Allen Earl Vinson
from an email
April 20, 2006

I am an 82-year old retired East Texas broadcaster. For over 40 years, I worked in Lufkin, Longview, Palestine, Jacksonville, Tyler, Midland, and Atlanta, all in Texas. Later was sales manager of Southwest CATV, serving fourteen towns in the Texas Valley. I now reside in my hometown, Lufkin. After retirement, I worked ten years in the Burke Center, a state MH/MR facility. The perfect end for a career in broadcasting.
Al Vinson
1812 Southwood Drive
Lufkin, Texas 75904
E-mail: radioalv@consolidated.net

My cousin, Melvin Vinson, retired in Dallas, TX.

This story, from my memory, is dedicated to my cousin, Mary Emily Lloyd (photo right), who lost her life in the New London School explosion in 1937.

It was spring, 1937, and I was on my bike, delivering papers in Southwest Lufkin. I had just finished delivery , and circled over to South First Street, when I saw an unusual sight.

At that time, the two lane Highway 59 from Houston traveled directly through downtown Lufkin on First Street. It continued north to Nacogdoches, Henderson and other points.

As I approached South First Street, I noticed several ambulances painted olive green travelling north. I thought perhaps it was part of an army convoy, but that seemed out of place in 1937, especially so early in the year. Several panel trucks came through with the Red Cross symbol on their doors. It was the middle of March, and the convoys were expected early in the summer. Once a year, large Army convoys came through the city enroute to Palacios, on the Texas coast, for summer maneuvers. This was always publicized in advance, and large crowds would turn out to see the trucks, tanks and fatigue-clad soldiers.

But on this day, the ambulances came through without escort and in a fairly irregular pattern. Nothing really spectacular about it, just not routine, but definitely noticeable on Lufkin's main thoroughfare. Then occasionally, I saw funeral home hearses in the line of traffic.

I returned home, before I found an explanation for the strange parade. My dad was home at 4:30 PM, and that was most unusual. He worked twelve hour days. Dad explained that a terrible thing had taken place at the New London school, and that he and my mother were going there to be with them. When I told him that I had seen Army ambulances on First Street, heading north, he said people from all directions were going to London to help. I went inside to stay with my brother and grandmother, as dad drove away at high speed. That, too, had never happened before.

We were not to hear from Mother and Dad until late the following night. I remember, as soon as I went inside the house, after they drove away, I tuned the radio to 820 kilocycles. That was the magic number in this area for news. It was WFAA, a clear channel radio station that offered remarkable coverage. Since very few stations were on the air in 1937, WFAA had an excellent signal in Lufkin. The instant the tubes were warm in the set, the news was on, without interruption. We heard the news of a devastating explosion at New London High School, with early reports of many dead and injured. The scene of destruction was being described by newscasters in Dallas throughout the night. They didn't have mobile units, satellite trucks or two- way radios in that era. Most of the reports were on-the-scene descriptions called in by reporters on the telephone. These calls were made from pay phones near the scene, and were occasionally interrupted by an operator asking the reporter to please deposit more money. Although the reporters were hard to hear clearly on these long distance calls, they left no doubt that massive destruction was being observed. At home, we began to really have concerns.

My grandparents, R. J. (Bob) and Musia Vinson, lived on what had been a farm, just four miles from the New London community and school complex. I say "had been a farm" because the farm had become an oil field. Over twenty wells had been drilled on the homeplace, and that left little room for a farming operation.

One of Dad's sisters, Annie Lloyd, had a daughter and son in school in New London. Aunt Annie and her husband, Emory Lloyd lived on a farm just a few miles from the Vinson place. The daughter, Mary Emily, was in high school and their son, Kenneth, was in the elementary school located maybe fifty yards north of the high school. Earlier, I called the school a "complex." Well, that it was. In those days, two buildings was a complex. Oil money had come to East Texas, and funded a brand new building for both the high school and the elementary programs.

The more news we heard that night, the worse things seemed to be. The count of children failing to return to their homes was now mounting. So often, when disaster occurs, the original reports seem to exaggerate the toll. But in this case, because New London was a small community without major medical facilities, the injured and deceased, were being carried, likely by those same ambulances and hearses I had seen that afternoon, to Tyler, Henderson, Longview, Gladewater, Kilgore and other surrounding towns.

Unknown to us at that time, my father, uncles and friends, were conducting a search for Mary Emily in hospitals, makeshift morgues and funeral homes. The search also continued at the scene as workers removed tons of debris. One blessing, Dad had four brothers and four sisters, and they formed a strong fortress of support . They suffered together, as well.

According to WFAA, the school had literally blown apart, leaving partial rooms open to the front, and only portions of the back wall and south wall standing. Concrete slabs bigger than a car had been blown free of the high school. Debris piled high on lower floor classrooms. Emergency workers, aided by oil field workers, were using heavy equipment to clear areas to be searched. Chaos reigned through the night, and the days and nights to follow, as these heroic men desperately searched the wreckage for victims.

The following night, Mother and Dad returned to Lufkin. It was obvious the news was bad. Mother took my younger brother and me to our room, and told us that they had found Mary Emily, and that she had died in the explosion. Dad didn't talk to us that night, but the following day he said we would all go to see Aunt Annie, Uncle Emory and Kenneth on Sunday. Kenneth, a student in the adjacent elementary school, had been in a classroom facing the high school, and while debris from the explosion came into his room, he was thankfully uninjured. Looking back now, I cannot say that any of that dear family was ever the same.

I saw the school building on Sunday, following a visit to the Lloyd home to pay our respects. Dad said he thought this should assure my brother and me that we had many blessings and should be thankful for our blessings and safety every day. We were overwhelmed with the loss of our dear Mary Emily, but I think I found a new way to look at life on that Sunday afternoon in New London. And in looking back to that scene, it definitely helped me accept some of the views of disaster I was to see later in life, in World War Two and in my own radio news coverage of disasters.

The New London story, by now, is known to all. That was sixty five years ago. The toll was nearly 300 killed and scores injured. The cause was a buildup of natural gas in the hollow tile walls of the school building, ignited by an electrical spark. It was after this horrible explosion that legislation was passed to add an odor to natural gas. This would let people detect the fumes when present.

The Neal family, who lived just up the pine covered red clay hill from my grandparents, lost a daughter. She was a teacher at New London. In accounts I heard then, she had complained of a headache most of the day, and about thirty minutes before classes were to end, she went across the highway to get a coke and aspirin from a small store. The men at the store said she had just reached for the door at the moment of the explosion.

Today there is a country church at Pleasant Hill. Not even a community any longer. And then there was a small cemetery, now large for a country place of rest. My family and I, attended Mary Emily Lloyd's funeral at Pleasant Hill cemetery a few days after the disaster.

Three or four family processions passed her grave as final rites were said. And because all funeral homes were totally overwhelmed, each family was responsible for carrying their loved ones to the cemetery. The coffins were transported in station wagons and pick-up trucks, and moved to the graveside on the shoulders of the pall bearers. In the evergreen pine thicket behind the church, a trumpeter played "Taps" after each service. Every time I pass that way, I can hear the mournful sound of that trumpet among the pines.

These are our cousins from his Mother's family (Hunt) and from the Vinson family.

The Hunts, Harringtons and Johnson are on the Hunt side.

The Barber, Maxwell and Lloyd are on the Vinson side.

Louise Maxwell
Henry Maxwell
Blondell Maxwell
Kenneth Johnson
Ruby Hunt
Mrs. Lena J.
Charles Hunt
Ollie Barber
Arden Barber
Mary Harrington
Betty Harrington