"Of all the stories I have either read, heard or told about Midland, the one common thread that runs through them all is the high quality of character of its people." -- Judge John Hyde.

At the top of that long list of people with the highest character you would find Judge Hyde's name. The respected judge, who came to Midland from Abilene and evolved into one of the city's most knowledgeable historians, died today following a battle with cancer that began more than two years ago.

He is already missed.

As baseball fans, particularly those in Texas, sit patiently waiting for the beginning of Game 6 of the 2011 World Series between the Rangers and St. Louis Cardinals tonight, I wanted to share a story about America's Pastime and how it broke the heart of one Roz Grover. Now a treasured member of Midland's philanthropic community and longtime businesswoman and petroleum professional, Roz was 12 years old when this story happened. At the time, she was a huge fan of the game of baseball, which was in its heyday in the 1940s and '50s. In her story, Roz tells of the time her father, the respected oilman John Redfern, brought Carl Stotz, founder of Little League, to Midland, to help establish the sport in the growing West Texas city. It was a turning point in her life.

My father was instrumental in the founding of Little League in Midland. One time, he brought Carl Stotz, the man who was director and founder of the National Little league in Pennsylvania to Midland. I remember I was about 12, and at that age I loved baseball.

My father went to pick him up at the hotel. I was in the back seat while my father was driving, and you know how sometimes you have a seismic shift in your world? We were driving down Missouri Street — I still remember right where we were, we were right behind the parking garage at the bank — and I announced that I was going to play baseball. I was so excited. But this man turned around and said to me, "Oh, young lady wouldn't you rather be at home playing with your dolls?"

I sat there and I still remember, it was that moment in my life when I first realized that adults could be stupid. That had never entered my mind before, but when he said this, there was this seismic shift in me that adults could be stupid. I said to him, "No, I wouldn't!"

I never understood why he said that. It never dawned on me that I wasn't going to be allowed to play baseball when he was talking. I didn't realize it was a boys-only deal and it broke my heart not to be able to play baseball. And after that moment, i refused to listen to baseball for years.

Finally one time, years later, I said to myself, 'You've got to get over this.' So I sat down and scored  a game; a Los Angeles Dodgers game. I used to do that in college in Tucson. I would score them just to break that heartbreak. And today I realized I was suffering from residual bitterness; that I had left something behind that I had loved because I had been shut out. I realized I had to go back and revisit it to see if I still loved it, and I did still love it, but not enough anymore.

Time had marched on, and I had marched on and it didn't bother me nearly as much not to be involved. My daughter, she didn't play, they didn't have Little League for girls then, but when my niece came along, girls could finally play Little League ball. It was back in the 1970s, and I marched over to her one day and said, 'Look! Girls can play baseball! This is fabulous, you have to go over there and try out!"

And do you know what she told me? She said, "Oh, Aunt Roz, I'd rather just stay at home and play with my dolls." 

By Jimmy Patterson

It has become an all too frequent headline of late: Midland loses another person of character. Sadly it happened again with the September 11 passing of David Mims, a man of the highest sort of integrity. A kind of man of which we have not nearly enough.

David was simply one of those people whose faith was evident in his walk. The words of St. Francis are immediately applicable: "Preach the gospel. Use words if necessary." Just by looking at and observing David from across a room, it was easy to tell he was a man at peace with his life, happy and content with his faith and love of Jesus Christ. It showed.

I remember once a few years ago, David called me with some concerns over something I had written in the newspaper. He and others didn’t care for an opinion I had shared. We had a conversation about the piece. It was the most civil ‘disagreement’ (it can hardly be called that) that I had ever been a part of. By the time our talk was over, David had been so kindly persuasive that he had me seeing his point of view. It remains, as I recall, the only time I have ever felt  better about someone who had called to take exception with something I had written.

But that’s the kind of man David was.

Although I didn't know him as well as I would have liked, it would be a safe assumption, I think, that David never held a grudge. And so I was fortunate enough to be able to chat with him again this year, in between bouts with the stomach cancer that eventually took him last week. He spoke with me openly for the "History of Character" book and recalled stories of riding his bike all over town and always feeling safe when he was young, a story not unlike many others recounted by others who grew up here.

David is mostly a lifelong Midlander, save for college and a brief hitch in Houston, and moreover is one of those people who give away more than they keep, and his beloved Midland is the beneficiary of his kindnesses.

“From my earliest memories, my parents were involved in the community,” David told me earlier this year. “Dad was on the city council, mom was on the PTA. They were very active. Their friends, all the people they ran with, all had the same lifestyle.

“Becky, my wife, and I came here in 1977 and by the summer of 1978, dad had volunteered me for a new board to form a county-sponsored child care center, which was ultimately built in Taylor Park.”

David noted that organizers had originally contacted his dad, James, to be on that committee, but dad deferred to son on this one. It was serve as a sort of a kick-start to what would become a lifetime of generosity to Midland.

David attended Texas A&M and met his wife, Becky, at Auburn University  grad school. A long-tome Rotarian, David was also a volunteer with the Chamber of Commerce, First Baptist Church, United Way and Midland Development Corporation. Doubtless there are many other organizations to which he gave time, effort and talents.

Above all, I will always remember David for his quiet, gentle spirit. Quick with a smile and a handshake, he was one of those rare individuals that left you simply feeling better about the world after time spent with him. And, anyone able to make you feel good about something you had done that had caused him concern … that, especially, is a rare individual indeed.  

By Jimmy Patterson

Dr. Charles Younger and 43rd U.S. President George W. Bush have been friends since the fourth grade. That friendship was fortified when Younger, and Bush, then a young West Texas oilman, would, coincidentally both move back to Midland in 1975. According to Dr. Younger, their friendship has continued to grow, even during the president's two terms in the White House.

Interviewed this week for the forthcoming book, "A History of Character: The Story of Midland, Texas,"  Dr. Younger recalled watching the premiere of "We Were Soldiers" in the White House movie theater along with President and Mrs. Bush, then-National Security Advisor Condoleezza Rice, Vice President Dick Cheney, Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld, then-Secretary of State Colin Powell, actor Mel Gibson and several others. That movie night on Pennsylvania Avenue was an occurrence that Dr. Younger still vividly recalls and speaks of fondly almost a decade later.

Dr. Younger told of how he and his wife were to have vacationed with the President and Mrs. Bush and a handful of other close friends at Camp David, Md., in a trip that had been scheduled for the weekend following the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11, 2001. For obvious reasons, the trip was postponed.

The Midland orthopedic surgeon, like many others, remembers today the look of concern that enveloped President Bush when, while reading to a group of Florida elementary school students, he was advised by Chief of Staff Andrew Card that both of the World Trade Center towers had been hit by airplanes ten years ago this Sunday.

According to Dr. Younger, in a conference call this week to supporters, the former president recalled the anger he experienced at not being allowed to return to the White House in the hours immediately after the terrorist attack -- a move carried out by the Secret Service in an effort to protect the President and First Lady.

This is, for many, a difficult week as the nation recalls the anniversary of those attacks which still serve to separate time on the country's historical clock as pre- and post-9/11.

"I think it has to be (tough) for him to a degree," Younger said. "In the conference call earlier this week, the president went through things that went through his mind from that week and a couple stood out: the anger he felt at a couple of occurrences, number one, the communications system wasn't working very well that day, and secondly, that he was told that he was not going to get to go back home to Washington in the hours after the attacks. He was extremely upset about that."

Dr. Younger, who today maintains a relationship with Mr. Bush, said his friend "relished being president" and "woke up every day looking forward to what he had to do."

It has been written often and Dr. Younger confirmed again Thursday that Bush, "was the same man as president as he had always been. I think a lot of his values stayed the same, his morals stayed the same, his work ethic stayed the same. He didn't really change, and he hasn't to this day."

By Jimmy Patterson

If your holiday spirit has ever been bolstered after sitting through a Midland Community Theater production of "A Christmas Carol," or if you have laughed yourself silly at a presentation of "Summer Mummers" or gaped wide-eyed like a child at the majesty of a Pickwick production, you might be surprised at the set of circumstances that made it all possible;  circumstances for which all theater lovers in Midland can -- and should -- be thankful.

You can first thank the United States Army Air Corps for drafting and shipping one soon-to-be engineer's assistant from the comfort and security of his Fostoria, Ohio, home to the dusty outpost of Midland, Texas. Art Cole liked what he saw when he was stationed at the Midland Army Airfield. Trained in theatrical arts, Cole was working for a traveling production company when he was sent to Midland, and on arrival he found there was no theater here, even though the changing makeup of the population was of an ilk that desired a strong fine arts presence in their town.

When he was taken into the combat zone aboard a ship bound for destinations in the South Pacific, the USAAC didn't exactly stock the ship with myriad reading options. Cole picked up some theater arts magazines he had brought along, and in those magazines were a series of articles on how to establish a community theater in a town without. Those articles served as the spark Cole would need to develop a desire to return to Midland and give his all to establishing that community theater.

Art Cole is a good first-impression man. It is obvious the minute you meet him you'll like him. Handsome and still presence-casting at 91, Art can still quietly take control of a room. He is one of Midland's most cherished treasures, a person of character for which there are few equals in the annals of this town.

His import reveals itself slowly through his measured words and memories. He carries himself in the dignified manner of many of the hundreds of thousands of members of his generation, people who served and fought bravely, and when the last shot had been fired returned stateside to make it an even better place; a country to which Cole and others like him had already given so much through their countless acts of valor, courage and sacrifice.

When Cole returned to Midland after World War II, he met with a group of theater devotees, headed by Naomi Lancaster, herself a legendary figure in the community. He offered to go to work for three months to establish a community theater, feeling certain that 90 days would be all it would take to effectively gauge whether it would be a success.

When he was done making his presentation that Sunday afternoon, a supporter in the back of the room, saying he didn't feel Cole could survive on just the $200 a month he said he would need to make a go of it, stood up.

"Heck," the man said, "We'll give you $250."

Cole relented, drew the extra $50 a month and, well, 60 years later, look at what that Sunday afternoon has wrought.

Like so many others driven by the desire to make a good place better, Cole shrugs off any notion of credit, preferring instead to pass off all he has done to the randomness of luck.

"Life was good," he said. "Everyone was having fun. And out of that time came a couple of really good museums, a hospital."

Cole can and will tell you that Midland's generosity streak dates at least as far back as his first days here, recalling the story of how both the hospital and theater conducted major fundraising campaigns at the same time in the 1950s.

"They got what they needed," Cole said. "And we got what we needed. It's an amazing thing, Midland."

Cole even remembers the weather and how it gave people fits 60 years ago. When a trainload of USAAC recruits disembarked in Midland, some of them commented on how it looked like it was about to rain. The veterans -- the ones who had been here for at least the three months prior -- scoffed the newbies' notion, "Oh, it's not going to rain, we've been here since February and it hasn't rained a drop."

But it did rain that day. And it hailed. And it snowed. And it all started with an April blue norther. It was Easter Sunday 1942.

After Cole and some buddies developed a short-lived routine of wandering to Odessa to have a few drinks on the weekend, Cole remembers how meeting the theater-conscious in Midland turned him in the right direction. When he partied particularly hard one night and woke up on the courthouse in Odessa, Cole met the group that welcomed him back -- and ultimately agreed to pay him $250 a month to Midland.

"These people could actually carry on a conversation," Cole said. "It was quite a switch from those drinking nights in Odessa."

Art Cole planted and nurtured a community theater empire in Midland. His name is rightly applied to the facility on Wadley, but his influence runs far deeper, down every hallway, in every wing and greenroom and dressing area; through every office, with each ticket sold and embedded in top-notch programs that still thrive today. He is literally the one man behind Mummers, behind the Pickwick Players and, with a little help from his friends, behind acquiring the Yucca.

He retired in 1981 and was named Director Emeritus and now, 30 years later, he sounds positively Yogiesque when acquiescing  that those who were with him then are for the most part all gone.

"Everyone my age is dead," Cole said, a wistful trace in his soft voice. "There's nobody around who was with me then."

Sadly, many have gone, but the contributions and accomplishments of those who were with Art Cole will very likely outlive us all.
---
Editor's Note: These are only a small portion of Art Cole's reflections. He will figure prominently in the book, "A History of Character: The Story of Midland, Texas," to be published in 2012.

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It is no secret that Midland has produced its share of folks with notable character and ability: two presidents, a First Lady, a five-star general, a passel of professional athletes and entertainment figures. And Louie Zamperini.

Certainly the name doesn't ring as familiar as Bush, Franklin, Craddick or Scharbauer -- unless you've read the compelling, nonfiction masterpiece, "Unbroken," Laura Hillenbrand's New York Times Bestseller about the former itinerant youth turned distance-running Olympian and World War II veteran.

Louie Zamperini spent about a year here, training at the famed bombardier school at Midland Air Field. His year here followed the 1941 attack on Pearl Harbor and ended in the Fall of 1942 when he was transferred to another base stateside.

While in Texas, Zamperini, according to the book, learned just how much women preferred a man in uniform

The book tells of how the cadet, who had a built-in fear of flying, earned superb test scores at the Midland Army Air School, and didn't mind the flying as much since over the deserts of West Texas it was "mostly straight and level."

"Best of all," the book reads, though not specific about whether the incident occurred here or in Houston,  "women found the flyboy uniform irresistible. As he was walking down a street, a convertible fringed with blondes stopped and he was scooped into the car and sped off to a party. When it happened a second time, he sensed a positive trend."

Midland gains only brief mention at the outset of  Chapter 6 of "Unbrooken," but it serves as yet another example of how the West Texas outpost was home, for at least a short time, to a person of high character and achievement, something for which it has a seemingly endless supply.

Photo: Louie Zamperini, www.louiezamperini.com

In the June 5, 2011 Midland Reporter-Telegram, District judge John Hyde, a Midland historian, listed 10 of the events that he considers to be the most important in helping shape Midland's history, among them oil, the Hogan Bldg., and the rescue of Baby Jessica. What would be the top 3-5 on your list?

Judge Hyde's Top 10 (In chronological order):
1. The Bankhead Highway
2. Underground petroleum deposits
3. T.S. Hogan Building
4. Midland Army Airfield
5. Midland Memorial Hospital
6. The Flood of 1968
7. Midland College
8. Construction of ClayDesta
9. Collapse of First National Bank
10. The rescue of Jessica McClure

Joan Stocks Nobles is one of the true characters in Midland history. A lifelong West Texan who was breaking horses at 9 and was later -- but not too much later -- just as qualified and capable a ranch hand as any of the male gender, Mrs. Nobles has seen her share of good and bad in her years.

She recalls hearing and reading stories of how settlers came to Midland in the late 1800s because it had plentiful amounts of what is today the rarest of commodities: water. Eight large bodies of water, she said, surrounded the town when settlers first pulled up and set stakes here.

The town's reputation for moisture had long since disappeared by the time the 1950s rolled around, when the region suffered through an historic seven-year drought. She calls our current dry spell "terrible" but won't go so far as to make comparisons between then and now.

"Eighteen-hundredths of an inch of rain since last October is not very dang much," she said. "But people have to know, there's always been times of drought and famine and it's always been followed by times of plenty. This is nothing new. The cold winter we had last year shut a lot of Al Gore's statements up. That was a horrible winter we had last year and that's what really hurts during a drought as much as anything: when the soil doesn't have any moisture to protect the roots."

As West Texan's lawns go up in clouds of dust and yard watering becomes more and more a luxury we can't afford to either waste or miss, Nobles recalls that in her younger days her family was forced to move entire herds to the family ranch in New Mexico just so the cattle could eat. She also remembers that the family was forced to sell down its herd of horses so it could afford to buy feed for the remaining livestock.

"We kept selling down and selling down, and finally we had us a herd of 100 yearling heifers, and they were perfect," she recalled. "Finally one day my husband came home, and we had very little left in the bank. And he said, 'We can't do this any more. We can't go any further.' And so we sold them all. Four days later, we had a four inch rain. It was Mother Nature's way of playing a joke on us, I guess."

But again, Mrs. Nobles stops short of making comparisons between our current dry spell and the one she vividly recalls from the 1950s. Why? Because the cattle sell down her and her husband endured was, she said, "the last four years of a seven-year drought." Fortunately for those of us enduring a dry spell that began in earnest last fall, this period of drought has been significantly shorter. At least for now.

Where is Deauville anyway? And was Henry Koontz a Midlander? If you have an ounce of curiosity in you, you may have conjured up such questions while driving on Midland's west side, where two moderately traveled roads sport  these largely unidentifiable names.

But both Deauville Rd. -- which cuts through the heart of the Scharbauer Sports Complex -- and Henry Koontz Blvd., which connects the Loop 250 eastbound service road with the Home Depot parking lot, west of Midland Dr. -- have stories behind why they were given those names.

According to the Midland city manager's office, Henry Koontz Boulevard was named in honor of Henry C.  Koontz, Jr., in May, 1995, by his son, a San Antonio real estate developer with an interest ownership in Midland property being platted and developed on the northwest part of Loop 250. The property, on the south side of the  Loop, adjacent to the frontage road, had two streets that the city required to be named before the final plat could be approved.  
 
"The son decided to honor his father, who was a second-generation rancher in South Texas who ran the HK ranch in Inez, close to Victoria. He and his father were instrumental in bringing, establishing,  and upgrading the Brahman breed to Texas. Henry Koontz, Jr., was killed by a drunk driver in a traffic accident in 1986."

The city spokesperson received the information from Mary Sue Koontz, Henry's first wife.

The story on Deauville is a bit more complicated.

According to Clarence Scharbauer III, whose family owns the land through which Deauville now runs, "Tom Gordon, who owns Gordon's Jewelers, came out here and he wanted to put a mall in, and the best deal that he got was the Sam's Club.

"He said to us, 'We're gonna put a Sam's in Midland, and then he sees the rest of the deal, and we told him what he owed for the rest of the land in the contract. It was part of the original deal and we honored it. Because we believed he was going to build, we said, 'Tom, we'll name the street Deauville.' But all of a sudden Tom goes belly up."

As it turns out, Deauville is the name of Tom Gordon's corporation.

"It's the strangest name of any of the streets out there, but that's what it'll be from now on," Scharbauer said.

   While the stories of Jno. P. Butler and his goodness are plentiful in Midland' s history, perhaps no one can recall cherished memories of him like his own daughter.
   Jane McAbee recalled this week how she would tag along as a small child, walking to the bank on weekends with her father to help him open the mail and take care of other small office chores a girl her age could handle.
   McAbee remembers her father as being "affectionate" and said it was frequently easy to see just how important his work at the bank and in the community was to him.
   By the time First National Bank was closed in October 1983, Butler had been given the position as chairman emeritus of the bank's board. He maintained an office but no longer had a direct hand in the bank's day to day operations.
   The day the bank failed was rough on a lot of Midlanders and West Texans, but, as would be expected, particularly so on Mr. Butler. Mrs. McAbee's admiration and continued love and respect for him were evident in her voice as she told the story of that day.
   "Father's sectretary told me that on October 13, 1983, the day the bank closed, father had taken his Daybook and  written, 'Goodbye, old friend.' "
   McAbee said that night, she and her mother found him sitting in a recliner in front of the television watching the World Series.
   "How are you?" they asked him.
    "I'm fine," McAbee recalled him saying. "We saved the depositors their money."
    McAbee shared that her father's deep affection and close relationship he had developed with her husband, Kim McAbee, helped pull him through the tough times of the mid 1980s. So close were they, in fact, that Mrs. McAbee said her father never got over the death of her husband.
   "Kim died in 1995. Father died in 1997," she said.
    Mr. Butler's widow, Alva, would live to be 107.