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Gary’s Bio Gary Stallard spent a career as a U.S. Marine before completing his bachelor’s degree at Stephen F. Austin University, where he majored in English and Journalism. For nine years, he worked as a sports writer/columnist/photographer for the Lufkin Daily News, for whom he continues to contribute free-lance articles. Stallard has won several awards for writing, including the Golden Hoops Award for basketball writing in 2003, Regional Sports Writer of the Year in 2004, and the Texas Press Association’s first-place award for column writing in 2007. He has also done basketball, football and baseball radio and web stream play-by-play and color commentary for an ESPN affiliate. He currently works at Angelina College as the Coordinator of Marketing and Development, Sports Information Director and writing instructor.Prior to arriving at Angelina College, Stallard taught English at Lufkin High School for four years.He and his wife Susan live in Lufkin. DO OR DYE By GARY STALLARD Contributing writer “Ours not to question why; ours but to dye our ‘do.” Yeah, I know, I’m screwing up a perfectly good quote, but I’m suffering a real crisis of face here. My face. It’s this whole growing older thing. I’ve been okay with using the “age is just a number” line for a few years now; but the higher those numbers grow, the more signs I exhibit of qualifying for discounts at Luby’s. I’m talking some serious wrinkles covered with a thin layer of gray beard. Not “Distinguished Silver” or “Sean Connery White.” Just plain, drab gray. Once sprinkled sparingly, now they’ve pushed across my face, crowding out the dark hair faster than bad neighbors moving in next door. I realize I can’t do anything about the increasing number of wrinkles. When I smile, I look less like a guy and more like a Shar-pei pup. These creases are here to stay, unless I figure out a way to knock them out with an iron and a little spray starch. But the gray hair? Sprouting like weeds. My beard looks as if someone smacked me in the face with a powder puff full of baby powder. When she was younger, my daughter used to love plucking those annoying gray hairs herself, as they came in one by one. Now, she says her arms get tired. Blame all these white-tipped suckers on four years of teaching ninth grade; of having to help remove pencil erasers from nostrils, or paper clips from a freshly pierced ear. Or having children in general: The daughter whose driving prowess included slamming repeatedly into the poor mailbox at the end of our driveway – and insisting that it was the mailbox’s responsibility to get out of her way. Whatever the reason, I’m sprouting gray hairs faster than my yard sprouts weeds. I’d accepted this as a badge of honor for growing older – sort of like the noises my knees make during any strenuous movement, such as standing or sitting. I told myself those gray hairs mean I was allotted a lot more days than lots of folks. I should be thankful. I figured it wouldn’t bother me; after all, vanity is supposed to have left a man just about the time his children arrive. (It’s tough to look cool when you’re wearing fresh drool.) It didn’t bother me, looking into the shaving mirror each morning and thinking I was staring at a photo of my dad. My old dad. The one whose own head resembled a snow-capped mountain. It didn’t bother me until I began seeing the commercials. The ones where some guy uses a bottle of some special gunk and a midget comb. A few strokes of the comb through his hair or beard, and voila’! Gray hair’s gone, dark hair’s back, and women are falling all over themselves just to get to him. He goes from George Washington to George Clooney faster than a Porsche gets from 0 to 60. You just know that’s got to be real. Worse, my own kids have joined the campaign, slyly hinting that maybe it’s time to invest in a can of brown spray paint. Or whatever that stuff is they’re selling. Therein lies my dilemma. Do I cave in and buy the dye? Do I sell out my hard-earned aging for a little youthful pride? And how much good will it really do? How much younger would I look with all those wrinkles sitting atop a brown beard instead of a gray one? And will dark hair hide the knee popping? I’m thinking…nope. Like it or not, I’m getting older by the minute. The gray hairs and wrinkles are just reminders for me to be thankful for every day I get. With some of the stupid stunts I pulled when my face was unlined and my hair completely brown, I don’t deserve gray hair. Maybe I can begin to see these signs as signs that a little wisdom is settling in. And who in their right mind would want to comb that out? Gary Stallard’s e-mail address is garylstallard@yahoo.com Adventures in House-Cleaning, Male Style By: Gary Stallard Last week, I spent several hours attempting to do something nice for my wife. I tried to do a little house cleaning. I had a day off, but my lady had to work. I thought I´d earn some big hubby points by knocking out some of the chores I knew she´d try to do when she got home. You know, the basics: Vacuuming, loading the dishwasher, tossing in a couple of loads of laundry. Simple stuff, right? Ri-i-i-ght. I failed to take into account my utter lack of competence in all things housework-related. I survived years as a bachelor, never comprehending how different my version of “clean”would be to a woman. Making the bed made no sense to me, since I planned to crawl right back in it that night. I didn´t need post-it notes; I just wrote notes to myself in the layers of dust on the furniture. I kept my laundry in three separate piles: Dirty, Really Dirty, and Too Funky to Wear. And hey, I always thought those stains on the walls looked like some form of abstract art. Sort of a Picasso in his Slob Period. After an hour, I began hoping it would be like my college Algebra class. I never got a right answer, but I got credit for showing my work. Only way I passed. Started by vacuuming the house. Here´s a question: Why do women use those dinky little vacuum cleaners for housework? It´s cute, but for this day I busted out the ol´ Shop Vac from the garage. Ten gallon, five ragin´ horsepower. Gave my best Tim Allen “Ahh, ahh, ahh”pig noise. Sucked the dust out of the house in no time flat. Of course, now I can´t find any of our rugs, our blankets or pillows, or the dog and cat. But by golly, that floor was SPARKLIN´. Note to self: Stop sucking the cat´s tail up the vacuum. That noise she made nearly made me wet myself. Washed the dishes. Rather, I piled them into the dishwasher. I can´t figure out how she manages that whole jigsaw-puzzle routine, stacking everything all nice and neat. I jam those suckers in as high as they´ll fit. Moments later, the dishwasher was throwing knives at me across the kitchen. Guess maybe she´s onto something. Saved the pots for washing by hand. Had a sneaky motive for this one: The last time she walked in and caught me with my hands in the sink, she got all excited. Matthew McConaughey in a Speedo couldn´t have gotten her that fired up. And to think: All that time tracking down wine and roses for her. All that money I´ve spent on Axe body sprays and colognes? Coulda saved it all and spent a buck fifty on a bottle of Palmolive dishwashing soap. Jammed a full load of laundry into washing machine. No time to sort it all out, the way she always does. Hey, wait a minute. Washing machines aren´t supposed to buck, are they? I stayed on for the full eight seconds, but I don´t think the judges are going to award me any points for the ride – especially when they see the mess in the laundry room. It took me a total of three and a half hours to do what she knocks out in about 30 minutes. Now I´m thinking maybe she does one of those Samantha Stevens “Bewitched”thingys with her nose. You know, the “beekle, beekle, beekle”and suddenly everything´s clean? Still, I was proud of my efforts. Thought, “I´m gonna stand at the door and wag my tail like a dog gone potty in the right place when she comes in and sees what I´ve done. I just KNOW I´m gonna score points with this.” Then it hit me. She does this kind of stuff every…single…day. Not once has she waited for me at the door, waiting on some sort of gold star on her report card. She does it, and never says a word. I tucked my tail – and my new perspective – between my legs, and waited for her to come home. If she notices, great. If not, that´s okay, too. But I make myself a promise to notice all these things she does from now on. It´ll be a lot easier than riding a washing machine. Goodbye to a Decade Made for Sports Fans By: Gary Stallard It´s time to bid farewell to the “Aughts.” You know, as in “Aught eight”, or “Aught nine.” The years preceded by zeros on our calendar. And what a decade it was for sports fans. To think that just 10 short years ago, I huddled in my Y2K bunker awaiting the end of the world with the rest of the paranoids. (Not true. I celebrated too much that New Year´s Eve and completely forgot I was supposed to awaken to the end times.) With the advent of such high-tech treats as wireless internet, smart phones and high-def TVs, we sports nuts couldn´t help but think the 2000s arrived just in time – and solely – for us. Consider: When the calendar turned in 2000, I was still watching sports on my 15-year old, 32-inch Sony TV with a picture that, on a good day, allowed me to read players´ numbers. Tonight, I´ll settle in front of my 52-inch flat screen with the wondrous high definition picture sharp enough to allow me to count sweat beads, if I´m so inclined. (I won´t be.) In those days, if I wanted to record a game I´d miss, I had to buy a blank VHS tape and hope I programmed the fickle machine correctly. Now, I´m a DVRin´ dude. Those televisions have also been a big reason for the explosion experienced by the gaming industry. Anybody remember Atari baseball? Little dots on the screen representing players, and a joystick that really was nothing but a stick? Now we´ve got graphics good enough to fool passersby into thinking they´re viewing a real game. And how about the internet? Back then, I had internet service, but it was dial-up and took forever to download any sort of sports update. Forget trying to view photos, unless I had a few days off. Today, not only do we fans have high-speed ‘net – also available in wireless form – but we also have internet access on our phones. On our telephones! Hallelujah and pass the ESPN! Raise your hands if you´ve sat in meetings or other important gatherings, getting scores and updates on your phone when you were supposed to be paying attention to something else. (My hand is up.) In 2000, “4G” would have represented how much money former NBA ref and high-stakes gambler Donaghy dropped on an NBA game he was calling. The advent of those smart phones is also a big reason fantasy team ownership has multiplied exponentially. By 2007, an estimated 15 billion – of which I am NOT one – fans participated in some form or fashion. A sports fan´s dream: Owning a team without paying the high salaries or dealing with all the whining. Did someone say whining? In the ‘90s, we had to read about a petulant star´s unhappiness in the newspapers or on TV sportscasts. Now we can log on to Twitter and read every single, mundane thought – however relevant or irrelevant it may be. (I really don´t want to know what Ochocinco is doing right now. I have a life of my own.) When I grow up, I want to think my little world is that vital to man´s existence. I can´t wait to become a Twit. If you don´t Tweet, you can always find a blog. Seems that blogs are now like bellybuttons; everyone´s got one, so what´s the big deal? Can we really come up with something different to say regarding steroids and baseball? Gone now are the plain ol´, everyday paper posters of our favorite stars, replaced by the aptly named “Fatheads.” In addition, in this past decade we learned that because of free agency, it´s okay to have one player´s name and number on three different replica jerseys. Thus, we discovered who the team fans are, and who simply follows a single player. Personally, I´m still wearing my old Bears´ throwback with the number “20”. It´s either Bob Nowaskey´s from the 1940 Bears, or Mark Carrie from the 1996 bunch. Who cares? I just like the jersey. A full decade designed just for sports fans. Who´d a ever thunk it? So goodbye, Aught-1 through Aught-9. Thanks for everything. And welcome, 2010s. You Aught to be even better than your predecessor.

Minding My Business in Lufkin

For example, when I walk into the Angelina County Teachers´ Credit Union, I have to allot at least an additional 15 minutes to do business. It´s not because they´re slow; far from it. It´s because I have to visit with Gayle and Phyllis, trading stories and pics of our grandkids. It´s part of our routine. Grandkids first, business later. I wouldn´t change it for anything.

These types of relationships make my business excursions more pleasurable experiences. If I take my truck to Wright Brothers for its usual oil change, I know I´ll be talking baseball with Jim Holton while waiting for my vehicle.

There are benefits to such relationships. During the holiday season, Greg, Gary and the gang at Diamond Photo went out of their way to help me put photos in my wife´s new locket I´d gotten her for Christmas. They didn´t have to do this. They did it because they cared.

Same for the folks at Tommy´s Watch Repair. I needed the locket engraved, and they managed to squeeze me in despite their incredibly hectic holiday schedules. When they were finished, they charged me less than half of what they´d quoted, just because they said it was a special gift.

I could go on and on. Doug Russell at East Texas Monuments gave me a great idea for making a patio table for my lady´s Christmas gift. The ladies at Kay Jewelers know my wife and me well enough now that when we enter the store, they already know why we´re there. They´re either really good at reading minds, or they just pay attention to their customers.

Back in the fall, I had to buy a new wireless card for my laptop. My buddy L.A. at the AT&T store knows I´m not real bright with some of this technical stuff, so he actually came to my house during his lunch break to help me set everything up. It took an hour. Ten minutes for L.A. to do his magic, and the rest of the time to sit on my back porch and catch up on life in general.

So many more people like this in Lufkin. Peggy Rains at the Lufkin Daily News, talking kids and advertising with me every time she calls. Ricky McNeal and Greg Little at Loving Toyota, knocking themselves out to help us with a new car. Chad and Lisa at Chili´s, seeing me come through the door and having my drink ready before I´ve even taken a seat. The ladies at China Garden who, when my favorite buffet entrée – General Tso´s chicken, if you´re keeping score – runs out, making sure I never have to wait for a refill. Jennifer at the Lufkin Mall, calling not for a business reason but just to see how I´m doing.

Sure, I could get the same products and services out of town – but with people like this greeting me, why in the world would I? The possibility of saving a few bucks isn´t near as appealing as seeing pictures of Michael (Phyllis´ grandson) or hearing how J.P. (Jim Holton´s son) is doing on the baseball field.

There are those who might say these people treat me so well just because we´re friends. I´d beg to differ.

We´re friends because they treat me so well.

Local Historian, Bob Bowman

The Town wirh an Alias

By: Bob Bowman
Omen, a small community of about 150 souls, may be the only town in East Texas that once went by an alias.

When O’Brien established a post office in his home in 1849 the area was named Round Hill.

But when Thomas N. Gregory replaced O’Brien in 1851, the post office got a new name, Canton. But the following year, the citizens named the town Clopton because there was already a Canton in Van Zandt County.

The post office was discontinued briefly in 1854, but reopened with the name of Troup. Residents, however continued to call the town Canton, even in legal documents.

In 1960, a deed called the town “Canton alias Troup” but a Masonic lodge was officially known as Canton Lodge.

Canton-alias-Troup prospered during the Civil War, especially with the arrival of the International-Great Northern from Gregg County to about four miles south of Canton alias Troup.

Many of the town’s busnesses moved south to Zavalla (not to be confused with the Zavalla in Angelina County), a new railroad town, and the post office moved, too, but kept the name Troup.

Professor A.W. Orr did a lot to revive the community with a successful private school, Summer Hill Select School, which attraced students from Smith and surrounding counties. Many boarded with local families and others moved into the vicinity to attend the school.

In April of 1879, Dixon Bonner petitioned the U.S. Post Office Department to renew the local branch and the town got a new name, Old Canton.

But a year later, Old Canton was renamed Omen at the suggestion of Dr. Orr.

In four years, Omen had a population of 250, three doctors, a blacksmsith, two carpenters and two grocers. By 1892, the town had 550 residents, including a justice of peace, a mayor, a constable and a sawmill.

Summer Hill School had 335 students, a courthouse was built on the town squre, and the post office at Lock was transferred to Omen.

After merging its school with Arp in the early l940s, the town began to decline.

Andrews’ Store, the last business in the community, closed in the l960s and in the l970s Omen had two churches, about 40 dwellings, and two cemeteries. Its population in 2000 was only 150.

Leagueville

By: Bob Bowman
Leagueville, an isolated community in eastern Henderson County, owes its beginning to a land certificate that originated in 1850 by Aaron York, surveyor of a league of land west of the Neches River.The area was referred to “The League” and the “ville” was later added, probably when the community secured a post office in 1889.

By 1855, the Sublett family had gained control of the land around Leagueville and sold it to Matthew Cartwright in 1857. In 1871, B.T. and Annie (Cartwright) Roberts had acquired the property. But when the couple died, the York heirs sued to regain control of the property, but lost on appeal in 1875.

The litigation slowed the development of the area and it really didn´t becomea community until the late 1800s. The community had a school, and a cemetery was established on the school property. The school, however, was consolidated with Brownsboro in 1934.

At its peak, Leagueville had two general stores, its church, two cotton gins, a blacksmith, and a grist mill.

A broken discarded mill stone from the grist mill was placed around a Texas historical marker by the cemetery when it was erected in 2004

The coming of the railroad through Brownsboro in the late 1800s left Leagueville off the beaten path and, with the building of Highway 31 from Tyler to Athens beside the railroad, Leagueville suffered another blow. In the old days, a road running through Leagueville was known as the Athens-to-Tyler road.

Leagueville´s cemetery was once maintained in the way of many old East Texas cemeteries. The grounds were hoed, grass was removed, and the graves were mounded. But because of erosion and the time required to maintain the graveyard, mowing was begun in the 1950s.

Many graves in the cemetery are unmarked and the names of those buried have been lost in the passage of time.

One year, when the cemetery was being expanded, an old dipping vat used to control ticks on cattle was discovered in the ground.

Leagueville´s church, which began as the Hopewell Missionary Baptist Church in 1880, remains in its original location and was preceded by churches at Rock Hill and New York.

One of the town´s earliest settlers was Malachiah Reeves, a Civil War veteran, who served as a postmaster in 1906 and 1907. He was licensed to preach at Leagueville and is buried in the local cemetery.

Each second Sunday of June, Leagueville´s former residents and their families come back to the old town for a memorial day.

Bringing Back Cowboy Music

By: Bob Bowman
In Center the other night, an elderly man in the audience was bemoaning the lack of old-fashioned cowboy music in East Texas.“How old are you?” I asked politely.

“Well, I‘m somewhere between eighty and dead,” he laughed.

That explains the lack of cowboy music. Musicians today seldom play the music older folks remember best.

But, thankfully, I was able to recommend at least one place where the old cowboy music is still played with enthusiasm.

At the Camp Street Cafe and Store in Crockett, brothers Guy and Pipp Gillette perform traditional cowboy songs in a downtown building once owned by their grandfather, rancher Hoyt Porter.

Some of the music they play today originated during the time of the Civil war and blends in songs performed by cowhands and medicine show performers.

When Guy and Pipp are not performing, they‘re running a ranch near Lovelady. The property was also owned by Hoyt Porter and, as youngsters, the Gillettes punched cows on the ranch.

While Guy and Pipp are best known today for their cowboy ballads–and specially for their skill in playing cow bones as an accent sound for their music–they were largely influenced by the Beatles.

The sons of a New York photographer, they saw the Beetles perform on an Ed Sullivan show in the 1960s and knew immediately they wanted to become musicians, too.

So they joined one of Guy‘s classmates at an acting studio and formed a rock and roll band known as the Roadrunners. Their singer was Diane Keaton, the actress.

The Roadrunners played up and down the East Coast for years. But when their grandfather passed away, Guy and Pipp decided to come back to the ranch they loved as young men in 1983.

After the Camp Street building was renovated in 1998 and reopened as the Camp Street Cafe, Guy and Pipp became popular all over Texas as musicians who had a special knack for cowboy songs.

As an early Crockett business, Hoyt Porter‘s Camp Street building housed a variety of businesses, including a cafe, pool hall and cafe.

In the 1940s, a legendary blues musician often came to the cafe to play for tips. His name was Lightin‘ Hopkins. A statue of Lightin‘ stands near the Camp Street Cafe and Store.

When Guy and Pipp decided to reopen the tin building as a music venue, they started with performers they had known on the road. Today, ten years later, the Camp Street Cafe is a popular venue for musicians all over Texas.

But some of the biggest crowds come to Crockett to hear Guy and Pipp bring back the sounds of cowboys on the range.

For a schedule of the Gillettes‘ performances, call 936-544-8656 begin_of_the_skype_highlighting              936-544-8656      end_of_the_skype_highlighting in Crockett.