty.  People introduced themselves to one another and it was soon one big happy family group in mutual conspiracy!  A photographer was engaged to take photos of folks as they arrived and he was kept pretty busy as each person, couple or family would arrive and pose for the picture.  Two or three guests came prepared with cameras to get as many candid shots as possible throughout the evening, and that provided us with a lot of great pictures.  All the guests had arrived before Patty and I were due, so Bill Taylor became the sentinel to watch for us and warn everyone when we came in.  When that moment came, they were all quietly waiting behind the closed door.  Patty was concerned that we were a few minutes late for Glen's birthday party.  It was all I could do to keep from bursting out laughing.  I knew what was behind that closed door, but she was in for the surprise of her life.  One eleventh-hour thought had come to my mind and the day before the party I sent an email to Bill Taylor asking him to give Patty a little preparation before he opened the door.  I was afraid it might be more of a shock than we should impose on her.  Just as he started to open the door, he said, "Oh, I should tell you that this really is not a birthday party for Glen Williams.  It is a 50^th anniversary party for you!"  He gave that a few seconds to sink into Patty's mind, and then he opened the door.

The great moment of surprise was all I had hoped it would be - and MORE!  The knowledge that this was our surprise party and not a birthday party for a friend had hardly had time to register in Patty's mind.  She was absolutely stunned when she first saw our two kids and their families, and then her composure came totally unglued when she saw her sister Judy.  Several snapshots were taken in those first moments and this one is probably the best.  If it is true that one picture is worth a thousand words, this one just has to be the classic illustration!  No additional words can improve on what this picture says.

When planning this shindig, I knew it would take quite a while to circulate and greet all our guests, so I purposely planned dinner to be served an hour after we arrived.  This turned out to be a good decision.  We were both so happy to spend time talking with friends and family that the hour just flew by and it was time for dinner to be served.  The catering was arranged through a lady who had been a part of our church when we lived here before, and is now the director of the Bakersfield Culinary Art School.  What a fantastic job they did, with elegant service and elegant food.  The entré was Cornish game hens, stuffed and baked to perfection, and all the trimmings were presented with the flair of European chefs.  For dessert, the bakery that supplied our wedding cake had made a big sheet cake from the same recipe that was both beautiful and delicious.

While the sheet cake was being cut and served, Patty and I closed the fifty-year gap in history by cutting and enjoying our very first wedding cake.  We both agreed that this was far more meaningful than it would have been in December 1952.  The whole crowd applauded while we made the first slice and fed a bite to each other.  We felt like kids again and the elation we felt at that moment will never be forgotten.  I am not sure I recommend every couple wait fifty years for their wedding cake, but if they do, it will most certainly add an incredible dimension to the experience.  This was, indeed, a very happy moment!

Bruce served as Emcee for the evening, sharing a beautiful tribute to us using recollections from his childhood and a parallel he drew from Psalm 23 to our lives.  Then Brenda did a superb job of sharing bits from her childhood memories and crediting us with some pretty good parenting.  Of course I didn't expect either of them to say anything but nice things, but when your adult kids stand up and express their love and appreciation with such sincerity and eloquence, it is a mighty blessing indeed.  Our hearts were full and our "cup runneth over."  Phil and Jean Dodson were a great hit with the musical entertainment, playing with such enthusiasm, and just for us.  Jerry Boyce had done some marvelous preparation for showing the video Bruce brought.  He linked two big-screen TV's to a VCR, positioning the TV's so that everyone in the room had a splendid angle of vision and sound.  I don't think any of us were quite prepared for the ingenuity and professionalism of the video, and we were all captivated.  What a fantastic dimension that added to the celebration.

To pretty much conclude the festivities for the evening, the ending of the video was my cue to sing the song I had written for Patty.  It had been a challenging assignment to capture fifty years of marriage in a few verses of song, but the whole evening had preconditioned Patty and she was ready for whatever surprise I might have in store for her.  Singing the song was about the finest privilege I had, and these pictures are the evidence that she liked it.  I had printed the words on parchment paper and framed them in a gold-colored frame, and when the song was finished, I presented it to her as a gift.  A copy of the words follows, which will conclude this chapter.  So much more could be said of this celebration and so many more pictures could be included here, but this is enough. I have already dwelt more on this subject than any other, but considering the importance of it in our lives, perhaps that is only reasonable. It was a wonderful and memorable event, celebrating fifty years of a wonderful and loving marriage.