Bowed Heads, Raised Flags, Noon Sirens and Church Bells

In the half decade of 1958 to 1963 I lived in the small south Texas town of Pharr. It was a transportation hub where east-west artery Highway 83 intersected with north-south Highway 281 just 10 miles north of Mexico in the Rio Grande Valley. Thousands of palm trees planted at the turn of the century lined the streets. Vast orchards of oranges, grapefruit, lemons and tangerines wafted their fragrant blossoms in the spring. Fields of every variety of vegetables and melons filled the surrounding country side. Flooded irrigation from miles of canals kept what was otherwise desert green. The landscape was colorfully tropical and wildlife thrived in the ribbon of land along the Rio Grande River. A hundred miles of dense mesquite brush surrounded our oasis.

The residents were majority Hispanic with long histories in south Texas and northern Mexico. Years before Anglos had been lured by developers touting investment in cheap land in a tropical paradise. Northern farmers arrived in force. Later the oil and gas industry brought another wave of families to the Valley—mine came in 1958 when United Gas began operations in the prolific Hidalgo Gas Field.

There are too many details to recant from my 8-13 year old boy Pharr memories, but there are few things that lodge in my recollections of Americana at work—some of which are lost to me now in the city.

The first is the commonality of bowed heads. My family would pray a blessing at every meal and the same thing would happen when I visited friends. There was a prayer at the start of class at school. Every sport team recited the Lord’s Prayer. Prayer was frequent and long at First Baptist Church. There was an invocation at Kiwanis and Lion’s Club meetings and at games at Bear Stadium. Prayer was an wholesome part of the cultural routine.

American and Texas flags were everywhere. Every school day and public ceremony began with a pledge to the flag. In scouts we were taught to respect the flag, how to display it, hold to fold it and how to retire it. We learned our national history and proudly joined our parents in frequent singing of our national anthem. The later 1960’s anti-war days were yet to come.

If there was a constant in Pharr it was the noon siren. Every workday the shrill blast reminded us it was mid day and time for lunch. The purpose of the drill was to have a means of warning the population of danger and summoning emergency responders to action. Fires, wrecks and storms were announced by loud speakers scattered around town on tall poles. There was a contrast between the daily noon ritual and a concern raising shriek that interrupted the routine to report a crisis. I remember the siren blaring when a teenaged friend was killed in a car wreck, when a child drowned a few blocks from my house and when a packing shed went up in smoke. The noise was part of who we were. We noticed if it failed to go off and made inquiry when it sounded beyond noon.

And finally, what better symbol of small town life is there than the sound of the pealing of church bells? You cannot help but feel better as the hour is clanged or a familiar hymn is shared across the neighborhood. The practice gave a sense of peace and culture that made even a small boy more at ease. I still remember how my mother would smile when the ringing began and we would share a moment to appreciate the gift of music shared with our neighbors. So simple. So rewarding. A good memory.