Tomatoes and Cotton

When I was around ten years old, I went with Butch Black and his folks one Sunday after church to a cannery near Bixby, Oklahoma where one of his brothers was working. They took me to the Patty Ann restaurant for lunch that day. It was the first time I had ever eaten in that Henryetta landmark of the 1950s and also the first time I had heard the term "Burger in a Basket". It was so good; one of the best hamburger and fries I have ever had.

When I hear the word Bixby, I think of two things. First is about that experience and the trip to the cannery. The other thing is that Bixby was the hometown of my old school friend, Ernie Perkins, at Chelsea after we moved there in 1960.

But I digress. Of the trip with the Black family, the memory of going into that cannery is something that is still vivid in my mind. I was impressed by the sweet aroma of the tomotoes, the sight of tomato peels everywhere, and large fields of crops around the Bixby area which is situated along the Arkansas River and within its flood plain.

Butch and I rode in the back of their old black Chevy pickup, probably a late 1940's model, the ones where you had to turn the ignition key then step on a big knob on the floor board to start the engine. Those old Chevy pickups had a unique smell in the cab and a distinct sound that was heard each time the brake pedal was released and flopped back up against the floor.

Mr. Black took all the gravel country back roads from their place on Wilson Road over to Bixby, driving very slowly along the way. He liked to look for scrap metal and other potentially valuable items along the road and in the ditches when he traveled. Whenever he would see something of interest, he would stop to take a look at it and would toss it into the pickup bed if he deemed it be worth a few cents at the junk yard. It seemed like a long trip to Bixby that day.

The Black family sometimes traveled to Modesto, CA during the harvest season and would pick friut to earn extra income. The one and only time I ever picked cotton was on one particular occasion when I spent the night with Butch. The rural schools would let the kids out of school for a few days each year during the cotton picking season. Those days were referred to as Cotton Pickin' Days. On the day we were to pick, we went to a field a little ways north of their house along the Wilson Road toward the Wilson community school and store. I didn't pick much cotton that morning, but got an introduction to the process and how it felt to drag one of those long cloth sacks with the strap slung over my shoulder.

Memories of Living In Henryetta

My very first memory is one of standing in the yard of our house on Wilson Road north of Henryetta, a small town in east central Oklahoma. It was a cool hazy or overcast morning probably in the fall or spring. There may have been a mist or fog in the air. The house sat up on a hill and from there I had a view to the East. In the distance I could hear the sounds of a train. I have a very special feeling about this memory. This is probably from the year 1951.

I have a few other vague memories from living on Wilson Road. I remember something about a water cistern. Dad and other relatives were working to clean it out or to repair it. I also recall standing up behind the front seat of our 1948 Kaiser and singing "Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam" with my sisters as our family drove into town for church on a Sunday morning.

When the family decided to move back into town in 1951, I recall going to look at the house we were going to buy at 701 W. Jefferson. It was in the evening, probably after Dad got off work at Tiger’s Garage, and it was dark by the time we finished looking and visiting with the Guynes family. I remember running around the yard after dark. Their son Larry had a neat toy gun that shot plastic balls about the size of a baseball.

The driveway of our place on Jefferson Street had two or three shade trees and under the corner tree was a sandy dirt area that was great for playing with toy cars. I spent a lot of time outdoors playing with neighbor kids. The neighborhood around the South 7th Street and West Jefferson Street area was an interesting place for a boy to grow up. Some of the boys in that area who were my age were my cousin Bobby (Robert Middleton), Joe Simpson, Jimmy Ray Nail and his cousins, and Alfred Andrew Moore. I know Alfred’s middle name was Andrew because I could often hear his mother calling him from the back door of their house about a block away.

Not too many years after we moved in, Dad bought a single car garage with a loft and utility room on the back and had it moved onto our property about fifteen to twenty feet west of the house and slightly to the right of the existing dirt driveway. He bought it from Bryan Tiger, the owner of Tiger’s Garage where Dad worked. I recall the day when some young men from the Long Bell Lumber Yard delivered sand, cement, gravel, and some other materials to our house for Dad to use in building a foundation for the garage. They drove a Ford truck and the smell of the materials and the sight and sounds of the truck and young men who delivered the stuff is still vivid in my memory.

The memories of Dad working at Tiger’s Garage are an important part of my young life in Henryetta. Dad often worked at night to complete jobs before payday. He would take me with him and I got to see and experience a lot of automotive stuff from an early age and at the same time get all dirty and greasy. Dad would clean up my hands and knees with Go Jo cleaner and have me sit on his lap and pretend to drive on the way home late at night. I always thought he wanted me to be with him and learn about auto mechanics at a young age, but looking back now with a different perspective I am sure that my Mom insisted that he take me with him for two primary reasons: 1.) Because I was about to drive her and my sisters crazy at home. and 2.) Because she didn’t like Dad being out alone at night.

An interesting and risky area to explore was the abandoned Texaco oil tank farm west of the KO&G Railroad tracks which bordered the west side of our small acreage on Jefferson Street. The tanks were removed shortly after we moved to that place but the rim dikes and pools of black crude oil sludge were left behind creating both safety and environmental hazards. But this was an interesting place to play. Beyond the tank farm, and a little to the northwest, was an area known as Hobo Jungle. Apparently there were hobos or transient people who sometimes lived in this area between the KO&G and Frisco tracks.

The railroad tracks themselves were another place where my cousin Bobby and I spent a lot of time exploring and walking. The tracks were the quickest way to walk to town and also the best way for us to get to the Henryetta golf course on foot. Walking toward town, there was a trestle which seemed like a very large and frightening thing to cross as a kid. It crossed over Coal Creek where there was a good swimming area to the west and a falls directly below known as Seven Falls. We would always look carefully in both directions before starting across the trestle. Then, all the way across the trestle, I would feel the dreadful fear of being run over by a train. We would usually talk about what we would do if a train came upon us while we were on the bridge. We generally agreed that we would try to get down on the supports along the side and hang on tight rather than jump off.

However, without a doubt, the most interesting and memorable area to explore was the area we called Kraft’s pasture. It was the pasture for a dairy herd of the Kraft family who had an active dairy farm and a relatively nice home a few blocks south of us along 7th Street. Their home site east of the tracks included a small dairy products facility down a narrow driveway past their house where my family often drove to buy milk. Their pasture was an area of maybe 160 acres west of the KO&G tracks and south of the abandoned tank farm site. Along the eastern two thirds of that land was a very nice pasture with a maze of cow trails meandering through it. The western portion of the property was a paradise for young boys in the area. Coal creek separated the pasture land from rugged wooded hills to the west. This area provided a wide range of terrain and natural interests for us. The creek had a nice pool like area which had developed in a bend. This is where I learned to swim. In the early summer the pool was full with water flowing through it but by August the flow decreased and the pool would become stagnant and not a good place to swim. It was not unusual for us to see cotton mouth snakes in the creek. A little further downstream was a very steep washed out bank on the west side of the creek. In 1957, it seemed pretty big and we called it “The Cliff”. It was probably not more the ten feet high but to us it was a lot of fun to try to climb up the face of it without sliding back down.

Music has always been a very important part of my life. Not performing it or playing any musical instrument, but just hearing music and singing along was always so powerful in me. Geraldine liked to listen to music on the radio at home and I have so many memories of the popular songs from the mid-1950s to 1960 that I heard there in the living room of our home in Henryetta.

I attended Roosevelt Elementary School all six elementary years from 1953 to 1959. Walking to school was an outdoor adventure. We would walk across a field where a spring was located in an old abandoned brick or rock building. I think the spring was known as Gilliam Spring. The path took us through the field and across a small creek. We crossed about four barbed wire fences along the way. Along the path at a bend of this creek was a large tree. The flood waters of the creek had washed away some of the soil under the tree creating a tunnel. The tunnel was a great place to play.

Some of my friends at Roosevelt were Jimmy Tarwater, Marilyn Bissett, Joyce Dudley, Darlene Childress, Beverly Bevan, Gary Merryman, Phil Hayes, Gail Hamilton, James Duty, Tommy Langwell, Jimmy Alston, Jimmy Sheperd Francis Crunk, and Bobby Lockery.

In 1957, the Cushman Highlander motor scooter was a very popular item for young boys my age. It seems that Jimmy, Gary, Phil, and Bobby each had one. I wanted one so bad but of course it was not something my family could afford and probably Dad would not have allowed me to have even if they could. But Jimmy was a very generous friend and would take me with him all around town on the back of his Highlander. A lot of our time was spent searching for empty pop bottles along the roads so we could return them for the deposit and use the money to buy gasoline for the scooter. Jimmy was one of the few people I knew who attended our church. His mom, Juanita was always nice to me and their home was very clean and nice. It always smelled so good when I would go in there with him. He had an older sister, Rusty, who married young and she and her mom would take Jimmy and me to the skating rink to drop us off and pick us up later. I recall that my mom bought me a cool looking black and white shirt and matching slacks and I thought I looked real good in 1957. Also, Jimmy’s grandmother, Mrs. Westfall, lived near our church and Jimmy and I would often go to her house. She was blind and her little house always seemed very dark inside, but also smelled nice. She had bread in a breadbox and that was the first time I had ever heard of bread being kept in a box. Dad talked a lot about her husband who was deceased at this time. Mr. Westfall was a good carpenter and Dad learned a lot about carpentry and building when he helped Mr. Westfall and others build the new addition to our church in the late 1940’s.

Also, Jimmy’s Dad had a plumbing business in town, Fretwell’s. Jimmy and I would stop in there at times and I was always impressed when his Dad would pull out a wad of money from his pocket with a rubber band around it and peel off a dollar or two for Jimmy.

I usually rode around town on my bicycle and often stopped in at Progressive Chevrolet where Dad worked from 1956 to 1960. He always seemed proud of me and would introduce me to people there. Once I recall seeing World Champion Cowboy Jim Shoulders in the showroom of the dealership. He was friends with the owner, Red Holmes and did a lot of business there. I recall going there with Dad one night and watching him prepare a new 1957 Chevrolet for delivery just at the time when they were being shown. Each September was a very special time of anticipation and secrecy as people awaited the day when new car models would be shown.

Jimmy Tarwater and I used to spend some time at Joyce Dudley’s and Marilyn Bissett’s houses. They taught us how to dance in Joyce’s garage and in Marilyn’s living room. They would play Elvis records and now whenever I hear an Elvis song it takes me back to those times when Jimmy and I were with Marilyn and Joyce. We were only grade school age but all seemed to have good innocent fun together as boys and girls. It was a time of flirtation and infatuation.

Also in grade school, I seemed to get into to fights. I think I must have been a little out-spoken or smart-alleck, but not too much so. Anyway, I somehow attracted the attention of bullies and others who liked to start fights. I think some of the other boys, like Jimmy, would somehow provoke these things. The first incident occurred in first grade when the smallest kid in the class, Donald Jones, punched me in the stomach and knocked the breath out of me. I just cried and did nothing. When I told Dad about this, he was not happy with my response and told me next time to fight back.

In about the fourth or fifth grade, I began to have on-going trouble with a kid named Kenny Powders. I have no idea why, but he would walk along with me after school and want to fight. There were several times when we would fight each other, punching and wrestling around. The worst time was one day when Kenny and I ended up alone in Jimmy Tarwater’s grandmother’s backyard. We fought and at one point I felt like I would finally defeat him and he might leave me alone. But Kenny was such a tough and determined kid and would not give up. I was so tired and wanting to quit and so he got the better of me. Just at that time Mom appeared and I got in the car and went home with her.

There were other problems with guys in Junior High too. Wesley Howard wanted to fight me one day and I recall just telling him I didn’t want to fight and so he really had a great time taunting me. Also, there was this tough kid named Jimmy Smithy who could take out his two front teeth and looked pretty mean. One day he confronted me in 7th grade class because I had shoved his little friend, Donald Jones (yes the one from first grade). Anyway he told me he would be waiting for me after school and would beat me up. Somehow my escape plan worked and I was able to get away from school without seeing him. Soon after that he moved back to California and I was so glad.

Another conflict developed when I was at a high school football game in the fall of 1959. I was sitting up on the top row looking down at people below and apparently someone else spit on them. This kid a year or two older than me (one of the Harjo boys, maybe Larry) thought I did it so he came up there and called me out and wanted to fight. Fortunately, a couple of older boys who knew Geraldine and Joe intervened and prevented me from being hurt. However, the rest of the school year, when this guy would meet me in the hall, between classes, he would punch me hard on the arm.

The school year of 1959-1960 was my last year to live in Henryetta and Okmulgee County. That was my first year in junior high where students from six small elementary schools came together in one larger school. It was during this school year that several girls talked me into inviting a girl to the junior high prom in the spring of 1960. The girl was Linda Radebaugh. I remember my parents taking me out to pick her up in a 1948 Cadillac that dad had acquired in some kind of trade. It was a little embarrassing and awkward but ended up being a fun time and a good memory. The event was held in the Teen Town place which was located in the top floor of a two story building which housed a couple of businesses on the ground floor, including Tiger’s Garage where dad had worked until 1956. The theme of the prom was Hawaiian. We all received a lei upon entering the prom. I recall the smell of strong perfume and sitting around the edge of the dance floor most of the evening but also slow dancing a couple of times. Several of us ended up at the Patty Ann café one block north. I think her parents picked us up and dropped me off at home. I kept the lei in my room for years afterward as a reminder of that first prom date.

In the summer of 1960, probably at the end of the school, there was a party that I will always remember. One of the girls from my Roosevelt class had a birthday party followed by a great hay ride that evening after dark. This was one of the greatest times of my early experiences of being in physical contact with girls in a sensual or romantic way. I remember being very close with a couple of girls on the ride and then later in the girl’s backyard several of us guys and girls ended up wrestling and rolling around in the grass. It was a very flirtatious and exciting time.

In the winter of 1960, a Chevrolet dealer passed through Henryetta and stopped by Progressive Chevrolet. His name was Boyd Perkins, owner of Perkins Chevrolet in Chelsea, Oklahoma. He was looking for a mechanic to work in his dealership and would guarantee a minimum of $75.00 per week to the person he selected for this position.

At that time, things had not been going well in Henryetta and the two primary employers, Eagle Picher Smelter and the Pittsburgh Glass Plant, had layed off many of their workers. Henryetta is a small town originally prospering in the coal mining and oil field booms of the early 1900’s.

But because of the economic downturn that winter, Dad, a 40 year old mechanic with one eye and five children was intrigued by the idea of a minimum weekly salary of $75.00 and the potential to make much more. On a recent payday, he had received only $45.00 net pay. This created the need for a change; and soon.

So, in February, 1960, after several smaller than expected paychecks, Dad decided to drive up to Chelsea and talk to the dealer who had stopped by that cold winter day when work had been scarce. Being a good family man, he took mom and the three younger kids along.

The drive to Chelsea had its moments of excitement as the family drove through Tulsa, a big city in comparison to Henryetta. But heading north out of Claremore on Route 66, the terrain and the winter climate made for a desolate and unappealing scene, even for folks accustomed to Oklahoma winters.

Later that year, we moved to Chelsea just in time to begin the new school year. On the day we moved, all of our local relatives came to see us off. That was my first memory of Uncle Wayne being at our house. We briefly left my dog, Champ, a mix of Boxer and Collie, with Uncle Wayne but later took him up to Chelsea with us.

Over the years we have made many trips back to Henryetta to visit. I still enjoy driving around the town to reminisce when I am traveling through the area.

Other Paths and Other Vines

You know, I never did go to that area along the path except for that one time. But I have heard that the area to the right of the path was a great place to explore. Such an interesting place for kids to play in those days.

I am familiar with another path near the Kelley's place where an old foot bridge crossed the creek by their yard. I always thought their yard was so interesting with the different elevations, trees and the creek running through there. One morning, I was riding my bike to school and crossing the bridge when I hit my foot on the frame of the bridge. That sure did hurt. I think the bridge was made of pipe or angle iron and I sure smacked my toe. But what a picturesque trail and setting that was for a kid to go through to get to school.

Just to the north of the Kelley's place I think was their grandparents house with a horse barn and a team of work horses in it. One of my favorite memories is how good I always thought the barn smelled when I would walk past it. There was something special about the hay, the harnesses, and those horses that I loved.

Most of the time, my cousin Bobby and I would walk to school along May Street from his house at 1211 South 7th after watching TV, probably Captain Kangaroo, in the morning. For quite a few years they had a TV and we didn't.

But we would walk along May Street to 6th Street where May Street temporarily ended. There we would climb through a fence and walk down to cross the creek and up an embankment along the south end of the Johnson's place. There wasn't usually anything in the field and we just had a path along the property line that took us back to May Street at 4th.

That was my main route to school in good weather during my years at Roosevelt and I have so many memories and stories that come to mind about the sights, sounds, and experiences in that area. I never did explore the wooded area near the path close to Bobby Lochery's house but did enjoy a lot of time along this other path and in the area known as Gilliam Springs. There was a rock or brick building there along 6th Street between May and Jefferson where an actual spring was developed and apparently used some years before I lived there. But by the 1950s, it had been damaged by neglect and vandalism to where it was just a smelly place but yet an exciting place to go as a kid; just a block from my house.

I used to enjoy swinging on the vines that hung down from trees along the creek. Those were fun. A few years ago, I was cutting away some bushes and vines that were growing in our yard along the edge of the pond where people from the neighborhood can walk along a path between our fence and Hidden View Pond. This young little red haired freckle faced girl, about 7 years old, came along and asked me to please not cut down the large wooden vine hanging down from one of the pine trees. She said that she and her friends loved to swing on it. Talk about something that took me back in time. That really did it. I assured her that I would leave it there.

An Interesting Path on a Cushman Eagle

This morning, as I sat out on the patio by the pool having a cup of coffee and watching the hummingbirds, I thought about the Labor Day Parade in Henryetta and wondered if it is still the big event it always was when I was a kid. For me and my family, it was one of the most exciting days of the year. Always ended up at the football stadium for fireworks.

Was also thinking about the neighborhood surrounding Roosevelt school. Probably the last time I rode with Jimmy Tarwater on one of his motor scooters was when we were in maybe in 7th grade. By then he had had two or more Cushman Eagles which were quite a step up from the Highlanders he started out riding in 3rd grade. He had a paper route in that part of town around Roosevelt and I rode along with him as he threw the papers one evening. I think it was in 1959, and I am pretty sure it was in the fall of the year when the days get shorter and the long shadows of late afternoon turn quickly to sunset and dusk. It was just getting dark enough that he had to turn on the lights of the Cushman Eagle.

The thing remember about that time was a very interesting path that he took to get from the L-shaped corner by Bobby Lochery's house on Dixie Street and on down toward Louise Street. I never knew the path existed but it gave him a shortcut way to some of his customers whose houses were up on a drive way or partial street just north of Louise. My recollection is a little fuzzy about the details. But for some reason, when I think about an interesting, out of the way, path, that scene often comes to mind.

However, looking at the location on Google Map Street View, it doesn't seem quite as interesting as the scene I have carried in my memory all these years, so I will keep the memory and not the more accurate street scene of today.

Roots of Religion According to Me

Life for some of us is like an assembly line where we build a complex network of thoughts based on education and experience. I have heard it said that knowledge combined with experience yields wisdom. Well, I am not real sure about that but it sounds pretty good. For what it's worth, the following is one component of the unfinished product rolling down my personal assembly line:

Roots of Religion

Religion originated in a world dominated by brutality, ignorance, and superstition. It was born of the natural human instinct to lead; the inner desire to elevate one's self above peers. It was perpetuated through the practice of exploitation and deceit by those of superior intellect and perpetrated against the less sophisticated.

These humble beginnings proved successful in a fertile climate of physical brutality and domination by the physically powerful while other, more cunning people of higher intellect and sophistication seized upon opportunity amid tragedy, disaster, and disease to convince sick, downtrodden, and grieving people that they, these perpetrators themselves, were 'chosen', and/or had the unique ability to discern messages from or to communicate with the creator, master, god, or almighty one.

As societies and nations developed, leaders found that the fears, superstitions, and uncertainties of the people along with the powerful sway of the church or supposed spiritual leaders were excellent mechanisms by which to both intimidate and placate the populous. By using religion in this way, those in power could better manipulate and exploit the masses behind a facade of righteousness while they themselves were exempt from or broke the very laws and rules by which the governed were bound and expected to live or else suffer the loss of their souls to “eternal damnation”; that sinister lie created by the perpetrators.

Earthly humanity, as we know it, is an integral part of everything else in our universe, obviously more highly developed intellectually, yet no more important. The most detrimental features of human endeavor are the mental barriers and misguided decision-making that exist because of the fraudulent influence of religion; The Greatest Lie, The Ultimate Deceit. It is the faulty assumption of our human mindset that we, our species, or each family, nation, sect, or other entity with which we identify, is somehow more important or holds a more special place of favor with "God" than any of the other people, places, or things that exist. This concept has facilitated theft of property and genocide throughout history and continues to do so as each group commits horrendous acts of crime and deprivation against others, all the while believing they are blessed in doing so by "their God".

The most difficult challenge for the future is to find the way to free ourselves from the illegitimate bindings of religion and move forward with great curiosity and the confidence that comes from knowing, as stated in Desiderata, that we "are a part of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars, we have a right to be here and whether or not it is clear to us, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should." Accept the mystery of our existence for now and know that we as a species are progressing in the development of wisdom and understanding.

Rejecting the lies of religion and seeking truth together can speed our development and enhance the experience of living.

Joshua 6, Verse 21

A couple of years ago, I received an email from a friend questioning my views on religion based on a conversation we had had about the events of 911. This was my reply:

Yes, the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, were very barbaric; such a waste. It is sad what fanatical thinking can do to people when they blindly follow others and refuse to validate their own beliefs against the vast evidence of history, including their own experiences.

I first discovered that Joshua verse, at about age 31, while reading a book I bought at the Woolworth store in Independence one day in 1978 when Judy and I went there for lunch while we were working at ARCO. The paperback book was a history of the bible based on archaeological discoveries in the holy land during the 19th and 20th centuries. Reading Joshua chapter 6, verse 21 (which immediately follows the story about the walls of Jericho tumbling down and is the basis for the sweet little children's song that we sang in Sunday school) was a critical turning point in my thinking about religion. I could not accept it being ok to have an entire community, including the elderly and little children, approved for slaughter so that another group of people could take over their homeland. That made no sense to me and was contrary to my religious views up to that point in my life. More recently, I googled the book of Joshua and found many other similar instances of God authorizing his "chosen" to kill entire communities so they could take another's land.

Here is a note I wrote to myself a few years ago about my reaction to Joshua 6:21...

"A major turning point in my attitude toward Christianity was my reading of Joshua 6:21. This verse is the culmination of a running dialog among God, Moses, and Joshua with the ultimate goal being the acquisition of the "Promised Land" by the Israelites. This reading made clear to me that the God of the Jewish heritage was and is simply a justifying mechanism for the most appalling crimes that one group of people can commit against another. It is interesting to observe that the present day Jewish community fails include this scripture within the context of Holocaust related discussions. I don't make this association to justify the Holocaust. The crimes committed by the German leaders against the Jewish people during WW II were punished to the fullest extent possible at the time. Those acts stand on their own historically and can never be justified."

And that being as it may, I believe not what I am told by some authority, dogma, or creed to believe, but I believe what I am compelled by my own conscience, life experiences, and understanding to believe. I don't pretend to know the answers of where we came from, where we are going, or what it is all about. Most of what I believe about religion is actually based on what I don't believe. That is the crucial test for me. I have bought a few used cars and encyclopedias in my time and have known a lot of different people. I have learned to often recognize deceit, deception, and insincerity when I hear it or see it. It is my sincere belief that the institutions of religion are based on nothing more than folklore and myth; creative storytellings by those who seek to entertain, dominate, or control others for their own prestige and gain. They can’t help it, it’s just the way they are.

But that is not an indictment of the nice groups of people who gather together in churches and enjoy each other's trust and support. The social and supportive aspects of church groups are great. It is the thin hard outer shell of lies, deceit, domination, and control that is the true evil of religion. If not for the Roman Catholic Church and subsequent others that followed, I imagine that air travel and other modern technologies would have emerged hundreds of years before they actually did. I believe their delay was due to the systematic prohibition and restriction of scientific learning, lethally enforced by the Church for centuries. Unfortunately science is discouraged and discredited to this day by religious leaders around the world.

Other than that, I think all people are about the same. Life and human existence are very complex and not a series of simple choices between right and wrong. Life is messy.

I am comfortable with my own views and respect the rights of others to believe as they feel appropriate.

I just try to get by day to day, generally meeting the expectations of family, employer, and society.

The Stoning of Stephen

It was a hot Sunday morning in July, 1959 at the First Church of God in Henryetta, Oklahoma. I was a 12 year-old sinner sitting in a front row pew, anxiously awaiting the alter call; that dreaded time at the end of each service when heart wrenching songs were sung in the most mournful guilt provoking tones. I had made up my mind that this was the day I would be “saved”. When the invitational hymn was sung that day I was determined that I would go forward to kneel at the altar and ask Jesus to forgive me of all the sins I had committed in my life and be saved from a torturous eternal burning in hell.

In my adolescent mind, my sins were great and numerous,like masturbation and thinking about all kinds of sexual things. Now at last my fear could be forgotten and I could go to sleep at night without worrying about what would happen if I should die an unexpected death. I was only a young boy, but inside I felt like a very sinful person.

The church had been a kind of second home for my family. My dad, Everett Middleton, was the Sunday School Superintendent and Treasurer of the church. But sitting there on the front row at church that Sunday, my heart was pounding faster and faster as the time for action approached. Reverend Sloan peered down from the podium and I felt as if I were the only person in the audience as he presented a compelling case for dying a martyr’s death. His sermon was on the stoning of Stephen, from the New Testament Book of Acts, chapter 7, verses 54 through 60.

What a horrible choice for a kid to make. I could suffer in hell for eternity or become a Christian and be expected to accept death by stoning at the hands of an angry crowd of non-believers with the promise of spending eternity in heaven, a blissful place where rejoicing goes on indefinitely around the clock throughout eternity.

How unfortunate that no one in my family had the courage or the wisdom to see through this bullshit called religion and expose it as being nothing more than a cruel perversion, the greatest of all sins. Instead, here I was, an innocent child functioning in the ways that I was designed to perform. I was born and sustained as a natural child, sensing and feeling life as most children have done throughout the relatively brief time of humanity.

What is the truth about the major religions of the world? How did all the lies and deceit begin? These are questions that I have come to ponder and think about increasingly as my life experiences have accumulated.

The Summer of 1958

I was one of the younger ones of all the Middleton family cousins of my generation. Only cousin Jane Ann Ridenhour, Paula Middleton and sister Elaine were younger than me. Besides, I was a skinny 100 pounds when I turned 11 years old in May, 1958. The rest of the cousins were bigger and older and seemed to be more serious minded, athletic, outdoor hunting and fishing types, or perhaps wiser and tougher than I felt. In addition to those perceived weaknesses in my status, I was the only boy in my household and had to attend church more than the other cousins, because, during that time in my family’s life, Dad, Mom, and the older sisters were seen as more devout Christian people while many of the other relatives, although reverent and church going people, for the most part, seemed to have somewhat more adventurous or worldly qualities than Everett’s family. Generally, our Christian aura was seen as a wonderful thing by my aunts, but to a kid who was not yet very masculine or tough, the expectation of especially good Christian behavior on my part only added to my feelings of inferiority.

When the Ridenhour family visited us in Henryetta, they would tell about all kinds of interesting things they did down in Southeast Oklahoma near a place with an interesting name; Antlers. They talked colorfully about coon hunting, camping and fishing on the Kiamichi River, and working on the farm doing things like chopping firewood, hauling hay, and other chores.

The Ridenhour boys, Butch and Sam, were strong, rugged guys who later played college and semi-pro football. So that summer, when I attended a family reunion at the Ridenhour place with my folks, the idea got to being discussed about me staying for the summer and working with Butch and Sam. It would be a very good experience for me to work hard and earn some money hauling hay with them. I was excited about the idea on that Sunday afternoon as Mom, Dad, and the sisters piled into the family car and headed back to Henryetta, about 120 miles up U.S. Highway 75 through Atoka, Coalgate, Calvin, Wetumka, and Weleetka. That was a pretty long drive in those days in a 1952 Chevrolet Deluxe four door sedan with six or seven passengers and no air conditioner. It was many years later that it occurred to me what a nice feeling it must have been for Mom and the sisters as they traveled back up that scenic highway knowing they were going to enjoy their “first ever” break from the constant nuisance that I must have been.

One of the more prominent things that intrigued me about Aunt Letha’s family was her husband, my Uncle Tom. My first memory of riding in a truck and eating in a truck stop type of café goes back to a time when I was about four years old. Uncle Tom was a tall angular man who worked at many independent endeavors. In the time around 1952, he was cutting, gathering, and hauling stone from areas around Henryetta and must have visited or stayed at our house at some point. For whatever reason, he took me for a ride in his truck one night. Dad may have been with us but my memory only has Uncle Tom and me in the truck going into town to a diner on West Main Street in Henryetta. Who knows, maybe it was just a kid’s imagination, but I have always had that image in my head as one of my favorite memories from my very early childhood in Henryetta.

So there I was, probably Memorial Day Weekend, 1958, at the Ridenhour home on a late Sunday afternoon as all the guests had started back to their hometowns somewhere in Oklahoma or North Texas. It was a very scenic place in the countryside with surrounding mountains (Oklahoma hills), timberland, rivers, and creeks, just east of the tiny community of Miller. Miller was located at the intersection of a two gravel roads about 5 miles North of Oklahoma State Highway 3, approximately 10 miles northwest of Antlers. At the intersection known as Miller, there were about four things, one on each corner of the intersection. As I recall, there was a community building on the southwest corner, a general store or some other structure on the northwest corner, a gas station on the northeast corner, and a pasture on the southeast.

The most common memory of the intersection of the two roads is that of sitting in the front seat of a late 1940s model Studebaker pickup between Butch and Sam as we drove west beyond the intersection a few miles to a farm where we hauled hay.

The second and more significant memory of the intersection known as Miller, is that of a Saturday evening when J. Howard Edmondson, made an exciting campaign stop at the community center. A crowd had gathered and waited with anticipation for the arrival of his motorcade. I remember standing there, outdoors, in the crowd that evening and hearing the gubernatorial candidate give a rousing campaign speech from the front step of the community center. I have no recollection of the content of that speech other than the feeling of pledges, promises, and bluster filling the air. The important memory was not the stump speech he made, but was instead his great campaign song, which blared from loudspeakers mounted on the roof of his campaign placarded car as he arrived from the south up that long gravel road in a cloud of rolling dust. And again, when he had completed his routine, the entourage speed off, perhaps in the direction of Moyer to the east, in a scene reminiscent of The Lone Ranger and William Tell’s Overture as the hero rode away in a cloud of dust leaving behind the fading sounds of that campaign song. Somehow, I could never forget the chorus:

E.. D…M O N D…S O N spells Edmondson!
E.. D…M O N D…S O N for meeeee.
Keep our State and Nation strong; Come Along!
And join our victory song,
Edmondson….for meeeee!

Over the years since 1958, various people have observed me curiously as I have belted out this song unexpectedly. I even made up some lyrics to entertain my kids, Jacki and Jon, in 1987 on our way home from a nice family gathering at cousin John Middleton’s home in Russellville, AR…..”M I…DDLE…Ton spells Middleton…and so on.

J. Howard Edmondson’s campaign was successful not only because of his clever song, but due, in part, to the great support from Henryetta Daily Freelance editor, Leland Gorley. The town folk of Henryetta took a lot of pride in Mr. Gorley’s role in the campaign. I don’t recall any of the Freelance editorials or supportive coverage of the campaign. But I do recall a biblical quotation (John 8:32) that always appeared somewhere in the heading area of the newspaper, “Ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free”. I am still searching for the truth and as of this writing have met with only scant success. I think I am more likely to support a variation of the quote attributed to Aldous Huxley: “Ye shall know the truth and the truth will make you mad”.

That being as it may, my brief stay with the Ridenhour cousins is a time that had a lasting influence on my life. That summer, I experienced a life that was a lot different from what I had known up to that time. The Ridenhours were very independent and self-reliant. I am not real sure what Uncle Tom, Aunt Letha, and Jane Ann did during the day, because I was usually out working with Butch and Sam. But, every morning, we awoke to the smell of breakfast cooking on the wood-burning kitchen stove. Aunt Letha was a hardy and hardworking woman. I recall biscuits and gravy and pancakes. The most unique thing I remember about breakfast is the homemade syrup she made. It appeared translucent and had a nice sweet sugary flavor. I have never tasted it before or since that time but hope to again someday.

Many things were new to me while staying at Aunt Letha’s house that summer. There was the slop-bucket that accumulated scraps of leftover food, grease, and liquids for the hogs. It had an appearance and an odor that was at first sickening yet not all together bad; kind of interesting and apparently great for the hogs that eagerly gobbled it down. Another thing was the outdoor toilet and the notorious catalogs and newspapers that served a critical purpose. And of course the chore of cutting firewood for the cook stove. I got a little introduction to that job but usually just observed as Butch or Sam did the chopping with the axe while telling a story about a friend or relative who had cut off a toe sometime back.

Another memory is when someone came to visit and Aunt Letha killed a couple of chickens for dinner. I had seen this at home as well, but I recall being out in the backyard with Aunt Letha, the smell of the chicken feathers after the chickens had been dipped into boiling hot water and the feel of the feathers that stuck to my fingers as I helped pluck the chickens.

Uncle Tom had a crop of peanuts that summer and I recall him working the field on a tractor at some point. The thing I recall about the Studebaker pickup is that it smoked pretty bad and had a loose rod that rattled a little. One evening, Uncle Tom and Butch pulled the pan and replaced a rod or crankshaft bearing out in the dirt area in front of the house, which set back from the road a ways at the end of a dirt driveway. That kept the old pickup running so we could drive over to the place where we hauled hay for a local rancher or farmer.

Butch must have been about 15 years old at the time and he would always drive the Studebaker back and forth to the places where we hauled hay. Sam was about 13. We used the owner’s red Ford pickup most of the time to haul his hay. I think it was an early 1950s model, probably a ¾ ton pickup. My main job was to sit in the truck and guide it along in low gear (compound) and also help stack bales on the truck. At the barn I would help shuffle the bales around and hand them off to one of the guys or get them on the conveyor up to the loft of a barn. It was very hot and dusty work with hay hooks, stickers, and sharp stobs to deal with. But I learned a lot about the job of hay hauling that summer. I recall the smells of new mown hay and of gasoline from the hand pump on the gasoline drum that was hauled around with the equipment. I saw how the trucks crossed ditches, gullies, and creeks at an angle so as to partially straddle the obstacle to reduce the risk of the hay load toppling off the truck due to a sudden change in the tilt of the bed that could occur if the approach were straight on.

The highlights of the workdays were going to and from home and the hay meadows in the Studebaker. Butch would push that truck as hard as possible and loved sliding through the turns on the gravel roads. One time he miscalculated a little and we ended up running through some bushes and into a ditch off a curve near a creek. The truck wasn’t damaged much but was covered with dirt, branches, and twigs. That was a frightening experience but not one that changed anything about the way we traversed the county roads. Of course neither of us three said a word to Uncle Tom or Aunt Letha about that incident.

Sometimes Butch and Sam would get mad at each other over something like boys age 13 and 15 will do. It made me pretty scared and worried a couple of times when they came to momentary blows. Butch was taller and older but Sam was a solid stocky kid and not about to back down from his older brother.

Once or twice, we met some other guys and went swimming at a place near Miller where there was an outcropping of rock and a pool in the bend of a creek. It was a great place to swim and to jump off into the water. I remember the guys talking about girls and I felt obliged to chime in and tell a made up story about the girls I had been with. The older guys knew I was lying and just laughed at me, but still, I felt like I was just one of the guys that day.

One day, when we didn’t have to work, Sam and I went hunting. His coon dog treed a coon and Sam shot it. I remember how he laughed at me when I saw it in the tree and exclaimed, “Oh look, a raccoon!” He let me know that it was a “coon”, not a raccoon. Again, I was reminded of my lacking in the areas of field and stream.

It was interesting and a little scary to see how the coon dog reacted when the injured coon fell from the tree. But it was soon over and we went home as proud hunters. However, the thrill of the hunt was short-lived. When Aunt Letha found out that Sam had taken me out in the woods with a loaded shotgun, she scolded and punished him saying that Berneice would not want James to be out in such a dangerous situation and no adults with us. One more reminder of my status as a sissy boy.

The evenings at home after working or being out in the woods provided another new experience for me. Aunt Letha has a good supply of rugged cotton pajamas that she made sure we wore. But before bed each night, she would check all of us for ticks. And she usually found some on us. The ticks were really bad down there.

Another thing I experienced on the first day that our family arrived there for that Memorial Day Weekend family reunion was the encounter with a big rattlesnake. Dad and I went along with several other of the guys one morning on some kind of hunting maneuver. As we walked along a utility right-of-way, probably a power line or pipeline corridor, we heard the sound of a rattler. Someone shot it. It was the first time I had seen one right after it had eaten a rabbit or a squirrel. This one had only partially swallowed the thing when it was shot. Of course, that led Dad to recount one of his favorite stories of how his mother heard a rattler outside their house south of Henryetta one night when it was only Dad and Grandma Middleton living at home. Grandma fired her shotgun in the direction of the rattler noise and didn’t hear anymore rattler noise that night. The next morning they found the dead snake in the brush nearby. Dad always told that story with a sound of pride for his mother in his voice and his expressions.

Around Aunt Letha’s house I remember that Jane Ann had a pet squirrel, which she kept, in a cage. Jane Ann and Aunt Letha would be gone at times and I assume it was because Aunt Letha worked and/or was taking care of washing, shopping for groceries, and also picking berries, corn, and other things. Uncle Tom kept bees. He had several hives out along the west side of the driveway. I remember him wearing the netting of a beekeeper and retrieving honeycomb from the hives.

As could be expected, I began to experience a lot of loneliness and homesick feelings after I had been there a couple of weeks. It was a difficult time. So, I wrote a letter to the folks back home pleading for them to come and get me. One of the times I recall not long before my time with the Ridenhours concluded, was a Saturday when one of the older married girls or some other relative came home to visit. Not sure if it might have been Bobbie Jean or Shirley, but the thing I recall is someone arriving in a Cadillac from Texas. That night I got to ride into to Antlers in the backseat of that Cadillac. It was the first time I had ridden in an air-conditioned car and the first time I had seen one with the plastic tubular air-conditioner ducts that ran up the inside of the back window to blow air into the passenger area from behind the backseat. What a treat it was to ride in that car and then to walk around downtown Antlers in some new clothes that Aunt Letha had bought for me.

Soon, on a Friday night, Dad, Geraldine, and Sandra came down to get me and take me back home. I was grateful for the time I had spent with my cousins but very happy that night as we headed north toward Henryetta. On the way home, Geraldine told me about a funny new song she had heard on the radio recently. It was “Splish Splash” by Bobby Darin. The next day, I heard it and thought it was a great song. That is the thing I had missed the most during my time with the Ridenhours; the music.

Geraldine always had the radio on in the living room at home, tuned in to a station that played the day’s popular hits. During those years of the 1950s I heard all the great Rock N’ Roll songs and developed a deep love of and emotional dependency on music of all kinds. I recall Dinah Washington singing “What A Difference A Day Made”, Toni Fisher singing “The Big Hurt”, and Ella Fitzgerald doing “Our Love Is Here To Stay” These were preceded by “The Yellow Rose of Texas” and “Davy Crockett” and intermingled with Little Richard, Buddy Holly, Ricky Nelson, and all the great Elvis songs.

I will never forget my brief visit with the Ridenhours in the summer of 1958. They helped me gain a greater appreciation of my extended family and a rugged way of life I might not have experienced otherwise. They, like all of my relatives whose roots run through Henryetta, Oklahoma, have contributed to the fullness of my life.

Note: The old Ridenhour home place lies, today, just west of the Indian Nation Turnpike that didn’t exist in 1958. Years later, while returning from brother-in-law Glenn Williams’ mother’s funeral near Wister, I drove back to Houston by way of Antlers for the specific purpose of locating Miller and the former Ridenhour home place. I surprised myself by driving right through Antlers, then 7 miles west on highway 3, turned north on what is now a good blacktop road, and drove directly to Miller. What a disappointment to find that the little place is practically non-existent now. The community building was still there but didn’t appear to be in use. No other buildings or businesses were there at what had been an interesting little crossroads. On July 4, 2000, I flew over the area in a Cessna 150 enroute from Independence, Kansas to Houston. I followed the route of the turnpike from Henryetta to Antlers where I circled once, taking a nice look around.