Opinion: Clarendon is the right place to be

Beginning with this edition of The Clarendon Enterprise, I will be writing a weekly opinion column, assuming of course that I am able stay in everyone’s (particularly Roger’s) good graces.  I am blessed with a plethora of opinions regarding our pesky politicians, stupid social peccadilloes, corporate misconduct, and outrageous Wall Street behavior.

This column will address these issues, in addition to other concerns that I find to be morally and socially suspect.  The title of this column is “The Quick, the Dead, and Fred.”

The Fred part is me, Freddy Leonard Gray.  Regarding the title of this column, the word “quick” means fast or smart, while the word “dead” means slow, or dumb.  I usually fall somewhere between these two points.  In some realms I am smart, in others I am dumber that a sack of roaches, and about as useful.

Back in the halcyon days of 1948, when Clarendon’s streets were smooth and well maintained, and the central business district was crackling with commerce, my mother, Frieda Putman Gray, gave birth to me at the Saints’ Roost Museum.  Of course, she had plenty of help from her mother (Terra Putman), a crack nursing staff, along with a few suggestions from Dr. Stewart – which she promptly disregarded, lest his professional ministrations unduly interrupt her labor pains.

Perhaps my father, Jack E. Gray, was proudly handing out cigars in the waiting area.  More likely, he was asleep in the delivery waiting room, since I was born at 1:37 a.m.  It is doubtful that few, if any, people rushed down to the hospital to smoke a celebratory stogie with Dad.

Now, my family is very supportive, so it is possible that Aunt Joan and Uncle Bob (Kidd),  Aunt Yvonne and Uncle Raymond (King), Aunt Norma and Uncle Junior (Putman), and maybe Aunt Lillian and Uncle Earl (Easterling) all rushed down to participate in the festivities surrounding my entrance into the world.  Realistically, Dad was probably alone if he was there at all.  He could have stayed home with my older brother, Barry, tucked in his nice warm bed, dreaming exciting dreams about the future exploits of his second son.

When my family moved to Lubbock at the end of my fourth grade year, I knew that I would someday move back home to be with my family and my people.  I love rural Texas, and I particularly love the people, the culture, and the wide-open spaces of Donley County.  Even though more than half a century has passed, I am finally home and glad to be here, where I belong.

I hope that you all, our readers, find this column to be both enlightening and educational.  Feel free to let me know how I am doing.  I am excited about this endeavor, and fervently hope that everyone enjoys my modest contributions to the life and fabric to our community.