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When Mom passed away, the funeral service was scheduled for Tuesday, January 19, 2010 at Shurden Funeral Home in Henryetta, Oklahoma. The Henryetta area is the geographic center of my family’s history from the early 1900s. Both Mom and Dad were born within 10 miles of town.
On Saturday prior to the funeral, we drove from Houston to Henryetta and checked in at the Henryetta Inn about 10:30 P.M. My sister Geraldine Williams and her husband Glenn had arrived the previous day and were staying in room 114. We were assigned room 120, a few doors down. Traveling with me were my wife, Judy, and our son, Jon.
We knocked on Geraldine’s door after placing our luggage in our room. She had asked us to stop by for a minute after we arrived. So we did and had a nice visit with them before going back to our room for the night.
We didn’t get up until around 10:00 A.M. on Sunday morning. Jon went to the lobby for coffee while Judy and I were getting ourselves ready. In the dining room, Jon saw Geraldine and Glenn who were just finishing their breakfast. They recommended we eat somewhere else as the food there was not so good.
So Judy, Jon, and I walked a block over to the café which is associated with a motel. This is a place where we have enjoyed eating in years past and it was still nice. There were customers at several tables and the staff was very friendly and attentive.
After that, we got together with Geraldine and Glenn and I suggested we take a drive around town to reminisce. The five of us fit into our Acura sedan ok. It was not the most comfortable arrangement for Judy who ended up in the center of the back seat but was good for a brief tour.
We first drove over to Cameron Field, stopping to read the sign about Troy Aikman on the old rock wall. Geraldine and I both commented on the significance of the wall in our memories of football games and Labor Day fireworks shows we had attended as kids. We noted the more recent addition of some sort of public health or services building on what used to be a vacant lot where I recall playing football games during our elementary football league seasons and later practiced junior high football during 7th grade as a young “Chick”.
I related my first memory of attending a high school football game at Cameron Field on a cold Friday night when I was maybe 9 years old. Dad, Geraldine, and I had gone to that game. She was a high school student and may have had a crush on one of the players. Also, my older cousin, Joe Middleton was suited up and probably played in the game.
I remember being very impressed by the shiny football helmets that the players had lined up in a neat row either on the bench or on the ground along the sideline while they did their calisthenics and other drills before the game. And of course the bold and excellent sound of music by the Henryetta band with its heavy drumbeats, the smell of cigar and cigarette smoke mingled with wafting aromas of popcorn, hotdogs, and coffee, all created quite an impression on me that night. The football players seemed to me to be some sort of gladiators preparing for battle, the pads and uniforms of the home team and the visitors under the bright lights of the stadium making for a rich and dramatic scene. I mentioned how my feet we so cold by the end of the game and remember shivering in the back seat of the car as the three of us left the parking area just inside the curve of the street which leads away from the stadium entrance over to east Main Street a block away.
From the stadium our Sunday afternoon tour took us over to Trudgeon Street and on west over the railroad tracks where Geraldine talked about the old Frisco Railroad Depot area where they used to drop dad off for work or pick him up after he had completed a run to Dennison and back as a brakeman back in the 1940s. The depot is gone and we speculated that the street must have been widened after the depot was removed because there didn’t seem to be much room there by the tracks for a depot today.
Arriving at Main again, we talked about the old Georgian Hotel where dad used to take me for haircuts. I think the barber was a man named Rogers. As we drove along, we must have commented on just about every building we passed. We took the first street south along the tracks, past what was once the Broadway feed store where dad would buy feed and supplies when we had horses and cows.
Our tour took us to Moore Street and we stopped in front of what had been the home of Geraldine’s best friend in high school, Cathy Parker. Geraldine recounted memories of Cathy and her mom, about how nice they both were and how they made her feel right at home there. I noted that Cathy’s father had been a barber in town and one day had come home for lunch, laid down on the bed, and died. That is something I believe happened while Geraldine was in high school.
Straight ahead, we could see the Henryetta Territorial Museum. It was not open for business but I suggested we park the car there and take a walk around. For quite a while, we moved slowly along the walkway surrounding the gazebo which sets just east of the museum building, reading the names of people listed on the individual bricks of the walk; stopping to comment on many familiar names; names of school friends, old family friends, and prominent family names of Henryetta. Eventually we made our way to the spot where the entry arch from the old high school building has been so nicely preserved. I noted that I had never entered beneath that arch while Geraldine spoke of her memory of doing so and of all our other family members who had attended there.
From there we walked north to the next block up 4th Street and crossed to the east side of the street, entering the alley which holds so many memories of years gone by. This is the alley that led to the rear entrance and parking area of the Square Deal grocery store, a place that is very very significant in our lives. That is where mom shopped and had a charge account, where Uncle Robert Middleton worked part-time as a butcher, and where as kids, we accompanied Mom each Saturday on her weekly grocery buying day.
Our tour took us on around and half a block north to Main Street;crossing to the north side. While we strolled along at a leisurely pace we commented on our memories of the various businesses that had been active in our days as residents of Henryetta, primarily during the 1950s. At some point we ended up in a store front where about four nice photos were displayed in the windows of what was probably once a clothing store in the 500 block of West Main. One of the photos was of a Labor Day parade which we speculated was probably around the end of World War II. Geraldine had already made mention of the award winning photographer, Joseph Hardin, and I assumed from the angle of the photograph that it must have been taken from his studio window or from the roof of his studio building across the street. Looking closely at the building in the center of the photo and then stepping out onto the sidewalk, we could verify that indeed building in that old photo was the building which still stands on the northeast corner of the intersection of 5th and Main Streets. The clue that clinched our assumption is the appearance of the second decorative brick stack along the top edge of the west wall of the building. Unlike the other similar stacks or columns, this one is missing its cement cap and appears to have been damaged in some way. It was in that same condition when the photo was taken some 60 plus years ago.
We continued our walk, stopping at the former post office building, now the library, and admiring the old Doughboy statue; getting a group picture in front of it.
No tour of Henryetta would be complete without pointing out and raving about the Patty Ann, that special landmark and outstanding restaurant of our youth. Just a half block west of the Patty Ann was the Henryetta Bakery where our Aunt Bertha Fulton worked for many years and where our family bought Freshy Bread and delicious pastries on many a Sunday night after attending evening services at our little family First Church of God on Barclay Street.
We then headed south on 6th Street, pointing out where dad had once worked as a mechanic at Tiger’s Garage. The upstairs portion of that building had housed Teen Town back in the 1950s and holds significant meaning for Geraldine and I, as well as for anyone who grew up in Henryetta during the 1950s.
The final leg of our little tour took us east along Broadway past the old Henryetta Hospital where Aunt Bertha had also worked and where our Uncle Robert had been treated more than once for severe burns received on the job at Eagle Picher Smelter.
We concluded our tour by recalling the old fire and police stations and the skating rink where I spent many Saturday nights in the time around 1956 to 1959. From there we completed the loop, walking the half block back to the museum parking lot.
This was my first walking tour of Henryetta. But over the years since we moved away, I have often driven around town and even took a bike tour of town about 10 years ago.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Mom's Death
My Mother: Lillian Berneice (Childs) Middleton
October 5, 1922 to January 15, 2010
Mom had been in declining health so I knew it was just a matter of time before she would die. But when I went to Bartlesville the first weekend of October, 2009 for her birthday party, I was very surprised to find that she knew who I was. All five of us kids and other family members met at her nursing home, Heritage Villa, in Bartlesville and enjoyed a good feeling of being together as a family.
At first I thought Mom looked so awful and, likely too confused to know who I was. We were in a large room. Mom was in a wheel chair. The foot rests of the chair were pulled up so that her stocking feet partially touched the floor. As everyone was eating ice cream and cake and engaging in lively conversation, Mom began to move her wheel chair with her feet pulling herself along slowly with very tiny steps as she turned it toward the large open doorway to the corridor. I stood by her side, curious about what she was doing and thinking that she was just aimlessly pulling herself along.
To my surprise, she continued into the hallway then turned left down the hall leading past the lounge or TV room toward the lobby. As she progressed down the hall, I thought about how strong she had always been for such a little lady. As a child and teenager, her only means of transportation had been on foot. And in their later years she and Dad walked a four mile walk once or twice a day when the weather permitted. So, this feat of pulling herself along in that wheelchair in spite of her horrific looking physical condition really impressed me and made me question my assumption about her physical health.
When she came to the lounge area, she parked herself beside a nicely upholstered wingback chair. I could tell by her expression and posture that she wanted me to sit in the chair beside her. From our position in the hallway we had an excellent view into the TV lounge, a very lovely well decorated large room with a big fireplace at one end, large open entryways on each side, and lots of comfortable chairs with an assortment of nice tables and lamps. In the room, were a number of residents, some with family members or friends visiting them; each in various states of mental and physical impairment. But most prominent and interesting to me was the big flat screen TV on a wall directly across the room in front of me where a Dallas Cowboys game was being broadcast; the volume barely audible. As we sat there, I only smiled at Mom and touched her hand occasionally, thinking it futile to try to converse due to her confused mental state and the fact the she was no longer wearing the hearing aids that had been her lifeline since about 1962; ten years after she had lost practically all her hearing due to an ear infection which resulted in nerve damage.
Occasionally, a worker would pass by us and stop to greet Mom and me. I assumed this was done as much as a PR gesture as out of sincerity. But after a few more folks had greeted Mom and told me how much they enjoyed her spunk and spirit, I began to take them more sincerely. Finally the most incredible and unexpected thing happened. This very nice and energetic staff lady stopped to say hello to Mom and wished her a happy birthday. Even though Mom could barely speak and her voice had been basically incoherent before, I distinctly heard Mom tell the lady, “this is my only son”. That moment will be one of my most precious memories of Mom for as long as I live. With those few words, she made me realize that I had been wrong to avoid visiting her in these last three years of her life. But it also made my day because I knew that she was able to understand and appreciate the fact that her children cared enough about her to come together to honor her on her 87th birthday.
But still looming in my mind that afternoon was the dread of trying to say goodbye, knowing that she would likely begin begging me to take her home, to get her out of this lockup. Because I was the only child of hers who was not a regular visitor, after all the sisters and family members had gathered around us and one by one began to leave, I was left there with only sister Sandra, the one most dedicated to Mom’s care and personal oversight. She lived nearby and had been Mom’s closest family contact, taking her to church two or three times a week and to lunch on Sunday for several years until Mom became too ill to go out. Eventually, Sandra told Mom that she had to leave. Naturally, Mom began to ask Sandra in a barely intelligible voice to take her home with her. Sandra gently but firmly said no, offered reassurance that she would be back in a few days and walked away.
Now, I was there in the situation and circumstance that I had feared. What would be her reaction when I got up to leave. After all, my wife Judy was waiting for me out in the parking lot and I needed to handle this in the best way possible. To my surprise and to her eternal endearing credit, as I held her hand, stood up, and kissed her forehead; saying “Goodbye Mom, I love you”, she simply looked up at me peacefully with a loving look in her eyes and asked “when will you come back”? “Soon”, I softly replied, “soon”. With that I turned and walked toward the lobby and on out the door where Judy and others were waiting nearby. A strong feeling of emotion and many thoughts rushed through my mind as I left the building. My greatest fear or dread had only been a figment of my imagination. I know that Mom had often made life difficult for Sandra as she left after frequent visits. So why was she so kind and accepting of my leaving? Did she know it would be the last time I would see her?
Three months later, my sisters got the call. Mom was gravely ill and might last only one or two more days. So the three who were within 50 or so miles of Bartlesville came to her side and along with Hospice caregivers began what turned out to be a four or five day ordeal. On Thursday morning, the day before she finally died, the girls called me on my cell phone. I was in my office at work in downtown Houston. The Hospice workers were concerned that Mom continued to hold on, even after the girls had given her the most loving and tender care, letting her know that it was ok, that she had been a wonderful mother and lived a good life; that it was ok to go now. Even Geraldine had called and said goodbye from her home in Seadrift, TX. Now they felt that if only I would say goodbye that perhaps that would allow her to let go of the extremely determined and labored effort by which she continued to doggedly cling to a bare semblance of life.
On the phone with Elaine, I struggled with my thoughts on the subject, knowing that I didn’t believe in that concept of people maintaining life through sheer will in such a condition. But not wanting to add more stress to the highly emotional state they were already in, there in the room with Mom, I agreed. The sounds of Mom’s breathing and efforts to hold on were very unnerving as they held Elaine’s cell phone next to Mom’s ear; an ear into which they had inserted one of her hearing aids. Softly, I told Mom how much I loved her and told her what a great mother she had always been. I refrained from telling her to go.
After another long and tiring day, the sisters finally left for the night to get some rest, pausing to call me with an update. Elaine said that miraculously Mom’s color had returned to a nice pink after having been in various stages of blue with appearances of death. They were awakened around 1:45 by a phone call from Hospice. Mom had died quietly at 1:40 A.M. on Friday, January 15, 2010; the last of Willie and Katie Childs' children to die.
October 5, 1922 to January 15, 2010
Mom had been in declining health so I knew it was just a matter of time before she would die. But when I went to Bartlesville the first weekend of October, 2009 for her birthday party, I was very surprised to find that she knew who I was. All five of us kids and other family members met at her nursing home, Heritage Villa, in Bartlesville and enjoyed a good feeling of being together as a family.
At first I thought Mom looked so awful and, likely too confused to know who I was. We were in a large room. Mom was in a wheel chair. The foot rests of the chair were pulled up so that her stocking feet partially touched the floor. As everyone was eating ice cream and cake and engaging in lively conversation, Mom began to move her wheel chair with her feet pulling herself along slowly with very tiny steps as she turned it toward the large open doorway to the corridor. I stood by her side, curious about what she was doing and thinking that she was just aimlessly pulling herself along.
To my surprise, she continued into the hallway then turned left down the hall leading past the lounge or TV room toward the lobby. As she progressed down the hall, I thought about how strong she had always been for such a little lady. As a child and teenager, her only means of transportation had been on foot. And in their later years she and Dad walked a four mile walk once or twice a day when the weather permitted. So, this feat of pulling herself along in that wheelchair in spite of her horrific looking physical condition really impressed me and made me question my assumption about her physical health.
When she came to the lounge area, she parked herself beside a nicely upholstered wingback chair. I could tell by her expression and posture that she wanted me to sit in the chair beside her. From our position in the hallway we had an excellent view into the TV lounge, a very lovely well decorated large room with a big fireplace at one end, large open entryways on each side, and lots of comfortable chairs with an assortment of nice tables and lamps. In the room, were a number of residents, some with family members or friends visiting them; each in various states of mental and physical impairment. But most prominent and interesting to me was the big flat screen TV on a wall directly across the room in front of me where a Dallas Cowboys game was being broadcast; the volume barely audible. As we sat there, I only smiled at Mom and touched her hand occasionally, thinking it futile to try to converse due to her confused mental state and the fact the she was no longer wearing the hearing aids that had been her lifeline since about 1962; ten years after she had lost practically all her hearing due to an ear infection which resulted in nerve damage.
Occasionally, a worker would pass by us and stop to greet Mom and me. I assumed this was done as much as a PR gesture as out of sincerity. But after a few more folks had greeted Mom and told me how much they enjoyed her spunk and spirit, I began to take them more sincerely. Finally the most incredible and unexpected thing happened. This very nice and energetic staff lady stopped to say hello to Mom and wished her a happy birthday. Even though Mom could barely speak and her voice had been basically incoherent before, I distinctly heard Mom tell the lady, “this is my only son”. That moment will be one of my most precious memories of Mom for as long as I live. With those few words, she made me realize that I had been wrong to avoid visiting her in these last three years of her life. But it also made my day because I knew that she was able to understand and appreciate the fact that her children cared enough about her to come together to honor her on her 87th birthday.
But still looming in my mind that afternoon was the dread of trying to say goodbye, knowing that she would likely begin begging me to take her home, to get her out of this lockup. Because I was the only child of hers who was not a regular visitor, after all the sisters and family members had gathered around us and one by one began to leave, I was left there with only sister Sandra, the one most dedicated to Mom’s care and personal oversight. She lived nearby and had been Mom’s closest family contact, taking her to church two or three times a week and to lunch on Sunday for several years until Mom became too ill to go out. Eventually, Sandra told Mom that she had to leave. Naturally, Mom began to ask Sandra in a barely intelligible voice to take her home with her. Sandra gently but firmly said no, offered reassurance that she would be back in a few days and walked away.
Now, I was there in the situation and circumstance that I had feared. What would be her reaction when I got up to leave. After all, my wife Judy was waiting for me out in the parking lot and I needed to handle this in the best way possible. To my surprise and to her eternal endearing credit, as I held her hand, stood up, and kissed her forehead; saying “Goodbye Mom, I love you”, she simply looked up at me peacefully with a loving look in her eyes and asked “when will you come back”? “Soon”, I softly replied, “soon”. With that I turned and walked toward the lobby and on out the door where Judy and others were waiting nearby. A strong feeling of emotion and many thoughts rushed through my mind as I left the building. My greatest fear or dread had only been a figment of my imagination. I know that Mom had often made life difficult for Sandra as she left after frequent visits. So why was she so kind and accepting of my leaving? Did she know it would be the last time I would see her?
Three months later, my sisters got the call. Mom was gravely ill and might last only one or two more days. So the three who were within 50 or so miles of Bartlesville came to her side and along with Hospice caregivers began what turned out to be a four or five day ordeal. On Thursday morning, the day before she finally died, the girls called me on my cell phone. I was in my office at work in downtown Houston. The Hospice workers were concerned that Mom continued to hold on, even after the girls had given her the most loving and tender care, letting her know that it was ok, that she had been a wonderful mother and lived a good life; that it was ok to go now. Even Geraldine had called and said goodbye from her home in Seadrift, TX. Now they felt that if only I would say goodbye that perhaps that would allow her to let go of the extremely determined and labored effort by which she continued to doggedly cling to a bare semblance of life.
On the phone with Elaine, I struggled with my thoughts on the subject, knowing that I didn’t believe in that concept of people maintaining life through sheer will in such a condition. But not wanting to add more stress to the highly emotional state they were already in, there in the room with Mom, I agreed. The sounds of Mom’s breathing and efforts to hold on were very unnerving as they held Elaine’s cell phone next to Mom’s ear; an ear into which they had inserted one of her hearing aids. Softly, I told Mom how much I loved her and told her what a great mother she had always been. I refrained from telling her to go.
After another long and tiring day, the sisters finally left for the night to get some rest, pausing to call me with an update. Elaine said that miraculously Mom’s color had returned to a nice pink after having been in various stages of blue with appearances of death. They were awakened around 1:45 by a phone call from Hospice. Mom had died quietly at 1:40 A.M. on Friday, January 15, 2010; the last of Willie and Katie Childs' children to die.
Friday, January 15, 2010
She Is Different
Once, as a teenager, I paid a visit to relatives back home,Along with cousins and aunts; stopped by to visit one of Mom’s sisters. I grew bored with the porch swing and remember going into the house; sitting on a couch.
After a time, I grew tired of reading True Romance and detective magazines.
Walking back into the kitchen, I overheard the women talking on the back porch;
Their conversation was about Berneice Middleton; my Mom………
“I know what you mean”, I heard someone say; “she is kind of funny; she is different”.
Those words troubled me; leaving me with a feeling of sadness and concern.
Funny how the years have changed my perception and feelings about that day.
Yes, Mom was DIFFERENT! Mom was different in so many ways. Mom was a nervous, discontented sort of woman at times. But she compensated for those traits with a strong compliment of determination. Determination and hard work; all the while with a song or a poem on the tip of her tongue. Yes, she was different and so am I; proudly so. From her, I inherited a nervous discontent, along with a good deal of skepticism and call to action.
She was rarely content, often interested in the world around her; always eager for a change of scene. With Dad, she shared many quiet evenings reading and listening to music in their later years. But as a young mother, she was quite attentive and concerned about her family. She was always busy tending to the house, the garden, and the laundry. Life at home was very peaceful, secure, and predictable; every meal at the expected time. There was never any question about the daily routine; she saw to it.
Yet ever present in her emotion and demeanor one could see or sense it…. Yes, she was different. She was an impetuous dreamer and sometimes very demanding Mom. She expected a lot from her family but was always an enthusiastic participant as well.
Because she loved poetry, I have come to feel her spirit in some of my favorite poems and readings. Here are a few excerpts that for me will represent the essence of my Mom’s memory which I carry now and in years to come:
From “Song of the Open Road” by Walt Whitman
Afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose.
Henceforth I ask not good-fortune---I myself am good fortune;
Henceforth I whimper no more; postpone no more, need nothing,
Strong and content, I travel the open road.
From Orion Mountain Dreamer “The Invitation”
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living,
I want to know what you ache for,
And if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are,
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love,
For your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.
From James Kavanaugh “Men Too Gentle to Live Among Wolves”
Some people do not have to search,
They find their niche early in life and rest there,
seemingly contented and resigned.
They do not seem to ask much of life,
Sometimes they do not seem to take it seriously.
At times I envy them – but usually I do not understand them,
Seldom do they understand me.
I am one of the searchers.
There are, I believe, millions of us.
We are not unhappy, but neither are we really content.
We continue to explore life, hoping to uncover its ultimate secret.
We continue to explore ourselves, hoping to understand.
Our sadness is as much a part of our lives as is our laughter.
To share our sadness with ones we love is perhaps as great a joy as we can know,
Unless it be to share our laughter.
We searchers are ambitious only for life itself,
For everything beautiful it can provide.
Most of all we want to love and be loved.
We want to live in relationships that will not impede our wandering,
Nor prevent our search, nor lock us in prison walls.
We do not want to prove ourselves to another or compete for love.
We are wanderers, dreamers, and lovers,
Lonely souls who dare to ask of life everything good and beautiful.
One final thought about Mom
Recently, our daughter Jaci asked us to adopt one of her cats because it was sick and needed special attention. Judy took Rhoda in and nursed her back to health. It wasn’t easy, because Rhoda is DIFFERENT.
No, Rhoda is not like most cats, not mellow, cuddly, and purring; but rather wild and skittish.
For days, she hid in the laundry room behind the washer and dryer and then in the family room behind the entertainment center. Gradually, she began to trust us enough to let us watch her eat.
After weeks, she began to sneak into our bedroom and sleep under the bed. Next thing you know she had taken over my favorite rocking chair in our bedroom. That is now her chair and her bed. In the early morning hours while we are clinging to the last hour or so of precious sleep, Rhoda jumps up on our bed and stands on us as if demanding we get up and feed her.
In a different sort of way; in a way others may not understand, I have come to see Mom in Rhoda. Rhoda is nervous and slow to trust, but full of energy; sometimes bounding up the stairs and swatting one of her play toys.
Like Mom, Rhoda enjoys being outdoors, but keeps a careful eye on the back door; always worried we might close it and lock her out. She watches us closely and sometimes comes near, allowing a brief caress but afraid of getting too close. Somewhere in her past, she learned not to trust but to fear.
I will always treasure my Mom for the dedication she showed to our family in spite of her own upbringing in the midst of sadness and deprivation.
After a time, I grew tired of reading True Romance and detective magazines.
Walking back into the kitchen, I overheard the women talking on the back porch;
Their conversation was about Berneice Middleton; my Mom………
“I know what you mean”, I heard someone say; “she is kind of funny; she is different”.
Those words troubled me; leaving me with a feeling of sadness and concern.
Funny how the years have changed my perception and feelings about that day.
Yes, Mom was DIFFERENT! Mom was different in so many ways. Mom was a nervous, discontented sort of woman at times. But she compensated for those traits with a strong compliment of determination. Determination and hard work; all the while with a song or a poem on the tip of her tongue. Yes, she was different and so am I; proudly so. From her, I inherited a nervous discontent, along with a good deal of skepticism and call to action.
She was rarely content, often interested in the world around her; always eager for a change of scene. With Dad, she shared many quiet evenings reading and listening to music in their later years. But as a young mother, she was quite attentive and concerned about her family. She was always busy tending to the house, the garden, and the laundry. Life at home was very peaceful, secure, and predictable; every meal at the expected time. There was never any question about the daily routine; she saw to it.
Yet ever present in her emotion and demeanor one could see or sense it…. Yes, she was different. She was an impetuous dreamer and sometimes very demanding Mom. She expected a lot from her family but was always an enthusiastic participant as well.
Because she loved poetry, I have come to feel her spirit in some of my favorite poems and readings. Here are a few excerpts that for me will represent the essence of my Mom’s memory which I carry now and in years to come:
From “Song of the Open Road” by Walt Whitman
Afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose.
Henceforth I ask not good-fortune---I myself am good fortune;
Henceforth I whimper no more; postpone no more, need nothing,
Strong and content, I travel the open road.
From Orion Mountain Dreamer “The Invitation”
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living,
I want to know what you ache for,
And if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are,
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love,
For your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.
From James Kavanaugh “Men Too Gentle to Live Among Wolves”
Some people do not have to search,
They find their niche early in life and rest there,
seemingly contented and resigned.
They do not seem to ask much of life,
Sometimes they do not seem to take it seriously.
At times I envy them – but usually I do not understand them,
Seldom do they understand me.
I am one of the searchers.
There are, I believe, millions of us.
We are not unhappy, but neither are we really content.
We continue to explore life, hoping to uncover its ultimate secret.
We continue to explore ourselves, hoping to understand.
Our sadness is as much a part of our lives as is our laughter.
To share our sadness with ones we love is perhaps as great a joy as we can know,
Unless it be to share our laughter.
We searchers are ambitious only for life itself,
For everything beautiful it can provide.
Most of all we want to love and be loved.
We want to live in relationships that will not impede our wandering,
Nor prevent our search, nor lock us in prison walls.
We do not want to prove ourselves to another or compete for love.
We are wanderers, dreamers, and lovers,
Lonely souls who dare to ask of life everything good and beautiful.
One final thought about Mom
Recently, our daughter Jaci asked us to adopt one of her cats because it was sick and needed special attention. Judy took Rhoda in and nursed her back to health. It wasn’t easy, because Rhoda is DIFFERENT.
No, Rhoda is not like most cats, not mellow, cuddly, and purring; but rather wild and skittish.
For days, she hid in the laundry room behind the washer and dryer and then in the family room behind the entertainment center. Gradually, she began to trust us enough to let us watch her eat.
After weeks, she began to sneak into our bedroom and sleep under the bed. Next thing you know she had taken over my favorite rocking chair in our bedroom. That is now her chair and her bed. In the early morning hours while we are clinging to the last hour or so of precious sleep, Rhoda jumps up on our bed and stands on us as if demanding we get up and feed her.
In a different sort of way; in a way others may not understand, I have come to see Mom in Rhoda. Rhoda is nervous and slow to trust, but full of energy; sometimes bounding up the stairs and swatting one of her play toys.
Like Mom, Rhoda enjoys being outdoors, but keeps a careful eye on the back door; always worried we might close it and lock her out. She watches us closely and sometimes comes near, allowing a brief caress but afraid of getting too close. Somewhere in her past, she learned not to trust but to fear.
I will always treasure my Mom for the dedication she showed to our family in spite of her own upbringing in the midst of sadness and deprivation.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Tomatoes and Cotton
When I was around ten years old, I went with Butch Black and his folks one Sunday after church to a cannery near Bixby, Oklahoma where one of his brothers was working. They took me to the Patty Ann restaurant for lunch that day. It was the first time I had ever eaten in that Henryetta landmark of the 1950s and also the first time I had heard the term "Burger in a Basket". It was so good; one of the best hamburger and fries I have ever had.
When I hear the word Bixby, I think of two things. First is about that experience and the trip to the cannery. The other thing is that Bixby was the hometown of my old school friend, Ernie Perkins, at Chelsea after we moved there in 1960.
But I digress. Of the trip with the Black family, the memory of going into that cannery is something that is still vivid in my mind. I was impressed by the sweet aroma of the tomotoes, the sight of tomato peels everywhere, and large fields of crops around the Bixby area which is situated along the Arkansas River and within its flood plain.
Butch and I rode in the back of their old black Chevy pickup, probably a late 1940's model, the ones where you had to turn the ignition key then step on a big knob on the floor board to start the engine. Those old Chevy pickups had a unique smell in the cab and a distinct sound that was heard each time the brake pedal was released and flopped back up against the floor.
Mr. Black took all the gravel country back roads from their place on Wilson Road over to Bixby, driving very slowly along the way. He liked to look for scrap metal and other potentially valuable items along the road and in the ditches when he traveled. Whenever he would see something of interest, he would stop to take a look at it and would toss it into the pickup bed if he deemed it be worth a few cents at the junk yard. It seemed like a long trip to Bixby that day.
The Black family sometimes traveled to Modesto, CA during the harvest season and would pick friut to earn extra income. The one and only time I ever picked cotton was on one particular occasion when I spent the night with Butch. The rural schools would let the kids out of school for a few days each year during the cotton picking season. Those days were referred to as Cotton Pickin' Days. On the day we were to pick, we went to a field a little ways north of their house along the Wilson Road toward the Wilson community school and store. I didn't pick much cotton that morning, but got an introduction to the process and how it felt to drag one of those long cloth sacks with the strap slung over my shoulder.
When I hear the word Bixby, I think of two things. First is about that experience and the trip to the cannery. The other thing is that Bixby was the hometown of my old school friend, Ernie Perkins, at Chelsea after we moved there in 1960.
But I digress. Of the trip with the Black family, the memory of going into that cannery is something that is still vivid in my mind. I was impressed by the sweet aroma of the tomotoes, the sight of tomato peels everywhere, and large fields of crops around the Bixby area which is situated along the Arkansas River and within its flood plain.
Butch and I rode in the back of their old black Chevy pickup, probably a late 1940's model, the ones where you had to turn the ignition key then step on a big knob on the floor board to start the engine. Those old Chevy pickups had a unique smell in the cab and a distinct sound that was heard each time the brake pedal was released and flopped back up against the floor.
Mr. Black took all the gravel country back roads from their place on Wilson Road over to Bixby, driving very slowly along the way. He liked to look for scrap metal and other potentially valuable items along the road and in the ditches when he traveled. Whenever he would see something of interest, he would stop to take a look at it and would toss it into the pickup bed if he deemed it be worth a few cents at the junk yard. It seemed like a long trip to Bixby that day.
The Black family sometimes traveled to Modesto, CA during the harvest season and would pick friut to earn extra income. The one and only time I ever picked cotton was on one particular occasion when I spent the night with Butch. The rural schools would let the kids out of school for a few days each year during the cotton picking season. Those days were referred to as Cotton Pickin' Days. On the day we were to pick, we went to a field a little ways north of their house along the Wilson Road toward the Wilson community school and store. I didn't pick much cotton that morning, but got an introduction to the process and how it felt to drag one of those long cloth sacks with the strap slung over my shoulder.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Memories of Living In Henryetta
My very first memory is one of standing in the yard of our house on Wilson Road north of Henryetta, a small town in east central Oklahoma. It was a cool hazy or overcast morning probably in the fall or spring. There may have been a mist or fog in the air. The house sat up on a hill and from there I had a view to the East. In the distance I could hear the sounds of a train. I have a very special feeling about this memory. This is probably from the year 1951.
I have a few other vague memories from living on Wilson Road. I remember something about a water cistern. Dad and other relatives were working to clean it out or to repair it. I also recall standing up behind the front seat of our 1948 Kaiser and singing "Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam" with my sisters as our family drove into town for church on a Sunday morning.
When the family decided to move back into town in 1951, I recall going to look at the house we were going to buy at 701 W. Jefferson. It was in the evening, probably after Dad got off work at Tiger’s Garage, and it was dark by the time we finished looking and visiting with the Guynes family. I remember running around the yard after dark. Their son Larry had a neat toy gun that shot plastic balls about the size of a baseball.
The driveway of our place on Jefferson Street had two or three shade trees and under the corner tree was a sandy dirt area that was great for playing with toy cars. I spent a lot of time outdoors playing with neighbor kids. The neighborhood around the South 7th Street and West Jefferson Street area was an interesting place for a boy to grow up. Some of the boys in that area who were my age were my cousin Bobby (Robert Middleton), Joe Simpson, Jimmy Ray Nail and his cousins, and Alfred Andrew Moore. I know Alfred’s middle name was Andrew because I could often hear his mother calling him from the back door of their house about a block away.
Not too many years after we moved in, Dad bought a single car garage with a loft and utility room on the back and had it moved onto our property about fifteen to twenty feet west of the house and slightly to the right of the existing dirt driveway. He bought it from Bryan Tiger, the owner of Tiger’s Garage where Dad worked. I recall the day when some young men from the Long Bell Lumber Yard delivered sand, cement, gravel, and some other materials to our house for Dad to use in building a foundation for the garage. They drove a Ford truck and the smell of the materials and the sight and sounds of the truck and young men who delivered the stuff is still vivid in my memory.
The memories of Dad working at Tiger’s Garage are an important part of my young life in Henryetta. Dad often worked at night to complete jobs before payday. He would take me with him and I got to see and experience a lot of automotive stuff from an early age and at the same time get all dirty and greasy. Dad would clean up my hands and knees with Go Jo cleaner and have me sit on his lap and pretend to drive on the way home late at night. I always thought he wanted me to be with him and learn about auto mechanics at a young age, but looking back now with a different perspective I am sure that my Mom insisted that he take me with him for two primary reasons: 1.) Because I was about to drive her and my sisters crazy at home. and 2.) Because she didn’t like Dad being out alone at night.
An interesting and risky area to explore was the abandoned Texaco oil tank farm west of the KO&G Railroad tracks which bordered the west side of our small acreage on Jefferson Street. The tanks were removed shortly after we moved to that place but the rim dikes and pools of black crude oil sludge were left behind creating both safety and environmental hazards. But this was an interesting place to play. Beyond the tank farm, and a little to the northwest, was an area known as Hobo Jungle. Apparently there were hobos or transient people who sometimes lived in this area between the KO&G and Frisco tracks.
The railroad tracks themselves were another place where my cousin Bobby and I spent a lot of time exploring and walking. The tracks were the quickest way to walk to town and also the best way for us to get to the Henryetta golf course on foot. Walking toward town, there was a trestle which seemed like a very large and frightening thing to cross as a kid. It crossed over Coal Creek where there was a good swimming area to the west and a falls directly below known as Seven Falls. We would always look carefully in both directions before starting across the trestle. Then, all the way across the trestle, I would feel the dreadful fear of being run over by a train. We would usually talk about what we would do if a train came upon us while we were on the bridge. We generally agreed that we would try to get down on the supports along the side and hang on tight rather than jump off.
However, without a doubt, the most interesting and memorable area to explore was the area we called Kraft’s pasture. It was the pasture for a dairy herd of the Kraft family who had an active dairy farm and a relatively nice home a few blocks south of us along 7th Street. Their home site east of the tracks included a small dairy products facility down a narrow driveway past their house where my family often drove to buy milk. Their pasture was an area of maybe 160 acres west of the KO&G tracks and south of the abandoned tank farm site. Along the eastern two thirds of that land was a very nice pasture with a maze of cow trails meandering through it. The western portion of the property was a paradise for young boys in the area. Coal creek separated the pasture land from rugged wooded hills to the west. This area provided a wide range of terrain and natural interests for us. The creek had a nice pool like area which had developed in a bend. This is where I learned to swim. In the early summer the pool was full with water flowing through it but by August the flow decreased and the pool would become stagnant and not a good place to swim. It was not unusual for us to see cotton mouth snakes in the creek. A little further downstream was a very steep washed out bank on the west side of the creek. In 1957, it seemed pretty big and we called it “The Cliff”. It was probably not more the ten feet high but to us it was a lot of fun to try to climb up the face of it without sliding back down.
Music has always been a very important part of my life. Not performing it or playing any musical instrument, but just hearing music and singing along was always so powerful in me. Geraldine liked to listen to music on the radio at home and I have so many memories of the popular songs from the mid-1950s to 1960 that I heard there in the living room of our home in Henryetta.
I attended Roosevelt Elementary School all six elementary years from 1953 to 1959. Walking to school was an outdoor adventure. We would walk across a field where a spring was located in an old abandoned brick or rock building. I think the spring was known as Gilliam Spring. The path took us through the field and across a small creek. We crossed about four barbed wire fences along the way. Along the path at a bend of this creek was a large tree. The flood waters of the creek had washed away some of the soil under the tree creating a tunnel. The tunnel was a great place to play.
Some of my friends at Roosevelt were Jimmy Tarwater, Marilyn Bissett, Joyce Dudley, Darlene Childress, Beverly Bevan, Gary Merryman, Phil Hayes, Gail Hamilton, James Duty, Tommy Langwell, Jimmy Alston, Jimmy Sheperd Francis Crunk, and Bobby Lockery.
In 1957, the Cushman Highlander motor scooter was a very popular item for young boys my age. It seems that Jimmy, Gary, Phil, and Bobby each had one. I wanted one so bad but of course it was not something my family could afford and probably Dad would not have allowed me to have even if they could. But Jimmy was a very generous friend and would take me with him all around town on the back of his Highlander. A lot of our time was spent searching for empty pop bottles along the roads so we could return them for the deposit and use the money to buy gasoline for the scooter. Jimmy was one of the few people I knew who attended our church. His mom, Juanita was always nice to me and their home was very clean and nice. It always smelled so good when I would go in there with him. He had an older sister, Rusty, who married young and she and her mom would take Jimmy and me to the skating rink to drop us off and pick us up later. I recall that my mom bought me a cool looking black and white shirt and matching slacks and I thought I looked real good in 1957. Also, Jimmy’s grandmother, Mrs. Westfall, lived near our church and Jimmy and I would often go to her house. She was blind and her little house always seemed very dark inside, but also smelled nice. She had bread in a breadbox and that was the first time I had ever heard of bread being kept in a box. Dad talked a lot about her husband who was deceased at this time. Mr. Westfall was a good carpenter and Dad learned a lot about carpentry and building when he helped Mr. Westfall and others build the new addition to our church in the late 1940’s.
Also, Jimmy’s Dad had a plumbing business in town, Fretwell’s. Jimmy and I would stop in there at times and I was always impressed when his Dad would pull out a wad of money from his pocket with a rubber band around it and peel off a dollar or two for Jimmy.
I usually rode around town on my bicycle and often stopped in at Progressive Chevrolet where Dad worked from 1956 to 1960. He always seemed proud of me and would introduce me to people there. Once I recall seeing World Champion Cowboy Jim Shoulders in the showroom of the dealership. He was friends with the owner, Red Holmes and did a lot of business there. I recall going there with Dad one night and watching him prepare a new 1957 Chevrolet for delivery just at the time when they were being shown. Each September was a very special time of anticipation and secrecy as people awaited the day when new car models would be shown.
Jimmy Tarwater and I used to spend some time at Joyce Dudley’s and Marilyn Bissett’s houses. They taught us how to dance in Joyce’s garage and in Marilyn’s living room. They would play Elvis records and now whenever I hear an Elvis song it takes me back to those times when Jimmy and I were with Marilyn and Joyce. We were only grade school age but all seemed to have good innocent fun together as boys and girls. It was a time of flirtation and infatuation.
Also in grade school, I seemed to get into to fights. I think I must have been a little out-spoken or smart-alleck, but not too much so. Anyway, I somehow attracted the attention of bullies and others who liked to start fights. I think some of the other boys, like Jimmy, would somehow provoke these things. The first incident occurred in first grade when the smallest kid in the class, Donald Jones, punched me in the stomach and knocked the breath out of me. I just cried and did nothing. When I told Dad about this, he was not happy with my response and told me next time to fight back.
In about the fourth or fifth grade, I began to have on-going trouble with a kid named Kenny Powders. I have no idea why, but he would walk along with me after school and want to fight. There were several times when we would fight each other, punching and wrestling around. The worst time was one day when Kenny and I ended up alone in Jimmy Tarwater’s grandmother’s backyard. We fought and at one point I felt like I would finally defeat him and he might leave me alone. But Kenny was such a tough and determined kid and would not give up. I was so tired and wanting to quit and so he got the better of me. Just at that time Mom appeared and I got in the car and went home with her.
There were other problems with guys in Junior High too. Wesley Howard wanted to fight me one day and I recall just telling him I didn’t want to fight and so he really had a great time taunting me. Also, there was this tough kid named Jimmy Smithy who could take out his two front teeth and looked pretty mean. One day he confronted me in 7th grade class because I had shoved his little friend, Donald Jones (yes the one from first grade). Anyway he told me he would be waiting for me after school and would beat me up. Somehow my escape plan worked and I was able to get away from school without seeing him. Soon after that he moved back to California and I was so glad.
Another conflict developed when I was at a high school football game in the fall of 1959. I was sitting up on the top row looking down at people below and apparently someone else spit on them. This kid a year or two older than me (one of the Harjo boys, maybe Larry) thought I did it so he came up there and called me out and wanted to fight. Fortunately, a couple of older boys who knew Geraldine and Joe intervened and prevented me from being hurt. However, the rest of the school year, when this guy would meet me in the hall, between classes, he would punch me hard on the arm.
The school year of 1959-1960 was my last year to live in Henryetta and Okmulgee County. That was my first year in junior high where students from six small elementary schools came together in one larger school. It was during this school year that several girls talked me into inviting a girl to the junior high prom in the spring of 1960. The girl was Linda Radebaugh. I remember my parents taking me out to pick her up in a 1948 Cadillac that dad had acquired in some kind of trade. It was a little embarrassing and awkward but ended up being a fun time and a good memory. The event was held in the Teen Town place which was located in the top floor of a two story building which housed a couple of businesses on the ground floor, including Tiger’s Garage where dad had worked until 1956. The theme of the prom was Hawaiian. We all received a lei upon entering the prom. I recall the smell of strong perfume and sitting around the edge of the dance floor most of the evening but also slow dancing a couple of times. Several of us ended up at the Patty Ann café one block north. I think her parents picked us up and dropped me off at home. I kept the lei in my room for years afterward as a reminder of that first prom date.
In the summer of 1960, probably at the end of the school, there was a party that I will always remember. One of the girls from my Roosevelt class had a birthday party followed by a great hay ride that evening after dark. This was one of the greatest times of my early experiences of being in physical contact with girls in a sensual or romantic way. I remember being very close with a couple of girls on the ride and then later in the girl’s backyard several of us guys and girls ended up wrestling and rolling around in the grass. It was a very flirtatious and exciting time.
In the winter of 1960, a Chevrolet dealer passed through Henryetta and stopped by Progressive Chevrolet. His name was Boyd Perkins, owner of Perkins Chevrolet in Chelsea, Oklahoma. He was looking for a mechanic to work in his dealership and would guarantee a minimum of $75.00 per week to the person he selected for this position.
At that time, things had not been going well in Henryetta and the two primary employers, Eagle Picher Smelter and the Pittsburgh Glass Plant, had layed off many of their workers. Henryetta is a small town originally prospering in the coal mining and oil field booms of the early 1900’s.
But because of the economic downturn that winter, Dad, a 40 year old mechanic with one eye and five children was intrigued by the idea of a minimum weekly salary of $75.00 and the potential to make much more. On a recent payday, he had received only $45.00 net pay. This created the need for a change; and soon.
So, in February, 1960, after several smaller than expected paychecks, Dad decided to drive up to Chelsea and talk to the dealer who had stopped by that cold winter day when work had been scarce. Being a good family man, he took mom and the three younger kids along.
The drive to Chelsea had its moments of excitement as the family drove through Tulsa, a big city in comparison to Henryetta. But heading north out of Claremore on Route 66, the terrain and the winter climate made for a desolate and unappealing scene, even for folks accustomed to Oklahoma winters.
Later that year, we moved to Chelsea just in time to begin the new school year. On the day we moved, all of our local relatives came to see us off. That was my first memory of Uncle Wayne being at our house. We briefly left my dog, Champ, a mix of Boxer and Collie, with Uncle Wayne but later took him up to Chelsea with us.
Over the years we have made many trips back to Henryetta to visit. I still enjoy driving around the town to reminisce when I am traveling through the area.
I have a few other vague memories from living on Wilson Road. I remember something about a water cistern. Dad and other relatives were working to clean it out or to repair it. I also recall standing up behind the front seat of our 1948 Kaiser and singing "Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam" with my sisters as our family drove into town for church on a Sunday morning.
When the family decided to move back into town in 1951, I recall going to look at the house we were going to buy at 701 W. Jefferson. It was in the evening, probably after Dad got off work at Tiger’s Garage, and it was dark by the time we finished looking and visiting with the Guynes family. I remember running around the yard after dark. Their son Larry had a neat toy gun that shot plastic balls about the size of a baseball.
The driveway of our place on Jefferson Street had two or three shade trees and under the corner tree was a sandy dirt area that was great for playing with toy cars. I spent a lot of time outdoors playing with neighbor kids. The neighborhood around the South 7th Street and West Jefferson Street area was an interesting place for a boy to grow up. Some of the boys in that area who were my age were my cousin Bobby (Robert Middleton), Joe Simpson, Jimmy Ray Nail and his cousins, and Alfred Andrew Moore. I know Alfred’s middle name was Andrew because I could often hear his mother calling him from the back door of their house about a block away.
Not too many years after we moved in, Dad bought a single car garage with a loft and utility room on the back and had it moved onto our property about fifteen to twenty feet west of the house and slightly to the right of the existing dirt driveway. He bought it from Bryan Tiger, the owner of Tiger’s Garage where Dad worked. I recall the day when some young men from the Long Bell Lumber Yard delivered sand, cement, gravel, and some other materials to our house for Dad to use in building a foundation for the garage. They drove a Ford truck and the smell of the materials and the sight and sounds of the truck and young men who delivered the stuff is still vivid in my memory.
The memories of Dad working at Tiger’s Garage are an important part of my young life in Henryetta. Dad often worked at night to complete jobs before payday. He would take me with him and I got to see and experience a lot of automotive stuff from an early age and at the same time get all dirty and greasy. Dad would clean up my hands and knees with Go Jo cleaner and have me sit on his lap and pretend to drive on the way home late at night. I always thought he wanted me to be with him and learn about auto mechanics at a young age, but looking back now with a different perspective I am sure that my Mom insisted that he take me with him for two primary reasons: 1.) Because I was about to drive her and my sisters crazy at home. and 2.) Because she didn’t like Dad being out alone at night.
An interesting and risky area to explore was the abandoned Texaco oil tank farm west of the KO&G Railroad tracks which bordered the west side of our small acreage on Jefferson Street. The tanks were removed shortly after we moved to that place but the rim dikes and pools of black crude oil sludge were left behind creating both safety and environmental hazards. But this was an interesting place to play. Beyond the tank farm, and a little to the northwest, was an area known as Hobo Jungle. Apparently there were hobos or transient people who sometimes lived in this area between the KO&G and Frisco tracks.
The railroad tracks themselves were another place where my cousin Bobby and I spent a lot of time exploring and walking. The tracks were the quickest way to walk to town and also the best way for us to get to the Henryetta golf course on foot. Walking toward town, there was a trestle which seemed like a very large and frightening thing to cross as a kid. It crossed over Coal Creek where there was a good swimming area to the west and a falls directly below known as Seven Falls. We would always look carefully in both directions before starting across the trestle. Then, all the way across the trestle, I would feel the dreadful fear of being run over by a train. We would usually talk about what we would do if a train came upon us while we were on the bridge. We generally agreed that we would try to get down on the supports along the side and hang on tight rather than jump off.
However, without a doubt, the most interesting and memorable area to explore was the area we called Kraft’s pasture. It was the pasture for a dairy herd of the Kraft family who had an active dairy farm and a relatively nice home a few blocks south of us along 7th Street. Their home site east of the tracks included a small dairy products facility down a narrow driveway past their house where my family often drove to buy milk. Their pasture was an area of maybe 160 acres west of the KO&G tracks and south of the abandoned tank farm site. Along the eastern two thirds of that land was a very nice pasture with a maze of cow trails meandering through it. The western portion of the property was a paradise for young boys in the area. Coal creek separated the pasture land from rugged wooded hills to the west. This area provided a wide range of terrain and natural interests for us. The creek had a nice pool like area which had developed in a bend. This is where I learned to swim. In the early summer the pool was full with water flowing through it but by August the flow decreased and the pool would become stagnant and not a good place to swim. It was not unusual for us to see cotton mouth snakes in the creek. A little further downstream was a very steep washed out bank on the west side of the creek. In 1957, it seemed pretty big and we called it “The Cliff”. It was probably not more the ten feet high but to us it was a lot of fun to try to climb up the face of it without sliding back down.
Music has always been a very important part of my life. Not performing it or playing any musical instrument, but just hearing music and singing along was always so powerful in me. Geraldine liked to listen to music on the radio at home and I have so many memories of the popular songs from the mid-1950s to 1960 that I heard there in the living room of our home in Henryetta.
I attended Roosevelt Elementary School all six elementary years from 1953 to 1959. Walking to school was an outdoor adventure. We would walk across a field where a spring was located in an old abandoned brick or rock building. I think the spring was known as Gilliam Spring. The path took us through the field and across a small creek. We crossed about four barbed wire fences along the way. Along the path at a bend of this creek was a large tree. The flood waters of the creek had washed away some of the soil under the tree creating a tunnel. The tunnel was a great place to play.
Some of my friends at Roosevelt were Jimmy Tarwater, Marilyn Bissett, Joyce Dudley, Darlene Childress, Beverly Bevan, Gary Merryman, Phil Hayes, Gail Hamilton, James Duty, Tommy Langwell, Jimmy Alston, Jimmy Sheperd Francis Crunk, and Bobby Lockery.
In 1957, the Cushman Highlander motor scooter was a very popular item for young boys my age. It seems that Jimmy, Gary, Phil, and Bobby each had one. I wanted one so bad but of course it was not something my family could afford and probably Dad would not have allowed me to have even if they could. But Jimmy was a very generous friend and would take me with him all around town on the back of his Highlander. A lot of our time was spent searching for empty pop bottles along the roads so we could return them for the deposit and use the money to buy gasoline for the scooter. Jimmy was one of the few people I knew who attended our church. His mom, Juanita was always nice to me and their home was very clean and nice. It always smelled so good when I would go in there with him. He had an older sister, Rusty, who married young and she and her mom would take Jimmy and me to the skating rink to drop us off and pick us up later. I recall that my mom bought me a cool looking black and white shirt and matching slacks and I thought I looked real good in 1957. Also, Jimmy’s grandmother, Mrs. Westfall, lived near our church and Jimmy and I would often go to her house. She was blind and her little house always seemed very dark inside, but also smelled nice. She had bread in a breadbox and that was the first time I had ever heard of bread being kept in a box. Dad talked a lot about her husband who was deceased at this time. Mr. Westfall was a good carpenter and Dad learned a lot about carpentry and building when he helped Mr. Westfall and others build the new addition to our church in the late 1940’s.
Also, Jimmy’s Dad had a plumbing business in town, Fretwell’s. Jimmy and I would stop in there at times and I was always impressed when his Dad would pull out a wad of money from his pocket with a rubber band around it and peel off a dollar or two for Jimmy.
I usually rode around town on my bicycle and often stopped in at Progressive Chevrolet where Dad worked from 1956 to 1960. He always seemed proud of me and would introduce me to people there. Once I recall seeing World Champion Cowboy Jim Shoulders in the showroom of the dealership. He was friends with the owner, Red Holmes and did a lot of business there. I recall going there with Dad one night and watching him prepare a new 1957 Chevrolet for delivery just at the time when they were being shown. Each September was a very special time of anticipation and secrecy as people awaited the day when new car models would be shown.
Jimmy Tarwater and I used to spend some time at Joyce Dudley’s and Marilyn Bissett’s houses. They taught us how to dance in Joyce’s garage and in Marilyn’s living room. They would play Elvis records and now whenever I hear an Elvis song it takes me back to those times when Jimmy and I were with Marilyn and Joyce. We were only grade school age but all seemed to have good innocent fun together as boys and girls. It was a time of flirtation and infatuation.
Also in grade school, I seemed to get into to fights. I think I must have been a little out-spoken or smart-alleck, but not too much so. Anyway, I somehow attracted the attention of bullies and others who liked to start fights. I think some of the other boys, like Jimmy, would somehow provoke these things. The first incident occurred in first grade when the smallest kid in the class, Donald Jones, punched me in the stomach and knocked the breath out of me. I just cried and did nothing. When I told Dad about this, he was not happy with my response and told me next time to fight back.
In about the fourth or fifth grade, I began to have on-going trouble with a kid named Kenny Powders. I have no idea why, but he would walk along with me after school and want to fight. There were several times when we would fight each other, punching and wrestling around. The worst time was one day when Kenny and I ended up alone in Jimmy Tarwater’s grandmother’s backyard. We fought and at one point I felt like I would finally defeat him and he might leave me alone. But Kenny was such a tough and determined kid and would not give up. I was so tired and wanting to quit and so he got the better of me. Just at that time Mom appeared and I got in the car and went home with her.
There were other problems with guys in Junior High too. Wesley Howard wanted to fight me one day and I recall just telling him I didn’t want to fight and so he really had a great time taunting me. Also, there was this tough kid named Jimmy Smithy who could take out his two front teeth and looked pretty mean. One day he confronted me in 7th grade class because I had shoved his little friend, Donald Jones (yes the one from first grade). Anyway he told me he would be waiting for me after school and would beat me up. Somehow my escape plan worked and I was able to get away from school without seeing him. Soon after that he moved back to California and I was so glad.
Another conflict developed when I was at a high school football game in the fall of 1959. I was sitting up on the top row looking down at people below and apparently someone else spit on them. This kid a year or two older than me (one of the Harjo boys, maybe Larry) thought I did it so he came up there and called me out and wanted to fight. Fortunately, a couple of older boys who knew Geraldine and Joe intervened and prevented me from being hurt. However, the rest of the school year, when this guy would meet me in the hall, between classes, he would punch me hard on the arm.
The school year of 1959-1960 was my last year to live in Henryetta and Okmulgee County. That was my first year in junior high where students from six small elementary schools came together in one larger school. It was during this school year that several girls talked me into inviting a girl to the junior high prom in the spring of 1960. The girl was Linda Radebaugh. I remember my parents taking me out to pick her up in a 1948 Cadillac that dad had acquired in some kind of trade. It was a little embarrassing and awkward but ended up being a fun time and a good memory. The event was held in the Teen Town place which was located in the top floor of a two story building which housed a couple of businesses on the ground floor, including Tiger’s Garage where dad had worked until 1956. The theme of the prom was Hawaiian. We all received a lei upon entering the prom. I recall the smell of strong perfume and sitting around the edge of the dance floor most of the evening but also slow dancing a couple of times. Several of us ended up at the Patty Ann café one block north. I think her parents picked us up and dropped me off at home. I kept the lei in my room for years afterward as a reminder of that first prom date.
In the summer of 1960, probably at the end of the school, there was a party that I will always remember. One of the girls from my Roosevelt class had a birthday party followed by a great hay ride that evening after dark. This was one of the greatest times of my early experiences of being in physical contact with girls in a sensual or romantic way. I remember being very close with a couple of girls on the ride and then later in the girl’s backyard several of us guys and girls ended up wrestling and rolling around in the grass. It was a very flirtatious and exciting time.
In the winter of 1960, a Chevrolet dealer passed through Henryetta and stopped by Progressive Chevrolet. His name was Boyd Perkins, owner of Perkins Chevrolet in Chelsea, Oklahoma. He was looking for a mechanic to work in his dealership and would guarantee a minimum of $75.00 per week to the person he selected for this position.
At that time, things had not been going well in Henryetta and the two primary employers, Eagle Picher Smelter and the Pittsburgh Glass Plant, had layed off many of their workers. Henryetta is a small town originally prospering in the coal mining and oil field booms of the early 1900’s.
But because of the economic downturn that winter, Dad, a 40 year old mechanic with one eye and five children was intrigued by the idea of a minimum weekly salary of $75.00 and the potential to make much more. On a recent payday, he had received only $45.00 net pay. This created the need for a change; and soon.
So, in February, 1960, after several smaller than expected paychecks, Dad decided to drive up to Chelsea and talk to the dealer who had stopped by that cold winter day when work had been scarce. Being a good family man, he took mom and the three younger kids along.
The drive to Chelsea had its moments of excitement as the family drove through Tulsa, a big city in comparison to Henryetta. But heading north out of Claremore on Route 66, the terrain and the winter climate made for a desolate and unappealing scene, even for folks accustomed to Oklahoma winters.
Later that year, we moved to Chelsea just in time to begin the new school year. On the day we moved, all of our local relatives came to see us off. That was my first memory of Uncle Wayne being at our house. We briefly left my dog, Champ, a mix of Boxer and Collie, with Uncle Wayne but later took him up to Chelsea with us.
Over the years we have made many trips back to Henryetta to visit. I still enjoy driving around the town to reminisce when I am traveling through the area.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Other Paths and Other Vines
You know, I never did go to that area along the path except for that one time. But I have heard that the area to the right of the path was a great place to explore. Such an interesting place for kids to play in those days.
I am familiar with another path near the Kelley's place where an old foot bridge crossed the creek by their yard. I always thought their yard was so interesting with the different elevations, trees and the creek running through there. One morning, I was riding my bike to school and crossing the bridge when I hit my foot on the frame of the bridge. That sure did hurt. I think the bridge was made of pipe or angle iron and I sure smacked my toe. But what a picturesque trail and setting that was for a kid to go through to get to school.
Just to the north of the Kelley's place I think was their grandparents house with a horse barn and a team of work horses in it. One of my favorite memories is how good I always thought the barn smelled when I would walk past it. There was something special about the hay, the harnesses, and those horses that I loved.
Most of the time, my cousin Bobby and I would walk to school along May Street from his house at 1211 South 7th after watching TV, probably Captain Kangaroo, in the morning. For quite a few years they had a TV and we didn't.
But we would walk along May Street to 6th Street where May Street temporarily ended. There we would climb through a fence and walk down to cross the creek and up an embankment along the south end of the Johnson's place. There wasn't usually anything in the field and we just had a path along the property line that took us back to May Street at 4th.
That was my main route to school in good weather during my years at Roosevelt and I have so many memories and stories that come to mind about the sights, sounds, and experiences in that area. I never did explore the wooded area near the path close to Bobby Lochery's house but did enjoy a lot of time along this other path and in the area known as Gilliam Springs. There was a rock or brick building there along 6th Street between May and Jefferson where an actual spring was developed and apparently used some years before I lived there. But by the 1950s, it had been damaged by neglect and vandalism to where it was just a smelly place but yet an exciting place to go as a kid; just a block from my house.
I used to enjoy swinging on the vines that hung down from trees along the creek. Those were fun. A few years ago, I was cutting away some bushes and vines that were growing in our yard along the edge of the pond where people from the neighborhood can walk along a path between our fence and Hidden View Pond. This young little red haired freckle faced girl, about 7 years old, came along and asked me to please not cut down the large wooden vine hanging down from one of the pine trees. She said that she and her friends loved to swing on it. Talk about something that took me back in time. That really did it. I assured her that I would leave it there.
I am familiar with another path near the Kelley's place where an old foot bridge crossed the creek by their yard. I always thought their yard was so interesting with the different elevations, trees and the creek running through there. One morning, I was riding my bike to school and crossing the bridge when I hit my foot on the frame of the bridge. That sure did hurt. I think the bridge was made of pipe or angle iron and I sure smacked my toe. But what a picturesque trail and setting that was for a kid to go through to get to school.
Just to the north of the Kelley's place I think was their grandparents house with a horse barn and a team of work horses in it. One of my favorite memories is how good I always thought the barn smelled when I would walk past it. There was something special about the hay, the harnesses, and those horses that I loved.
Most of the time, my cousin Bobby and I would walk to school along May Street from his house at 1211 South 7th after watching TV, probably Captain Kangaroo, in the morning. For quite a few years they had a TV and we didn't.
But we would walk along May Street to 6th Street where May Street temporarily ended. There we would climb through a fence and walk down to cross the creek and up an embankment along the south end of the Johnson's place. There wasn't usually anything in the field and we just had a path along the property line that took us back to May Street at 4th.
That was my main route to school in good weather during my years at Roosevelt and I have so many memories and stories that come to mind about the sights, sounds, and experiences in that area. I never did explore the wooded area near the path close to Bobby Lochery's house but did enjoy a lot of time along this other path and in the area known as Gilliam Springs. There was a rock or brick building there along 6th Street between May and Jefferson where an actual spring was developed and apparently used some years before I lived there. But by the 1950s, it had been damaged by neglect and vandalism to where it was just a smelly place but yet an exciting place to go as a kid; just a block from my house.
I used to enjoy swinging on the vines that hung down from trees along the creek. Those were fun. A few years ago, I was cutting away some bushes and vines that were growing in our yard along the edge of the pond where people from the neighborhood can walk along a path between our fence and Hidden View Pond. This young little red haired freckle faced girl, about 7 years old, came along and asked me to please not cut down the large wooden vine hanging down from one of the pine trees. She said that she and her friends loved to swing on it. Talk about something that took me back in time. That really did it. I assured her that I would leave it there.
Monday, September 7, 2009
An Interesting Path on a Cushman Eagle
This morning, as I sat out on the patio by the pool having a cup of coffee and watching the hummingbirds, I thought about the Labor Day Parade in Henryetta and wondered if it is still the big event it always was when I was a kid. For me and my family, it was one of the most exciting days of the year. Always ended up at the football stadium for fireworks.
Was also thinking about the neighborhood surrounding Roosevelt school. Probably the last time I rode with Jimmy Tarwater on one of his motor scooters was when we were in maybe in 7th grade. By then he had had two or more Cushman Eagles which were quite a step up from the Highlanders he started out riding in 3rd grade. He had a paper route in that part of town around Roosevelt and I rode along with him as he threw the papers one evening. I think it was in 1959, and I am pretty sure it was in the fall of the year when the days get shorter and the long shadows of late afternoon turn quickly to sunset and dusk. It was just getting dark enough that he had to turn on the lights of the Cushman Eagle.
The thing remember about that time was a very interesting path that he took to get from the L-shaped corner by Bobby Lochery's house on Dixie Street and on down toward Louise Street. I never knew the path existed but it gave him a shortcut way to some of his customers whose houses were up on a drive way or partial street just north of Louise. My recollection is a little fuzzy about the details. But for some reason, when I think about an interesting, out of the way, path, that scene often comes to mind.
However, looking at the location on Google Map Street View, it doesn't seem quite as interesting as the scene I have carried in my memory all these years, so I will keep the memory and not the more accurate street scene of today.
Was also thinking about the neighborhood surrounding Roosevelt school. Probably the last time I rode with Jimmy Tarwater on one of his motor scooters was when we were in maybe in 7th grade. By then he had had two or more Cushman Eagles which were quite a step up from the Highlanders he started out riding in 3rd grade. He had a paper route in that part of town around Roosevelt and I rode along with him as he threw the papers one evening. I think it was in 1959, and I am pretty sure it was in the fall of the year when the days get shorter and the long shadows of late afternoon turn quickly to sunset and dusk. It was just getting dark enough that he had to turn on the lights of the Cushman Eagle.
The thing remember about that time was a very interesting path that he took to get from the L-shaped corner by Bobby Lochery's house on Dixie Street and on down toward Louise Street. I never knew the path existed but it gave him a shortcut way to some of his customers whose houses were up on a drive way or partial street just north of Louise. My recollection is a little fuzzy about the details. But for some reason, when I think about an interesting, out of the way, path, that scene often comes to mind.
However, looking at the location on Google Map Street View, it doesn't seem quite as interesting as the scene I have carried in my memory all these years, so I will keep the memory and not the more accurate street scene of today.
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