Posts
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.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Monday, August 3, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
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.
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.
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