My mother, Hattie Mae Keith, was an original. Though just a country schoolteacher, she possessed warmth that catapulted every move she made into something special.

And it was the little things that made her big.

She taught 41 years, mostly in one-room country schools, and she enjoyed every day.

One year, when we lived far out in the country and she had to teach, we walked just over 1,000 miles.

We left home before daylight and walked a mile-and-a-half to the Illinois River where we waited for a boatman. Some mornings, when it was bitter cold, Mama built a fire to keep us warm. When the boatman arrived, he rowed us to the other side and we walked another mile-and-a-half to school.

That evening, we walked home. That would be six miles each day and Oklahoma required 180 school days each year. So do the math.

One day, deep into a fierce winter, Mama told me that she would walk, but she wanted me to stay home. That morning the boatman was waiting for her when she arrived at the river. But when she stepped into the flat-bottom boat, she slipped and fell into the icy waters.

That was serious for two reasons: the temperature was around zero and mother couldn't swim. She went under once and came back up, then twice, and when she came up the third time the boatman grabbed her by her jet-black hair and pulled her back into the boat. He rowed across the river and helped her to a nearby farmhouse.

Whatever happened to Randolph Scott? was the title of a 1960s' popular song by the Statler Brothers. I heard it on YouTube last week and it brought back a lot of happy memories.

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The lyrics go like this:

Randolph Scott was a western/action genre movie hero who starred in dozens of movies. The lyrics, as you can see, also refer to Western stars Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, Rex Allen and "the Durango Kid," a role played by Charles Starrett.

These actors starred during the Golden Age of Western "B" Movies, "B" meaning they were usually run as the second movie in a double feature.

Each Saturday morning, during the World War II years, my Mom gave me a quarter to go to the picture show. She said, "Billy, you be home before dark." Well, there wasn't really any other place to go in a small town and the Sequoyah Theater closed around 6 p.m. to ready itself for the evening shows.

Writing has always been one of the great passions of my life. I began writing my first novel when I was about 12 years old. The title was something like The Sheik of the Burning Sands. I had a plot, a setting in the Sahara Desert sands, three characters -- a good sheik (Jomar Khan), a bad sheik (can't remember his name) and a heroine by the name of Jasmin. My research was quite simple: I studied the comics section of the newspaper such as Prince Valiant to learn about horses, swords, battles and heroes.

That story was so much fun. I couldn't wait to arrange conflict (battle scenes), tell of true love around a beautiful oasis in the middle of the desert wasteland (True love? What in the world did that mean for a 12-year-old?) And in my novel, the good guy got the girl and defeated the bad guy in a sword fight. Then Jomar Khan and the beautiful Jasmin rode off into the desert sunset on their trusty steeds to live happily ever after.

But I never completed the novel for I was just a kid. So I put the novel on hold half a century ago and, eventually, like most of the old things we have cherished in times past, it disappeared. But I still have happy memories and how I wish I could find it. Maybe I'll rewrite that story one of these days.

George Dawson was a great man, the real kind. He wasn't a general, or a politician, but a humble man who insisted on his dignity as a human being.

George never gave up on life -- you might say he lived rejoicing -- though he was born poor and did not learn to read until he was 98-years-old and published a book entitled Life Is So Good two years later.

And he was one of us. George was born in Marshall in 1898 and passed to the great beyond in 2001.

You really have to be somebody to do what George did: grow up in a sharecropping family, spend your life working with your hands, never be given an education, and still write a book.

As he tells it, the Dawsons worked hard to survive. George, his parents, and his four brothers and sisters, lived in a three-room log house. The only thing they had was that house, a barn, an outhouse, a few chickens and a mule.

Picking cotton and selling "ribbon cane" syrup brought in the only cash.

But they were happy. "We had almost nothing, but we had each other ... even on cold mornings when the fire had burned down, I would wake up under a blanket ... warm and cozy," George said.

Trends come and go. Some slide in unannounced, andleave without a whimper of protest. Others slam in with a bang and persistdespite an initial reaction of "What the &.?" (See Rap music. Or Elvis's "You Ain't Nothing But a Hound Dog.")

A growing trend around the country involving the most precious of rights is taking hold ... and grabbing attention.

Some companies, and even some schools, are requiring passwords to social network accounts  Facebook and Twitter, among others  so information posted and dialogues exchanged can be scrutinized.

A 12-year-old girl in Minnesota was called to the office and "forced" to give up her Facebook account password so anadministrator could see what she had written about a specific hallmonitor. The girl, with the help of theAmerican Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) is suing the school, citing a concernthat social media messaging is covered by the First and Fourth Amendments ofthe Constitution  free speech and freedom from illegal search.

Welcome to the newest easttexastowns column, Along the Way. Let's have a few laughs, poke a little fun at politicians, share some glad times, sad times. Maybe I can add a little joy to your day.

Let's start with some of my unusual friends; one is a bank robber, another a jewel thief and one is closely related to an infamous American outlaw.

Arthur (not his real name) was the bank robber. I doubt he ever owned a gun, but he did have uncontrollable fears and anxieties he was desperate to escape.

Arthur asked county employees to help him and our public servants turned their backs. So he asked the state for help, and the feds. Same story: Our tax dollars at work.

So he devised a plan. Arthur decided to rob a bank.

One morning, Arthur walked into a bank with a paper bag in his hand, handed the teller the bag and told her he had a gun in his coat pocket. And, of course, he said, "Give me all your money."

The wide-eyed teller, who felt a strong urge to visit the ladies room, stuffed the bag with cold cash. Arthur thanked her, walked out the front door and sat down on the curb.

Just as he planned, the bank's alarm went off, police sirens began wailing and Arthur saw flashing lights coming his way.

Arthur looked like an innocent bystander. Police officers waved to him as they raced past the curb and into the bank.

By Lad Moore

As a courting teenager in Marshall Texas, I admittedly had more earthly items to attend to than to contemplate Ms Inez Hughes' meanderings concerning Marshall's "Seven Hills" and the crumbling old plantation house she called "Wyalucing." Although neither of the topics were subjects of any of her formal classroom lessons, this powerful teacher stirred enough interest to cause me to pause and wonder when I sometimes passed by the structure - a wonder slowly tainted as the years carved away more of its life.

This summer, at an estate sale, my wife purchased a chafed and soiled hardback volume of Coleridge and Keats' poetry, a first edition dating to 1850. On the inside cover, in that classic flowing-hand script of the time, is an inscription that reads "Wyalusing Library Texas." (Wyalucing is sometimes spelled Wyalusing.) I am far from a historian, and I am often given to fiction; but the book's inscription stirred me to do a bit of digging.

Let's play pretend.

Pretend just for a minute I am a believer in the two-party system, that I believe that the Demogogues and Republicrats have all the good ideas, solutions and really, really care about the future of the country and its citizens.

Now, let's pretend a bit more. Instead of an Independent, I am a full-fledged, registered, card-carrying Republicrat and I have to make a decision about whom to vote for in a primary  Mitt Romney or Newt Gingrich.

What to do? What to do? First, after a bout of projectile vomiting followed by an intense migraine, I force myself into the voting booth and pull a level for ... but, wait! Mitt is a superficial, smirky rich dude and Gingrich is a fraud, cheat and adulterer.

Let's pretend I gain some sense of sanity & and turn around and walk out of the booth without voting for either one because of if this is the best the GOPers can do, I say to hell with it.

Marshall, Texas would figure prominently in the history of the South for its Confederate war effort. It was the Headquarters for the Trans-Confederacy west of the Mississippi and served as the State Capital for the government of Missouri in exile. The city's proud factories produced saddles, harnesses, pistols, light and heavy munitions, and military hats for Southern troops.

Indeed, providing clothing and supplies for the new army was a desperately vital mission. But in this war, things didn't start out so"uniformly."

By the time you read this, Newt Gingrich may have already self-destructed. Just as he has previously.

Remember when he was Speaker of the House? He blew that choice assignment, having to step down because of an ethics scandal and his antagonistic treatment of members of his own party, which caused an in-party revolt. As an ex-speaker, one would expect him to get endorsements from congressional leaders. He has & let's see, 1, 2, 3 ... 11! Mitt Romney has almost 80.

Now Gingrich claims to be the conservative savior, the only man who can defeat President Obama. He has been married three times, and was even carrying on a lengthy affair at the same time the Bill Clinton sex scandal was unfolding. Conservative or hypocrite? Can't be both in this case.

Some conservative hardliners, those who would rather see a serial adulterer and bombastic battler elected rather than have the current administration for another term, must be ready to sell their own conservative souls to reach that decision.

My grandfather had a saying that seems remarkably quaint in this world of instant and haphazard communication: "Answer me this..." she's say before getting to the nut of the real question.

"Answer me this," she'd once said to a 20-something grandson who'd grown a beard, "what kind of statement are you making by growing something on your face that grows wild on your a**?"

Well, here's one for Republicans:

"Answer me this? What kind of statement are you making by running a bunch of candidates for president that have the collective common sense of a box of hair?"

Before the back-arching and chin-bobbing conservatives get their undergarments in a wad, I've voted Republican; I once entered a state senatorial campaign as a Republican. At heart I'm a glit-flittered Independent because I believe no party, and certainly no candidate, has all the answers to the important questions.

My first car, a used Chevy, had a deep well in the trunk floor opposite the hole that the spare tire was anchored in. The well was sectioned off from the tire area, almost like a double sink. There was no carpet in the trunk, only a thick rubberized coating with a spattered finish. It was very similar to undercoating, which in fact it might have been. The compartment floor had two fist-sized metal ports with covers, each retained by opposite-facing screws. Removing one screw on each allowed the covers to pivot much like a damper on a stove. In designing that little cargo hold, the genius of Chevrolet

Engineering had created a world-class ice chest. Swinging the covers aside only slightly, the water from the melting ice would drain through the hole and out onto the pavement. The area could house eighteen quart bottles of beera favored container size so as to reduce the number of trips to the trunk. In deference to the movie The Wizard of Oz, It was like a never-ending trek down what we called the "amber brick road." We never ran out of beer in the course of a double feature at Capri Drive-In Theatre.

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It was 1920 -- a time of Roaring plenty for some, but not for all. On what is now the site of a new golf course near Austin, Texas, local legend tells of Silas McIe, a poverty-stricken farmer who toiled his land to wring out meager crops of cotton and beans. With a gimpy mule, Silas plowed his acres endlessly, removing the prolific chunks of limestone to make way for the blades of his harrow. It was ruthless and disappointing work. The more he dug, the more stones he dislodged. To add insult to his never-ending task, the rocks seemed to regenerate overnight, and the infrequent dashing rains always revealed more.

The banners proclaimed it as the Central East Texas Fair and Livestock Exposition. It was the most important thing in our town since Marshall spent six weeks as the Capital of Missouri during the Civil War.

Our fair was a big one and lasted two full weeks. The air around the West Side of town was a combination of French fries, cotton candy, and cow manure - a smorgasbord of smells. The night sky was so lit up from all the temporary lights it seemed like the moon had a bridge to it, and I was invited to walk across. I rushed to the ticket booth because the offer might be withdrawn.

In the decades up to and ending a few years after the Cuban Missile Crisis period, there was one word that could strike fear in the hearts of all Marshall High School students. No, it wasn't the frightful "Duck and Cover!" order that sent us scurrying beneath our desks with hands covering our heads, or lining up on haunches facing the hallway walls in nuclear or tornadic weather drills. It wasn't "Finals," although that word could cause one's face to burn as if bathed in hot candle wax - knowing that a poor test performance could possibly forestall graduation. The word I am reaching for was even more devastating and fearsome than a "Poor Conduct" remark on one's report carda critique that would result in not only punishment at school, but punishment again at home.

"Grounded" may have been a deeply dreaded word, but no, the loss of one's freedom was tame in comparison. The News Messenger headline, "Lobos 55, Mavs 6" could sour the belly, but no mere sporting outcome could compare to this most severe sinking feeling. While the words "Breaking Up" could dash even the strongest of a lover's psyche, they were fleeting in effect, and could eventually be wept away. The word I am groping for, the one that turned athletic heroes to dust and reduced giddy girls to sniveling streams of tears was far more devastating than anything else I can recall.

I see her now, as clearly in my mind as when she was here. I see her small yet stout frame, and those almond eyes with black holes that had no bottom. She is standing beside me in the upholstered breakfast alcove just off the kitchen, heaping my plate with dreaded bean curd. I described it to my friends as refried-bean Jello, having the composition and taste of a soured kitchen sponge. My friends laughed at my stories of how so much bean curd could be secreted in the crack between the breakfast bar and the wall. I was sure the rats relished it more than I did, and often feared they would grow too large to escape and I would be discovered. My friends also laughed about how I covertly disposed of my three-meal rations of goats milk. I told them how the glass jalousie windows cranked open, and how the day lilies thrived on the milk  how in time their height almost prohibited the windows from closing again.

Old Solomon was the handyman on Grandpa's farm in western Arkansas. He was the first black man I ever got close enough to touch. I wondered why the palms of his hands were white like mine, and his gums and tongue were pink like mine too. When he took off those heavy boots that were covered with duck tape patches, I saw that the soles of his feet were white as well. I wanted to ask him about it but felt uneasy; so in five-year-old innocence I figured it out all by myself. It was simple. Every place on his skin that got rubbed a lot turned white. My theory also explained why the hoe and shovel handles were so dark - the black wore off on them. I never wondered about it again.

Best Practices in Performance Excellence:

Tommy Gonzales, City Manager of Irving TX noted that Irving had never had a Strategic Plan. When he became City Manager one of his first priorities was to develop one. The focus of the way the City manages is that it has changed the culture from an one of entitlement to one of incentive based. Today the culture supports value and engagement by citizens and employees. Staff members focus on results. They do surveys to see how well they are doing with customers.

Michael Levenson -- Retired City Manager of Coral Springs FL -- the only City to win the Malcom Baldridge award for excellence. They started the process of excellence by developing a strategic plan, then a business plan. From the business plan they developed the budget and presented it to the citizens. With feedback from the citizens, they repeated the entire process. One interesting item is that the City of Coral Springs adopted a resolution requiring any entity foreclosing on property to maintain the property.

Friday night meant good radio programs and Grandpa and I stayed up late, past Fibber McGee. I pressed my luck and begged to listen to The Shadow, but Grandpa said we had to get plenty of sleep; tomorrow we had a load of peaches to haul and sell.

The next morning we had a special breakfast of cured ham, eggs, and grits, with peach preserves on Granny Stell's biscuits. "Biscuits big as sofa cushions," Grandpa liked to say when she was in earshot. We ate hardy. "Lunch will be skimpy today," he said.

It was "Market Saturday" in Ozark, Arkansas. We loaded bushel baskets of Elberta peaches on the flatbed truck and drove over to Farmer's Market at the County Fairgrounds. Farmers built crude tables to display their produce; tables like the ones in the churchyard for picnic Sundays.