Bill Bolen's Obituary
Overview: I was born in Ohio, raised in Texas, and grew up in California. I spent the biggest part of 30 years in the hotel industry doing sales and marketing. As part of the job, I ran into three President’s and countless movie stars and industrialists. Breakfast with Bill Cosby for three months was a hoot. All in all, it’s been a very interesting life so far and hopefully will continue to be so. Many years ago, because El worked for the San Diego Convention & Visitors Bureau, we were invited to Budd Boetticher’s ranch in Ramona (a town in Eastern San Diego County) for a promotional party. In case the name doesn’t mean anything to you, Boetticher was the writer for “Two Mules for Sister Sara” and writer and producer of other Hollywood westerns like “Blood in the Sand” with Tyrone Power. He had since retired and was training Lipizzaner stallions. As usual, I was storytelling. Bud came up to me and said, “It’s my party, my liquor, and I get to tell my stories.” He wanted me to shut up and not steal thunder. – Texas: My dad’s older brother Carl had discovered Kingsville, Texas, due to his being shipped there after World War II. He left the Navy from Kingsville Naval Air Station and completely sold my granddad on the idea of moving there. I was born in Newark, Ohio, and was six months old when my dad drove to Kingsville to be with his mom and dad. My granddad had left Ohio in ’46 to improve his health, and I’m not sure how much Kingsville helped. He had emphysema and Kingsville was hot and humid. Too bad Carl hadn’t been shipped to San Diego. I was born in Newark, OH 4/28/48. My grandparents had already moved to Kingsville I think in ’46. As I said, I believe I was six months old when dad drove from Newark to Kingsville. Mom kept me on a pillow in her lap the whole way. We initially moved in with my grandparents until Dad found work at the Kingsville Do-nut House on Main/ broadway? I can’t remember. Late ’49 Dad went to PD training school and had to spend some time in Austin studying before he graduated and started with the PD. I have many photos of him looking like Barney Fife with a fedora busting drug dealers and killers and thieves. When I was a toddler and at a Sunday lunch at my grandparents, my cousin came to the dining table saying “Billy has bang bang.” My horrified Dad came into the living room to see that I had removed his police revolver from the holster and was waving it in the air. He flew across the room and knocked the gun out of my hands. Mom nagged the hell out of Dad and told him to find another line of work. Within a few months, he was at Celenese. “Tio” Kleberg was sole heir to the Ranch and about two or three years older. When I was about 12, I was walking around the expansive playground of the Catholic School behind our house and the whole block we lived on. I found a $20 bill and was very excited. I shoved it in my pocket and was quickly heading home when “Tio” drove up on his scooter with a side car. He demanded that I return the $20 which I refused. It makes sense that it was his. I just wanted to keep it. He stopped the scooter, tackled me and eventually stabbed me with what looked like a knitting needle. I gave him the $20 and limped home. I told Mom what happened and when Dad got home from work, she told him. He immediately scolded me saying “are you crazy?” “Never get into a fight with him.” Mom thought that “Tio” should apologize and Dad reluctantly called the Kleberg’s to tell them what happened. “Tio” apologized and whenever he was in town on break from his East Coast school, he would take me for rides in the sidecar of his scooter. Usually just around the schoolgrounds. I’m not sure that he even had a license. “Tio” grew up and became a Senior VP with the Ranch and never went to the boardrooms where he belonged. He just wanted to be a cowboy and he was a very good one. Outside interests took control of the Ranch and eventually fired him for refusing orders. Now, he’s on the board with his incredibly unique mustache/beard and cowboy attitude. A few years back, a contingent of San Diego Zoo officials flew into the private airport on the Ranch. They were jointly entering into a program with the Ranch. It made local TV. They were greeted by the very colorful “Tio” who said “Welcome to America”. You can google him to see just how strange he looks. My Dad was a cop in the very early 50’s and became the city’s first detective. Back then, he knew everybody. “Monty” Moncrief was a self-made cowboy who dressed like the silent screen cowboy actors with his pants tucked inside his custom-made boots. He was well known for keeping a case of Jack Daniels in the back of his truck. Kitteile Pike was my first girlfriend and I didn’t have a clue how to act or what to bring when I went over on our fifth and sixth grade “dates.” I brought her a plush toy animal on every date. By the time I had basically walked away from the relationship; her bed was completely covered with plush toys. Her dad was my grandparents’ minister for a very long time. – High School: I miss Steve Perkins. Mike Bars, Abraham Campos, Billy McCarley and so many others. I was never a team player and I guess that kinda’ reflected in my social life as well. I went from one little group to another losing contact with the first group as I went on to the second and so on. After high school, I kept stealing girlfriends from Mike Bars and Steve Perkins and I drifted apart. I never wondered why those relationships were over. Barbara Patzig and Carmen Evans shared a carpool with me for the biggest part of Junior High. They picked on me endlessly. It took a long time to figure out that it was just their way of playing with me and all in fun. I was a member of Dome Painter’s Anonymous when I was a sophomore. That supposedly was a privilege reserved only for graduating seniors. The main reason for my little escapade back then was we already knew we were going into a new high school for ’65 and there’s no point in painting the dome on a Jr. High School. Painters never spoke of their experiences. That’s how the practice went on for nearly 55 years. I was apparently one of the last. I just do not remember who my co-conspirators were. I remember the harrowing experience of getting the ladder up there and perching it delicately on the roof crest praying that none of the old tile would crack or break. I remember how we scattered once the cops arrived. What saved me got the others caught. They scrambled down anyway they could and I went down the way we went up. When they scattered in different directions, it allowed me to simply walk to my grandparent’s home and call home.Because of that little incident; when I was caught and hazed, they cut off all of my hair except for a “K”. Normally, they would just cut a “K” in your hair. They also caught me at a bonfire pep rally at Mo-Pac Field & “pantsed me.” That was on a Friday. Monday morning my pants were flying on the flagpole in front of the old school. If you still have the “64 high school album; look on page 2 at the picture of the dome and look at the initials I stupidly sprayed on the building. As a result of all that nonsense, my sophomore year was my ugly duckling year as it took all year for my hair to grow out. I was very self conscious and had no girlfriends that year. There was one day I was practicing vaulting almost by myself. It was a chilly blustery day and the band was out practicing on the field at Mo-Pac as well. Sheri Bull was a senior. and the Drum Major and a contender for homecoming queen when I was a sophomore at KHS. Sherri Bull was prancing up and down and trying to get the band in rhythm and they were not happy with her. There had been rumors that Sherri was so beautiful that all the guys were afraid to ask her out as they feared rejection. The horn section started playing a new Herb Alpert song that wasn’t that popular yet. This was before the “Tijuana Brass” days. He recorded many songs with studio musicians including “The Lonely Bull”. The entire Band was soon playing that song and she just ran off the field in tears. She ran over close to where I was and the ugly duckling offered the beautiful princess a shoulder to cry on. She just kept crying and muttering how mean and hateful “they” (the band) were. She wrote some very nice things in my annual, but neither of us spoke much of the event after the fact. It is just a pleasant memory. – Pole Vaulting: When I was in Junior High, during 8th grade, I tried out for football and was embarrassingly awful. I then tried track and field. I was slow and couldn’t high jump very high. I was about to be told to “pack it in” as I had no redeeming qualities. Abe Campos taught me how to pole vault. In that very first afternoon, I cleared 8’6″ and the rest is history. In high school when I was making my name in the event, I was interviewed by the school paper and gave all credit to my coach who was very helpful, but Abe got me started and I never mentioned him. My grandparents lived across the street from Mo-Pac Field (short for Missouri-Pacific), where I spent many hot dusty afternoons practicing pole vaulting. At Gillette Junior High, I used mostly Swedish steel, but did experiment with bamboo. By King High School, it was all fiberglass. They only bought the Skypole brand, and I wished they had tried others. I always used a 140-lb-test pole as I was so skinny. Dodie Miller used a 150-lb-test, as did Dan Swan during our senior year. I pushed that little pole to the limit. It was only 14 ft long. So I was at a disadvantage as the 150-lb-test poles (and up) were all 16 ft and you could have a higher handhold. I just never got over that hang-up. At the ’66 Regional Meet in San Antonio, I was practicing and limbering up when an old competitor showed up. Gene Riley was a vaulter from a smaller school in Mercedes. He was in a different classification than King High, but every time I set a record, he later broke it. By our senior year, he was doing 15 ft. He had mentioned many times that he had a cousin who was an Olympian and a 16 footer. Back then, I believe his best was 16 ft-10 in. At the regional meet, Gene introduced me to Billy Pembleton. I was in awe. Billy introduced me to his girlfriend who had been a W.B. Ray cheerleader. She was beautiful and built, but I was more interested in talking to Billy and did not pay much attention to Farrah. Yep, that FarrahFarrah Faucett. I also vaulted during college at Texas A&I. I had one scholarship offer from a small college in Magnolia, Arkansas, but mom and dad did not want me that far away. The track coach at A&I was Ken Kelley. He became a hero, because first, he got Homer Martinez on a scholarship then he got Roberto Martinez. You might remember I think they were both from Falfurrias and won first and second in State in their sophomore, junior and senior years in the mile. They did well at A&I too. I rarely got a chance to go to track meets, but did pretty good when I went. The primo vaulter back then was doing a little over 14 ft, and I wasn’t there yet, and neither was Dan Swan. After the lead vaulter graduated, I had more meets and finally got really pissed at Dan as he was getting better and I wasn’t. At one meet, he passed on heights until the bar was at 13 ft-6 in., and then went out. Dan never really learned the basic mechanics and totally depended on a big bendperiod. I ended up clearing 14 ft-2 in. I still have that newspaper clipping. The coach came over, congratulated me, and was saying maybe he could get a books-and-tuition scholarship if I was interested. I curtly said, “No sir, I proved what I wanted to,” and never vaulted again, calling it quits after that. I was the first in several years to vault over 14 ft. I can remember my freshman year at A&I during track season. Football players were in spring training and we were all going through physicals at the same time. When I stepped on the scales, I weighed in at 145 lb, dripping wet. (Those were the days!) I felt tremendous pressure on both arms squeezing me in a vise-like grip, picking me up and setting me aside. Then a huge black guy laughed and loudly said “Now, let a man weigh in.” That was my first encounter with Eugene (Gene) Upshaw. If I remember correctly, he was 6 ft-5 in. and weighed around 300 lb. He went on to the dreaded Oakland Raiders for his entire career and became a living legend. When he retired, he owned a string of Oakland night clubs called “Tuck’s Place.” He later became the president of the Players’ Union. Gene sadly died a few years back. The A&I football team was barely winning a game (I forget the opponent), when a backward lateral attempt failed on a runaround and it bounced right into Gene, who had dropped back to block. He picked up the ball and rolled like a freight train through the opposing line to a touchdown. The ball had been ruled a fumble, and Gene was as eligible as anyone else to grab and go. The team seemed to fumble in Gene’s direction a lot after that. In my junior year, I took a physical education (PE) course and hated the thought of studying for finals. Ron Hunt, the teacher, was the track trainer. He was also a trainer for the football team. He treated my shin splints and groin problems. He also held a grudge against me because I had quit vaulting. He heard me complaining about having to study for the damn PE final. In front of the entire class, he issued a challenge. Ron had seen me limber up before vaulting and knew that I was fairly good at walking on my hands. (Those were the days!) Loud and clear, he announced that if I walked the length of the basketball court on my hands, he would exempt me from the final. While I pondered the challenge, he added “Up and back.” I groaned and was ready to decline. We were already in the gym that day and both the men’s and women’s classes had heard the challenge. I couldn’t back down. I figured if I didn’t try, I’d never know. So I started off, and it wasn’t easy. Several times, I faltered and steadied myself. I finally got to the other end and realized, “Damn, I have a serious problem!” I had never turned around before. I turned very slowly and cautiously, and my arms were aching. Once around, I headed back. By now, everybody was cheering, including Ron. I finally made it and collapsed in a crumpled heap. Ron tried to weasel out of the wager, but knew he had to honor the deal. I was exempted from the final and got an “A.” -Playing Pool: Kingsville had two multifamily housing areas on separate ends of town, Black Villa down south and Brown Villa beside the A&I football stadium. Moore’s Pool Hall was in what my dad called “Colored Town,” but we always went to “Mez-kin Town” (my dad again). I never could correct him on that, and he saw no harm in it. Games were 25 cents each. After each game, we’d throw a nickel on the table and call out, “RACK!” An old man named Segundo (Spanish for “second”) would walk slowly to the table and rerack the balls. He would take his coin and stick it in his ear. Sam Moore was the first of our group to get his driver’s license, and we rode in his father’s 1964 Red Ford Galaxy with a 390 cubic inch engine, wire wheels and bucket seats. We went everywhere in that thing just cruisin’. Gas was probably 35 cents a gallon. Gary Carley would call “Shotgun!” and ride up front in the bucket seats, because he was taller, he said. I was always stuck on the benchseat in the back. One night, when we arrived, a knife fight a littler earlier had left blood all over the sidewalk. It made me sick to my stomach. I eventually told my dad about it. The next Christmas, he bought a portable pool table so we could all play at home. By spring, everybody had come over to try out that portable table. I have a DVD made from a VCR tape that my cousin Ken (now deceased) & his wife Sandy made just prior to Ken losing his battle with cancer. Footage shows Gary and Sam on our tiny back patio on our old rusty glider. I guess mom took the pictures, because dad was in the movie. Gary and Sam were side by side with legs spread and displaying “the bird.” Good thing my mom was clueless on that one. – Caving: After one semester at A&I, I joined the Spelunkers Club and every holiday went on training trips somewhere to earn my membership. I spent much more time caving than studying, and it showed in my grades. I travelled extensively in Mexico. It was much easier to explore down there than in the States. Here you need waivers, releases and permits. There, you just tell the locals, “If we’re not back in three days, send help.” – Devil’s Sinkhole: When I joined the A&I Caving Club, they had been in existence for two years and had already established a routine of how to educate and train neophytes. I’ve already mentioned one such training place at Devil’s Sinkhole in Central Texas. I went there too many times. We went to Devil’s Sinkhole in the Texas hill country to train neophytes on rope work. That sinkhole is a quarter mile around at the top and several acres at the bottom and it is 250 ft straight down. You had to learn how to rappel down and use a Prusek’s loop to climb up. That is a knot that you can loosen to inch up and when you put your weight on it, it tightens again and you literally inch your way up. That takes way too much time so, we also learned how to use jumars. A jumar is a mountain climbing tool that is mostly aluminum and loosely resembles a staple gun. The goldline rope is fed thru the device and the rope rests on the aluminum “thumb” of it. We wore one on each leg and one on our harness in the middle of the chest. That way, you lean back and can actually walk up a rope. It is thoroughly exhausting but much more practical than Prusek’s loops. Before they let me work on the jumars, they wanted me to rappel down and that was frightening, but fun. Crawling over the ledge in your harness is the scariest part. Once you’ve cleared the edge and lowered yourself somewhat, it’s all fun. I lay back in my harness, relaxed and let the rope glide as I negotiated the 250 feet in a few minutes. I landed with a thump, but was unhurt. They wanted me to do it again and explained that they would haul me up with a parachute harness rigged through an ancient cast iron boom. During the Civil War, the Confederates had mined the sinkhole for guano and made gunpowder from it. They had set up a large boom that extended out over the pit and they had steel cables running through it to haul up large caldrons of guano. Now, I was going to be hauled up the same way. I was told that it was attached to a winch on a four-wheel truck on the surface. I didn’t remember a four-wheel truck. Those bastards had tied the rope to the rear bumper of a Scout and it took off like a scalded dog. I went flying through space and in seconds was bouncing below the boom looking for help in reaching terra firma. They just got some slack in the rope and pulled me in. I almost pee’d my pants. I had to do another rappel and jumar my way out and by the end of the day was a bona fide member of the A&I Speleological Club. Three months later after several caving expeditions, I joined the National Speleological Society. My grades were already in trouble. – Ojo de Aqua: We also travelled many, many times to a cave near the village of Bustamante, Mexico. It is very close to one of their National Parks named “Ojo de Aqua” (eye of the water). It is so named due to the deep natural springs that feed the beautiful lake there. That lake is similar to the one at San Marcos in that it seems much shallower than it is. In some places it seems to be maybe twenty feet deep and you can clearly see the bottom and the bubbling springs. It is closer to 100 ft. deep and the water is just so calm and terribly cold that it seems shallow. About ten miles past the park there is a mountain that dominates a peaceful valley. The entire valley has a pungent sweet smell to it. Wild flowers abound there and the local burros (tame and wild) feed on them. The manure from that diet creates an uncomfortably sticky sweet smell over the entire valley. I hope you read this after dinner. The blessing about caving near small Mexican villages is that there is no hassle. No one requires permits, waivers, fees, insurance, etc. We would just tell the local gendarmes “If we’re not back in three days—send help”. You can drive a four wheel vehicle up part way. Don’t ask me how, but, we got a VW Micro-bus up there. That area was called, of course, “The Parking Lot”. We would enter Mexico at Nuevo Laredo and drive toward Sabinas Hidalgo. Bustamante is due west of Sabinas. I understand that there is now a 50′ wide road that goes past the parking lot toward the cave. That road fell victim to a landslide and probably has not been restored. Back in the day, we had to drive very slow and have someone looking out for large rocks, cactus, etc. It was usually dark by the time we got to the mountain. The cave is “Gruta de Palmito” named after the local small palmetto palms that grow everywhere. Many of us called the cave “los cuevas de los palmitos” It takes over an hour to climb the trail up to the cave entrance. There are many switchbacks and sometimes the trail is steep. Regardless, by the time you reach the entrance you are exhausted. Some hard liners who apparently were in great shape would charge ahead into the entrance. I always took a rest break. Once inside, I had my carbide lamp attached to my hard hat and adjusted to the eerie cave darkness once I had my lamp started and adjusted. Never look closely at your hands or arms while wearing a carbide lamp. It burns! You cannot walk very far into the cave before you could be in trouble. PAY ATTENTION! Just a few feet in and there is nothing but “breakdown” as far down as you can see. Over several millennia, gigantic sections of roof have collapsed and caused an incredibly huge mountain of rubble that goes down to the cave floor perhaps three football fields down. Good lace-up work boots are a necessity. Once on the bottom, I’d always breathe a sigh of relief. I knew there was still a lot ahead, but, at least this over for now. The locals would get this far every Easter to have their celebration in the Cathedral Room. They rode their burros up the mountain and used torches to get down the breakdown and walked to this gigantic room. The ceiling seemed to be hundreds of feet above. The cave formations were ancient and dead. There were no living formations. Nothing was even moist. It’s amazing to see, but, sad as well. Stalactites hung from the ceiling. Stalagmites thrust up from the floor. It appeared that once there were probably columns where the two joined together. Everyone enjoyed the immensity and peace of the Cathedral. There was a lot of litter and graffiti around that area. The cave was discovered in 1907 and locals had been coming here ever since. My first trip was 1968. Once past the Cathedral, there were passage ways and tunnels that were challenging. On my first trip; they scared the bejeevers out of me. On later trips, I knew what to expect and how to deal with it. One passage took us past an underground cliff that dropped off into the darkness. It was named “El Paso de muerte”. (the passage of death). We later determined that the drop off was “only” about 75 ft. Of course, that was a ledge with another 50 plus feet below it. So, we took our time and paid close attention to where we put our feet. If you don’t look down it doesn’t bother you as much. The trail is pretty wide. Further on there is a tunnel that is living flowstone. When water drips through limestone too fast to make formations, then it creates what appears to be a sheet of ice over everything. That is flowstone. Obviously, it is very wet and slippery. Just walking thru the tunnel is no big deal until you get to a hole in the floor. Each of us must brace our back against the wall on one side and our feet on the other to “spider” across the hole. Later trips determined the hole dropped over 100 ft. down. On my first trip, I almost froze while “spidering” over the hole. You just have to keep moving and don’t let your fear get the best of you. On subsequent trips it was no big deal. I just reminded myself to pay attention. Past the flowstone tunnel was a lot of walking to finally reach what was the known bottom of the cave. Locals likely never got this far. Everything just petered out at a wall. Now, I could look forward to a lunch of sardines, Vienna sausages or kipper snacks with hard bread from the village and water to wash it down. Then, oh boy!-it was back the way we came. I took two more training expeditions to Gruta de Palmito before being involved in discoveries. – Music: Most of the summer of ’65, I stayed with my aunt and uncle in San Antonio. I had two cousins there. One was too young to be much involved; I was pretty close to the other. Ken was lead guitar for a garage band called The Fugitives, and they wanted to cut a vanity record in hopes of creating more interest in them. They had been pretty successful playing the military bases around San Antonio. There were quite a few. They wanted more, and so we went to a small studio called Alamo Audio. I had been a “roadie” for them, lugging instruments and equipment from place to place, but was never a band member, just a “go-fer.” I had told my cousin Ken that they really needed to introduce one of their own songs and he agreed. Their lead singer, Ken and I worked together and came up with “You Know She’s a Woman.” It was typically early 60’s with twangy lead guitar. But it had some interesting vocals requiring emotion, and the lead singer just did not have that quality in his singing. The owner of the studio said “Guys, it’s your money and I’m glad to take it. But if you want this song to be as special as it can be, your singer needs to put some emotion into it.” He just didn’t have it and Ken turned to me and said, “Wanna give it a try?” The studio owner said, “Son, make it sound interesting. Make it sound like you’re having an orgasm.” I wasn’t sure I could do that, but I gave it my all and two takes later, we had a good cut with lots of moaning and groaning. The lead singer was livid and had left. Ken told me not to worry about it. I went back to Kingsville and did not give much thought to the recording until months later when they mailed me my copy. I still have it and made it into a CD. The thing was, they never promoted it and the record went nowhere. The following summer, I went back to San Antonio for a brief visit and my cousin bitterly complained about the flop record. I jumped all over him and told him it was his own fault. He had a case of the records in their garage. I made a list of all the English language radio stations in San Antonio, grabbed the case of records and started knocking on doors. I left a copy with any station that would allow it. You may recall that San Antonio radio stations had the most powerful broadcast capability in all of South Texas. Before end of summer, “You Know She’s a Woman” charted and ended up the fifth most popular song of that summer. I assume that stations in other key cities like Houston and Dallas/Ft. Worth had gotten copies from San Antonio stations. I told anyone who would listen that I had done a recording, but no one believed me. Now it was on the air, and most still did not believe me. I am a verifiable “one hit wonder.” The flip side has “Louie Go Home,” which was originally written and performed by Paul Revere and Mark Lindsey. I have both their version and that of The Fugitives. I did lead vocals on “Louie Go Home,” and I like our version better. In late ’68 and early ’69, I had become involved with some folks who called themselves the Down South Family. They had this image of young, hip professionals, who led a successful commune. It was anything but. No, it was a group of very savvy young businessmen who used the young and dumb hippies and surfers to work for free. It didn’t take long to figure that out. They operated a successful surf shop in Corpus Christi called, of course, Down South. They had great connections in the Texas music field, and I wanted to get involved. I had long thought of having a rock festival in Kingsville at Kleberg County Park in Flato Pavilion, where they held cattle auctions. It was in a natural (maybe man-made) amphitheatre that I thought would be perfect to hold a large audience watching a rock festival. I knew it would be tough to pull off, and I brought the idea up with the folks at Down South. This was before my time in Austin and before Woodstock. Down South liked the idea and put me in charge of securing the facility and getting all necessary permits. We did it by the book and were completely legit. The only exception was that I called it “a small picnic, family friendly atmosphere, bringing top entertainment to Kingsville, which had long been musically neglected.” I was with a garage band called Community, and we had planned on performing; but the quality of talent became too great for a group as amateur as ours. I made arrangements for security, portable toilets, water supplies, insurance, trash removal and park cleanup after the event. We even had food vendors. I did interviews with the Record News and kept referring to the event as “family friendly and picnic atmosphere.” Down South was planning a full-scale entertainment rock venue. The headliners would be a new and successful group called “Texas,” plus some heavy hitters from Corpus, Austin and Houston. Groups that were successful in the club scene desperately wanted to try this new evolving venue that was sweeping the nation back then. After all contracts were signed and all was in place, I finally realized what we had done and I was honestly scared and thought that we’d get arrested or something. Finally, after more press coverage and coverage all over A&I, some at UT Austin, some coverage in the Corpus Christi Caller, the day came and we didn’t have a clue what kind of audience we’d have. We were prepared for about 1,000 people and even had Navy medical personnel volunteers just in case. We ended up with about 3,000 peoplefar more than anticipated, and soon after bands started, officials knew it was not as it had been promoted. They cut the power and there was a lull in the action. I knew several people from King High that came from farm and ranch families and asked for their help with generators. The Navy medical volunteers procured several from the base, and sons and daughters of local farmers and ranchers brought some from home and before an hour had passed, we were back in business. Cops were everywhere and I did several announcements about do not do drugs here it just isn’t cool or safe. Apparently, the message sank in. There were no arrests, no serious injuries and a good time was had by all. The group “Texas” brought the house down. They went on to rock and roll fame as ZZ Top, that little ‘ol band from Texas. The Kingsville-Bishop Record News came out on April 28, 1969, my 21st birthday. There was a banner headline photo above the paper’s name. It was probably taken with a fisheye lens. The paper claimed about 1,000 attended, but anyone who attended knew the truth. They called it a “music festival” which, it was; just not country or pop. I clipped out the article and photo in the paper, mounted it on a piece of quarter inch plywood and varnished it. I still have it. My final parting shot at Kingsville, I thought. If you know where Bandera, TX is; about 12 miles distant is Medina, TX. Almost equidistant between the two, there used to be an old country bar hangout called the Silver Dollar Saloon. I had been keeping company with some big country boys from the area and we played cards together and drank lots of beer at A&I. In the fall of ’68 long before I was 21; they took me to the saloon. I had stayed at the goat ranch of a dad of one of the guys and after dinner, we went for drinks at the saloon. We had been there maybe an hour when two really sloppy drunks stumbled in the front door together. I learned an appropriate hill country saying that night when one of my group described the two as “knot kneed, snot slingin’, commode huggin’ drunk.” One was older and the other was black. Both were definitely cowboys from the way they were dressed. They were badly unshaven and looked pretty awful. The older one raised his cowboy hat and looked very familiar. The owner of the saloon went over to talk to them and shortly after, they reluctantly nodded “OK” to something. Employees put sound equipment and two stools on the stage, then produced two electric acoustical guitars. The drunken duo were introduced and st
What’s your fondest memory of Bill?
What’s a lesson you learned from Bill?
Share a story where Bill's kindness touched your heart.
Describe a day with Bill you’ll never forget.
How did Bill make you smile?