CHAPTER 1

Early Days In San Marcos

Going back a few years, I lollygagged in aimless activities in andaround San Marcos, usually under the care of my mother during thoseearly days. My two brothers were 10 and 15 years older than me andwere not excited about baby-sitting.

Mother began taking me down to a safe spot on the San MarcosRiver where I was taught to swim at an early age. On the way to the river,we would stop at Mrs. Murray's fruit stand and buy a small watermelonthat sold for about 50 cents. I would play with that floating melon in thecold river water until it was time to go home. At that point I would liftthe melon as high as possible and let it burst on the gravel bar. We wouldeat the heart out, wash off and head for home.

Mr. Vogelsang and his wife operated a small tourist court on the eastbank of the river. He fished in a particular spot on the low water bridgenear where Mom and I were swimming. Nearly always he would catch anice bass with a minnow placed just under the bridge. As I grew older,I imitated Mr. Vogelsang's fishing techniques near the bank on the westside of the bridge. Sure enough, one day a slashing monster bass took mybait and gave a ferocious fight until I pounced on him with all fours onthe bridge sidewalk.

After stringing up the bass with trembling hands I headed for townto show him off. I found that old men in the drug stores and barbershops brought me the greatest praises accompanied by smiles galore. Notto mention my folks at our bakery.

I suggested to Mom that we should send an item to Ripley's BelieveIt or Not but her response was not that encouraging.

I cleaned the bass for storage in the refrigerator. But I did not scalethe fish for the benefit of the audience planned for the next day. Momdidn't know the scales were still intact when she fried the bass, thusruining my plans. Not only that, the fried scales protruded out from thebass after cooking – which reminded me of old wooden shingles on abarn roof on a hot summer day.

Well, I've caught a good many bass since that one – some quite large.But none gave me the thrill that big bass did, that time about 72 yearsago. As yet, no historical markers have been placed on that bridge wheremy monster bass was caught.

* * *

Besides fishing, my friends and I enjoyed a variety of activities backduring our younger days. Though I'd be hard pressed to tell you what Ihad for lunch yesterday, those early memories still linger decades later.Below I'll share a few activities which occurred before my interest incollege developed.

My friend Jimmy Turner and I spent many happy hours makingmud airplanes – about the size of your hand. Once the mud hardenedon those planes we would construct small airports on the ground andplace them there as if they were enemy aircraft. WWII was underwayat the time and it was fun to participate. Then, entire flights would bedestroyed by receiving fire from our BB guns. No telling how many U.S.troops were saved by our tactics.

The mud airplane construction and ensuing combat with BB gunsbrought to our minds the matter of bailing out of a crashing airplaneshould that hard luck come our way. We decided to practice thatmaneuver by jumping off the roof of the garage with mother's beachumbrella. We figured that we could hold onto the wooden handle of theumbrella and waft to the ground with about the velocity of falling leaves.

I jumped first and plummeted to the gravel driveway at about thespeed of a bowling ball. My body, upon impact, doubled at the knees.My chin collided with my left knee and unfortunately my tongue wasbetween the upper and lower teeth when my mouth was slammed shut.The pain was beyond belief, offset somewhat by the wonders of yellowflashing balls of light that appeared around my head. As I finally arosefrom the driveway bleeding from the mouth and knuckles and staggeringamong flashing hallucinations, Jimmy announced from the roof that hehad decided not to jump.

March or April each year would provide warmer weather after a coldwinter to allow us to go barefooted, usually earlier then our motherspreferred. The supreme test of bare-footed toughness was to trudgecompletely across Mr. Gulledge's Texaco filling station drive-ways, madeof sharp edged discarded soda bottle caps. The caps were much cheaperthan having to pour concrete for a driveway. In later years we boughtgasoline from him to fill our motor bikes. At 17 cents per gallon wecould fill up for about 34 cents. And Mr. Gulledge would repair flats onour bike tires with a product known as "hot patches" which were ignitedand melted into the tire inner tubes where they were punctured. Tirerepair cost was about 50 cents per puncture, depending on its severity.

* * *

When Buster Williamson became manager of the boat andbait-house on Springlake, the world changed dramatically for those wholoved to fish or go boating and mingle with others that did likewise.Buster's personality and friendliness attracted an outdoors crowd to theboathouse young and old alike. It became the absolute headquartersfor all who loved the San Marcos River, Springlake being the origin ofthe river resulting from the springs bursting from the rocky BalconesEscarpment.

In 1689 the Alonzo deLeon Expedition discovered the San MarcosSprings rising from the Edwards Aquifer. It had long been headquartersfor a number of tribes of American Indians based on artifacts discoveredthrough the years. One reference records their presence 11,500 yearsago. It was discovered on St. Marks Day by early explorers and thusthe river and the town attained the name San Marcos. General EdwardBurleson of the U. S. Army, after many conflicts with the Indians, wasfinally successful in securing the area so it could include early settlers.Researchers later proclaimed from their findings of artifacts that the riverheadwaters may be the most continuously occupied area by humans inwhat became America.

Anyway, in the late 1940's Buster Williamson's four boys and Ibecame fast friends and fishing buddies remaining so to this day withthe exception of older brother George who passed away. Leroy, Johnny,Roger and I still meet on occasion and recall the good ol' days on theSan Marcos River when we were boys.

* * *

The irresistible urge to try smoking tobacco usually struck most of usboys at about age 13. Some of the trial efforts ended the habit at aboutthe same age. Though there was a temporary halt with some, otherscontinued those misguided efforts forever. It was tempting to stop if acedar bark cigarette caused you to throw up your lemon popsicle in frontof your friends, which immediately classified you as a hopeless sissy.

Believe it or not, my mother loaned me a cigarette rolling machine atage 14 in the hope I'd have serious nausea and misfires and then quit forgood. That did not work.

One advantage of cedar bark cigarettes was the low cost. You couldjerk all the cedar bark you could use in a month from either cedar treesor cedar posts. Both sources were easy to find around San Marcos andthe hill country just up the way. We folded the bark into a square ofnewspaper, licked the paper generously then rolled the mess up to suitour exquisite tastes.

Besides cedar bark, other smoking options included packagedcigarettes, King Edward Cigars (15 cents each), grape vine, chewingtobacco and a few other delicate choices. Oh, I forgot the canned snufffor dipping which lived a short life span due to its offensive taste.

One day as we were driving along smoking in my fine '31 Chevrolet,good friend Jimmy Turner announced he was making at that moment,a 12 inch cedar bark cigarette, by far our mightiest effort ever. He madethat monster and ignited it with our usual kitchen matches. After a fewminutes of really heavy smoking, the saliva on the paper dried up andthe burning embers fell directly into Jimmy's lap.

They landed in a pile just where the legs join each other. In spite ofhis frantic slapping to remove the fire between his legs, certain damageswere done to his you know what!

Our smoking interests faded rapidly away after that horrendousevent. So we returned to barefooted wade fishing for perch (sunfish)which, was less dangerous.

* * *

In 1923 my dad, Leslie A. Cooper and a partner opened Cooper'sBakery on the main street just down the hill from what becameSouthwest Texas State College in San Marcos. My older brothers, Jackand Charles, both worked in the bakery as clerks during their high schooland college days. Since at least half of the customers were Hispanic, Jackand Charles were exceptional sales persons because both were fluent inSpanish and so were my parents.

The business thrived in the 1920s but came upon thin ice duringthe Great Depression of the 1930s. Survival of the business was dueto the excellent baked products and to a miracle which came along – ayeast-raised donut called Dixie Cream. After the dough rising process thedonuts were cut and fried in shortening and then dipped into a glazemade of sugar, water and vanilla extract.

After they were allowed to drip-dry, customers could buy thoseprecious morsels at 15 cents per dozen – cheaper and better than theycould be produced at home or most anywhere else.

The bakers began their work producing all bakery products at threeam each morning. This allowed the donuts and bread to be deliveredfresh by coffee time to most of the San Marcos cafes and grocery stores.Also, good supplies were available at the bakery for drop-in customers.Often by mid-afternoon the donuts were sold out.

Business improved greatly when WWII began and a U.S. Army AirForce Base was built just out of town. Those young fliers had money andbought donuts and other sweets by the bagful. Dad and his bakers thenmade donuts three times daily.

When available, dad kept a tray of fresh donuts by the cash registerto encourage purchases by last minute shoppers mesmerized by the sightand sweet aroma.

One elderly lady came in once each week to buy a 15 cent loaf ofbread. While dad was making change she would squeeze a donut outof shape and ask, "Mr. Cooper, are these donuts fresh?" Time and timeagain she would squeeze and ask but never buy one.

Finally he lost his patience and responded, "No ma'm – they are ninedays old and the cats have been sleeping on them!" She had squeezed herlast donut, thank goodness.

I had a lot of friends who found excuses to go in the bakery withme – just in case a free snack might come their way. Many products usedin baking certain delights were stored in the back in large quantities.Molasses, a thick dark brown syrup was kept in a large wooden barrel onits side in the baking area adjacent to a huge stack of bagged flour. Whenthe bakers were gone for the day my friends and I played "King of theMountain" on top of the 98 pound bags of flour pushing and shovingeach other in mortal combat.

The molasses barrel was the easiest way to disembark fromthe mountain of flour. Unfortunately one of us, in our mayhem,unknowingly opened the spigot of the barrel by foot as our battles werebeing fought.

When the bakers arrived early the next morning the larger part ofthe wooden floor was soaked in sweet smelling molasses. They spentthat morning with mops, buckets and hot water cleaning up the place. Itsmelled heavenly for months.

Dad did not whip me because of the fatal error. But we had played"King of the Mountain" for the last time in Cooper's Bakery.

* * *

There were four water traps on the Spring Lake golf course in SanMarcos. Golfers had to shoot across them while playing a round of golf.Unfortunately there were mysterious magnetic powers in those waterholes which often caused golf balls to dive into the water.

When that happened sometimes harsh words could be heard issuedby the hapless golfer who lost both a stroke and the ball. He then had torisk another shot across the dreaded magnetic waters.

Jay Dix was the long time manager of the Spring Lake course. Heselected certain high school boys to enter the water traps usually referredto as the "sloughs." The so-called Slough Rats at work drug their barefeet along the muddy bottom and retrieved golf balls which became theirproperty. During WWII golf balls were hard to find because the rubberwas being used in the war effort.

Since women seldom were to be found playing golf in those daysback in the 1940s, the Slough Rats did their work not only with barefeet but with bare bodies as well. There seemed little need to put wearand tear on your bathing suit, so we didn't.

We would take our catch of golf balls home each evening, removingstains by soaking them in Clorox and rubbing them thoroughly withclean rags. They would be returned to the course the next day forbargaining with interested golfers. A dollar or two for a used golf ballwas good money in those days.

One of my best Slough Rat friends was Rogers Oliver. He was alwaysnervous in the water, however, for his dreaded fear of snakes. When wewould occasionally see one Rogers would head for safety of the shore in aquick retreat from the water.

Once we were working in the slough close together and discussingthe merits of several girls we were enamored with at the time. Suddenly,I felt an old dead tree branch on the bottom. I knew that if exposed itwould be snaky black in color due to having been in the mud so long. Icarefully moved it with my feet into my hand and pointed it underwaterdirectly toward Roger's face.

And then I thrust it out of the water toward him and yelled"Cottonmouth!" Rogers screamed and bolted out of the slough at thespeed of Superman and made it to the center of the number two green.The golfers on that green were shocked and amazed at the shiveringnaked boy suddenly before them for no apparent reason. Finally Rogerscalmed down a bit and went back across the bridge to our headquartersarea. Ours was a quiet trip home.

Later we learned that some of our high school girl friends hadlearned about our naked swimming project and actually watched us fromthe top of a hillside using binoculars and a telescope. In later years sometold us they would really get excited when they saw us leaving the waterwith our balls (golf balls).

If you are visiting Aquarena Springs these days you can still see ourfavorite slough on your right as you cross over the little bridge. But thenaked boys are gone (I think).

* * *

I became a full-time summer pilot of the first glass bottom boatsoperating out of the boathouse where Buster Williamson sold bait, rentedboats and conducted glass bottom boat tours. Those unique boats wereconstructed in San Marcos by a skilled carpenter named Jack Warner.When the construction of Aquarena started, I worked for the buildingcompany keeping time sheets and doing odd jobs for Mr. Rogers – liketrimming moss obstructing the view of the springs.

Having grown up with much time devoted to the river, I had a fairlykeen knowledge of the different species of fish, reptiles, amphibians,birds and mammals present there. To enhance this knowledge, I wasmajoring in wildlife and fisheries science at Texas A&M. Botany electivecourses there helped with my identification of aquatic plant life.

Further, the owner of Aquarena, Mr. Paul Rogers, made intensivestudies of the plants and animals of the San Marcos River and kindlyadded to my knowledge in study sessions we had together. More helpcame to me with training from Aquarena manager, Don Russell, whohad years of experience at Silver Springs, Florida, which was remarkablysimilar to the San Marcos River. I became a full-fledged boat pilot whenthe construction for Aquarena had been completed.

Besides those studies, there were routine boat maintenance dutiesperformed daily on our boats and information to master in order to bean effective boat pilot.

Before customers began arriving each morning, the glass portalsin each boat had to be sparkling clean for viewing pleasure. We madecertain that each boat was stocked with adequate life preservers in case ofemergencies – and they also served as comfortable seating cushions. Theengines were tested and fueled.

The boats were cleaned carefully to remove all sorts of debrisfrom the day before, especially dirty diapers, chewing tobacco, candywrappers, water plants such as hyacinths that had been pulled into theboat through the windows and certain other items too embarrassingto mention. We learned that tourists are not always careful with otherpeople's property.

Then the emergency bell atop the boat had to be in working orderin case the boat might need a tow back to the pier due to mechanicalfailure. In five summers of piloting I used the bell only twice forassistance. One occasion was when the steering chain came loose fromthe boat's steering sprocket.

The other time was more exciting. I had twenty lady telephoneoperators aboard, several being substantial in size. Just after my speechabout the safety of the boat, saying even if the glass breaks we will notsink, we glided over a shallow area with a heavy growth of water plantsand a four or five foot non-poisonous water snake swam under thelength of the glass, with his back snugly against it. A live dinosaur doingthe same trick could not have terrified our passengers as much. Theyleaped up from their seats as one, stomping up and down and screamingin terror. The water snake had no idea what was going on above him andbroke the world's record snake dash according to my calculation.

Finally I convinced the ladies that the snake had completely departedand was more terrified then they were. By then my bell ringing attracteda rescue boat to take us back in, seeing that the glass had broken due toexcessive floor stomping.

Believe it or not, they all boarded another boat at the pier and wehad a delightful snake free cruise following the failed effort. Some evensmiled about the entire adventure.

Later, Mr. Rogers had a simple radio system installed at the boat pierwhereby the ticket seller in the main office could notify the boat driversthat more customers were enroute down for the next ride.

One of my fellow boat pilots was Art Beechy. He got permission tomodify the radio whereby return calls could be made back to the ticketoffice. He claimed to have that procedure down pat in his bag of tricks.And having been a mail man earlier, thus weary of walking, the radiowould solve his problem.

After a couple of days of detailed work on the radio, Art announced,"It's done! No more unnecessary walking!"

He walked up to the device, picked up the microphone and wasabout to make his maiden call. Upon pushing the microphone switchwith mouth up close to the device, I observed a sharp, blue electricalspark jump from the microphone into his mouth where metal fillingsabounded-thus causing a painful shock to Art.

Art fell backwards and loudly uttered some extremely foul languagewhile grasping his injured mouth. We immediately returned to theone-way communication system and resumed our walking. It was notnearly as much fun, especially if Art was on duty trying to skillfullyreduce the serious burdens of exercise.