Four Hours that changed a life.
J.B.Blocker the Lone Star Reporter
Sheriff John Murry Easley, Veteran, Moore County, Texas
Born: 13 May 1912 Eldorado, Jackson County, Oklahoma, USA
Reborn:13 Jan 1970 (aged 57) Dumas, Moore County, Texas, USA
Burial: Northlawn Memorial Gardens Dumas, Moore County, Texas, USA
How a Texas Sheriff became my hero!
I want you to know about this man. I want him to be remembered! In four hours he changed my life. The effects would last a lifetime!
Dec. 7 1968, Sunray, Texas:
I was 12 years old and in 6th grade. My family had moved after 5 years in Jacksonville, Florida and the Jaxs Naval Air Base where my father had been stationed. We headed to the Texas panhandle to be near my mothers mother who was a school teacher in Dumas, Texas in January.
We had lived in Jacksonville, Florida after my adoption from a Buddhist orphanage in Yokohama Japan by a Naval family.
My dad had been assigned to Jax Naval Air Base as a newly minted E-8 and I started school before I could barely speak English.
The neighborhood we lived in was just outside the forced bussing region and I would attend Jacksonville Heights Elementary School in literally all white area.
I remember the day this tall, handsome, dark haired American in Navy dress whites arrived at the orphanage with his wife Nancy and 15 year old daughter Mona. On that day, I left the orphanage in a big ole Ford station wagon.
As a ½ Japanese and ½ American sailors son at the orphanage in the ‘60’s, I was not welcomed by the other children. My blood was impure. Life was probably not that great for orphans anywhere in the 50’s. For a half breed in Japan, there were no hugs or even friends. Japan was a defeated and racist society for many more years.
It was a true blessing to be adopted by a loving Christian/ American family. The racism was looking like a thing of the past.
Boy was I wrong!
Jacksonville in the early 60’s was in the middle of forced integration and the tension was high in the school systems where whites were about to be forced to attend schools with blacks. The Cuban missile crisis led to bombing drills and the students regularly had drills which include hiding under our little desk as if that would save anyone. This caused a hatred or at least a distrust for Latino and other darker skinned people as well.
To add to all this racial distrust, the Vietnam war was the first daily reported war on TV.
In a highly military city with a large Naval presence, racism was high and patriotism was higher. I was about to feel the wrath of my classmates from 1st grade until we moved to Texas in my 5th year.
From day one, I was a Jap, a chink, a slant-eye. There was one black boy, Mikie who became my first friend. We were obvious targets and would suffer so much abuse that we feared the final bell knowing we would face being ganged up on by other kids as we walked the few blocks to our homes.
I often came home with torn shirts, bruises, and could not take our bikes to school because they would be damaged.
When Forrest Gump’s scene of kids on bikes running down the young and crippled Forrest, I could feel the anxiety even as an adult. Memory flashes!
There was undeveloped property across the street from the school that was basically the wooded edge of swampy land. Mikie and I often ran into that wooded swampy area while kids were loading on to busses or heading home by bikes and legs for neighborhood kids.
We would come home partly muddy and dirty much to the chagrin of my mother. This practice ended when I brought home a baby alligator and had to explain to my dad where I caught it and why I was hiding in those woods.
It was just Mikey and me my first two years. I made a few other friends from around my block but Mikey stood out more than I and had it worse.
From 3rd ‘grade until we moved, I hated going to school and my grades and report cards showed it. I was always being disciplined for my bad attitude and began a rebellious stage that led to having my desk put outside the classroom door, alone in the hallway while I would write ‘I will not …’ 100 times. Either that or copying sections of Keys to Good English. No wonder I became a writer!
Some teachers preferred to have students remain in the class and write whatever message the teacher choose over and over on the black board while the class continued. This of course led to even more teasing which led to more of my bad attitude.
I was held back in 4th grade which led to even more embarrassment and the subsequent teasing.
When dad received his E-9 and would be transferred to the Pacific fleet, we moved to Texas and I was happy to escape what I considered to be a miserable existence.
Boy, was I in for a big disappointment!
 |
| Sunray, Texas 'just a ways from Dumas' |
The Texas Panhandle to a kid who only knew Texas as a land of Indians, cowboy, and rattlesnakes moving to a tiny community of farmers, ranchers, and petroleum plants was a huge change. After living in Florida with it’s lush greenery, I remember our car ride as we crossed Oklahoma into the Texas panhandle. There were miles of red clay, then miles of flat farms, and often very few trees.
We have a standing joke around Sunray that we
have so few trees that we name them and use them as landmarks. ‘After a few
miles, take a left at the tree! When you see a tree grove, make a right!’ We
had a peach tree in out backyard that I named Fuzzy.
Now it’s the summer of ’68 and we have moved to a town where there were no Blacks and certainly no Asians. There were a few Mexican children. Their fathers where for the most part the trusted help for farmers.
Our house was just across the street from a large grain elevator so it was a landmark for me to get home. As I rode my bike around exploring, I could easily find my way.
It wasn’t like that in Jacksonville where they had to put dog tags on me with my address and phone number because I would ride so far around the neighborhood that I often got lost.
I had been a Cub Scout in Florida and it was a safe haven for me because my second 4th grade teacher was a Scout leader and had sympathy for me. That was the only good school experience I had had and her son was bigger and looked out for me. I naively expected the same fellowship I had in the Cub Scouts and now I had my new Boy Scout uniform.
My first scout meeting was at a farm house less than a mile north of the grain elevators. There were several boys in scout uniform playing around the house so my mom dropped me off and promised to pick me up at the right time.
When I got up to the group two particular boys who would be classmates torment me all the way to the day I left for college. They blocked my way. It was a town of less than 2000 and everyone knew about the two Japanese orphans who had moved here.
Again, the dirty Jap, slant-eyed, gook slurs started. I was not welcome! The scout master was not yet there and there were no other adults. A few rocks were thrown at me and I looked at the grain elevator less than a mile away and began walking.
I cut straight across the pasture instead of following the county road and soon my imagination became my enemy. My path led me around the cemetery. I had never been to a cemetery so the perceived ghost entered my mind. Then, I had to cross a corn field that was by then waist high. All of a sudden, I imagined the rattlesnakes, scorpions, and other dangers that I had seen in westerns. I even worried that a Injun or wild boar might be in my way. I remember that first walk across Texas with humor now, but the 12 year old who was just run out of his 1st Boy Scout meeting was scared, angry, and very confused.
By the time I got to my house and told my mother what had happened, I was a wreck. I hated Texas and Texans and rattlesnakes. I later learned to love all three!
Mom called the Goodwin home to find out what happened and not long after, John H, Goodwin the farmer who’s house was the meeting spot, Coy Barton Sr. the Scout Master who had been a little late, and their two sons Jeff Goodwin and Coy Jr. showed up. They were furious about my treatment and knew my father to be a veteran serving in Vietnam. They swore to never let that happen to me again on their watch and were true to their word from that day. Jeff and Coy were not at the house when I was run off which is why all the boys were outside. They became two of my best friends and favorite people even to this day.
Sixth grade consisted of two rooms with about 20 in each. I would graduate with a class of less than 40. Most of these kids are people that I learned to love and respect even into adulthood. And even though I was a singular minority, most treated me fairly. I still follow many of their lives on Facebook and still call a few. We have buried half by now after over 50 years.
But there were a few like the two who I won’t name that ran me away from that Boy Scout debacle who couldn’t leave the racist hatred behind.
December 7, 1968 was a day I was dreading. I had already heard snide remarks by a few about the dirty Japs that bombed Pearl Harbor and with Vietnam in full color on the TV’s, the Slant-eyed gook theme rose in volume. A few days previously, spit balls began to torment me when the teacher wasn’t looking. Granted, it was only a few who tormented me but I began to resent all the others that watched and giggled. It would be years before I got over that resentment as I learned that everyone had their own issues and any distraction wasn’t personal, it was just the way of life.
On the 6th, I was promised that I would pay for Pearl Harbor and Vietam and whatever else gooks were responsible for. I could barely sleep that night and plotted being too sick to go to school. By morning I had hatched a plan. I rustled up some white cloth and fashioned a sling. When I got to the school, I said that a car had hit me and my arm was hurt. Surely I would be left alone.
Not long after school began, I was called to the principals office. In the office I would meet Moore County Sheriff John Mosely. My hit by a car story didn’t fare too well and I finally broke down and told them the reason I was faking the injury. They sent me back to the classroom and let me keep the sling. I was now even more of a wreck than ever!
The sheriff came to my homeroom and told the class that he had requested an assistant for a few hours. Since I was injured, would I be up to helping him out?
Sheriff John Murry Easley was a Coast Guard veteran, and he knew who my father was. Since I was a lefty and the sling was on my right arm, he went on with the charade and gave me a note pad to take notes.
We drove around the county as we talked about my dad, and I shared some of the bad experiences I was having with a few racist kids. We went to the courthouse where he introduced me around (without my sling) and then showed me the Sheriffs office and even the jail. We cruised up from Dumas, the county seat, to Etter where a very popular Mexican restaurant, The El Rancho, served us my first Mexican lunch. By the time we returned to the school it was early afternoon.
Sheriff Easley walked me back to my classroom, with my sling back on, and his words sealed my love of Texas Sheriffs.
In front of the class, he thanked for my help and praised my father for his important rank and service as a Master Chief of the Navy. Until that ride with him, I had no real idea of how respected a rank that was.
He then pulled out a little stick-on badge and ceremoniously deputized me for all to see. His parting words were that I should consider him a friend if I ever had a problem.
I loved him from that day and wept when he passed away a couple of years later.
That was over 50 years ago!
As a young insurance agent, I had the fortune of writing the group insurance policies for several other Texas counties. This made me the insurance agent for all the elected officials and county employees including all of the sheriff’s department.
I went to the homes of many of the county employees who invited me to explain their coverage and sold many of them life insurance including a few sheriffs. Because of Sheriff Mosely, I was very comfortable with law men with their guns and badges.
Collin County Sheriff Terry Box
It would be many years later when I would again engage with a Sheriff. One day in McKinney, Tx. I was catching lunch at a favorite Blue Plate special kind of diner. It was full as always and a pleasant man in polo shirt and khaki’s was also looking for a seat. He invited me to share a table with him. As we talked, I began to think of him as a modern day version of Andy of Mayberry. As someone who would have treated a child like Sheriff Mosely did me.
We became friendly enough that I asked to interview him for a story. I was a writing contributor to the Courier News which served McKinney, Plano, and Frisco.
I remember that it was nearly 2 am when I completed the piece and was so pleased with it that I thought a magazine might like to print it. I thought, “If there is a Lone Star Reporter, they would love it!”
So I googled it. And there wasn’t one. So that night, I bought the URL for Lonestarreporter.com And that is how an orphaned ½ Japanese, 1/3rd Irish, French/German became The Lone Star Reporter!
How Great is America! How Great is God! That's not a question.
I sent the story to the director of the Texas Association of Sheriff’s and they agreed to publish it in their quarterly magazine.
I was also invited to attend the annual Sheriff’s conference as a guest. On the opening night gala, to my surprise I was introduced to the room full of Sheriff’s, spouses, and sponsors as the writer for the current issue.
I titled the piece Terry Box, A badge with honor
During most of that conference, I was seated at an area where the past presidents gather raffle tickets in the center of the vendors showroom. I passed out the magazine and autographed many. I chatted with many of those past presidents and formed friendship with them that have only grown over the past dozen years.
I have written stories on several and am
pleased that my stories helped serve as memorials for a few that have passed.
It is safe to say that I am the best connected journalist to sheriffs not only in Texas, but also several from coast to coast. I attend the Western States Sheriffs Conference, count 3 past presidents of the National Sheriffs Assoc.,and have the cell numbers to over 200 sheriffs nationwide. If you scan through my Facebook photos, you will find hundreds of these sheriffs.
On my 68th birthday I counted over 150 birthday wishes from these sheriffs and I speak to many on a regular basis. They trust me. I have become a confidant and sometimes a media advisor.
Sheriff John Murry Easley, Veteran, Moore County, Texas
Remember him. I truly believe that those 4 hours he spent with me are a big part of what led to hundreds of friendships with the Sheriffs of Texas and beyond.
Rest in Peace to Sheriff friends who friended me and who have passed on leaving lasting impressions on myself and those they served.
Booger Pruitt, Glasscock County Tommy Williams, Atascosa County
Bob Holder, Comal County Keith Gary, Sherman County
Gary Painter, Midland County Kirk Coker, Hutchinson County
Jorge De la Cruz, Cochran County
No comments:
Post a Comment