Oral History Transcript - George Sullivan - March 11, 1986
Interview with George Sullivan
Interviewer: Arlene Grainey
Transcriber: Arlene Grainey
Date of Interview: March 11, 1986
Location: Mr. Sullivan’s home, 2623 North LBJ Drive, San Marcos, TX
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Begin Tape 1, Side 1
Arlene Grainey: The date is March 11, 1986, and I’m sitting here at the home of Mr. George Sullivan. Mr. Sullivan, you do acknowledge that I, Arlene Grainey, have gone over the letter of agreement with you?
George Sullivan: Yes.
Grainey: And you understand that the tape and transcript will be kept permanently in the University Archives, Southwest Texas State University, and copies may be placed in the San Marcos Public Library and other historical libraries?
Sullivan: Yes.
Grainey: And you also understand that the tape and transcript will be available to the general public for research and other educational purposes and that nothing may be used in a published from without the written permission of the University Archivist?
Sullivan: Right.
Grainey: Okay and we can go ahead and begin the interview. And first, you can talk about just exactly why you did come to San Marcos and settle here.
Sullivan: I was on the track team at Daniel Baker College, and the first year we came here, the first time I was ever in this town [was] for a dual meet. We had a least one dual meet here for four straight years and one or two other meets. I ran in, as, against the San Marcos, the Southwest Texas track teams at least half a dozen times. The coach of San Marcos, Oskie Strahan, and I became very close friends.
Now we’ll jump to the time when I came back here to be Pastor. As soon as he found out that I moved back here, he got in touch with me. He told me that he wanted me to officiate his track meets, and for twelve years I officiated every track meet that the man had, had here in San Marcos. And I got to know all the boys, of course. Now, cut it off for a moment and let me ask you something.
Pause in recording
I enjoyed teasing Oskie Strahan about having never been beaten by a San Marcos boy.
We left here in ’57, which was a long, long time, but for four years I was in Austin and came back after those four years. That adds up to be twelve [years], and I officiated in every one of his meets.
Now, to make a long skip, when I came back to retire here, he was in the hospital. I went to see him. His wife recognized me, and that surprised me, that she would recognized me, and when I had visited with him in the hospital, he told her, “Now, if this turn out to be my terminal illness, that’s the man that’s going to conduct my funeral, and don’t you forget it.” Now that’ll be a period.
There was a lot of contact between the ministers of the town and the faculty of the college at that time because it was so much smaller. I was on campus once or twice almost every week. Served in many graduation exercises most of those first eight years. I got acquainted with—would you want to—names of some of the men that I got to know so well?
Grainey: Certainly, yes.
Sullivan: I would begin with the—Bill Pohl as a historian, history teacher. Of course, Pat Norwood, everybody knew Pat, the (unintelligible). There were two professors named Reed. I knew both of them well. Rogers, Grusendorf, Derrick, Nolle; Dean Nolle was a grand old man, a real educator. He wasn’t just teaching for a salary. He was an educator. And then Oskie Strahan and Jowers, the basketball coach after whom the building is named. McDonald, who was a joke among all of us just because of his good humor. And Emmie Craddock, when she was up there, I knew real well the mayor of the city at this time. And Abernathy in speech. I suppose that’s the ones with whom I had most contact. And that was quite frequently.
Grainey: Okay, is there anything about Mr. Derrick that you would like to say?
Sullivan: Derrick, yes. I ought to have, yes, his name is down here. Derrick was especially good to our daughter when she lost her eye, that’s shortly before graduation. And he let her rearrange her schedule so that she could graduate with her class, which she did. My daughter was always very fond of him, even before that, but thereafter too.
Grusendorf and I did much work together. And the grand old dean, what is his name? It’s one of those buildings up there. Can’t think of it for a moment. When I was leaving the first time, he had me up at his office. The name will come to me.
Grainey: Okay.
Sullivan: He said, “George, you and I have made a pretty good team.” We had a good many people slightly retarded or handicapped or slowed down in their education. I didn’t mean actually mentally retarded. He had me work with, with him. And he said we had made a real good team.
Grainey: That’s nice.
Sullivan: Now, besides, you can, you can get his name if I don’t think of it in the next few minutes. He was the dean of the faculty.
Grainey: The dean of the faculty?
Sullivan: At that time, a Church of Christ preacher.
Grainey: At that time, okay.
Sullivan: Now, the college was much more personal, personally involved. Every, almost every student was acquainted with almost every teacher. They all knew each other. When I left here, there were 2,200 students. There was a lot of real personal contact. (Brief pause)
Grainey: Did you want to talk a little bit about your becoming a pastor here at the church?
Sullivan: Excuse me, let me interrupt you. That dean’s name is Speck.
Grainey: Okay, Speck, Dean Speck, okay. That was the one who said you made a good team.
Sullivan: Sure, yes.
Grainey: Okay, about becoming a pastor here?
Sullivan: The—let me do a little thinking now.
Grainey: Okay.
Sullivan: The Pastorate of Search Committee came to Hamilton to visit, or they [were] looking for a pastor and spent Sunday, and we went out and had lunch together. They came back a little later to the house, and we spent a couple or three hours together [and] arranged for me to come here for an interview in mid-week. At that time, Mrs. Sullivan was in San Francisco visiting her sister. And so we talked the whole thing over and set a date for me to come down here and meet with the congregation. Everything was very pleasant. We had a very nice time, and I immediately accepted the offer.
Having built a building in Hamilton, I had turned down several offers to move until I got the congregation well enough on its feet that they’d be sure and pay for that building. They paid for it in two years after it was built, so I was free to come, and I moved down here. In many respects, it was the most exhilarating, desirable pastorate that I held. I really had a good time. Do you want the building story?
Grainey: Uh-huh.
Sullivan: One of the main reasons for coming was because the building was in that bad a shape. And I had built one before, and some man or two had recommended me as knowing what I was doing on the preacher’s part in the business deal in the building. And Jack Lewis, who was the chief—can’t get my words straight-tongued.
Grainey: That’s okay.
Sullivan: —man in the Presbyterian Church worked among the university activities at the University of Texas. Jack Lewis recommended me to this congregation. And we’d begin talking about the youth, young people’s work, and I told him that I did not have a particularly outstanding ministry with young people. They said, Well, now that’s not what we heard from the man that recommended you to us. And I said, “Oh, you’ve been talking to Jack Lewis.” And they said, That’s right, we’ve been talking to Jack Lewis. So I went on back home and [had] my mind made up, unless something startling happened, and when my wife got home I told her about it, and we just prepared and got ready to move down there. And, in that, down here, we were just a mile or two ahead of the furniture van; she asked me, “Oh, by the way, what’s the salary going to be?” And I said, “I don’t have any idea. I forbid them to mention salary. I don’t know what I’m going to get as a salary.” That was my policy throughout my ministry. After my second move, I never would let another committee mention money. One overruled me once and did against my will.
The older members of the congregation were all down there that evening when we met, and we just had a real enjoyable time. A man by the name of Jack Patterson, Jasper was his name because Jack was the chairman of the committee. And I spent the night with him. Now, very shortly after we got here, we discover some strange types of opposition. There were several people in the congregation that wanted to move off of that corner. They had some foresight about what the parking problem was going to be, and we’re realizing that right now. And it was too close to the Baptist Church in that respect only was there was no place to park. Most of the old-timers wouldn’t hear about moving; there was no way they would’ve moved. And I’m glad they did not because that’s as good a location there is in this town for a church.
There were some who voted to—a large number wanted to save the old building and just build an educational plant in behind. Well, I would never have done that, but I didn’t tell them I wouldn’t. We went along studying how it ought to be done. And then we had a meeting in which thirteen men were involved; elders, deacons, and the committee. And I had laid out my mental idea of what we’d need behind that old building. The vote finally came on whether to adopt something like that, and then I could hire an architect or not, and it was defeated, defeated thirteen to two.
Grainey: My goodness!
Sullivan: The main reason was because of the big old trees out in that back that they didn’t want to cut down and destroy. Let me think what I want to say next. Oh, yes. There was one man in that group who wielded so much influence with the rest of those in the town and all that he; he and I had some words about that a little later. I told him that those nine men that voted for that did not vote themselves at all. They waited until he voted, and they followed his, the rising of his hand. He wouldn’t believe that. I was standing up in front as the moderator. And I said, “Will you go and talk to any one of those you want to? You know which ones I’m talking about, and come back and tell me what you’ve learned.” He came back about two nights later and said, “Well, George, you were right. Let’s get on with this building.”
Now, the truth is that he didn’t have any idea of his influence. He never had any desire to be influential. Every man in that group but one or two voted with him. And I told him that that had happened at the two congregational meetings we’d had because “I’m standing up in front where I can see you. A dozen or so people put their hands up ahead of you. We always vote all those in for, in favor raise the hand, and every head in the house turns and looks at you before they raise their hand. If you hadn’t raised yours, there wouldn’t have been more than half a dozen.” He didn’t believe it at all. But he finally found out that that was what was happening.
We had one other difficulty about a member of the building committee jumping all over me one Sunday morning between Sunday school and Church. Now, this is real interesting to me; to you, it may not be worth putting in here.
Grainey: Oh, I’m sure it will be.
Sullivan: But he—we went right along, and we were worshipping in the new school building that’s now the Lamar School. Is that the one that’s just this side of the church, the Lamar? We were worshiping in their brand new auditorium, and I went right on with the worship service as if nothing had happened, we got the offering taken. And when we got through with the offering, I got after them and said, “Well, something happened today between Sunday School and Church that makes it impossible for me to preach. I can’t even remember my scriptures or my text. So you’ll stand for the benediction and the session. The elders will remain.” And I dismissed them.
The elders stayed. And a dozen people asked my wife on their way out what had happened, and she did not know. So I told them what had happened, and one of them spoke up and said, “Who was that?” And I said, “Now, I’m calling no names. I want you,” and these were six men, “to inform this congregation that if they have anything to get on me about, don’t do it after Friday. I preach without any notes, without any references up there with me whatever, and if I am maligned between, on Saturday or Sunday morning, my ability to preach is gone.” And this same man I was addressing a moment ago said, “I’ll take care of that young man.” He knew who it was from just what I said. And he took care of that young man, and we had no other problem. That was the last problem in the building, our building program. And, of course, that’s before we started then back. Very shortly after that, they just, they voted or moved, with which I had nothing to do, called a congregational meeting and voted to take the old building down and put the new sanctuary back where it had been. So, as I said, it all worked out very well when we got this gentleman aware of his influence. It went way beyond (unintelligible). He just had to keep quiet because he was having too much influence. But he also knew who had offended me. Now, there was no personal offense at all. Just the fact that he blotted everything out of my memory; I couldn’t preach.
As soon as the building was finished, this man, the older man, went out behind me and bought that little parking lot that’s there now and put a four-foot drain pipe underneath it, that ditch, and paved it and didn’t let anybody know that he was doing it until it was all paid in full. He did it all himself. Just had a beautiful relationship.
Two years later, they went back in there and built a, installed an air conditioning system. And that extended the notes on it for two more years. The note period really covered seventeen years; it was paid for in thirteen. Thirteen years after it was occupied, I came back here and dedicated it debt-free. It was just a glorious experience.
Now, one thing that might not interest you at all, but it’s touching to me. That huge and beautiful pecan tree that’s on the ground down there right near the main entrance was growing behind the other building. The old building was between there and the corner. And it was under the drip of the shingles, and the water fully up there had rotted out, and it was getting an awful lot of water. It was just about four inches in diameter and at eighteen feet up to the first limb because that’s how high the outside wall was. And back under that shade of those big oaks, it couldn’t get any sunshine on it until it got to the top of the building.
Mr. Rogers and I were determined to keep it. We were going to transplant it somewhere because we didn’t want to waste a tree as good as that. When the architect got through drawing the plans and we saw just where the church was going to sit, it was exactly where anybody would have put a tree. It was exactly where a tree ought to be. And it is a beautiful pecan tree as there is in town.
Grainey: It is beautiful.
Sullivan: And it has grown very rapidly, the fact of that is. When I left here, it was not a big more than four inches in diameter, and when I came back to dedicate the building, it was twenty-two inches in diameter.
Grainey: Goodness.
Sullivan: Thirteen years. And pecan trees don’t grow that way. Point is that it had been there a long time and had lots of roots already. And they got, put gullies around the entire side of the main building. There are two downspouts around those out there underground about ten feet from the tree so the roots got all the water that fell off the top of the church as well as the rain that came down. That’s what made it grow so fast. That was another victory for Mr. Roger and me.
Grainey: That is touching.
Sullivan: He was more concerned about it than I was. He’s the man who didn’t want to take out the oaks. But we had to take them to tear the church down. They either had to move or take out those oaks. And they voted to take them out.
My wife made this expression. She said the first three years that we were here was pure blank, hell, just getting started. And the last five years were pure heaven. And that’s a good description. A man couldn’t have a more pleasant, profitable, and better growth, and everything—a man couldn’t have wanted it any better than it was those five years. And it’s still the same way, except for growth; the proportion of people coming in town now is nothing like it was in those days. A lot of people here, but proportionately there’s not as many as we did back in those days. Now, that’s all I know to tell you about the building.
Grainey: Okay, are there any other experiences during the time you were pastor, some, a funny experience or—
Sullivan: Well, since you called me, I’ve been trying to think of something new, and I haven’t come up with anything. It seems that everything went real well. You might make humor out of this. The first Sunday we were here, my wife looked out over the congregation, and there was a solid snowfield. This is a town of retired people. She said, “George, this will be the most sorrowful pastorate we’ve ever had; we’re going to have a funeral a week.” And the four years that I was in Austin, I came back over here for more funerals than I had the eight years I was here. Not a bit above normal because there were so many old people. And I told them—yes, this is a good one—this fits the Presbyterianism. I told the session, that’s the elders, when I left, I said, “Now, I’m not coming back over here for a funeral already just upon invitation of the family. I’ll come back if the, you, the session gets together and decides that it’s wise for me to come back.” I don’t want it to be wise for the total congregation. The first two I came back for were a Methodist and a Baptist. After that, I certainly couldn’t say no to a Presbyterian.
Grainey: That’s true.
Sullivan: Awful, ain’t it. Good years in this town, more than any place we’ve ever been, and a good many more. There was one town where we lived near the church there, and we had more members, more active members than any church in town. Now, I don’t know what their background might have been, but six years or so after I left (unintelligible), I was called back up here to conduct a funeral for a man, a young man who had two children in school. And after the funeral was over, I told the wife that this will probably be about the last time I’ll be coming back here for this sort of reason. She said, “Oh, no. You’ve got two more. Me and Joe.” And Joe was her father. I didn’t come back to either one of those. I didn’t know about them, but she later on (unintelligible). I came back to many funerals after that.
The man who was dean of our Presbyterian Theological Seminary in Austin told me that about that time, that I had come back to former pastorates for more funerals and weddings than any man he had ever known. He didn’t know anybody who was called back as many times as I was. And that just reflects on how great those five years were.
When I left here, a lot of people wondered about that. The Presbyterian system has this little peculiarity that if the Presbytery get after you to do something, you nearly always do it. And the Presbytery decided that I was to found a church in Austin. And it’s their (unintelligible) to William B. Travis High School. And I went over there with a list of names of Presbyterians living in South Austin and founded that church in 1957 in November. I left here at the end of school and stayed here so my children would be in school, I believe, and we organized the church in November. And that was the only reason I would do that because the Presbytery just as good as told me, “We want you to go to the other one.” The Presbytery, in extreme cases, the Presbytery has often the power, but it’s very seldom exercised immediately. But there is a big committee on building in San Antonio and the committee on building and the part of development in Austin. And the Austin committee wanted me to do it. And it turns out this one was closely associated with the one in Hamilton. The head of their committee, which I knew, [he] happened to be a boyhood friend, he and I went to school together in the same town of Comanche, (unintelligible) in Austin. So they told, the committee told the Presbytery, “We want George to build this church.” And I (unintelligible). I’d already hired an architect and engaged to build when I left (unintelligible)—
One interesting thing that my daughter said that you might want on there was that she thought I was crazy for leaving this, regardless of the situation, and go to three and a half, three and seven-tenths acres of wild sunflowers.
Grainey: Wild sunflowers.
Sullivan: That’s what was across the street from the school building there. I found a list of names, a list of names and three and seven-tenths acres of wild sunflowers. But, she was just a kid. (Long pause)
My brother, John, known to many of the school teachers in this town, was a special friend of Yancy Yarborough and was the high school principal for about thirty-four years in Texas, the last fifteen years of those at Thomas B. Edison High School in San Antonio. And he told me that during that lifetime experience that the best teachers he ever hired came from Southwest Texas Teacher’s College. And I think that ought to be included.
Grainey: Oh, yes, thank you.
Sullivan: I found it in my notes here after you had gone away. Now, here is the history of the church.
Grainey: Okay.
Sullivan: Before—I don’t think there’s any need for me to tell you any of that. I’ve got it down here in figures, too, but you take that. (Hands Grainey an old church bulletin that includes the history of the church)
Grainey: Okay, I’ll take this.
Sullivan: I’ve got another copy, and I could get more if I needed it.
Grainey: Okay.
Sullivan: And there is a—A-R-L-E-N-E, Arlene?
Grainey: Uh-huh, yes, sir.
Sullivan: By the way, Van Horn, Earl Van Horn was asking me last Sunday if I had seen you, or Sunday before last, one of the other.
Grainey: Right, uh-huh, yeah, we’re good friends.
Sullivan: He is, seems to be [an] awfully nice boy.
Grainey: Yes, he is.
Sullivan: There are a good many flaws in this [book]. If I’d had time to read the manuscript, I’d found some of them, doubtlessly, there. My daughter was going to come down here and read it for me, and she qualified. She majored in English. It would be perfect if she had got down here, but something happened to her home and she couldn’t get here. Then I got in a hurry, wasn’t excuse for that hurry. I’ll show you the biggest flaw in it.
Grainey: And the title of this book? You can go ahead and say it—The Son of Thunder?
Sullivan: Uh-huh, The Son of Thunder, Tamed. This is not a problem. Yeah, I took it out of here. They left off, after number 70; they left a complete, total blank right there. It’s what should have been in line right over here, you just pass it on by, but this ought to be number 72, and this one over here 71. But there are other errors, typographical type errors that I could show you, but you won’t let them bother you.
Grainey: That’s all right, no. Well, thank you very much. [Sullivan hands Grainey a copy of his book].
Sullivan: You can find out everything you want to know about that. I spent—by the way, Dr. Martin Juel wrote the forward in it. Do you know him?
Grainey: No.
Sullivan: I told, was going to say [that] he retired before you got here, but he was one splendid educator, one perfect gentleman. And I wrote to him in his letter that we all handed him upon his retirement, and I don’t think I was exaggerating or being untruthful at all. A few years before I had the chance to do that for Dan Penick over at the University of Texas; Dan Penick was, well, just like I said in my letter, I said he was the best man I ever knew. (Unintelligible)—for one thing, he was the tennis coach at the University of Texas [for] forty years, and he had several national champions, Davis Cup champions and so forth, and they were accepted at (unintelligible)—making his living in athletics, he was teaching Greek, tremendous teacher.
I could go on and on, but one thing that I (unintelligible), that he had before, just before he got to school (unintelligible). He worked so hard for so long; he was still very young and got it at a very tender age. He was pronounced tubercular. Now, back in those days, doctors were not always right about tuberculosis. Anything that bothered the lungs was so pronounced. But anyway, they surprised, I mean subscribed for him, prescribed for him and told him to get out of school and get a small, easy job somewhere when he could get a lot of rest. And he went up to the little college that I attended a generation later, a smaller college, and he stayed there only one year, maybe two. But I think I can safely say that from that time until he died up in his nineties just a few years ago, that man never took one bit of food nor swallowed one bit, swallowed a drink that wasn’t made strictly nutritionally. He, he lived a more perfect life than anybody I’ve ever seen and did an awful lot of work in addition to his teaching.
Grainey: That’s special.
Sullivan: Uh-huh. He directed the choir for the Presbyterian Church there for years; a real good choir director. He did a lot of other stuff. He rode a bicycle when he was in his eighties. I saw a picture of him the other day somewhere, riding it to class at eighty-five.
Grainey: At eighty-five years old.
Sullivan: On his bicycle. He would never teach that long; now he wasn’t a full teacher at eighty-five, I don’t think, but he still had a few classes. And when I was, went to Martin Juel, talking about Martin Juel’s letter, I put down there was a few years ago I had to pro-grade your writing to Dr. (unintelligible) on some occasion, and I can truly, honestly quote, and I told it to you, “Dan Penick was the best I ever knew.” Now I can quote that here for Marty Juel and be just as truthful.
Grainey: Just as truthful, huh.
Sullivan: Yeah, Marty Juel was a tremendous man. He and I officiated football games for twelve years together, many a football game. They would let us officiate the games here that were not in Interscholastic League contest. The second team, junior high, and the [Baptist] Academy. So we worked those three games almost every week besides our regular I, Interscholastic League, ILS, on some Friday nights somewhere. The last game I officiated in this area before I moved down to Seguin was with him over here at Luling.
Said, “Oh, that’s good.”
Grainey: That’s good, huh.
Sullivan: Now, I wanted to get those in about John’s, my brother John’s teachers. And I thought maybe just mention it. Marty Juel, of course, his name should be down here in these professors that I listed.
Grainey: Okay, what actually inspired you to write this book, or were there any inhibitions about it while you were writing it?
Sullivan: No, there are two things that pervaded my ministry for forty-two years all the way through. One was that the Book of Revelation was neglected. The greatest, most, most sorrowfully neglected book in the Bible in America, at least in the part of America that I’ve had any contact with. People don’t read it because they say they don’t understand it. Now, I heard someone just about two weeks ago that said, “I just don’t understand it.” And I wrote that for the purpose of telling you you’re not supposed to understand poetry. And the Book of Revelation is pure as poetry. And you must learn to read the Bible; you must know what kind of literature you’re reading and for what purpose. And that, that was the thing that first began to work on me ten or fifteen years ago. To do something about getting the Book of Revelation read.
The other part of it was that John, the apostle John, was called [in] the first few years of his acquaintance with our Lord, was called the Son of Thunder. That appears only twice in the New Testament. But conditions where he wanted to do something, well, he and his brother were sent ahead to find a place of lodging for the whole group because they were going across that Samaritan country. They couldn’t find anybody in that village that would let them spend the night there. And he came back and told the Lord about it, he said, “Do you want us to call fire down from Heaven and burn them up?” Son of Thunder!
And another time he’s called the Son of Thunder. But, along in the middle of Jesus’s ministry, not long before his crucifixion, these two boys were helping their daddy do fishing; he was a professional fisherman. John and James, and He [Jesus] walked up on the bank and watched them a little while, and they came back to, walked up to the bank where they could have conversation, and He said, “Come after me, and I’ll make you be fishers of men.” And there was a complete revolution took place in the life of John. He was tamed completely. There’s no index in the Bible anywhere that he never wanted to be a leader, he ever aspired for any position. His mother went to Jesus once and asked him to make her two sons on His right hand and His left in his kingdom. Now, she wanted them prominent positions. John never wanted that prominent position. All he wanted to do was to preach. He did nothing but preach for, I think, at least eighty years. No way to prove that. And his book is made up of nothing but extract and little textbook segments and little illustrations from his sermons.
John became, he lived longer than any of the disciples. He became a very old man. And he got to reminiscing, and he got to thinking. And everything that he had ever preached came back to his mind. And he jotted them down.
They, we had in that little college where I went to college, we had a poet. The year that I graduated he was eighty-six years old, and he still attended all of his classes. He taught until he was ninety-one, and he taught one week, didn’t miss a class one week and died the next week on Wednesday. Smartest, he was the best educated man I’ve ever known, and the only true poet that I ever have known. I’ll give you a copy or two of them, one or two of his poems if you’d just like to have the first one.
Grainey: I’d love that.
Sullivan: I have to have them copied. And in 1937, he died in October of ’37. And in March of ’37, I went to visit the town where he was to see my father who was in his last days at a very youthful age. Less than sixty, fifty-nine. And I went in; we always called him Dr. John; some Episcopals called him Father John. He was an Episcopal director, but he was teaching in a Presbyterian school. And I asked him, “I want you to give (unintelligible) about 150–200 of your poems which you think are the best and let me have them and publish them, and I’ll have Bill Logan help me.”
Now, Bill Logan is a lot smarter man than I ever will be. He lives right over here about a quarter of a mile down the line. He retired. He was valedictorian of our college class at the age of nineteen. He graduated from college young, old, younger than I was when I entered. And the same thing, of course, at Seminary. He was the top student in our seminary the whole time. We were classmates four years at college and three years at Seminary, and the three years at Seminary we were also roommates. He was not a bookworm at all. Nothing odd or peculiar about him like you find in some scholars. But he just never forgot anything that he’d ever looked at. Not long ago, I was trying to solve some sort of a problem, and I asked my wife, I said, “You suppose Bill could give me the answer to that?” And she said, “He could if he ever saw it in print.” And, now where was I? What was I trying to tell you?
Grainey: Um, the poetry, about the poetry, getting the poetry published?
Sullivan: Yes, he told me, Dr. Power wouldn’t give me those poems. He said, “Oh, my son, I have never written anything worth your publication, just the sentimental rhyming of a sentimental old man. But you may have them, all of them, to do with as pleases you and Billy.” He was an Englishman. I got to tell you the last thing he ever said to us in class. Are you in a hurry? You’re not losing time. Well, good.
Grainey: No, no.
Sullivan: Last class I had in my senior year, the last day of school in the spring before I finished—I’ve got to back up a little first. He generally had some kind of a wise or witty, sometimes both, saying with which he opened the class. For one thing, he said, “Ireland is England’s disgrace.” He looked at me, grinned, see my hair was fiery red, and he knew my older brother; he taught my older brother just three years before. John was about three years going to Sunday school. (unintelligible)—and he looked at me, and I didn’t flinch or anything because I had heard John tell me his story. And he said, “Well, George, your brother resented my making that sort of a statement.” And I said, “Well, I know, but he knew what you meant.” He said, “Yes, and I will tell this, as I’ve many other classes, that the way England treated Ireland was the blackest page in English history.” It wasn’t the Irish. He always said something like that. The, that last thing he said after he finished the lecture, teaching, he said, “My young friends, I have yet the word for you. As you grow older, and surely you will, never mar or destroy your conversation, or communication, or correspondence with friends, relatives, or family by any mention of your physical ailments. You are dismissed, you may go, God bless you.”
Grainey: That’s it, huh.
Sullivan: That’s something like him, he would always put in, but I thought that crowned them all. I told that at the student reunion a few years ago, and it brought the house down. There happened to be a very few there that night that was in that class, and they’d forgotten it, but I never forgot anything the old man said. He was tremendous. Let’s go in here. You can come with me if you want to or sit right there, whichever you please.
Grainey: Okay, I’ll follow you.
Sullivan: See if I can’t pull out one or two of his poems where I put them. (Brief pause)
This is a poem in which the names of every member of the faculty at the college which I attended, Daniel Baker College in Brownwood, Texas. The title is “I Walked Today the Campus Old.”
We walked these paths together,/The halls and classrooms too:/But fifty years have come and gone/Since I walked these halls with you./Some grand old teachers met us here:/Mrs. Trapp, Father John, the poet;/Post and McGhee made English clear/And inspired desire to know it./In Math McClelland rang the bell;/McKay in alien Grammar./Youngblood in History lectured well/And lent the track team glamour./Miss Peavy wielded the rolling pin/Teaching Homemaking to the lasses./Dom. Sci. ‘twas called way back then,/Home Ec. as more time passes./Watson wore black satin down to the knee,/And taught Elocution right down to the letter./In retrospect it seems to me/Her gym togs might have fit better./Mae Branom taught the musicals; Piano, fiddle, and drum./McInnis in the Chemistry lab/Robbed Science of all “ho-o hum.”/Uncle Zeke poured o’er the Eternal Word,/With help from both Hart and Power./Blair and White made, sent tired athletes/Scurrying to the shower./The Dean! “Prof Hart” – The Grand Ol’ Man!/Throughout the life of D.B.C./Taught every course except Home Ec.,/And could have taught that I ‘spect:/His like we shall never more see./O, I walked these halls again today;/Just one thing now I know:/’Twas nigh to heaven just being here,/More than fifty years ago./As sure as you’re born/I’ve overlooked Horn:/Por que Yo estoy Escondido, y en soledad,/Y muerto, and forlorn!/
Grainey: That is beautiful. That’s Spanish.
Sullivan: I’m identifying her here, you see, as a Spanish teacher.
Grainey: Her name’s Ms. Horn?
Sullivan: Um-hm, yeah.
Grainey: That is beautiful. Well, is there anything else you’d like to add to the interview before we wind it up?
Sullivan: I can’t think of anything. I’ve never been interviewed before.
Grainey: Okay, well I appreciate your—
Sullivan: Except for the local newspaper. And it just might be that one of these would be the best poem for me to give you to put into your script. Now that one might be, might be it.
Grainey: Okay, an Easter poem?
Sullivan: If you’re interested in the college that I attended, it might be in order. Let me, that’s not mine.
Grainey: That’s not yours?
Sullivan: Well, there’s one my brother wrote. You might read it quickly while I’m looking through these others. There’s a Christmas poem right there.
Grainey: You can choose any of your poems that you’d like to read, and you can just read one more poem.
Sullivan: There’s one of Dr. Power’s poems. He’s the one I mentioned in that first line with Mrs. Trapp, Dr. John the poet, Father John. Mrs. Trapp was the best teacher that I’ve ever seen in the classroom, teacher I’ve ever seen—remind me in a minute to tell you a story about her just for you. It has nothing to do with this college or this town.
Grainey: Okay. (Brief pause)
Sullivan: This is an Easter poem, one of my favorites.
I walked one day along a country lane/Say some there were no “Good Ol’ Days?”/They view all with alarm:/Some point with pride to olden ways,/And fear no future harm./Our past is due our gratitude;/Our further brighter, our future brighter gleams/When we recall with rectitude,/And dignify our dreams./God’s promises are not in vain:/He casts us not adrift./Our path and goal are amply plain/When we accept His gift./For God is love, and no what less;/And we His children are./His will for us is boundlessness/Beyond the farthest star./He love exacts and nothing more;/With love our heart He fills./Peace at high sea, goodwill ashore/For all mankind, He wills./For this His son was crucified/And raised again to life./That we in Truth be verified:/Our master in the strife./So, look ye men to God on high,/Call on His mighty name!/Thou you too should be called to die/Your rising be the same./Eternal is His will and power:/To flaunt Him is amiss./He love returns as spring-sent flower/And calls us to His bliss./For evermore to die is sin,/And influences to die; /He wills for us eternal life/And home, with Him on high./And thus we see at Eastertide/A cross, an empty grave:/And from His wrath forever hide/Within His power to save./
Grainey: Amen.
Sullivan: I sent a copy of that to Jerry Mann. Jerry Mann was the secretary of state of Texas about thirty years [ago] when I was just, time I was in school. An awful fine man. And he wrote back and gave me a really complementary letter about it. I thought that would be in here maybe, but then we don’t need it; we’ve got the poem.
Grainey: That was a beautiful poem.
End of interview