Every time I read my print edition replica of the Houston Chronicle online, I read where they’ve’ torn down something else from the great memories of my past. (The headline reference to “Old Coot” is a club I organized a few years back. Anyone either past retirement age and/or disenchanted with what young whippersnappers are doing to our world can be a member.)
Latest in the Sad Headline Category is the announcement that they knocked down the old Houston Club building. No, I didn’t belong to the club or any other such bastion of exclusivity but my first job upon graduation from college with that wonderful Journalism degree was as associate editor of a magazine for an association headquartered in that building.
Texas Industry was the magazine and the association was the then-Texas Manufacturers Association, an organization devoted primarily to the boosting of the manufacturing segment of Lone Star state business. It is today the Texas Association of Business and is located in Austin closer to the halls of state government.
TMA’s iron-fisted ruler in those days was Ed Burris, executive vice president of TMA, and who scared me because I listened to my boss, Opal Hill Munz (use all three names, please), Texas Industry’s very literate, stylish, dignified editor, but who could also swear with any gutter-mouthed sailor. Burris could be scary but no more so than Opal Hill Munz.
TMA and Texas Industry were both in the Houston Club Building (although thankfully on separate floors) which was good for the image but another important reason (perhaps equally so) was that our Houston regional director (meaning membership sales), Col. Bill Saffarans (U.S. Army, Ret.) could sit at a pinochle table in the club all day – playing and winning – and sell enough memberships to fund the association entirely. TMA had the state divided into six regions. That was the more lucrative times for the oil industry, primarily headquartered in Houston and the major reason for being there instead of Austin.
Opal Hill Munz and I shared an office suite with Col. Bill and his secretary.
Col. Bill was rarely in but he showered us regularly with some of the niceties of the club. He’d have the club send up a cart of coffee, rolls and pastries. And, once in a blue moon, he’d have them wheel in with lunch. Of course, Opal Hill Munz (all three names, remember) didn’t believe in lunch breaks or in leaving until well after 5 p.m. (our day started at 8 a.m.). All of that for 300 bucks a month. And, I had to wear a suit, tie, hat and carry an umbrella and brief case, per Opal Hill Munz’s orders.
We must be professional and dignified.
I’d been led to believe in some quarters in college journalism, that magazines were the ultimate. Of course, two years at the magazine, squirming under Opal Hill Munz’s glaring, drill-bit eyes, made me realize that country editing was what I was meant to be doing no matter what some higher education professors sang hallelujah about.
But, back to the Houston Club Building. There was no parking in the building available to lowly associate editors (not that I could afford it on $300 per month), so I parked a few blocks away in a cheap parking lot (no street parking and no free places). At least my new 1960 Morris Minor was economical gas-wise.
While Houston’s traffic in those days wouldn’t approach today’s rush hour(s) jams, it was nerve-wracking enough to this country boy. Thankfully, there were several good burger and sandwich places near the Houston Club Building because I couldn’t afford lunch there much less the club membership.
I’ve been disdainful of exclusivity ever since even though the days in that building did produce some good memories and great experience. And, one great outcome was that it sent me directly into the country editing business.
Willis Webb is a retired community newspaper editor-publisher of more than 50 years experience.
