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Glimpses
(written
by Harley
Castleberry)
Spit Out at
the
O. K. Corral
High School
After closing my eyes, and
mentally playing through this incident, I vividly recalled that this
happened at the high school, and not at the O. K. Corral. Having
been to both sites I momentarily lost track of just exactly where in
the West that this historic event took place.
The high school building where I attended school, was a rather
impressive looking, three story building located at the end of 10th
street where it intersects with Jean Street. Jean runs parallel
with the front of the building. The ground floor of the building
had a hallway extending the length of the building with entrance doors
on either end of the structure. The second and third floors
likewise had long hallways, but at the ends of both, classrooms were
located. It was during the sixth period, (last period of the day)
when this fateful matter took place. I was in the large classroom
at the end of the hall on the third floor in World History class.
It was near the end of the school year, in the month of May, and the
teacher had given the class a “study period” in order for us to get our
workbooks up to date before the end of the semester. The weather
was pleasant and the large steel casement windows along the wall were
swung out. The teacher sat at his desk at the front, center, of
the room intently reading in the large history book propped upright in
front of him on the desk. Actually, and honestly, he was reading
a confiscated comic book that was shielded from view by the history
book. I sat in about the second or third seat from the front,
beside one of the open windows. There were brick ledges located
inside the room at the base of both of the large windows. The
only thing that I ever remember being placed on any of these window
ledges, with any degree of regularity, was the ever present, community
inkbottle.
A short time before things took a turn for the worst; I had filled my
fountain pen from said inkbottle, then sat down and continued
completing my workbook. Suddenly, one of the double doors leading
into the classroom, from the hall burst open! For a split second
the opening was filled with the huge frame of Principal John
Gilbert. This day, he made an entrance like a Sherman Tank, and
it was evident to me from the scowl on his face that he was not a very
happy man. Mr. Marshall, the teacher, probably felt it rude to
continue his intense study of world history, or whatever, and as
casually as he could, under surprise pressure, closed his book and laid
it aside. It was about then that I thought I caught a glimpse of
fire behind “Big John’s” eyes. (When I hear Jimmy Dean’s song
about Big Bad John you now know who I immediately think of.)
“WHO WERE THOSE BOYS THAT WERE AT THE WINDOWS A FEW MINUTES AGO?”
stormed Mr. Gilbert. His question was like it came from a
shotgun. It was not aimed specifically at anyone, so anyone could
play.
For all Mr. Marshall knew, they were Donald Duck, Daffy Duck and
Archie. Being at a total loss for words, and lacking any
meaningful information, he proceeded to stay cool, but the change of
his facial color to red, has always led me to believe, had it been
prudent, he would have felt more comfortable lying in the floor and
twitching violently.
“I WANT TO KNOW WHICH OF YOU BOYS WERE UP AT THE WINDOWS A FEW MINUTES
AGO!”
Now before you volunteer my name, I previously admitted to having
filled my fountain pen a few minutes earlier, but surely filling a pen
with ink would not constitute being tied into a pretzel. I think
I failed to mention, but Mr. Gilbert had been a professional wrestler
at one time. He sounded as though he wanted someone to crawl in
the ring with him. I remained silent and felt that I would be
more comfortable, under the circumstances, in joining Mr. Marshall in
the floor and trying to pick up on his twitching rhythm.
Slowly, a few hands were beginning to show above some hairlines.
The call to harvest yielded about six or eight male students.
“YOU BOYS COME WITH ME!” commanded Big John.
An adjacent classroom happened to be vacant, and the silent group was
herded in there, and the door closed! I was as puzzled as Mr.
Marshall, but luckily I didn’t have the responsibility for what went on
in the classroom. The teacher managed a faint smile and uneasily
readjusted his posture in his chair. He had, for the time, lost
all interest in his reading. After regaining control of his
mental faculties he casually asked the class what had happened at the
windows. No explanation came forth, but in the next room we could
occasionally hear the muffled voice of Big John, barking commands, but
we couldn’t ascertain what was being said. Within minutes, the
final bell sounded and students filled the halls. No one ran up
to the window in the door of the nearby classroom, and pressed their
hands and noses on the glass to see what was happening; HOWEVER, taking
glances while s-l-o-w-l-y walking by that door, revealed a sight that I
had not ever seen before, nor since, for that matter. Big John’s
battalion stood in a circle around a big metal waste basket, and if one
or more of his men slowed down, he strongly encouraged them by yelling,
“SPIT!” It was evident that the final bell did not have
jurisdiction over the training class still in session.
Needless to say, it was not too long before there was a severe saliva
shortage in the math room. Following a brief pep talk, in lower
tones, Mr. Gilbert dismissed his spitless wonders. They hit the
water fountains at the far end of the hall like the Marines hit Iwo
Jima. Most circled back in line for a second helping. When
tongues became lubricated enough, the group began to answer our inquiry
about what had happened. One of these World History wizards had
looked out of the window and noticed below that a school bus had pulled
up the drive, and stopped at the East side entry door. Exiting
the bus were freshmen who were returning from an end-of-school class
picnic. Being upper classmen, the “wizards,” not having any
boulders, or boiling oil, decided to welcome the freshmen back by
spitting on them. It was one of those things that just seemed to
be a good idea at the time.
There were no reoccurrences.
Mr. Gilbert was a great guy. I met him my senior year, right
after he moved to my hometown, during the summer before school
started. He purchased materials from my dad’s lumberyard, where I
worked. He started a western band at school, and with his
training, they became quite good. He instigated an annual
“Western Day” for the school, where everyone dressed in western
clothes, conducted a parade downtown, and had a big barbeque dinner for
the students. To my knowledge, this tradition lives on.
Upon retirement, he moved to Colorado and we communicated by mail a
time or two. Several years later, after I was married, and
working for the Santa Fe Railroad, I heard that Mr. Gilbert had been
asked to be guest of honor at the Western Day celebration. I
hadn’t seen him in several years, and my wife, who graduated from the
same school, asked if I was going to the barbeque to see Mr.
Gilbert. I thought of him with fondness, and reasoned that with
the hundreds of kids with whom he came in contact through the years, he
probably wouldn’t remember me. My wife went to the celebration
and got to visit with Mr. Gilbert. When she got home that night
she was telling me about whom all she got to see and she said, “Mr.
Gilbert asked if you were there.” (I have felt bad about not going ever
since.)
His wife replied to my last letter. Big John had passed away.
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