By Mark Hendricks (Hillviews, 2011)
Glen Cleckler ’50 and his wife JoAnn ’52 sit at the base of the Iwo Jima statue in Harlingen. One of the Marines depicted in the statue is Harlon Block, Glen’s friend who died on the island in 1945.

    From time to time, Glen Cleckler, 87,  still visits his dear friend Harlon  Block. He stands respectfully beside  his gravesite. He may speak to  him quietly, with a trace of a smile  on his face, about the perils of growing old.  But, for the most part, Cleckler uses these  visits to remember.
    And on this sweltering  summer afternoon on the campus of the Marine  Military Academy in Harlingen, it is no  different. Cleckler looks down upon his old  friend’s resting place and remembers. The  memories come easily, perhaps because they  comprise a story that is so impossible to forget.  The two were best friends in high school in  the Rio Grande Valley town of Weslaco. They  were young, handsome, athletic, and popular –  teammates on a conference champion Weslaco  High football team. Both seemed destined to  play college ball. Cleckler, in fact, had a scholarship  offer to Howard Payne. 
    But one afternoon in the fall of their senior  year of high school (1942-43), Block had a mischievous  idea. It was an idea that would tip the  first domino and start a sequence of events with  consequences both tragic and heroic.
It would  also eventually solidify a friendship that still  lives, more than six decades after Block’s death.  “Harlon suggested that we skip school that  afternoon and go to a movie,” says Cleckler.  Cleckler was not keen on the idea at first.  He had been hoping for perfect attendance  that year. But Block was persistent, so Cleckler,  Block, and a third friend and teammate, Carl  Sims, piled into Block’s pickup and took off for  the theater. 

The Weslaco theater was out of the question  because the manager there was a big fan  of the local football team and would certainly  recognize the three truants. They eventually  ended up 18 miles away at a theater in Harlingen.  After the show, it occurred to Cleckler that  they would need an excuse for missing school  that afternoon, or they would face the principal’s  dreaded paddle.  “Right there by the theater, there was a  Marine Corps recruiting office,” says Cleckler,  and another life-changing idea was formed.  The recruiting officer there told the three to  come back after they finished high school, but  they picked up some recruiting brochures and  applications anyway and headed back to Weslaco. 

The next morning, they were  confronted by the principal, A.C.  Murphy, who had his paddle at  the ready.  “I said, ‘Don’t you want to see  why we were out of school?’” says  Cleckler. He showed the principal  the recruiting materials and  presented him with a filled-out  Marine Corps application.  “He said, ‘I have misjudged  you boys. When do you join?’ We  told him we would join as soon  as we could, and we escaped the  paddle,” Cleckler says.  Well, Cleckler, Block, and  Sims figured their enlistment  would come later that spring  after graduation, but about  three days later, Murphy came  back with a better idea.

He had  made arrangements for the  three to take their exams and  graduate early. Eventually, five  other fellow seniors and football teammates  joined them, and a special early graduation  ceremony was held in January for the eight  future Marines.  Cleckler was chosen to speak on behalf  of the group at the graduation assembly and,  to this day, he remembers that one-sentence  speech word-for-word. 

“I said, ‘Wherever we go, whatever we do,  we will always remember you in this place today,’”  says Cleckler.  They left for Marine Corps basic training in  San Diego shortly thereafter. Following boot  camp, Cleckler, Block, and the others went  their separate ways, assigned to separate Marine  Corps units in different parts of the Pacific  theater in World War II.  U.S. Naval operations during the Pacific  campaign were highly complex. There were construction projects, security details, and  battles to be fought in scores of locations with  names that most of the young Marines and seamen  had never heard of — places like Tarawa,  Kwajalein, Saipan, Guam, Tinian, and Peleliu.  For the most part, rank-and-file Marines did  not know exactly where they were going until  they got there. 

In late 1944 and early 1945, Cleckler was  on a troop transport harbored in Honolulu,  where he and other Marines awaited their  next departure for whatever destination lay  in store. One evening he boarded a transport  barge to go ashore for a night of liberty. On  the way to shore, he felt a tap on his shoulder.  He turned and came face-to-face with his old  friend, Harlon Block.  “Imagine, being out there in the middle  of the Pacific Ocean and running into my old  friend! That was quite a surprise,” says Cleckler.  Block’s unit was on a troop transport harbored  adjacent to Cleckler’s ship and both had  been granted liberty that evening, which led  to the chance encounter on the barge. They  spent the evening ashore talking about old  times, catching up, and speculating about  where they might go next. 

On the way back to their ships that evening,  Block removed a ring he was wearing and handed  it to Cleckler. It was a gold Marine Corps ring  he had bought after completing Marine paratrooper  training. He gave it to Cleckler.  “He told me to give it to his mother when  I got home. He said he wasn’t coming back. I  told him to go jump in the lake, but he wouldn’t  have any of that. Some guys just got that feeling.  So I took the ring,” says Cleckler.  They shipped out soon after. At the time,  they did not know their destination, but they  surmised they would be going to the same  place, and they were.

The Battle of Iwo Jima involved some of  the fiercest fighting of the war. American commanders  had estimated that the island could be  captured in three days. It took 36. During those  36 days, 6,800 American servicemen — the vast  majority Marines — were killed. More than  20,000 Japanese soldiers died in the battle.  On the fourth day of the battle, the Marines  secured the high point of the island,  Mount Suribachi.

Although the fight was far  from over, that event provided one of the most  iconic moments of World War II, when photographer  Joe Rosenthal snapped the Pulitzer  Prize-winning photograph of five Marines  and one Navy corpsman raising the American  flag on Mount Suribachi.  The Marine at the base of the flagpole,  pushing the pole into the ground, is Harlon  Block. Eight days after the flag-raising, Block  was killed by mortar fire. 

Cleckler survived Iwo Jima. He was rotated  back to the United States and assigned to a military  police unit at the Corpus Christi Naval  Base. He paid a visit to Block’s  mother and tried to give her  Harlon’s ring, but she did not  want it.  “She told me I should keep  it — that I’d been his best  friend. So I did,” says Cleckler.  Cleckler expected to be  recalled to the Pacific theater,  probably for what most  thought was the upcoming  invasion of Japan. But the  Japanese surrendered before  he shipped out.  Cleckler served out the  remainder of his enlistment  stateside and then went looking  for a college.

That football  scholarship offer to Howard  Payne was no longer on the table,  thanks to time and coaching  changes. He eventually decided  on Southwest Texas State  Teachers College, now Texas  State. He joined the Bobcat  football team, became a starting  center and linebacker and  was highly regarded as an allaround  athlete.  Cleckler graduated from  Texas State in 1950.

He returned  to the Rio Grande  Valley to Harlingen, where  he served more than three  decades as a coach, teacher, principal, and  family man. His wife, JoAnn Smith Cleckler  is a 1952 Texas State alumna. They still reside  in Harlingen. 

Their home is near the Marine Military  Academy in Harlingen, home to the largest  existing statue depicting the raising of the flag  on Mount Suribachi. It is, in fact, the original  working model prepared by the sculptor Felix  de Weldon that was used to cast the monument  that stands at Arlington National Cemetery.  At the base of the statue is an inscription  bearing the words of Fleet Adm. Chester Nimitz,  who said of the Marines on Iwo Jima, “Uncommon  valor was a common virtue.” 

A few feet from the statue is the gravesite of  Harlon Block. Originally interred at Weslaco,  his body was moved to the academy in Harlingen  in 1995 during the commemoration of the  50th anniversary of the battle.  And Block’s ring? Until last spring, Cleckler  wore it every day. Through his years as a Bobcat,  through his career as an educator, through  his life as a husband and father. But last year,  in a ceremony beside the monument and the  gravesite, Cleckler donated the ring to the Marine  Military Academy. It is on display at the  academy’s museum. 

On this day, Cleckler stands beside  Block’s grave. He has borrowed the ring  from its display case. He turns it over and  over in his hand, feeling the memories it  never fails to produce. 

“You know, I wanted to keep it, but I felt  this was better,” he says, looking at the monument  to his friend and his comrades in arms.  “It belongs here.” 

From: Mark Hendricks  
Date: Sun Oct 26, 2003  7:40:51  AM US/Central
To: Diana Finlay
Subject: It's early

It's still fairly early this morning, so I probably haven't mentioned yet how deeply in love with you I am. Probably have neglected to say that you are on a pedestal that cannot be shaken or overturned.
May have skipped my mind to tell you the passion you have brought to my life. But it's early. The time change has warped my sensibilities.
So I probably forgot to say that you make me feel like some kinda damn superman, someone who may not, but now desperately wants to live forever. May not have gotten around to asking you just why in the heck I deserve this.
But, if I do, I thank God.
And you.
As the day wears on, I suppose it'll dawn on me to tell you how your touch electrifies me, or calms me. And how you always seem to know which I need at that time.
I'm still just only awake, so I may not have shared with you how delightful it is to laugh with you. How much I love your sense of humor. How wonderful it feels to just laugh out loud again.
Have I told you yet today that you can make me cry? That I have tears in my eyes as I write this? Or how good that feels? Isn't it wonderful to know that tears can be caused by joy instead of pain?
So many things I haven't told you yet today.
But it's early.
So forgive me if I haven't mentioned that your eyes melt my heart. That they sparkle. That you're beautiful.
Have I ever told you that when I drive to your home, I start to feel kind of queasy and anxious the closer I get to you? Sort of like a high school kid on his way to a big date. And then when you answer your door, you wrap me in comfort, and the anxiety is only a distant memory.
It's still early, so I may not have mentioned that there's a small conch shell on my dresser that I'm going to move back to my car today. Because I never notice it on my dresser. But when it was in my car, I couldn't miss it. And when I see it, I think of you.
And I may not have told you yet today what a good thing that is.
But it's early.
And I love you.

By Mark Hendricks  (Hillviews, 2003)

         If you ever knew Jim Wacker, picture him in your mind’s eye for a moment. He’s smiling, isn’t he?
    Jim Wacker strode through life smiling.
    The legendary football coach who led the Bobcats to back-to-back NCAA Division II national championships in 1981 and 1982, died Aug. 26 at the age of 66 after a lengthy, courageous and often inspirational battle against cancer.
    Wacker coached the Bobcats from 1979 to 1982. His 42-8 record in that span is the highest winning percentage in school history. He also had collegiate head coaching jobs at Texas Lutheran (where he won consecutive NAIA national championships in 1974 and 1975), North Dakota State University, TCU and the University of Minnesota. He returned to Texas State to serve as director of athletics from 1998 to 2001.
    Although he won four national championships and virtually every national coaching award offered, the defining moment of Wacker’s career may have come while he was at TCU when he self-reported several NCAA violations that had occurred at the school before he arrived. That led to the most severe penalties ever imposed by the NCAA and set the TCU football program on its heels. Wacker stayed at TCU and eventually rebuilt the team into a winner again. The incident forever branded Wacker as a coach – and a man – of impeccable integrity.
    When she learned of his death, Texas State President Denise Trauth said, “Jim Wacker was an important part of the history of this university, but he was also so much more. He embodied our spirit and our enthusiasm. He was an inspirational leader not only to the players who played for him, but for all of us. He touched so many lives.”
    The measure of how many lives Wacker touched was demonstrated on Aug. 29 when his funeral service was held in Evans Auditorium on campus. So many former players, family members, colleagues and friends attended that the event was standing-room-only. Attendees were asked to park at Aquarena Center and rode shuttle buses to the service.
    The Rev. Roland Martinson conducted the funeral service and spoke of Wacker’s infectious enthusiasm.
    “Can you hear him?” Martinson asked. “Booming voice. Hearty laugh. He always spoke the way he walked. Can you hear him? Unbelieeeeevable! Amaaaaazing! You’ve GOT to be kidding! Some thought, ‘Was he for real?’”
    Oh, yes, Coach Wacker was for real. Measure the man by what was said of him on that day we remembered him. Measure him by the column inches devoted to his legend and the quotes from those who revered him.

(Written on the occasion of DeLynn's 18th Birthday)
OK, DeLynn: You tell me – where the heck have the past 18 years gone?
    When I wrote what was, until now, the last chapter of Father’s Forum back on July 18, 1984, you were only a few hours old.
    We were all still afraid of the Soviet Union and tormented by the presence of the Berlin Wall.
    We didn’t care about Saddam Hussein, and had never heard of Osama bin Laden. There were still Twin Towers in New York City.
    We had cassettes and videotapes instead of CDs and DVDs.
    Waylon was still with us, and I had no idea what he meant when he sang, “I look in the mirror in total surprise, at the hair on my shoulders and the age in my eyes.”
    But I do now, durnit.
    We still had Traveler, a good ol’ dog who took you into his heart the day you came home.
    And we hadn’t even considered your brother, a kid who stole your heart the day he came home. Admit it, he did.
    We still had Papa, and Grandmother, and Pappy and Gee-Gee, who all loved you very much.
    Your Mom and I still had each other, and still thought we always would. Regardless of all that’s happened with that, because of you and Patrick, your Mom and I will always still have each other in some form or fashion. And that’s a good thing.
    Some things change. You’ve learned that.
    Some things don’t. You’ll learn that.
    You will probably also learn that those things that change are the things that bring us joy, entertainment, sadness and heartache. They bring us ecstasy, and they bring us misery. We need all those things in life. If we’re lucky, we’ll get our share, and not too much more.
    And you’ll probably also learn that those things that don’t change are the things that bring stability to our lives. They’re the things that guide us in the right direction, signposts that tell us we’re headed where we need to be going, or warn that we’re veering from the course. They allow us to become what we should be.
    They are things like the love of a parent for a child. The knowledge that there is a God and a bigger picture. The certainty that we fit in that picture somewhere. The security of knowing that if we experience the change, but are guided by the unchanging, that we stand a chance of finding our fit in that picture before it’s too late.
    Remember, DeLynn, that God gives us gifts. But also remember that a gift is not just something you get, it’s also something you give.
    You were the first of the two great gifts in my life. (Yep, that brother of yours was the second.) Today, your 18th birthday, the law says you’re an adult. The law says it’s time for you to be responsible for yourself. Silly law, that one.
The law says it’s time for me to give back the gift I received 18 years ago.
    It’s a funny thing about gifts, though. It’s something I’ve learned over the years, and something you’ll no doubt come to learn as well. The less consequential gifts in our lives, we can give and never see again. We never really miss them.
 But the ones that really count, the ones hand-made by God, we can never completely give away. We give them, we share them, but regardless of silly man-made conventions like laws, we always get to keep them, too.
    So today your Mom and I can give you one of the two neatest gifts we’ve ever received. And it’s also one of the neatest gifts we’ve ever given. Remember, though, that because it’s one of God’s gifts, we can never give it away completely. We get to keep it, too.
    It’s you.
    And it’s very precious. Please take care of it.
    Dad
  

By Mark  Hendricks
    Patrick’s was a good team that year. Three or four star players. Several more who, like Patrick, were solid, steady and took well to good coaching. The brightest star on the team was Kevin. He could play any position. His glove was a vacuum cleaner on defense. On the mound, he threw nothing but strikes. He was a terrific hitter with a beautiful swing. And on the base paths, he was simply the fastest kid in the city. Kevin won ballgames for us that year. Several, in fact.
    Kevin had only one bad game all year. That was the same night Patrick had perhaps his best game ever. Patrick’s stars were aligned that night. The kid was everywhere. He was playing first and there were two on and two out. The batter hit a screaming liner well over his head, but ol’ Patrick’s cleats musta had wings that night. Michael Jordan in his prime may not have been able to get up for that ball, but, somehow, Patrick did. When he came down, he looked in his glove in disbelief. The ball was there. On the way to the dugout, his teammates whacked his butt, punched his shoulder, smacked the back of his head.
Jeez, it must hurt to be a star, I thought.
    But it was joy on Patrick’s face, not pain. He had a good night with the bat, too. Scored a couple runs, drove in three more.   
    But Kevin had not been Kevin that evening. Absent-minded from the start, he’d made two errors at shortstop, had been hitless at the plate and, when called on as a relief pitcher, had given up the go-ahead run. In the end, though, the game was in his hands, and his teammates and all us parents wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. Bottom of the last. Down one run. Two out. Runners at second and third. Patrick representing the winning run at second. Kevin at bat, a swing away from redemption.
    He struck out on three pitches.
    At the end of all games, Coach Phil took his boys down the baseline into the outfield where they all sat in the grass and listened as he nurtured the seeds of their memories. We parents, too, had taken to strolling toward the outfield after games. You didn’t have to be a kid to learn from Coach Phil.
    That evening was business as usual. Phil didn’t talk about the game. Didn’t mention the loss.
    “Is this a beautiful night or what? Take it in, guys. Look at each other. Remember those faces. Remember those names. Smell the grass. Appreciate the feel of the leather on your hand, the sting in your wrist when you make good bat contact. That’s what this is about, guys. And that’s what you’re going to remember when you’re old like me. Because those are the things that matter. And someday, you’ll know I’m right. I am so proud of all of you.”   
    As we made the long walk from the fields to the parking lot, Patrick and I talked about the game and his performance that night.
    “You played one heckuva game tonight, buddy. That’s the best I’ve ever seen you play,” I told him.
    “Thanks,” he said, and smiled.
    “But what was with Kevin tonight? He seemed completely out of it.”
    “He told me he had a problem with his dad earlier today,” Patrick said.
    “A problem with his dad? What do you mean?”
    “Kevin’s dad can be mean. Sometimes he can be real mean. I think he was real mean today,” said Patrick.
    “Oh.” What the hell could I say? For the first time, it occurred to me I had never seen Kevin’s dad at one of his kid’s ballgames.
    We walked in silence for a moment and then Patrick said, “I’m glad I don’t have a dad like that.”
    With my right hand, I reached around him and cupped his shoulder. With my left, I lifted my glasses and dabbed the moisture from my eye. And we walked across the parking lot together on a warm South Texas evening. Father and son. A couple of guys. Each an individual – and indispensable – part of us.
    And his cleats clashed on the pavement.