Songs of the Heart

Some people listen to music with an analytical ear

And comment from a technical perspective.

Others know all the artists and details of each career,

Recalling personal challenges and awards they received.

I, myself, don’t give much thought to such minutia.

For me the pleasure is in the feeling and the thrill.

I have little interest in arrangement or other details;

The pure exhilaration of the moment is all that counts.

When I hear the sound and feel the beat it starts,

And suddenly I get carried away in emotion.

To hell with analysis or other details!

Just let me go with the flow of the rhythm and sound.

The feelings run through my veins into my heart.

I leap to the beat and sing from the depths of my soul.

James Middleton

November 18, 2014

She Called Me James Evert

 

In those days kids were often called by double names.

In Aunt Velva's family there was Jerry Ray, Linda Kay, and Floyd Cecil.

She called me James Evert.

Not James

Not James Ev..er..ett

But James Evert

The sound of her voice speaking my name is oh so clear in my memory.

The sound of her voice was itself a direct connection to our collective heritage.

It was pure Middleton/Morgan, direct from north Alabama, the mountains of Arkansas, and the river bottoms of Indian Territory.

Her voice was as clear and pure as her heart.

I recall many visits to her homes in Bryant and Weleetka. And sleep over's with cousin Cecil.  She made the most delicious fudge and divinity; perfect for a sweet tooth like mine.

Once on a vacation trip to Branson, Missouri in the early 1990's, I met a young newlywed couple in an ice cream parlor. From our conversation, I learned they were from Weleetka, Oklahoma.  When I told them my aunt Velva Bowen lived there, their eyes lit up as they enthusiastically shared their words of respect and adoration for her. In their eyes Velva Bowen played an important role in the daily lives of students of the Weleetka schools through her work in managing the cafeterias. What a proud moment that was for me!

Later in life, after my father Everett, Aunt Velva's younger brother, had passed away, I took mom on a road trip to Weleetka from Bartlesville to visit Aunt Velva and Cecil.  She suggested we go to the one and only local cafe for dinner. The small cafe, in the heart of town along main street, was packed with locals. This was another eye opening experience for me.  It was humbling, yet fun, to see that everyone knew her, welcomed mom and me as her guests, and exhibited such warmth for her.

Yes, she called me James Evert and her voice will always ring true in my memory.  Her life was an inspiration to me.

James Everett Middleton
June 10, 2014

The Church Bus

Many years ago, in a Kansas town, the minister of a friendly local church wanted to make it easier for certain people to attend church on Sunday mornings. Reverend Smith thought it would be a great idea for the church to buy a used school bus that could be driven around the community to pick up those who did not have a way of getting to church on Sunday morning. Some senior citizens did not own a car and some parents could not drive their children to Sunday school.

So Reverend Smith visited with members of the congregation to share his exciting idea with them. He hoped that others would agree that having a church bus was a great idea. And, sure enough, many people of the church thought it would be a good thing for the Sunday school program and for the community. The Board of Trustees agreed and approved enough money to purchase a bus.

Very soon after, unbeknownst to him, Reverend Smith would find the perfect bus. There had been a school bus in a tiny community not far away that had carried students to and from school for a long time. Eventually, the poor community saved enough money to buy a brand new bus. The old bus was parked way back in the corner of a gravel parking lot under a big elm tree where it sat alone for over a year. Dust and leaves covered the roof and hood of the bus and one of its front tires had gone flat, leaving it looking very sad indeed.

One day, in a coffee shop, Reverend Smith met an old fellow named Mr. Gibbs who was a retired bus driver from that nearby community. As they talked, Mr. Gibbs spoke with pride about his days as a school bus driver. Tears came to the old man’s eyes as he told how his favorite bus had been abandoned in the corner of a parking lot. He had driven it when it was new and had taken good care of it all through the years. When the old bus needed to be replaced with a new one, it was also time for Mr. Gibbs to retire.

Through the first summer, fall, winter, and spring days of retirement, Mr. Gibbs had taken his dog, Buster, for long walks in both morning and afternoon. Buster was a black and white Boston Terrier. He was a small, happy dog. Their walks always took them around by the school and past the dusty parking lot out back where the old bus was parked. And as they passed by, Mr. Gibbs would often talk to Buster, telling him about the bus and many of the students who once rode with him.

Reverend Smith listened intently as the old man talked. Could the bus of which the old driver spoke be a good bus for the church? He thanked Mr. Gibbs for his time and said he would drive out there to the nearby community to take a look at the bus. Mr. Gibbs smiled and said he thought that was a very good idea.

Arriving at the school, Reverend Smith saw how pitiful the old bus looked and wondered if such a bus would be a good choice for the church. The paint was faded and the windshield was cracked. But he recalled Mr. Gibbs’ words and knew the bus had always been driven carefully by him. And Reverend Smith knew a good bargain when he saw one. So he wrote a letter to the school administrator of the tiny community requesting permission to purchase the bus for a very small price. His request was granted.

Soon, on a Saturday morning in early September, three men from Reverend Smith’s church drove out to check on the bus and prepare it to be driven back to town. They invited Mr. Gibbs to join them. After the men replaced the battery and aired up the flat tire, Mr. Gibbs climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition key. The engine started up with a roar! Mr. Gibbs beamed with pride as he drove the dusty old bus out of the parking lot and onto the highway toward town.

One of the men of the church was an auto mechanic and agreed to service the truck and give it a good going over. He replaced the brake shoes and the muffler, and performed a thorough tune-up on the engine. Another member of the congregation owned a trucking business and installed a new set of six tires on the bus. Finally, a third member, who owned an auto body shop, agreed to replace the cracked windshield and paint the bus.

On the first Saturday of October, a bright sunny day, the youth group and the adult men’s study group, hosted a pancake breakfast in the church fellowship hall. Outside in the parking lot, was a large white canopy where a teen band from the high school class played and sang as folks milled around in the shade drinking coffee and speculating how the bus might look. The bus, after all its improvements were completed, had been kept under cover in a local garage awaiting this moment when it would be seen for the first time by the congregation. Reverend Smith had been busy for the past several weeks, getting volunteers organized and trained to drive the bus and working with church members to identify senior citizens and children who would like a ride to church on Sunday mornings.

Suddenly, the blaring sound of a bus horn filled the air as the bus turned off Main Street and pulled into the parking lot with Mr. Gibbs behind the wheel, smiling from ear to ear as he waved to the crowd of folks gathered for the occasion. Everyone was amazed at how beautiful the bus looked. Its shiny yellow enamel sparkled in the sunlight. It was not the normal yellow color of a school bus but a much lighter yellow; almost a creamy appearance. Along the sides, in big stylish red letters, was the name of the church. On front above the windshield, on the rear doors, and on each side were representations of the church logo in bright colors. The crowd burst out in cheers, welcoming Mr. Gibbs and the three men who were responsible for the miraculous transformation of the bus.

As people walked around the bus and climbed inside to look it over, Reverend Smith called Mr. Gibbs aside and told him he had something special in mind for this occasion. Finally, when everyone had had a chance to enjoy looking over the bus, Reverend Smith asked everyone to gather around. He had some words to share. First of all, he thanked the Board of Trustees for providing the money to purchase and restore the bus. And he thanked the three men who had volunteered time and materials to repair and restore the bus. Then, lastly, he turned to Mr. Gibbs and asked if it was alright to share his personal story. Mr. Gibbs nodded in approval.

Reverend Smith then told about how he had, by chance, met Mr. Gibbs at a coffee shop in town one day. Their conversation then led to Mr. Gibbs telling about his career as a bus driver and about the neglected, abandoned bus which now had been restored so beautifully. Reverend Smith then went on to tell what more he had learned about Mr. Gibbs when he had gone to the school to complete the purchase of the bus. He learned that Mr. Gibbs had graduated from high school in the small community and had been a good student and athlete, excelling in basketball. He had served in World War II as an infantryman and was severely injured during a battle in Europe, returning home a decorated soldier. However, the injuries sustained in battle had left him partially disabled. The role of bus driver and janitor at the school had suited him well since that time. Reverend Smith asked everyone to join him in thanking Mr. Gibbs for his sacrifice for his country and for helping to locate the perfect bus.

At last the first Sunday of bus service had arrived at the friendly church in this Kansas town. Reverend Smith provided a map and a list of all those who had asked to ride the bus. The afternoon before, he and the four volunteer bus drivers had traveled around the planned route to familiarize themselves with the locations where the bus would stop to pick up passengers.

First stop was for Johnny who lived way out on the north end of town. Next stop was at a nursing home where three people were waiting to board. Two were very elderly ladies who needed assistance from the driver to get up the steps onto the bus. The third person was Herbert, a man with a learning disability who was very able bodied. Dressed in a suit and tie, a worn bible tucked under his arm, he smiled and greeted everyone as he walked down the isle and found a seat, seeming very happy to be onboard.

At the next stop, there appeared the loveliest little girl one might ever hope to see. She waited in front of a nice home in a newer neighborhood. Her mother, an attractive slender woman, perhaps in her late thirties, waved from the front door. The girl was wearing a pretty blue dress. She had bright blue eyes. Her hair was a golden yellow color; straight and flowing with a bow clipped on top, a little to the side. She looked to be about seven years old as she climbed onboard and sat in the front row near the exit. Her face was sweet with an expression that conveyed just the hint of a smile but also revealed the nervous tension one would expect in a child of that age boarding a bus of older strangers.

Two more stops to pick up elderly ladies at their homes, then off to the senior citizen high rise center where three or four older women boarded. Finally the bus arrived at the church.

The church bus program was a good success. The girl with the golden hair brightened the lives of all who rode the bus. The senior citizens seemed to delight at seeing her, and little Johnny rarely missed a week at Sunday school. Reverend Smith eventually moved on to greener pastures.

And Mr. Gibbs with his little friend, Buster, may still be seen late at night beneath that giant elm tree in the corner of a dusty gravel parking lot. If you listen carefully, you may hear old Mr. Gibbs telling Buster about the beach at Normandy or the farm house and hedge row where snipers lay waiting one cold winter night. Look closely in the moonlight and you may see Buster look up and lick the old man’s chin. The bus rolls on.

James Middleton

February 25, 2014

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 9/11.  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, Kansas one day in 1978 when my wife and I went there for lunch when we worked at ARCO Pipe Line Company.  The paperback book was a history of the bible based on archaeological discoveries in the holy land during the 19th and 20th centuries.  Passages from that book had me referencing my bible.  That led me to read Joshua chapter 6, verse 21.  This scripture immediately follows the story about the walls of Jericho tumbling down.  That is the basis for the sweet little children's song that I had sung in Sunday school at the First Church of God in Henryetta, Oklahoma.
The experience of reading the stark language of Joshua in contrast to the sweet innocent voices of children singing “The Walls of Jericho” 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 to 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 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 story telling 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 against 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 Interview

Mom died in January, 2010 after a long illness.  Her years in the beautiful independent living center had drained her resources so that she was left with only Dad’s Social Security and her own small pension from the State of Kansas as her total income.  This status made her eligible for Medicaid and she spent the last couple years of her life in nursing homes.

My sister, Geraldine Middleton Williams, had meticulously managed Mom’s finances throughout her declining years.  As the executor of Mom’s estate, Geraldine filed all the necessary paperwork, initiated the collection of death benefits, and prepared a final summary of cash on hand.  Because of her careful planning, all the costs of Mom’s final arrangements were prepaid, leaving a modest amount of money to be equally distributed to each of Mom’s five children.

As I opened the envelopes and held in my hands the checks representing my share of her final estate, I struggled with thoughts of what I should do with the money.  I was also filled with gratitude for the hard work and love both Mom and Dad had committed to each other and to their family.  There was a feeling of satisfaction in knowing they had provided unselfishly for the needs of their family in a lifetime of sharing their modest resources and had crossed life’s finish line with just a little bit in reserve.  I wanted to find a way to honor that commitment to family.

I thought of a couple of rather selfish things I might do with the money.  After all, Mom and I shared a love of singing, so maybe I should buy more sound and recording equipment to enhance the stuff I already had.  But something about that idea just didn’t feel right to me.  I thought about making a contribution to a church or charity in her name but knew the amount to be contributed would not be enough to represent a significant legacy.

It was Springtime.  Memorial Day was approaching and I heard that my aunt, Velva Middleton Bowen, had been to the Salem Cemetery cleaning and decorating the graves of relatives who had died in the early 1900s.  There were seven graves that originally had only large sandstone rocks as grave markers with no inscription.  Information as to who was buried in each grave was passed down within the family during annual decoration day activities and while attending other family burial services.  Of course the official records of the Fairview Cemetery at Salem, Oklahoma contained the information as well.

Sometime in the 1950s,  Aunt Velva had purchased and installed small aluminum markers for those graves.  The aluminum markers were the kind that had individual letters and date numbers glued or soldered onto them to identify the graves with names and dates of birth and death.  The small plates measured about 4” x 6” and were mounted on aluminum stakes which were driven into the ground.  Through the years, damage from the elements and maintenance equipment had destroyed some of the markers and left the others bent and unattractive.

Word of Aunt Velva’s annual ritual of care and respect at the cemetery sparked an obvious thought about what I might do with my portion of mom’s estate.  I recalled that several years earlier, mom had arranged to have small grave stones placed on the graves of some of her relatives at the Sonora Cemetery which is located a few miles northeast of Salem.  Knowing that Geraldine had helped mom accomplish this nice project, I called her to find out how and where they had obtained the markers.  Geraldine told me they had gone to a local monument company in Independence, Kansas where she and mom had both lived at the time and had ordered small stones prepared with names and dates for three relatives.  These were not very expensive, maybe $50.00 or so each, and were small enough that she and her husband, Glenn, had placed them in the trunk of their car and driven the 145 miles down to Henryetta, Oklahoma with mom and placed them on the graves for her.  This was probably done around Memorial Day in either 2000 or 2001, about a year after dad had passed away and was buried at Salem.

In my usual hasty manner, I found the phone number of the Kelly Monument company in Henryetta and placed a call to inquire about the availability and cost of grave stones similar to those mom had arranged for relatives at Sonora.  This is where the art and skill of communication sometimes escapes me.  In my mind, as I talked on the phone to the person at Kelly Monuments, I was describing the kinds of markers that Geraldine had acquired.  But my words and descriptions to the Kelly Monument company in Henryetta equated to their smallest basic stones which were more expensive than I expected.  As it turned out, my understanding of the size and cost of the Sonora grave stones and that of the Kelly grave stones were grossly inaccurate.   But I would not fully understand and appreciate the difference until the following month when I arrived in Henryetta to pick up the new grave stones.

Because nearly ten years had passed since Geraldine had purchased the grave stones in Kansas and considering that the ones I had ordered from Kelly were a little bigger, I rationalized that the difference would be well worth the price and that I would be able to handle the placement of the new stones myself without much trouble.  After all, I have always done a lot of manual work.  That is how I was raised and through the years had worked on many projects with Dad and on my own in the various homes I had owned.  However, my entire professional career had been spent behind a desk in an air-conditioned office. 

In preparing for the trip to Henryetta from my home in The Woodlands, Texas on June 24, 2010, I packed some short 2x4 and 2x6 boards in the trunk of my Acura sedan and placed a ball cap, gloves, shovel, hoe, and a rake in the back seat floor area.  Added an ice chest with beer and water and felt like I was well and wisely prepared for the task.

Arriving in Henryetta late that afternoon, I checked into the former Holidome Inn which by that time had become very run down.  There were still a few hours of daylight available so I decided to drive out to Salem and prepare the grave areas where the stones would be placed.  I had never visited the cemetery alone.  Driving out the old lake road past Nichols Park, memories of my younger days ran through my mind like a slide show presentation as I passed familiar landmarks tied to moments spent with family and friends during the 1950s. 

Beyond the last Nichols Park entrance, a mile or so over the large wooded hill, the blacktop ended and the old familiar sounds of wheels on gravel and the vision of dust billowing up in the rearview mirrors took me back to memories of funeral processions along this road toward Salem.  Finally arriving at the cemetery road, I took a left turn up the steep incline off the rough gravel road onto the dirt lane that led a quarter mile north through pastureland past the driveway to a homestead.  Beyond that driveway the last 50 yards of the cemetery road becomes more narrow, recalling occasions when it had been muddy and treacherous.  On this nice evening, however, the large trees overhead provided a welcome shade as I made the sharp right turn through the open cemetery gate beneath the prominent sign “Fairview Cemetery - Salem”.

The cemetery grounds were nicely mowed, presenting a quiet peaceful scene.  The sounds of birds and other creatures of the woods and meadows were all that broke the silence of the place.  I was alone there.  The single gravel drive cutting straight east through the center of the cemetery provided a distinct separation between the older tree covered portion to the south and the slightly elevated area north of the driveway where only a few scattered trees dotted the remainder of the land.  Fairview Cemetery is not a very large place, probably ten acres or less.  But it was a very important place for the families who settled in the area during the late 1800s.  My Middleton ancestors were part of this early community before statehood when it was part of the Creek Nation in Indian Territory.  According to my dad, his father’s family was granted ownership of several burial plots in return for their labor in clearing and fencing the cemetery property which was near their home place around the Ryal community.  Those plots were in the southwest area of the cemetery beneath large cedar and other shade trees.

As I walked around those seven graves I was able to read the names of some from the remaining aluminum markers.  For others, I had to refer to a reference document provided by my brother-in-law, Glenn, who had done extensive genealogy research on our family.  I removed the aluminum markers and laid them temporarily out of the way at the foot of the graves.  To my surprise, the original sandstone rocks which had been placed at the head of each grave presented varying degrees of difficulty in removal.  Some were not too big but a couple were longer and embedded a foot or more into the ground.  After removing the stones, I then dug holes for each next to the spot where each grave stone would be placed and buried them deep enough that they would not impede the mowing and maintenance of the graves but shallow enough so that they were still visible for appreciation of their historical significance.  Even though the sun was low in the west and the large trees provided a dense shade from the remaining sunshine, an hour or so of work with those garden tools had me sweating profusely.

By the time I had filled in the holes and smoothed out areas I assumed would be large enough for placement of the new markers, I was drenched in sweat and very dirty.  My now wet jeans were soiled from kneeling in the fresh dirt and my t-shirt and arms were muddy from the sweat soaked dust that had accumulated upon them in the process.  It was definitely time for a beer.  Grabbing a cold one from the ice chest, I strolled around the cemetery until it was almost dark pausing first at the graves of my parents and next to them the graves of my dear Aunt Mildred and Uncle Robert.  Nearby was also the grave of cousin Johnny’s son, Terry, who had died tragically at a early age.

Across the rest of the cemetery, I wandered, slowly, appreciating some familiar family names that had been common to us back during my first thirteen years of life in Henryetta.  Leaving the cemetery that evening at dusk, there was a nice satisfaction at having made good progress.  I was feeling proud and confident.

The next morning, a Friday, I drove out on West Main and up the hill toward Westlawn Cemetery.  Just part way up the hill on the right was the entrance to Kelly Monuments.  Although I had passed by this place many times during my lifetime, I had never stopped there.  Pulling in across the large gravel parking area, I looked around trying to decide where to park.  The property was dotted with numerous cemetery monument products like an outdoor showroom.  To my right appeared to be a residence and to the left was a long building with what appeared to be an office at the front end toward Main Street.  So I pulled up and parked near the office door.  Inside was a nice older lady.  Previously, by phone, I had discussed the details of my order with a younger woman and was surprised not to find her there.  I told the lady who I was and that I was there to pick up the seven grave stones.

She showed me out to the adjoining work area and called for a middle-aged man there to show me the engraved stones for my inspection and approval.  I was somewhat surprised and impressed with them.  They were larger and thicker than I had expected and had the look of a high quality product.  They were 18” to 24” long 10” to 12” wide and probably 3” to 4” thick.  I had already paid for them in advance via credit card over the phone, so the next step, after verifying the information on each, was to load them into the trunk of the Acura.  Because of their size, I let the worker know that I wanted to make at least two trips to haul them out to the cemetery.   He asked what kind of vehicle I was driving and when I pointed to the sedan parked outside, he seemed a little skeptical.

So I went out to the car and backed it up to the loading area.  I arranged some of the boards on the floor of the trunk to make a platform for the first layer of what I expected might be two or three stones and placed the remaining boards on the ground near the car.  Then I went inside where now a younger man had joined the other guy.  I asked, “How much do you think these things weigh?”  The first man answered, “Well, the smaller ones might be 80 or 90 pounds but some are a little bigger and are probably 110 or more.”  I looked them over and decided to start with what looked like the smallest one.   Wearing my leather work gloves, I grasped the stone and picked it up.  It is amazing how heavy something that dense and compact can feel.  Slowly and with considerable effort, I turned and carried it out to the car.  At this point two thoughts simultaneously occurred to me.  I have always been very particular about not damaging my vehicles when hauling stuff in them and now here I am in the awkward position of needing to rest the stone on the edge of the trunk in order to assume a better posture and grip before putting it down the additional foot or so into the trunk.  The second thought is of the many safety training sessions I had participated in at work concerning proper lifting and the hazards of bending under stress in an awkward position.  But they were watching me and I was beginning to feel more than a little embarrassed.  So I made the most proper looking move I could muster as I bent over and placed the heavy stone into the trunk.  About that time one of the workmen came out carrying another stone and placed it in the trunk.  I was already breaking out in a sweat as I turned to head back for another one. 

That is when I first heard his voice, “Were any of the folks on these monuments related to Wayne, Everett, or Robert Middleton?”  Standing there in the doorway of the shop was an old gentleman in blue & grey striped coveralls.  Thinking he was a custodian or perhaps just someone who hung around the place to visit, I said, “Yes, Everett was my dad and Wayne and Robert were my uncles.” as I stepped around him intent on getting on with the loading but beginning to question the wisdom of my plan to haul these grave stones on my own.  How would I get them up out of the trunk without hurting my arthritic back with which I had a history of occasional mild but painful bulging disks?  “Just hang in there, be careful, and take it slow”, I thought to myself.

“Wasn’t one of them boys married to a Childs girl from Bryant?”  It was him again.  I was surprised at how familiar he seemed to be with my relatives but thought it not too surprising in such a small town.  “Yes, mom was Berneice Childs and Uncle Robert married her sister, Mildred Childs.  What is your name?”  Thought I might as well rest a minute and find out who this man was.

“I’m old man Kelly” he said with a laugh.  Hmm…”Kelly”, I thought….must be a relative of the owner.  

“Didn’t your mother have a brother by the name of Luther?” he asked.  “Why yes, she did.  Did you know Uncle Luther?”  “I sure did.” he said.  “Luther married Beatrice, my mother’s stepsister.”

Without saying much more, he turned to the two workers standing nearby and said “Boys, load the rest of these monuments up on the big truck and take them out to the Salem Cemetery for this man.  And drop each one of them right where he wants them to go.”

I was stunned and watched as the guys disappeared behind the long building and returned in a beautiful nearly new heavy-duty truck, the kind with a hydraulic boom/hoist and of the type apparently used by successful companies in the business.

Stammering, I offered to pay a proper amount for this service which by now I knew I desperately needed.  I don’t recall exactly what words he used to brush aside my suggestion; something about not having a job scheduled that morning.  He just smiled as if it was no big deal.

Soon the two workers had the other stones loaded on the truck and headed east on Main Street as I followed along behind in the Acura, its rear-end sagging a little under the weight of the first two markers.

At the cemetery, I hustled to walk ahead of the men as each one carried a monument stone.  Referring to my reference sheet, I pointed out the proper spots.  In no time at all they had the seven stones dropped where I had indicated and were on their way back to town.  Talk about gratitude.  I was so appreciative.

As it turned out, the original spots I had smoothed out were not big enough or level enough to properly place the new markers.  Again, I was on the ground shoving the heavy stones around and using the garden tools to better prepare the placement of the markers.  That morning as I worked my thoughts were on old man Kelly.  Something about his manner and his generous support made want to go back there to thank him again and find out more about him.  Even though the most difficult task of hauling and placing the stones had been done for me, I was surprised at how severely the heat and humidity that morning had affected me.  Once again I was sweating profusely.  By the time I was satisfied with the leveling and positioning of the grave markers, I had begun to feel as if I was overheated.  I put the tools away in the car which was parked in the shade of one of the big trees, sat in the driver’s seat, started it up, and sat there with the air-conditioner on trying to cool down.

Eventually, I went back to the hotel, took a shower, and rested up a bit.  It was mid-afternoon when I returned to Kelly Monument in search of old man Kelly.  In the office I again found the nice elderly lady I had met earlier in the day.  She told me she was Georgia, Mr. Kelly’s wife.  They had been married over 60 years and had been operating this business most of that time.  When I asked to speak to Mr. Kelly, she told me he never spends time in the office because it is air-conditioned and “He doesn’t like air-conditioning!  You will find him out in his shop.  Just walk on back that way through the monument shop.  He is probably working on one of his VW bugs” she said as she got up from her desk and opened the door to the monument workshop and called out, “Junior, Mr. Middleton would like to talk to you”.  “Just walk on back that way.  I am sure you will find him back there”.

There was nobody else in sight.  But as I walked through the spaces, a series of shop areas one after the other down that long building, each with its own garage type of door, I saw him come walking toward me.

“Hello there.  Did the boys get you taken care of out there this morning?”

“Yes they sure did.  And I am very grateful to you for helping me out the way you did.  Please let me pay you for that.  I am not sure I could have done it alone.”

“That won’t be necessary.  Like I said this morning, we didn’t have any jobs going on and you sure looked like you could use some help!”, he said with that laugh.

“Well I really do appreciate you doing that for me.  I didn’t realize how hot is was out there.  And the humidity!”

“You probably work in an office and aren’t used to working outside.  That’s why I don’t like the air-conditioning.  I just prefer to stay out here and work on my projects.”

“That’s right.  I have worked in an office for 36 years.  My wife even hired someone to do our lawn and gardening about 10 years ago, so I guess I bit off more than I could chew.  I underestimated how heavy those grave stones would be.”

“Well, Mr. Kelly, I am very interested in hearing more about what you know of my family.  We really didn’t get much time to talk this morning.  Would you mind if I interview you and record it here on my iPhone?  My brother-in-law and sister have done a lot of research on our family history.  They even published a 400 page book on all they learned.  It would mean a lot to me to record your memories or stories about any relatives you recall around here.”

Mr. Kelly agreed.  But first he showed me around his shops.  He told how the inscriptions for the monuments are done.  There in his building are three generations of the process.  The two older methods, though abandoned, were left in place, like a sort of museum.  The latest was a computerized system with high tech methods of engraving.

He was a slight man with wispy gray hair under the cap he wore outdoors.  In those coveralls, he looked very comfortable; a wiry man with a weathered face.  I learned he was about a year younger than my mother.  At the time of the interview he was just two months shy of his 87th birthday.

That afternoon, I had returned to thank him with hope of hearing some stories about his life, especially what he knew about my relatives.  What I discovered, in addition to all of that, was a man of great personal accomplishment; achievements and motivation that his faded coveralls and quick laughter belied.  Here was a man who from an early age began entrepreneurial endeavors in several fields of business while embarking on a unique and challenging U.S. Postal career at the same time.  This ambition led him into businesses involving portable community movie theater, movie theater equipment, cemetery monument sales, Volkswagen Beetle restoration, and private aviation.  Despite this kind of drive and ambition, he maintained a low key family life and followed a simple lifestyle.

Following is a photo of Mr. Kelly which I took on the afternoon of the interview accompanied by the actual voice recording of that interview: (although the recording is rather lengthy, you may skim through it if you like and I encourage readers to listen for at least a little bit just to appreciate this man’s unique character)

Edward Kelly Interview

Less than two years after my interview with Junior Kelly, I learned that he had passed away.  I am grateful for the opportunity I had that hot June afternoon to sit with him out in his shop and listen as he related in colorful style, stories about my uncles and about his unique life.

Here is a copy of his obituary:

Obituary for Edward Junior Kelly

Edward Junior Kelly a resident of Henryetta passed away on March 23, 2012 in Henryetta at the age of 88. Born September 1, 1923 in Henryetta to John and Dorothy Kelly. Junior served in the US Army Air Corp being stationed in Alaska and the Aleutian Islands with the 15th Tow Target Squadron, 28th Bombardment Group checking and maintaining airborne radar sets. His group received a Citation for outstanding performance in action against Japanese from April 1, 1944 to August 13, 1945. After the war, he married Georgia Selvidge on December 25, 1947 and made a carrier with the US Postal service and helped with the family business “Kelly Monuments”. He started with the Postal Service as a railway clerk and then a rural mail carrier and retired after some 40 years of service. He graduated from Henryetta High School, attended Oklahoma City University and was a member of the Masonic Lodge, VFW and American Legion and attended the Nazarene Church. His parents and a sister Lorene Winters precede him in death.
Survived By
Wife: Georgia Kelly of the home
2 Daughters: Sheila Burney of Henryetta
Connie and Mike Pinkston of Henryetta
2 Grandsons: Cole Pinkston of Sapulpa
Kyle Pinkston of Glenpool
Great Granddaughter: Scout Pinkston
Brother; Frankie Danels of Palmer, Alaska
Step brother: Claude Danels of Joplin, Missouri
Graveside service will be 10:30 Tuesday, March 27, 2012 at the Westlawn Cemetery under the direction of the Rogers Funeral Home.

Johnny Ray Middleton

 

Johnny was four years older than me. For about nine years, maybe 1952 through 1960, our families were next door neighbors on South 7th Street in Henryetta. During that time, Johnny was age 9 through 17 while I was age 5 through 13. So we both did a lot of growing and changing during that time. Although the two of us were not buddies, our lives were closely intertwined through the daily activities our families shared.

Sharing; that was the great thing about our two families. It was a real cooperative partnership the way us kids were shuffled back and forth to school and shared yards, houses, pets, and neighborhood friends. During all those years, our house did not have a telephone so we went to Aunt Mildred’s house to use the phone or when someone called there for one of us. For half of those years, we didn’t have a television, but Uncle Robert and Aunt Mildred did; so we watched a lot of TV over there.  Their house was always open to us and so was ours to them.

Spending so much time at their house, I gained an insight into the uniqueness of their lives in contrast to ours. Our house was characterized by the feminine side of things with mom and the four girls creating an air of scheduled tidiness and efficiency that revolved around dad’s work schedule, household chores, church activities, visiting relatives, and going to school. I was the one disruptive factor in this otherwise serene picture.

The house next door at 1211 South 7th provided quite a difference in style. All three boys were great students of their dad when it came to hunting and fishing. In Joe, Johnny, and Bobby, Uncle Robert found three hardy kids who took to the outdoors like many of their uncles and cousins had done. And Aunt Mildred was a great bunkhouse master, keeping the guys fed, cooking their game and frying their catch; always the caring and patient mother, proud of her sons. With Paula Kay, Aunt Mildred found a sweetness and joy to fill her life as well.

The activities of hunting and fishing didn’t play much of a role at my house and didn’t matchup very well with our family profile or our schedule of activities. And, as time would prove, my personality and interests were not well suited to such activities requiring patience, prowess, and judgment.

In Johnny’s house, sporting equipment and man stuff ruled the day. In boxes, stashed in corners, and underneath the beds in the boy’s room, there seemed to me to be sporting goods of every sort. In our front yard along 7th Street was an area that made a nice little sports field. Johnny, Joe and other friends their age would often get together out there to play sandlot style games of baseball, track, and football. Early on, I was merely a spectator. As Johnny got older he was on the track team.

One day, I recall Bobby showing me Johnny’s cool track shoes with sharp spikes on them. We both had to try them on and see if they would somehow allow us to run really fast. Of course we were a little nervous about messing with Johnny’s stuff. We knew he would get pretty mad if he came home and caught us wearing them. That was one of Johnny’s characteristics, that as a youngster, I recall. He did have a quick temper.

One year he got a new bicycle. I think it may have been a Christmas gift. Anyway, I remember Bobby coming to me and telling me about the bike as though it was about the neatest, fastest, most advanced machine ever. It was an “English Racer”! It had three speeds, instead of one, and brakes on the handlebars. We were only allowed to look at it and dared not touch it lest we face the “wrath of Johnny”.

One hot summer afternoon when I was about 8 or 9 years old, Bobby and I were out behind his house playing with the garden hose, spraying each other and having a great time when Johnny came riding home on that English Racer bike and parked it by the back porch. I was holding that water hose as he looked at me and in a very serious tone said “you better not spray water on my bike”. Well, that was a challenge and a temptation which, on that particular day, I was unable to resist. In no time at all I found myself spraying just a little bit of water on his nice shiny bike. The fight was on. Johnny came at me and the two of us tangled right there in the wet grass. Fortunately, Sandra was nearby and stepped in before he could do much damage. From that day forward, I never made the mistake of crossing Johnny Middleton again.

Johnny was there at the Coal Creek swimming hole in Kraft’s pasture when I learned to swim. In fact it was Johnny who gave me the coaching and encouragement to give it a try. What a lot of memories I have of being there many times with the cousins and other kids from the neighborhood. The Kraft family had a small commercial dairy operation on South 7th Street. Our properties and the dairy property lay along the east side of a railroad track. Across the tracks to the west were a large abandoned crude oil tank farm and the Kraft dairy pasture. The terrain there was varied with open fields, the wooded stream with large vines hanging from the trees, and a steep rugged hillside to the west. This was a great place for us cousins to explore and play.

In September, 1960, when I was thirteen, our family moved to Chelsea, about 100 miles northeast of Henryetta. Thus ended the clan-like cooperative that had served as an important center of life for both our families. By this time the older kids, Joyce, Joe, and Geraldine, had left home to go to school or get married. But the house where Johnny grew up, and from which he was about to leave and begin a successful college education, remained an important focal point for both families for years to come. Over the next several years both families became very familiar with the road between Henryetta and Chelsea.

For many weeks each summer, I stayed at Aunt Mildred’s house with my cousin Bobby. Often Johnny was there on summer break from OSU. It was during these times, after Bobby began working at the Square Deal grocery store, that Johnny would invite me to go along with him to visit friends in town. For me, that was a big deal. His friends were some good quality guys in town, respected athletes and students whose names were prominent in the community. The experience of sitting with them in a nice den or living room and observing the relaxed way in which they conversed and just seemed to feel at ease with one another, has remained a key marker in my memory when I think back on those days. In my mind it represents an important feature of Johnny’s character. During those brief visits, he modeled to me a kind of class and dignity that is surprising in young men of that age. In my teenage years that followed, I was rarely a party to such maturity; given more to frivolity and lighthearted fun.

As time passed our lives took us to distant places. My involvement with Johnny came only through family reunions or occasions when he would stop by to visit mom and dad in Independence, Kansas. Then in 1986, I got word that Uncle Robert, Aunt Mildred, and several of their kids and grandkids were getting together at Johnny’s place in Russellville. My wife Judy was busy with school and work, so I took my two youngest kids, Jaci and Jon (ages 6 and 3 at the time) and drove down there with my video camera. That is a trip that I am so glad I made. Once in a while when the kids are at the house to visit, I play the videos I made at Johnny’s house and love every minute of them.

To me, Johnny’s home place out there on the mountain top above Russellville represents a collection of many features that define what it meant to know Johnny Ray Middleton. On that day in 1986, we found ourselves there surrounded by many of those with whom we had shared the great cooperative on South 7th Street. In that setting were all the elements of life which Johnny loved and strove to preserve during his lifetime. On the several acres of trees and pasture land were horses, dogs, cats, kittens, squirrels, ducks, rabbits, geese, and a pond full of fish. The cicadas were coming out of their casings and dangling from the tree leaves drying and exhibiting the miracle of their metamorphosis into a brief new life. The children played together under the shade of the backyard trees, got rides on a horse, caught fish from the pond, got chased by an angry goose, and played with new born kittens and baby ducklings. Johnny and his kids were in perfect harmony with nature and family on that fine day.

In 2010, several of us cousins had the pleasure of being entertained by Charles, Denny, and Johnny one summer night at the KOA Campground east of Henryetta. The three of them spun lively tales of hunting trips to Colorado and close encounters with aggressive bears. What a great time we all had sitting on the patio beside Charles’ travel trailer, sipping on a favorite beverage as the trio took us back to the rugged wilds of Colorado.

The last time we were together was at the 2011 Middleton family reunion in Henryetta. This was an especially meaningful reunion as the cousins put together a great collection of pictures for each family. Johnny’s big brother Joe had recently passed away. Our dear Aunt Velva Bowen, the last of our many aunts and uncles, was there surrounded by admiring nieces and nephews.

Johnny and Charles stayed on well after most of the others had left the community center. Once again, a few of us were privileged to listen as Charles and Johnny reminisced about hunting trips and other adventures of days gone by. We are all fortunate to have shared our lives with Johnny. I am proud to have been a part of his extended family.

James Middleton

January 20, 2013

Bonds of Youth

I suppose we all think our times were the best of times.  Each generation speaks of the good old days.  But I think what we are saying is that we feel a bond and a connection to the days of our youth or to those days when things seemed to be right with the world.  As the years fly past and change inevitably robs us of the constant security we once thought we had, we think about those days when things seemed simpler; when our attitudes and preferences seemed to be shared by most of the people we knew. 

For in our youth we often assumed that others felt, thought, and believed as we did.  But time and experience eventually proves us wrong.  For some who are individualists, change is more of an adventure than a concern.

Yet for most there becomes a great need to find like minded people who will reinforce their values and reassure them that they are right to be suspicious of the new and the different.  These folks tend to line up behind a figure or institution of authority hoping to siphon strength or find a shield therein.

But time waits for no man and we find ourselves rushing ever swiftly down the years.  Some like to think that they plan their lives and are in control.  I laugh at the thought.  For no matter how carefully one plans or attempts to control, time is the ultimate control.  Time will get you every time.

Beyond the constraints of time there is the imagination, the dream, and the memory.  Although time is the ultimate control, within our imaginations reside memories and dreams.  For some people these are considered “time” wasters to be avoided for the sake of chasing the rabbit; that thing just beyond their reach.

But what of the past?  Were those days of our youth and the relationships formed then merely a waste of time?  What today can we benefit or enjoy from the good old days?  It may be that bonds formed in tender years offer a lesson in our ways forward.  The innocence with which friendships and memories were made may serve as a model for establishing new bonds or to soften the harsher realities of aging and coming to terms with our mortality.

Connecting with or confronting the past comes with risk.  Most likely outcomes from visiting with or re-establishing relationships with folks from our youth is disappointment or surprise.  The common elements which we once thought formed a bond are likely absent and often rejected outright. 

However, like any endeavor of value, there is a gem there waiting and well worth the time required to find it.  So be a prospector.  Gold is there for the taking.

James Middleton

January 14, 2014

Margie West Coleman: Momma’s Friend

Margie and Momma met in the small rural school at Bryant, Oklahoma and found a lasting friendship which would span across all the years of their lives.  In each other they must have seen glimpses of their own spirit and  potential.
 
Margie beamed with personality and inner strength.  Berneice had sparkling eyes and a sharp poetic wit.  Together they shared classrooms, songs, poems, and mischief.   Both proved to be very bright students as well.  Although poverty and an unfortunate home life took Berneice out of school after 8th grade, their warm community friendship flourished as they grew. And as they matured, each found a loving husband and raised healthy children, in the nearby town of Henryetta, living as neighbors for many years.

Eventually, work took Berneice and her family miles away.  But the miles were no barrier to this friendship or their interest in one another’s lives.  Through frequent exchange of letters, cards, and occasional visits back home Berneice kept up-to-date with Margie.

As the years and their ages advanced, their meetings became most common around funerals for other friends and relatives.  Berneice maintained close ties to her home community, traveling there often to visit and to grieve.

When Margie’s husband Alvin passed away at an early age, Berneice and husband Everett attended the funeral service and were humbled by the overflowing throng of mourners in attendance.
When Everett passed away, there was Margie attending the service and offering warm hugs for Berneice, her adult children, and grandchildren.

Margie’s occasional phone calls to widow Berneice over the following years were a welcome and comforting experience.  Eventually Berneice’s hearing loss and dementia made the phone calls impossible.  I was there during the last call, gently taking the phone from Momma’s hand and thanking Margie for the call.  By her sweet thoughts and warm wishes I knew Margie understood this would be her last call to Berneice.

Finally, Berneice passed away and their earthly friendship came to a close.  What a beautiful feeling it was when Margie sought me out in the crowd at the funeral home before Momma’s service began.  Her wonderful smile and loving presence will always remain an important memory in honor of both their lives.  Their connection to each other never lost its importance.

And now Margie’s time in Henryetta has come to an end.  I know there will be many who will attend her funeral service and who will recall similar relationships and kindness shared with Margie.  Hers was an exceptional life.  I am proud to have known her through the eyes and the memories of my Momma, Berneice Childs Middleton.

James Middleton
January 11, 2014

Impressions Upon The Soul Long Ago

Early impressions at a very young age are sometimes much more powerful and long lasting than those experienced after we mature beyond those years when our minds and our hearts were like a luxurious sponge easily absorbing sensitive moments and retaining the memory in great detail and strong emotion.

Recently I learned that the mother of a friend and former co-worker had passed away.  She asked a group of mutual friends for suggestions on the perfect song to have sung at the funeral.  Because of my personal  progress beyond traditional Christian thought, my first response was to simply read the suggestions of others and express my condolences in a different way. 

However, the memory of my own mother who died about four years ago caused me to pause and give better consideration to the question about the perfect song to hear for a mother’s funeral service.  A love of music and especially old gospel hymns was something mom and I had shared.

As I thought about meaningful songs, I recalled a song that I had heard for the first time in 1983 while attending the funeral of my aunt, Hudy Dodge Middleton, in Henryetta, Oklahoma.  Her death had been unexpected.  The funeral was held in her local church.  My four sisters and I met in Bartlesville and drove to Henryetta for the funeral.

There was something very special and intimate in the way a trio of women of the congregation presented the song, “Sheltered In The Arms Of God”.  Their harmony was wonderful.  The experience of their music has kept that song somewhere in my memory ever since, although I may have only heard it or a reference to it a couple of times since then.  But from time to time the thought of that song, the lovely voices of the trio, and the sad time in our family has come to me in brief and reverent memory.

So I searched YouTube and found many different versions of “Sheltered In The Arms Of God”.  None could quite match the beauty and subtle qualities I recall from Aunt Hudy’s service.  The one which best recreated the mood and spirit of that day is this one by Heritage Singers:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MmNLa3_PSn8

Having searched for and found this song, I submitted it as my suggestion to the friend.

The experience of searching YouTube and sampling various songs triggered deeply held memories and emotions associated with my earliest recollections of attending a funeral service.  This memory is closely tied to my most close and personal connection to my mother, Lillian Berneice Childs Middleton.  The memory is generally vague.  I am not sure whose funeral service it was, but it was held at the Buchanan Funeral Home in Henryetta sometime in the 1950s.  The critical importance of the memory does not lie in the details of the service but in the experience of sharing that time seated beside mom along a row at or near the front of the chapel.  It was as if I could feel her emotion of the moment as a small group of three or four people sang “This World Is Not My Home”.  The strong scent of roses and the sound and lyrics of the song will always take me back to that important time shared with my mother.  I searched YouTube again and found many versions of “This World Is Not My Home”.   This version by the Students of Charity Youth Bible School Choir most nearly represents the tone and beauty of my original experience:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ydPJ5QaPFQ0

Today, I exchanged text messages with my 30 year-old son who has been on the road for several weeks.  We shared encouraging thoughts about our family relationships.  I told about photos, from the 1980s and 1990s, of he and his sister, that I had been scanning.  He wrote “We had a good childhood, much better than most”.   I replied “The years passed very quickly”.  He texted back “Yes, I already have gray hairs on my head, and in my beard….I guess I have an old soul”.

Yes, I guess we do have old souls.  Our lives are eternally linked to each other and to all those who have contributed to our DNA through generations.

The ability to reflect on my most powerful and cherished memories is something I treasure and exercise regularly.

James Middleton

January 7, 2014

The Sweetest Sooner Win!

I have been an Oklahoma Sooner fan since the 1950s.  Like a lot of native Oklahomans, I was raised in the culture of both Oklahoma Sooner football and the unique history that is Oklahoma.  My family roots are in Okmulgee County, Oklahoma per my sister, Geraldine Middleton Williams’ legacy book recording of the Middleton/Morgan/Childs/Eddington family histories, “Converging In Okmulgee County, Oklahoma”, on file in the Henryetta Public Library and elsewhere.

My first personal exposure to the excitement of Sooner football came during my elementary years at Roosevelt Grade School in Henryetta when a classmate, Gary Merryman, brought to school a football autographed by many of the members of a recent OU National Championship team.  That experience brought the true greatness of national pride in Oklahoma Football to life for me and it has been a factor of great importance in my personal life ever since.

In the years to follow, I listened to most Sooner football games on the radio.  During the fall season of 1963, the intensity of my Sooner enthusiasm became firmly established.  Saturday afternoons for the next several years found me washing cars, changing oil, and fixing flats at my Dad’s  By-Pass Texaco gas station in Chelsea, Oklahoma.  The excitement of Bob Barry’s radio voice held me in absolute command as I went about my duties.  Through the 1960s and decades to follow, those radio broadcasts were such a vital connection to Sooner football for me and I am sure to many others of my generation.

Some of the most memorable games involved the greatest names in college football history.  I recall how devastating were the runs of Gayle Sayers.  And all the intensity of the OU/Texas games.  Sometimes I pity the young fans of today who have the luxury of the high definition flat screen television broadcasts of practically every OU game.  Back in the 1960s through the 1980s I desperately struggled to find a radio station within range of my AM radio at home or in the car in order to hear each game.  Sometimes it was not possible or perhaps the reception would come and go allowing only occasional updates.

But the most exciting and surely the most pleasurable of all the Sooner victories have come during those seasons when the teams were challenged by injury or during rebuilding years when they would sometimes lose to teams they should have defeated and yet find a way to beat a supposed championship team or a team assumed to be an overwhelming favorite.

Well the Sugar Bowl game on January 2, 2014 must go down in my log book as the sweetest and most satisfying game I can recall.  Of course, it is important to note that my memory may not be that great anymore.  But the pregame hype, the newspaper report in the Houston Chronicle, the ESPN clowns all climbing on the Alabama/McCarron bandwagon was so disheartening and yet, a fantastic setup for what was to come.  They couldn’t have scripted the program any better for all of us Sooner Fans.

I haven’t screamed, chortled, hollered, yelled, or laughed more in years!  Yes my ATT U-verse on the flat screen TV allowed me to enjoy every second of the action.  And like so many other OU Sooner fans, I was not truly able to relax and accept the outcome until Geneo Grissom scooped up the fumble caused by Eric Striker’s stripping of McCarron.  What a hilarious end to a classic Sooner Magic performance.  BOOMER SOONER!!