There was an Old Man Named Henry......

In 1994 we moved to Beaumont, Texas.  It was a different world from San Antonio.  We had come from a large multicultural city to a place where the description “The Deep South,” fit perfectly.

Within a few months of our move we joined First Baptist Church (FBC).  It was one of the oldest churches in Beaumont.  Started in 1875, it was steeped in tradition.  

One tradition was Henry.  When I first met Henry I thought he was well up in years.  His clothes were old, tattered and hadn’t been cleaned in quite a while.  They were worn layer upon layer.  On first sight, I was sure he must be wearing everything he owned.  I thought he was a homeless person.  His short gray hair stood on end, reminding me of a tomcat whose fur was still rumpled from a cat fight.  His pockets buldged with treaured belongings.  Occasionally he would pull out a cellular phone, not that common in 1994 (one of those big ones the size of a brick) and make a call to someone who sounded important....like the mayor or governor.  Around his neck was a headset to his walkman, and on his lapel, a badge of some kind, the writing long ago worn away.  On his finger was a class ring from the University of Texas. 

My first assumption was that he was a wino or a drunk, but he didn’t act like either of those.  He seemed to know everyone in the church, children and adults alike.  It was as if no one could see his appearance...or it didn’t matter.  On the Sunday we joined the church we stood at the front of the church to be welcomed as the  congregation filed by, traditional in Baptist churches, and along came Henry calling each of our family members by name and welcoming us.

Several weeks later I was in the church office when Henry walked in.  I expected to see him shooed back outside but he helped himself to donuts and coffee.  The office staff seemed to hardly notice him. I asked Beverly what the deal was with Henry.  “He is just an old street person, I wish he would stay outside, he stinks so.  I am afraid he is going to leave lice on the sofa.”  
I asked, “What’s wrong with him?” 

“Oh I don’t know, I heard he was a successful CPA at one time and was in an accident,”   Beverly told me with disgust in her voice.  That wasn’t the only story..there were more.  Each was about as varied as the person who told it.  The one thing people knew was that he did have money in the form of a trust fund, so no matter how bad he looked he did not have to go hungry and he didn’t sleep on the street.

From time to time he would come into the church office to see Robert, our pastoral Care minister.  One day I heard a heated arguement going on.  “Okay Henry, I will give you ten dollars but you cannot buy cigarettes with my money! Do you understand?”  Henry promised solemnly, like a child, and in his slow shuffling walk disappeared out the door.  Robert stood looking after him,  “He’s off to buy cigarettes again.... I just know it!” as he shook his head.  At the end of the month Henry usually ran out of money. He would come to Robert to get a few dollars to tie him over until the first.

I continued to be curious about him and would see him at various places around town. I was sort of amused at myself actually knowing this unusual little man.  The thing that baffled me was that everyone knew him, but knew little about him.  

Our church wasn’t the only one who claimed Henry.  When Pastor Sandy was new to our church, he and several other pastors had a lunch meeting to get better aquainted.  As they were walking out of the church Henry walked by, our pastor said hi to Henry.  He was surpised when the other pastors said hi, and called him by name too. Pastor Sandy said, “He is a member of my church,” the others smiled. It turned out Henry was a also member of their churches. He was diligent too. He made it to all the services every Sunday morning.  At First Baptist he would slip into the balcony just as the offering was being taken.  He would drop his handful of coins into the offering plate and then proceed to stand at the end of the pew and finish up as an usher.  I had noticed in the back row of the balcony, there was usually an assortment of street people.  I heard someone say that Henry had invited them.  They were people Henry met who had “ roubles" and he told them they needed to come to church.

For as happy as Henry always seemed, his life was not easy.  He had been beaten up by gangs and almost killed.  They knew he always had a little money on him.  Although he didn’t live on the street, in many ways his life was the same as if he did.  One time while jay walking, he was hit by a car...both of his legs were broken.  After a long stay in the hospital, he was back out walking along the streets again.  He always assured the church staff that he “only crossed at the corners now. That way I won’t get hit again.”  His little shuffling walk was so slow that secretly everyone who knew him worried.

Henry was not just a familiar face at all the churches.  He also made it to all the city council meetings.  Three mayors had known him.  At the end of each meeting the tradition was to open the floor for anyone to speak... and at the end of each meeting, Henry did.  He sometimes started his speech with “I am sure you didn’t know this, but I am a member of the Police Department.”  At the time he really thought he was.  One of the Police officer’s had gone so far as to give Henry a Junior Police Officer’s badge, which he wore faithfully.  He wanted to be someone important that people respected.

On January 15th as I was driving to my job at the church, a traffic jam, unheard of in Beaumont, stopped me on the overpass.  I could see some big tie up at the corner of the church.  As I looked at my watch, my heart almost stopped, it was right at the time Henry usually stopped by the church office. As I got closer I could see someone covered up, lying in the street.  Strewn in the street was a headset and an old coat.  The police detoured me one block over.  Finally making it to the church parking lot, I jumped out of the car, ran inside, to find everyone standing, stunned.  Someone looked up and said, “It’s Henry.” Tears were streaming down everyone’s faces......and now mine as well.

Pastor Sandy and several other ministers met the ambulance at the hospital.  Henry had been crossing at the corner but his little shuffling walk was just too slow.  He had only made it to the middle of the street when the light changed.  A young woman rushing to work turned the corner and didn’t see him.  He was hit and thrown several yards, sustaining massive head injuries. He was put on life support immediately.  As they took him to the hopital, the police listed him as a fatality.  A well known neurosurgeon from our church rushed in to consult on his case, but it was too late, his inuries too severe.  At noon he was taken off life support and died.

On Tuesday there was an extensive article in the paper about Henry. That was the first time I had heard his last name. He was known by everyone in downtown Beaumont.  He attended every city council meeting, had been known by mayors and police chiefs.   He had told people he had been a police officer, a fireman, a graduate of the University of Texas and, yes, a staff member of each of the churches. Everyone who knew Henry thought he must have had an awful family to leave him to fend for himself when he was obvisouly so incapapble.  

His family though, was not uncaring at all.  Henry was mentally challenged.  He was like “Rain Man” of the movies. He could remember the names and birth dates of every church member but he couldn’t care for himself. He loved the children because they would all proudly say hi to him and call him by name.  They respected him.  He had been taken care of by his mother until she died.  After her death his two brothers each wanted him to come and live with them.  That meant leaving Beaumont.. the only place he had ever known.  He refused, so they found a group home where he could live.  They expected him to stay there so they could check on him and visit him from time to time. As time passed, he moved from place to place around town.  He never remembered to tell anyone where he would be.  The Christmas and birthday remembrances sent, were then, returned to sender, when Henry couldn’t be found.  His brothers wondered where he was or if he was even still alive.   The fact that hedidn’t hear from his brothers  on his birthday or Christmas didn’t seem  to be of much concern to Henry.  He kept their names and addresses safely tucked away in his wallet, which was where Pastor Sandy found them when Henry died.

His family was thrilled to know that in spite of his limitations Henry had managed to be someone special.  They were overwhelmed that so many people had cared about and loved Henry.  “Henry always wanted to be someone important... he would have been thrilled to know that he made all three TV stations and got a nice write-up in the newspapers,” Robert remarked. 

Memorial services were held at First Baptist Church, First United Methodist Church, and St. Mark’s Episcopal Church...each filled to capacity. People from all walks of life attended, city councilman, the mayor, pastors, lawyers, doctors and the street people.  Henry was someone important.

I first had looked at Henry and thought, “What a wasted life.” I was wrong, his was a full life, lived to his greatest abilities.  He was quite remarkable.  Robert would smile and say, “Henry is with the angels now,”  and...of course he is.

Today if you are close to the Greyhound bus terminal in Downtown Beaumont you will see at 1107 McFaddin Street,  "Henry’s Place. "   Inside the door is a picture of Henry. It is a soup kitchen named in his honor.  When you walk in and ask, “Why is this called Henry’s Place?”  They will tell you, “Well, there was an Old Man Named Henry......”

Pinkie and the Banner

One of the things I was looking forward to about Junior High school was that I wouldn’t have to take classes like reading.  I had been reading since I was four and did not really see any point in continuing what I perceived as an instructional class on the subject.

But once again I found my self in yet another class called reading. It wasn’t the elementary type of DEAR  (Drop Everything And Read) reading like we use today.  We had to read the stories before class..like homework..and then discuss it.  

My teacher’s name was Theo Granville Powell.  He was a tall man, probably 6' 7”.  Had he been any taller he would have had to duck through the doors. His stature was large with a shape similar to that of Alfred Hitchcock. He wore his trousers pulled quite high with his belt buckle like a crown on his vast stomach.  He always wore a short sleeved  white shirt with a tie.  What hair he had left was blonde, fringing around his very pink bald head.  His most outstanding feature however was his very bright pink complexion earning him the nickname of Pinkie Powell.

Being rather reserve he tended to only speak when something needed to be said.  During passing period he always stood like a giant pink column in the hall beside his door.  He never yelled at anyone or called them down, but just his presence made everyone careful about what they said or did. In reality he knew what girls and boys were going steady on any given day.  He also knew that we all called him “Pinkie”.

We sat in alphabetical order in his class which put me in the next to the last seat on the second row.  Right in front of Nan.

Nan seemed to know about everything.  She told me if I didn’t know an answer to look down at a book on my desk and I would not be called on.  Since Nan was so worldly wise, I spent a fair amount of my time turned in my chair facing her.  Then right as class started, before I even had a chance to turn around,  I would hear this booming, “Jan would you please turn around and pay attention!”

Each day he would assign us something to be read before we came to class. This was especially hard for me since I could read something the day before, and completely lose all of the details since I had slept.  And then there were the days I completely forgot to read the assignment at all.

Mr. Powell expected everyone  to take his class seriously, he accepted no excuses for not having read the assignment. When he got upset or seemed nervous, you could see the muscles in his jaw flexing back and forth. I found it so hard to remember to read the assignments since nothing had to be 

turned in. No one was ever too excited about discussing what we had read.  As sure as someone held up their hand and made a comment, there would be giggling and snickering in the room. The thought of making a comment and having someone giggle or snicker mortified me.

When no one volunteered, Pinkie would begin to stride up and down the isles of desks, looking to see if someone was writing a note or goofing off.   If he caught someone, bingo the next volunteer!  Fridays were an especially dreaded day in Pinkie’s class because we always had a poem to memorize.  Then each  of us had to recite it...alone...in front of the class.  

The first few weeks I had it memorized perfectly held up my hand eagerly and was one of the first to recite.  Then Nan pointed out to me how unbecoming being so eager was. She said I didn’t need to waste time memorizing it at home when if we could manage to be one of the last ones, we  could have it memorized after hearing it 10 or 12 times.  I tried her suggestion and it worked really well.  We would sit with our heads in our books, looking studious, then would manage to be on of the last ones called upon.  Fridays in his class were always the longest class of the day, hearing the same poem droned over and over for an hour. My patience would be gone by the time the bell rang.

As the year went by each of us seemed to put less and less time into memorizing the poem...more and more of the class had figured out Nan’s theory of listening to others say to memorize it in class.   Pinkie of course was no newbie to this theory, having taught school...almost forever.

One Friday we had the dream poem to memorize, The Star Spangled Banner.  Everyone knew that, a slam dunk..no studying at all.  

Failing to see Pinkie walk in the room, still turned around talking to Nan, his voice boomed, “Jan turn around please, and since you are so busy talking you can be the first to recite.”  My brain immediately went on lock down.  All I could think of were the words to American the Beautiful...which had slipped out before I could think.

“Jan—please sit down,” Pinkie's voice boomed.

As I turned to sit down I  saw all the anxious faces, I realized they realized they did not know the words either, and everyone was sweating.  Instead of snickering as usual I saw real concern on those faces, that scared me even more.  I stumbled past a couple of desks and noticed that Nan had her head completely down on her desk.  “Does anyone actually have The Star Spangled Banner memorized or were you all planning to be the last one chosen like Jan?”, his booming voice questioned. 

Silence...total and complete silence covered the room like a blanket, not whisper, not a cough...nothing but silence.  He stood there looking at us, flexing his jaw as he did when he stood in the hallway.  

He turned, strided to his desk, pulled out his chair with a long scraaaaape and sat down.  We were all frozen, afraid to move or say a word.  He had never sat down at his desk during class before.  His eyes were still fixed on the class.  

Finally he said, “Put everything away and clear your desk, I am going to tell you a story.”   He slowly stood pulling up all of his six foot seven frame to its full height.  Crossing his arms over his vast chest, and flexing his jaw, he slowly scanned the entire classroom, looking into each of our eyes.

“Francis Scott Key was a respected young lawyer living in Georgetown just west of where the modern day Key Bridge crosses the Potomac River. He made his home there from 1804 to around 1833 with his wife Mary and their six sons and five daughters. 

At the time, Georgetown was a thriving town of 5,000 people just a few miles from the Capitol, the White House, and the Federal buildings of Washington. But, after war broke out in 1812 over Britian's attempts to regulate American shipping and other activities while Britain was at war with France, all 

was not tranquil in Georgetown. The British had entered Chesapeake Bay on August 19th, 1814, and by the evening of the 24th of August, the British had invaded and captured Washington. They set fire to the Capitol and the White 

House, the flames visible 40 miles away in Baltimore. 

President James Madison,his wife Dolley, and his Cabinet had already fled to a safer location. 

A thunderstorm at dawn kept the fires from spreading. The next day more buildings were burned and again a thunderstorm dampened the fires. Having done their work the British troops returned to their ships in and around the 

Chesapeake Bay. 

In the days following the attack on Washington, the American forces prepared for the assault on Baltimore that they knew would come by both land and sea. 

Word soon reached Francis Scott Key that the British had carried off an elderly and much loved town physician of Upper Marlboro, Dr. William Beanes, and was being held on the British flagship TONNANT. The townsfolk 

feared that Dr. Beanes would be hanged. They asked Francis Scott Key for his help, and he agreed, and arranged to have Col. John Skinner, an American agent for prisoner exchange to accompany him. 

On the morning of September 3rd, he and Col. Skinner set sail from Baltimore aboard a sloop flying a flag of truce approved by President Madison. On the 7th they found and boarded the TONNANT to confer with Gen. Ross and Adm. Alexander Cochrane. At first they refused to release Dr. Beanes. But Key and Skinner produced a pouch of letters written by wounded British prisoners praising the care they were receiving from the Americans, among them Dr. Beanes. The British officers relented but would not release the three Americans immediately because they had seen and heard too much of the preparations for the attack on Baltimore. 

They were placed under guard, first aboard the H.M.S. Surprise, then onto the sloop and forced to wait out the battle behind the British fleet. 

At the star-shaped Fort McHenry, the commander, Maj. George Armistead, asked for a flag so big that "the British would have no trouble seeing it from a distance"  The flag was so large that it had 400 yards of best quality wool 

bunting. The stars measured two feet from point to point. Eight red and seven white stripes, each two feet wide, were cut.  It measured 30 by 42 feet .

At 7 a.m. on the morning of September 13, 1814, the British bombardment began, and the flag was ready to meet the enemy. The British had said that when the flag fell that would signify the American’s surrender. 2,  The bombardment continued for 25 hours,the British firing 1,500 bombshells that weighed as much as 220 pounds and carried lighted fuses that would supposedly cause it to explode when it reached its target. But they weren't very dependable and often blew up in mid air. From special small boats the British fired the new Congreve rockets that traced wobbly arcs of red flame across the sky. The Americans had sunk 22 vessels so a close approach by the British was not possible. That evening the connonading stopped, but at about 1 a.m. on the 14th, the 

British fleet roared to life, lighting the rainy night sky with grotesque fireworks. Key, Col. Skinner, and Dr. Beanes watched the battle with apprehension. They knew that as long as the shelling continued, Fort McHenry had not surrendered and the flag was still there.   Its pole was standing at an odd angle but standing none the less. But, long before daylight there came a sudden and mysterious 

silence. What the three Americans did not know was that the British land assault on Baltimore as well as the naval attack, had been abandoned. Judging Baltimore as being too costly a prize, the British officers ordered a retreat. Waiting in the predawn darkness, Key waited for the sight that would end his anxiety; the joyous sight of Gen. Armisteads great flag blowing in the breeze. 

When at last daylight came, the flag was still there!  The men at ft. McHenry had refused to let the great flag fall.  They had held the pole with their hands and when those men had died holding it, others took their place, and then others—

and in the end the flag had been held up by the soldiers and the bodies of soldiers who had fought for their country. 2.

Being an amatuer poet and having been so uniquely inspired, Key began to write on the back of a letter he had in his pocket. Sailing back to Baltimore he composed more lines and in his lodgings at the Indian Queen Hotel he finished 

the poem. Judge J. H. Nicholson, his brother-in-law, took it to a printer and copies were circulated around Baltimore under the title "Defence of Fort McHenry".  It was printed in a newspaper for the first time in the Baltimore Patriot 

on September 20th,1814, then in papers as far away as Georgia and New Hampshire. To the verses was added a note "Tune: Anacreon in Heaven." In October a Baltimore actor sang Key's new song in a public performance and 

called it "The Star-Spangled Banner". Immediately popular, it remained just one of several patriotic airs until it was finally adopted as our national anthem on March 3, 1931. The flag, our beloved Star-Spangled Banner, went on view ,for 

the first time after flying over Fort McHenry, on January 1st,1876 at the Old State House in Philadelphia for the nations' Centennial celebration. “ 1.

I learned all four verses of the Star Spangled Banner.  Everyone in our class did.  I have never seen the flag or heard the song, that I wasn’t proud that Mr. Powell 

had required us to learn it.  I wish I had been thoughtful enough to tell him that.

Mr. Powell never married or had children.  He spent his entire life teaching seventh graders reading and having them memorize poetry.  He touched my life in a very meaningful way.

Note:  Mr. Powell knew everyone call him Pinkie....and was quite proud that he had a nickname.  Once, when my mother taught with him, she asked him if it offended him.  He said, “No. Quite the opposite....after all they don’t have have a nickname for you do they?”

In Ocotber 2014 I have been asked to give a presentation on the Star Spangled Banner for the Daughters of the American Revolotion (D.A.R.).  I plan to use this for the presentation.

1.National Flag Foundation website

2. Unknown source, included in the story told by Mr. Theo Granville Powell

Texas City Sun

Published December 28, 2003

Theo Granville Powell

Theo Granville Powell, 78, of Texas City, passed away Friday, December 26, 2003 at Mainland Medical Center in Texas City.

Funeral services will be 10:00 a.m. Monday, December 29, 2003 at First Baptist Church in La Marque, Texas with Rev. David Smith and Rev. Grayson Glass officiating. Burial will be 1:00 p.m. Tuesday, December 30, 2003 at Evergreen Cemetery in Lipan, Texas. Visitation will be from 1:00 p.m. to 3:00 p.m. Sunday, December 28, 2003 at Emken-Linton Funeral Home.

Mr. Powell was born December 9, 1925 in Lipan, Texas. He was a retired school teacher for La Marque Independent School District, and a Deacon Emeritus for First Baptist Church in La Marque, Texas.

Survivors include his sisters, Dorothy Powell and Vera Allen both of Lipan, Texas and Helen Powell of California; numerous nieces and nephews and other relatives and friends.*

* And hundreds of students whose lives were made better for having had him as a teacher.

ABOUT A BLOG

My daughter, a professional writer, commented to me about my blog.  She told me that blogs should not be about personal experiences but rather should be a way to inform others about a topic. She said, “You should not being writing a blog unless you are an authority on that subject. A blog should be professional  writing."

She has a degree in English from the University of Oklahoma, is a published author, has been a television director, producer, a magazine editor, a wife and mother of three,  her writing pays the bills each month.....she is definitely a professional and an authority on writing.

I felt stupid... I had been writing, telling stories I thought were funny, notable, talking about people, because I wanted them to be remembered....and to know now, it was wrong.  I find out I shouldn’t have written about those things...those people?  

I tried to think of something I knew more about than anyone else.  Nothing....I am just ordinary.  I have never been good enough at anything to have ever been an authority.  There are many things I would like to be an authority on....(and perhaps thought I was), but no...I never qualified.  

And my daughter, an authority, reading what I had written, how she must have laughed, no scoffed, at my stupidity.  At that point, I quit writing.  For two years every time I felt the urge to write...I just scribbled notes, knowing nothing was noteworthy, I was not an authority on anything.

 But as time went by, I started to think about the experiences I have had in my life, unique to only me.  Over the course of the past forty years I have worked as a buyer, a mother, a wife, an advocate for Parkinson’s Disease, a church staff coordinator, a teacher, a volunteer, a docent, and a curator of a museum. Museums.....all museums are authorities, telling a the history of something. One saying, common to museums is, “All history is local history.” That is true. Some local history becomes more famous or noteworthy than others, but it is all local at some point. Then I started thinking about stories. Stories like history, are all personal at some point.

People write books because they have a personal story in their heart that they, or someone has lived.  It has changed their life, made them look at things differently or altered the course they were on.  It happened to only them.  Sharing it made another person’s life better.

I thought about my father fighting in World War II,  all the stories he told, unique to him, the ones I heard and sadly, the ones that died with him. The realization that the man fighting beside him, experienced the same battle and had a story too. A totally different one, yet at the same place and same time.  How many times have I read a story, only to realize that someone else was like me, their feelings were the same as mine, though their lives and experiences  were so different.....but most importantly, that we had the same questions and same struggle.

One little tragic love story.....ROMEO AND JULIET....made someone else tell their tragic love story. Herman Melville told a story about a fish...MOBY DICK. Stephen Crane, about being afraid, A RED BADGE OF COURAGE. A little girl told the story about her tiny, limited little world in an attic.....THE DIARY OF ANNE FRANK.  They all have one thing in common....when they told their story, my world was broadened by the  experience they shared. It was a personal story, that became a universal story.  It made me understand a new perspective I had not envisioned.  They wrote about their story because they had those experiences.  Most of us are authorities on only one thing....our personal journeys.   

My daughter is an authority on so many things, breastfeeding, natural childbirth, baby wearing, writing, television directing, production, magazine editing and more that I even don’t know about.  I will never have her knowledge or her experience at any of those things. She will always be smarter and have more experience than me. I respect her knowledge and her intelligence. I envy her success at such a young age. I am embarrassed to note, that at my age I have not achieved  authority about anything in particular.  I do wonder though....does wisdom ever trump authority?