Can’t have too much fun, oh no, especially in Abilene! I lived in the West Texas city from July, ’58 through February, ’62. The culturally astute among you will understand how important those years were (and are), the rest will simply have to scavenge from my story.
Back then, Abilene was a great place for a 12 to 16-year-old. In those days rock & roll was still for outlaws, and a little Buddy Holly went a long way. Texas in its infinite wisdom allowed 12-year-olds to legally drive motorbikes and motor scooters of five horsepower or less, and you could get an automobile learner’s permit at age 13. The only requirement was that there be a fully licensed driver in the front seat, but we could get adult licenses at 14! Given that one had to practice, this meant a fair chance of encountering a 12-year-old driver with a couple of 13-year-old buddies zooming down a dirt road. I remember riding along in someone’s old Chevy when we almost rolled it and ended up with the car resting on the driver’s side doors. As I recall, we somehow pushed it upright–the vehicle must have been lying on a slant–and went on our way. (Upon reflection, I wonder if that really happened.)
Be that as it may, one reason this was so much fun was that it took place outside of the iron grip of the law, by which I mean the local churches… At that time, Abilene boasted the most churches per capita of any city in the country under 100,000 population, and I never had any reason to doubt. (We’re not talking Unitarians here, either.) I actually went to church back then, partly because I sort of had to, but also because outside of chasing each other in cars before any of us guys had even started going out with girls, there really wasn’t much social life for teenagers outside of church.
After a brief stint at the big Methodist church where all the country club folks went, I decided to become a Presbyterian because of having a crush on the preacher’s daughter. Unfortunately, she wasn’t the wild, rebellious girl that phrase might bring to mind: Betty was a preacher’s daughter. Not only did I never get to first base, I wasn’t even on the team. But Sunday morning Sunday school (we must have called it something else) for my age group had a brief run of fun one spring before the reverend shut it down. I hated him for it, but at least I learned my lesson.
Our tiny “youth group” met in the annex next to the church. In the time-honored tradition many of you have to know so well, the annex consisted of a dusty old two-story house across the parking lot. There was an old upright piano in what would have been the living room, along with a few folding chairs, and that is where we gathered for a perfunctory prayer and singing hymns. That was the big deal, the hymns, because we got to choose which ones to sing. I had a church buddy named Steve, whom I didn’t really get to see except on Sundays, and we were as subversive as it got. When it was his or my turn to pick the hymns for our little service, we’d choose the most hackneyed, pounding, tent meeting anthems we could find, usually songs where our newfound deep male voices could bellow impressively on the chorus. Sometimes we sang the same hymn twice on the same morning. The true subversion manifested elsewhere, however, in the secret honky-tonk piano!
In those days most boys carried combs for touching up the flattop or that essential wave of forehead hair (the ideal state was having it just so, with a curl or two dropping dangerously down). The coolest sort of comb to have was a metal one, which didn’t break in your back pocket.
What my friend Steve and I did was set up the old upright with our metal combs jammed inside the bass strings, so that the piano jangled and clanged like a saloon piano in a western movie. Jerry Lee Lewis was also very much on our minds when we were doing this, which made it even more important. To top it off, both Steve and I could play piano, so when the hymn sing was under his or my charge, one of us got to sit down at the upright and pound away. We’d set this up before the other kids showed up and even coordinated the key of the hymns to match the placement of the combs. It was magnificent, let me tell you. Whichever year we pulled this off was the high point of my conventional religious upbringing, as well as the effective end.
What happened was, you see, that after several weekends of glorious pounding, jangling fun–it should be noted that the other six or eight people in our group enjoyed it just as much as we did–our minister came by one morning to give a Bible lesson and sat in on the hymn sing. To put it mildly, he was rather disturbed by what he heard–it not being respectful of the Lord, though we were making quite a joyful noise–and gave us both a scorching lecture. Naturally, we had to pull the combs out, right there in front of everybody. This was bad enough, but when he gave his little talk and declared that little black babies in Africa who died before the missionaries “saved” them were doomed to burn in Hell forever, my future was decided, and I’ve never been back since!
How wise we are sometimes, even in our youth, before the brainwashing has a chance to take hold and lead us on the path of numbing sameness. The value of stupidity and oppression only becomes apparent later, when we thank our lucky stars for that which pushed us out the door into the wide, wide world…
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Tell it, brother, tell it! –Betty now lives in a suburb of Dallas, is a retired teacher and has two children and no doubt numerous grandchildren. I remember her well, and even her father, who had somewhat of a public presence in the town. Being a preacher’s kid can’t be easy (but then being anybody’s kid isn’t easy). I wonder if religion evaporated from her life in the same way it did from yours and mine and just everybody’s who grew up in a place where going to church was about as natural as breathing or lusting… at least until the latter two activities slowly expelled the former one.
Good ol’ Abilene. Lived there many a year – 60s and 70s.
Good Lord, Kenny, you know where she ended up! She was a good, caring person. I’ll bet she still is.
Sherry, you lived in Abilene?!? Wild! I’ll bet if I think about it, all kinds of things will come back, like the oilman’s house down the road with old oil well drilling bits lining the driveway. Those were painted white.
I just stumbled across this while looking for something else. I enjoyed your story. I went to Abilene High from 56-59. I did a little series on this blog site I belong too about My Home Town. I also thought it was a great time to be a teenager living in Abilene. I picked on the Southern Baptist…lol
Wow, we’re could have crossed paths! I went to Lincoln Jr. High in ’58, Jefferson Jr. High in ’59, and—here it gets a little blurry—Cooper Jr./Sr. High from then through spring, ’62. At that point I was a high school junior, and we moved to Massapequa, Long Island!
Do you remember that there weren’t any school dances? And I’ll bet you’d know why.