I guess there are not to many folks around that know that my classmates and I were the last Senior Class and therefore the last to graduate from the old Sinton High School in 1967. I believe the building is now occupied by Sinton Independent School District and used for adult classes in the evening. (snapshot taken from Google Maps)

Tony and I were friends since the tenth grade, when he arrived in Sinton, from Corpus Christi, where he had attended Ray High School. We shared our likes in music, sports and girls through the years, but one thing we did is not something I am particularly proud of. A foolish teenage act on public property.

Before our graduation, my friend Tony, and I, Riding in his Red and White ’57 Chevrolet made our way to 322 South Archer Avenue, in Sinton, Texas. In the cover of the evening darkness we carried out our small bit of darkness against the quote unquote the establishment.  Tony pulled up in front of our High School and got out and opened the trunk of his car we got out a hacksaw, and and large flashlight. We had brought the large flashlight, not only if we needed light, but if we needed to use it as a club if the need arose. Closing the truck, we were ready to go forward with our clandestine operation. As there is now, there were a handful of trees in front of the school, and also a few along the street between the sidewalk and parking spaces.  Our objective stood in the middle of the double wide sidewalk, which lead from the street, encircling the flagpole, before leading onto the porch and its concrete structured fence in the immediate front of the building. We could probably walk this path blindfolded, since we had followed this path for three years. On our way each school day toward the double door entrance of our high school building. We were now in the middle of this walkway.

I felt a bit strange, as through some trick of time and some thought made in the spur of a moment had put me here. We were really going to do this… remove the ball styled finial from the top of the flagpole. We took a step closer toward the flagpole, and stopped. As we were standing on either side, aligned horizontal with the front of the building and street. As if on queue, we simultaneously looked up. Staring straight up at this acute angle made it look like a very long way up to the finial atop the flagpole. The flagpole itself, well, it looked to be a bit skinny, but was not. Our hands would fit about three quarters of the way around when grasping the pole.

Decision time not required. Although now would have been the time, it was so obvious there would be no backing down now.

Tony readied himself. We both took a deep breath. I cupped my hands to make a stirrup for his foot, and as he stepped in, I gave him a boost up the pole as far as I could. He alternately tightened his legs next to the skinny pole, with the wrapping and tightening his ankles and crossed feet next to the pole as he moved up with each pull of his arms. Like climbing a rope in gym class. I heard Tony continuing to climb. I ran a few yards to hide behind the porch fence to keep a watch for cars and to signal Tony if needed. I thought  that maybe it was a bit silly for me to be on the look out, as individuals in cars would have a hard time seeing any one at the top of the flagpole  from the street, because of the trees. But I guess if someone stopped, they would be able to hear the saw cutting through the metal.  Anyway Tony reached the top and began to saw. After what seemed like a eternity, but probably only 15 to 20 minutes he came down, and it was my turn.

I pulled the handle of the hack saw in my belt on the my back side and Tony gave me a boost up the pole. I too, skinned up the pole climbing up as Tony had, like I was climbing a rope. About half way up I felt the flagpole sway a bit and I stopped and secured my grip and then continued on up. Once at the top I held tight with one hand and felt the metal to find the groove that Tony had started. Once found I reached around and got the saw, and then began my sawing. The pole swayed slightly with each saw I made. The sway felt larger then it was. It was hard going. Slowly but surely, and taking two more turns sawing each, we made our way through it. Tony yelped as he finally made it through. The ball fell and then hit the ground.

I remember our worrying about it cracking the sidewalk, believing it was made out of solid brass. We had talked about the weight and how we would get it into the car. No problem, our worries were unfounded. No problem at all, it hit the sidewalk, and made a loud tinny sound as bounced onto the grass and rolled a bit to a stop. I came out from the look out spot and met Tony at the ball, as he was already down and at it. He picked it up and laughed, and then handed it to me. I immediately felt how light it was, and laughed too. Giving it back to Tony, I picked up the hack saw and unused flashlight. Then we both headed to his car.

Tony opened the trunk and we threw the ball in along with saw and flashlight, and closed the trunk. We jumped in the car, and headed for Lands DriveIn for a Ernest’s delicious Cheese Burger, scrumptious fat french fries and a thirst quenching Dr. Pepper.

The following week we went to school expecting the school to be abuzz, and everyone talking about had happened. Funny. Not a soul said a thing. Guess no one really looks up, and checks to see if a ball styled finial is still on the top of a flag pole. Of course not, who would?

Tony and I just looked at each other, and then up at the top of the flag pole, then back at one another and we smiled, and that was that.

Weeks later I remember seeing it in the trunk of his ’57 Chevy. It lay there along with the rest of the stuff he had in the trunk of his car. It looked like the head of a devoured enemy, a trophy kept in remembrance. Neither of us said a thing,

I wondered if he noticed it presence at all, I do not think so, as I did not notice a change in his demeanor. We went on about our business, as if it wasn’t there, who knows maybe it wasn’t.

Note: Tony and I did not see each other after we graduated from Sinton High. Tony and his folks moved to Portland. I had joined the Air Force to see what ‘Nam was really about. On one of my trips home I heard he had gotten married. Then few years later, and Sadly, I regret to say. I was shocked to heard of Tony passing.

From time to time, when I was on leave, and visiting my folks, I would drive by and look up at the ball less flag pole, and remembered that night. It strangely brought us closer together, making us even stronger friends.

I get the same kinda feelings when I think Vietnam. It was certainly wrong for us to do. But we did.

This friendship I have with Tony and its memories within the span of those few years of our lives, mostly hide in the lost shadows of my mind, but every now and again… they rise up to the surface. And I smile, as I remember him and those few individuals I can count on as true friends. He certainly is one of them, indeed.

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The Poppadillo Blog, is the blog page for the Texas Tortilla Factory website, and its stories have been written by Mike Vauthier, and Administratively Approved Authors.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

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