The Rise and Decline of Erick

The town of my youth was Erick, a small town in far Western Oklahoma. It lies next to Interstate 40, just about six miles from the Oklahoma/Texas border. It is about equal distance from Oklahoma City and Amarillo, about 150 miles. When I was a child the town had a population of about 1,500 people, as compared to perhaps 2,500 in Sayre and 4,000 in Elk City. These were the primary towns in Beckham County. There were some other smaller settlements which in their mind may have been considered towns, such as Sweet water, Retro, Delhi and Carter. There were some other smaller settlements but all these would be considered only settlements and communities by objective observers.

El Reno, Oklahoma, the county seat of Canadian County, Oklahoma, is an old town with its principal industry being railroads. It was a crossroad for major train traffic in a time when roads were pitiful, the airlines were not dreamt of and the trains provided the most efficient means of travel both for people and freight. El Reno was a major railroad town even before statehood in 1907.

Beginning in El Reno toward the end of the 19th Century, investors began construction of the Rock Island Rail Road west, finally going into the Texas Panhandle and on toward Amarillo. An allotment of land was allowed the company for the construction as it was in the best interest of the Territory, its economic interest, for the line to built. The “Rock Island Line” was a familiar sight at Erick. Like other towns in Western Oklahoma, the railroad provided access to the greater world. There had been some development of the area utilizing the freighting industry as it was prior to railroads, the freight wagon companies with large wagons heavily laden with freight being drawn by mules or oxen. But it was the railroad which really provided the impetus for development and growth.

There was a company created which was always in the forefront of the development along the Rock Island Line. The Choctaw Townsite and Improvement Company was a corporation which had some kind of relationship with the railroad company. It was probably simply that the principals were the same. But along the way from El Reno west the Choctaw company was instrumental in developing the townsites along the route. At Bridgeport and then again at Hydro, the Choctaw company obtained title to a townsite which was surveyed and sold off to people wishing to settle there. The principals in the company were familiar names from my childhood, people such as John Bonebreak and Beeks Erick.

After Hydro they moved on westward with the construction of the railroad and did the same thing in Weatherford. When they learned that another line was approaching the present location of Elk City, they went there and acquired land to create another town. Elk City was created by the same people using the same methodology and the Rock Island Line ran through it and on to Sayre. All of this activity was prior to statehood. Elk City was created in the year 1901, just six years before Oklahoma became a state. The pattern of townsite development by the Choctaw company was repeated in Sayre and then in Erick.

Land was acquired in Erick by the Choctaw Townsite and Improvement Company, it was surveyed and sold off to prospective businessmen who saw it as an opportunity to create businesses and homes. In many ways it was the last frontier in the United States and was seen as a last chance for people to make something of their lives. The development of the railroad west of Erick did not afford the same opportunities. In Texas there were other developers who would take advantage of opportunities there. As the last stop for the Choctaw company, Beeks Erick, who lent his name to the town, set up business there making it the base for his life and fortune, as did H.E. and John Bonebreak. Bonebreak’s Hardware was an established business operating well into the middle of the 20th Century. Both men also had farm land outside of Erick.

When the town was first formed it sat at a simple crossroad of county roads and cattle trails. The Territory had been surveyed (would eventually be surveyed twice) and roadways had been determined. But there were no paved roads at that time. These roadways were generally simply section lines. Farmers and ranchers could come into town by horseback or wagons but there was no longer a need for the freight wagons to bring goods from the outside. The railroad provided the connection to the world with its goods. The railroads provided the shipping for the produce of the farms and ranches to the more populated markets.

With the development of the automobile, Western Oklahoma changed as did the entire American society and culture. What little travel there was from town to town had to take advantage of the section lines and the county roads which were themselves often merely cow trails. The road from Erick to Sayre is a very good example of this connection. To get to the town of Erick one would go directly west out of Sayre to the North Fork of the Red River. There would eventually be a wooden bridge which was later designated the Corn Stalk Bridge. There is little information available that would indicate when it assumed this moniker but it was probably long after a modern bridge was constructed over the same river just south of Sayre and was used as the crossing for Route 66 when it was built. The old Corn Stalk Bridge remained in service for years but was allowed to go into disrepair. It finally washed out and was not replaced sometime in about 1960 or 1961. In earlier days after crossing the river at the Corn Stalk Bridge the traveler would go west until just directly north of Erick. A straight line along the county roads would take you into the northeast quarter of the town.

U.S. Highway 66 was conceived by people in Springfield, Missouri. It was one of the first major modern highways designed to connect the country. With its origin in Chicago, it ran through St. Louis, on to Oklahoma, through Tulsa and Oklahoma City. It went west to El Reno and then paralleled the Rock Island Line. On its way to Amarillo and then on to California (it ended at the ocean), it ran through Erick. From east to west, it ran right down through the town and the town built itself around it. Erick was connected to the rest of the world both through the Rock Island Line and Route 66.

The highway was conceived and authorized in 1926 and the roadway was constructed in its present location (basically along Interstate Highway 40 in Western Oklahoma) during the 1930s. It provided needed work for people during the Depression. The final paving of Route 66 was not completed until 1938. John Steinbeck’s novel and subsequent movie, The Grapes of Wrath, shows Okies traveling along paved roads all the way to California. There were a lot of people traveling in that migration along simple dirt roads.

Following World War II, the automobile industry totally changed the American landscape and Western Oklahoma was not immune to that change. By then Route 66 ran right through town and while it was only a two lane road it did, nonetheless, carry a great deal of traffic. Another road was built and paved, connecting people and settlements north and south of the town. With the increased travel, services for the people on the roads were provided. Cafes (few were hardly worthy of the term “restaurant”) and motels (originally called “tourist courts”) sprang along the road, including in Erick. Service stations were there to provide fuel and service for the travelers.

There was a four way stop sign at the intersection of Main and Broadway Streets in Erick. And every car and truck traveling along Route 66 had to go through Erick and had to stop at that four way stop sign. Technology enabled the sign to be replaced with a stop light, a single blinking red light situated to stop all traffic going through town, both north/south traffic and east/west traffic. That stop light would eventually be replaced with a traffic light which remains there today.

The 1950s also saw that portion of Route 66 made into a four lane roadway under the leadership of Raymond Gary, Governor of the State of Oklahoma. He was the only governor of the State of Oklahoma who ever showed an interest in Western Oklahoma and its welfare.

The existence of Route 66 enabled the people of that little town to be connected with the world. It was before television, before the internet, before all those institutions which would bring people together and make the world smaller. World War II had exposed an entire generation to a larger world and the development of the automobile industry with better roads and facilities had allowed that area of the state to interact with people from all over the world. Having grown up in and near Erick and being well acquainted with people from the entire area, it seemed there was a social and intellectual advantage to living on that fabled road. It brought prosperity to the town. People had to purchase gasoline and other services while passing through. They ate at cafes. They stayed in motels. More significantly, it opened the world to us. We met and sometimes visited with people from all over the world. People from New York stopped at my father’s service station and they were no longer a mystery. Illinois, California, the Eastern Seaboard. These people were now known to us. The Pacific Northwest. Canada. The Northeast.

I could tell a difference in people who lived along that road, the Mother Road of the United States. Kids and their families who lived ten and fifteen miles both north and south of the road did not seem to be as aware of the world as those who lived on Route 66.

Erick was prospering. It was benefiting from the economic advantage of having a railroad pass through it and having a major highway pass through it. In the 1940s and 1950s there were families on nearly every quarter section of land. These 160 acres farmsteads were often home to families with any where from two to four kids. These families would come into Erick for their shopping needs and for church. Sometimes, even for their kids to receive an education. It was a common sight for families to come to town on Saturdays to sell produce and to purchase necessities. And they simply came to socialize.

You could see everyone on Saturdays. You could go to the barber shop (there were two of them in town) and you could go to a drug store (two of them) which had full fountain service. You could go to the grocery store, clothing store and any other store you needed. There were movie theaters (two and for a short time a third), pool halls, car dealerships, cafes, ice cream parlors, and many other businesses. Two good banks and a host of churches. Main street was lined with cars, often double parked, and the sidewalks were crowded with people. It was a prosperous and busy time and Erick was at its peak both socially and economically.

President Eisenhower had a vision of a modern highway system for America. He had been impressed with the Lincoln Highway as a young Army officer and with the German Autobahn during and after World War II. He envisioned the construction of four lane highways all over the country to be used for military purposes and, when not so used, to be available for commercial and personal use. That vision led to the Interstate Highway system.

Erick and its surrounding area began to fail. Part of it is that it is an agricultural area and that industry isn’t as profitable as it once was. Mechanization and chemicals made it possible for a single farmer, with his crew, to work more land. This resulted in fewer farm families working the same land and whereas there had once been a family on each quarter section, the land became more sparsely populated. As young people grew up there were no jobs available for them and they were unable to stay. They had to leave Erick to find a job.

The other reason for Erick’s demise was the development of the Interstate Highway system. I-40 was built in Western Oklahoma to follow the same basic route as the old Route 66. But it did not go through the towns. It bypassed the small towns along the route so that traffic could flow at a greater speed.

Erick, like every other small town along the way, was bypassed. And with that the town began its rapid spiral downward.

The interstate highways also enabled the trucking industry to develop and this spelled the death of the railroads. Years later, while driving along an interstate highway, fighting my way through the heavy truck traffic, a passenger in the car said, “They should build a road just for trucks so we wouldn’t have to drive in all this.” I replied, “They used to have such a road. It was called a railroad.”

With the death of the railroad (and the eventual disappearance of the Rock Island Line) and the loss of traffic through town, businesses were lost which once marked the prosperity of that little community. Cafes and motels were the first victims. Then service stations. Then loss of other businesses was like cutting into and removing muscle. Erick was a little doomed town that would reach a pitiful level of population and services. With any luck it would arrive at a level plateau and the town would never actually disappear completely. It seems some towns remain alive simply because there is no place for the last of the people to go.

Several years ago, Disney came out with the movie Cars. It was the story of a small town in Arizona which was bypassed by Interstate Highway 40. The old Route 66 had once run right through Radiator Springs but when I-40 was built around it it began to decline and by the time of the story of Cars it was struggling to just barely stay alive. A children’s story, I watched it with interest. There, I thought, is the story of Erick.

With its boarded up store fronts and its dilapidated buildings, the single little traffic light flashes signals to roads with little traffic. It stands as a sentry to a better time and if one will just look back past the empty bank buildings, the empty grocery and drug stores, the disappeared cotton gins and movie theaters, the abandoned motels and cafes, the deserted service stations, one can see the ghosts of people who once lived and loved and made Erick their home.

A Bit of Erick History

As a child growing up in and near Erick, Oklahoma, there was a wealth of stories and history about the area if one would just take the time to listen to older people. I did.

Oklahoma would celebrate its 37th birthday the year I was born. There were settlers there before it became a state on 1907, but Western Oklahoma was sparsely populated. Still, even if it was a short history it was a rich history and I delighted in hearing stories told by early day settlers of the region.

The 20th Century was marked by wars, World Wars I and II, Korea and Viet Nam. It was also marked by the Great Depression of the 1930s and in our part of the country by the Dust Bowl, also of the 1930s. The stories I listened to were often about these early events. But, as the story of America in the 19th Century cannot be told without telling of slavery and the Civil War, so America’s story in the 20th Century cannot be told without relating the struggle of African Americans against the evil of Jim Crow laws and segregation. To understand the 20th Century in America one must understand the struggle of African Americans for integration and civil rights.

In my small world in Western Oklahoma during my childhood there were no African Americans. At least not in Erick. There were very few living in and around Sayre and in Beckham County one had to go to Elk City before finding a significant population of African Americans. As a child I heard stories of an incident which occurred during my parents’ childhood which resulted in the expulsion of all African Americans from Erick and the surrounding area.

I was told in a very delicate way that a white woman was raped by an African American man, an event which would have occurred sometime in the 1920s. As a result of this crime, it was said, the African Americans were forced to leave and had they remained in and around Erick they likely would have been harmed or even killed. Even as a youngster it seemed extreme to punish an entire people for the transgressions of a single individual.

The story, as it was told back then, was based on an actual event. The story, as it was told then, was inaccurate and the true story, which was barely documented, shows the horror these people endured on that night they were ordered to leave.

Shamrock, Texas, is a small town west of Erick in the Texas Panhandle. It was and is of similar size to Erick and its culture and inhabitants were much the same as one would find in Erick. On July 11, 1930, there was a young woman near Shamrock who was killed allegedly by an African American man named Jesse Lee Washington. She was a young woman married to a prosperous farmer near Shamrock. Washington worked on an adjoining farm and was known to the family of the victim.

Washington would later confess that he was attempting to rape her and when she fought him he struck her with a lead pipe. He continued to beat her in a rage and when he was through she was beaten so badly she was dead and barely recognizable. As he rushed from the premises he was seen and recognized by the young woman’s husband and his younger brother. When the body of his wife was discovered, Washington was arrested and during the early days of his incarceration he confessed.

There are not very good records of the event and there is always some shadow thrown on the record we do have because of the racism which pervaded the white society of the time. We have no idea what motivated the confession, whether it was beaten out of him or not. We have no idea as to the truthfulness of the confession. It was long before Miranda warnings were given to criminal defendants and it was long before African Americans were given access to all the legal rights of other Americans.

The young woman had once lived in Erick where she and her family were well known an well liked. Even though this crime had happened in the Shamrock community, near that town, it was in Erick that action was taken against an entire race of people.

A mob of about 250 men was formed in Erick soon after the news of the murder arrived. They began going from house to house of all the African American families in town and told each of them to “Get out now.” It was a fairly peaceful mob, considering, and there is no record of anything being done physically to or against the African Americans. But they were uncompromising in their message. The terrified families grabbed what they could carry and left their homes immediately and began their trek, usually by foot, to safety. They would not have gone west in the direction Shamrock and there was only sparse population north and south. By going in an easterly direction they would soon encounter Sayre, the County Seat of Beckham County, and from there they could go another 15 miles or so to the more populous town of Elk City. That was the principal destination for most of them and it resulted in the higher population of African Americans in that town even today.

After the mob had run out all the African American from the town of Erick, in just an hour or so, they turned their attention to nearby farms where they were known to be living and working. All around Erick for several miles African Americans were being awakened by the mob and were told “Get out now.” The term “NOW” was the operative word in the message. These people also grabbed what they could carry and started walking eastward.

There is no record of concern for or intervention by the civil authorities on behalf of these frightened and terrified people. There is no record of anyone in the town coming to their aid. There is nothing even in legend that would suggest there were cooler heads who tried to prevent or stop this mob action. The only thing that might suggest there was some reason present that night was that no physical violence occurred to the people. They were forced to leave and take nothing more than what they could grab and carry while going out the door but no one was attacked or killed. It was a peculiar night.

Back in Shamrock a mob was forming to confront the African Americans living there. Their intent is unknown and had they actually been able to force the encounter it is not known whether they would be content with just forcing them out of town. The civil authorities there were more attentive to the safety of all people, including the African Americans. It is difficult to understand why they took the threat more seriously than did the authorities in Beckham County, Oklahoma. It may be simply that Texas was a much older state than Oklahoma and better equipped to recognize the threat to society when a threat was made to one group in that community.

W.K. McLemore was the Sheriff of Wheeler County, Texas. He immediately deputized a large group of men to be prepared in the event that a mob outbreak caused problems for the African Americans there. There was talk of lynching Washington and McLemore was, to his credit, determined that such an event would not happen on his watch. The actual physical presence of Washington in his county may have directed the desire for vengeance more toward him and less toward the populace of African Americans in general.

McLemore appealed to the Governor of Texas and four Texas Rangers were dispatched to quell any riots which might erupt and to ensure Washington’s safety until trial. The Texas Rangers were under the charge of M.T. Gonzaullas, one of the more celebrated Texas Rangers of the 20th Century. Born in Spain, he had come to this country as a young man and had made the Rangers his career. The Rangers of this era were determined to enforce law and order and so long as he and the other Rangers were present and responsible there would be no mob vigilante action without meeting the full force of the Rangers. And there would be no vengeance on Washington himself without meeting the fury of these four Rangers who were willing to defend him with their very lives.

A mob scoured the surrounding area of Wheeler County trying to find where the authorities were keeping Washington. They searched adjoining counties and even searched over into adjoining counties in Oklahoma. There were some rumors that he was being held for his own safety in the maximum security prison in nearby Granite, Oklahoma. They never found him.

Gonzaullas, who was nicknamed “Lone Wolf,” had kept Washington safe by keeping him on the road. He had not stayed very long in any one place while awaiting trial. His movement on the roads, together with the announcement by Gonzaullas that the Rangers would defend Washington “at all costs,” kept him alive. He was moved throughout the region, including even over into Oklahoma, and was eventually hid near Shamrock itself while the mob was looking at targets further away.

Today Interstate Highway 40 from Oklahoma City westward parallels the old Route 66. Route 66 was conceived and planned in 1926 but it would not become a completely paved roadway until 1938. The road from Elk City to Sayre was pretty well the same as what was later paved. The section of Route 66 from Sayre to Erick is not the same as the older road between the two. Route 66 still exists between the two towns today. Before Route 66, the original road between the two towns was an unpaved road, utilizing county roads. The road from Erick to Sayre ran north of the northeast corner of Erick about four miles. The traveler then turned east and eventually crossed over what was called the old Corn Stalk Bridge, crossing the North Fork of the Red River. From there it was pretty well a straight line east into Sayre with the first building coming into sight being the County Courthouse. My mother lived as a child in 1930 at the northeast corner of Erick. My father had just moved with his mother and sister about a half mile north of that corner where they lived with his stepfather, a Mr. Carlson. They both lived along the road one would take when going from Erick to Sayre.

Both of them told that during the night of the mob activity, African Americans, individuals and families, walked down the road carrying their meager possessions while fearfully and tearfully getting away from the danger of the mob and its vengeance. They could hear the people crying in the darkness as their homes sat near the roadway. They were eyewitnesses to this horrible travesty of justice and they would be haunted by it forever. The memory of this human suffering was something they would never be able to remove from their minds and they would only speak of it with shame.

My parents would have been 11 and 13 years old when this event happened. Their involvement would have been limited to watching the damage done to these people who were walking in the night to find a safe haven. Whether or not any of my relatives of an even earlier generation would have been involved with the mob is not known. It is not likely Mr. Carlson was with the mob since as a Swedish immigrant he was not raised with the prejudices of the group of townspeople whose roots were primarily in Texas. He is the only one about whom I would even speculate.

Sheriff McLemore took Washington to Pampa, Texas, for trial. He was brought by car disguised as an oil field worker and was placed in the jail on the top floor of the county courthouse where his safety was easily provided. The four Rangers entered the courthouse just seconds behind McLemore and his prisoner and this tiny regiment guaranteed Washington’s safety through trial.

Washington was tried and found guilty. Later in the same year he was executed in Texas’ state penitentiary. The tragedy of the African Americans in and around Erick was seldom spoken of and was eventually forgotten. Except by those children who witnessed the tragedy in the dark of the night.

Sports in Perspective

Many years ago I was watching an interview on television with Don Meredith, former quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys and then a commentator and entertainer on national television. I don’t remember the program but I do remember someone asking him to comment on a complaint by a young woman that her husband watched sports, particularly football, all the time and had very little time for or interest in her. “What should she do?” asked the interviewer. Without hesitation Meredith suggested she get some books on football and try to learn more about the game so she could enjoy it with her husband.

That bit of advice was about as shallow as anything that could have been said at the time. It included no responsibility whatsoever for the husband to get his priorities straight. I remember thinking at the time this would have been a perfect time for someone as popular as “Dandy Don” to make a statement about the sanctity of marriage and the importance of putting your partner in marriage first in your life. The husband in question could have made a deal with his wife that he would not watch quite so much, show a little more interest in his wife, for which she would have been grateful, and she in return would not interfere with his sports’ time which would have been less than he presently demanded. They would have both been giving in a little and they would have both been receiving a little from the other. But that was not the direction in which the response by Meredith was directed. He simply advised the wife to accept her husband’s skewed priorities and join him if she wanted a little more of his time.

I did not grow up in a family heavily involved in sports. My family was heavily involved in family. I used to watch sports news on television, before ESPN, and wondered what this sportscaster was going to say to his grandchildren when he was an old man. When they crawled up in his lap and asked, “Grandad, what did you do in life?” “Well, kids,” he would reply, “I told people who won what game. I told them the scores each night.” I couldn’t help but think how pitiful that man’s life was if that was all he had to say for what he did for the good of human-kind after a lifetime of work.

How wrong I was. I had no idea how sports would grow. In the last 25 years sports have grown to become a major industry in American life and productivity. Sports, not participation but viewing, has come to dominate all phases of life. Schools cannot ignore the significance of organized sports. Communities, churches, schools and even families have all had to adjust their lives, their existence, to accommodate sports. I never imagined it would grow to this extent. And I grew right along with it.

It reached the point that I could not miss certain football and basketball games. Losing interest in baseball when it went on strike a few years back and never really getting into track and field except for the Olympics, football and basketball would demand a lot of my interest and activity. I loved the Dallas Cowboys, all teams playing for the University of Oklahoma and certain NBA basketball teams. I watched the Cowboys during the years of their greatness. I watched Oklahoma win national championships in football, amazed when I considered how difficult that feat is. I was fortunate enough to be watching NBA games when Michael Jordan was playing, a golden age perhaps as he was not the only great player in the game, just the greatest.

A couple of things have helped me get over this devotion to sports, both of which came along at a time I was getting older and was learning again how to prioritize the things which were and are really important in life.

The first thing that dampened my enthusiasm was Jerry Jones’ purchase of the Dallas Cowboys. Not that I really care who owns them. But, his ignominious firing of Tom Landry as the coach of the team was something I would never forget. Certainly Jones had the right to fire him and hire anyone in his place he wanted. It was, after all, his team. The team had been going down hill for several years before Jones bought it. It probably did need new blood to bring it back to a level it had once enjoyed. The problem I had with the firing was that Tom Landry was a good man and had been coach there for a long time and he deserved to go out with a little more dignity and honor than he was allowed. How difficult would it have been for Jones to keep Landry on for another year with the expressed announcements that that would be Landry’s last year and that at the end of the year his replacement would be named/elevated to take his place? It wasn’t going to make any difference in the record for the team in that first year of Jones’ ownership. When that was done, I was through with the Cowboys. I still have a little interest in them. In the back of my mind there is always the gnawing fact that Jones owns the team.

The second thing was something that happened on a hot Saturday afternoon while watching an Oklahoma football game. I don’t remember the game at all. All I remember is that it was hot, miserably hot, dangerously hot. I have sat through OU football games in all sorts of inclement weather. Snow, freezing rain, sleet and heat in the other extreme. I have sat through adversity and cheered my team on like the university, the coaching staff and the team cared whether I was there or not. I have made myself sick by sitting in cold, wet games supporting my team. I have had to leave the stadium to lie on the grass under a shade tree when I was so hot I was concerned about having a heat stroke. I loved OU football that much.

At this particular game I went down to buy a bottle of water. Back in the stands I did some math and said to my wife, “I just paid $19 per gallon for this water.” That’s shameful. At the time I paid about $2.00 for a gallon of gasoline and just over $2.00 for a gallon of milk. I could remember buying bottled Cokes for a nickel, two dips of ice cream for a nickel. Even after I had become an adult I saw a quarter-section (160 acres) of land sell for $7,500 and I had paid $40,000 for a home 40 years earlier. It wasn’t much perhaps, but it was adequate and if I still had it, it would be long paid for. I just can’t feel good about paying $19 per gallon for water which I needed to stave off the effects of sun and high temperatures.

I clearly understand that it takes a lot of money to run a big time football program these days. And one of the benefits of a successful football program is that it brings favorable attention to the school. (Unless it is disgraced by breaking the law or the rules of the NCAA, at which time the entire university will suffer a black eye, not just the football program.) I understood too that the coach that year had contracted to be paid $3 million per year for his services, with built in incentives which would increase his compensation each year. No wonder I had to pay $19 per gallon for water.

This compensation package was shocking to me. I understand that he is going to receive and is receiving what the market will bear. I certainly didn’t want to lose him as a coach and if we weren’t going to pay him that someone else would. But even if that is the going rate for a top class college football program, it is so out of range for the people of this state that it is, if not offensive, at least an unhealthy sign of our skewed priorities. Oklahoma is a poor state, our teachers are underpaid, people are trying hard to make ends meet and we invest huge sums in sports.

Then there is the growing unfriendly attitude toward the fans that the university has adopted and continues to promulgate. I remember when the games were “fan friendly”, they were encouraged in their support of the team regardless of record, weather, adverse conditions or anything other circumstance. The fans were appreciated. We could carry a sandwich into the stadium and a drink. That was not all that long ago. But now there is a total ban on anything from outside the stadium. Women are forced to open their purses to allow a cursory inspection. The purse may not be larger than 10 inch square. I have seen a woman who was told she could not wear a fanny pack into the stadium, they are not allowed, and when she took it off and threw it over her shoulder, which is how she would have carried a purse, she was told she could not bring it in because it was still a fanny pack.

All of this was happening while I could have carried anything into the stadium I wanted to under my jacket or coat. However, the last game I attended I was wearing a hat. The young woman taking my ticket asked me to remove my hat. “What the hell for,” I said. She had no explanation, she just repeated the request. I lifted my hat and she let me in. Either she satisfied herself I didn’t have contraband under there that might cut into the revenue of the university or she has a fetish for bald heads or she and the university was satisfied that they had demonstrated their power over me, the fan, and sent the message that they are important and can set up any hoop they want and I will jump through it. I suspect the latter. They need to remind me every so often that I am unimportant because there are people standing in line wanting my ticket.

The university has bent over backward to kill the spirit of the fan. Messages are continually sent that they may not do things that we had always taken for granted before. “Stay off the field,” the system shouts over the speaker system. But we had earlier been allowed to walk on the field after the game, mingle with the players, the band and other fans. “Don’t say negative things toward the other team!” Sure, like other fans in other places are always nice to our team and fans. “Don’t yell ‘SOONERS’ at the end of the National Anthem! It disrespects the military!” My God, with that attitude I wish the university administration would come to my house where I have a lot of mole hills, I’ve always wanted to live in the mountains.

A good thing about all this is that it has helped me put sports in proper perspective again. Sports will always be here. They’ve been around since the games on Olympia and probably before. They’re fun. I enjoy them. Those kids on the field can run faster than I ever could, jump higher than I could ever jump and perform feats of athleticism that I could never even imagine. But there are more important things for me and my family, namely, me and my family. I have come full circle from where I was when I heard Don Meredith make that statement as a solution to the young husband spending too much time with sports and not enough with his wife. She needs to learn more about sports so she can enjoy them with her husband, Don suggested. He needs to figure out what is more important, his watching sports or his marriage and his family, I thought. I have been where that young man was and now I am back again. Sports are fine but we must keep them in perspective. They are not as important as family.

On a Cold Winter Night

We built a fire of a size we thought was safe under the circumstances and were prepared to try to keep warm until either the fire died out or help came. But as time went on we soon came to the conclusion that the waiting game could very well be death of both of us.

I was 16 years old when my father had his first heart attack. My mother had had one a year or so earlier and from those early days in their lives we learned to live with the possibility that they, either of them, could die of heart disease at any time. People in those days just dropped dead of heart attacks. There was no such thing as heart transplants or bypass surgery. Drugs were rudimentary at best and were the only treatment option available. Preventive medicine and practice were unheard of. People who had heart attacks were likely to just drop dead.

I could not understand my father’s condition until I experienced the same symptoms and the same problems. Heart attacks, in their basic forms, are caused by arteries in and to the heart becoming clogged, thus depriving blood flow to the heart which causes deprivation of oxygen to that all-important muscle. This was what my father experienced. He took high blood pressure medicine and until I experienced my own problems I did not know that blood pressure contributed to the blockage of arteries and the reduction of blood flow and oxygen to the heart. My mother’s problems were more easily understood. She had several blood clots pass through her heart. There was no mystery there. I could always understand how hers was caused, I just had trouble comprehending how something as soft and pliable as a blood clot could do so much damage in a human heart. I always thought hers was the most damaging and that she would probably be the first to die. She was not. After her first attack at age 42 she took care of herself, endured other spells, and died at the age of 90. She was active and alert her entire life. My father, on the other hand, grew weaker and weaker, had other attacks and died at the age of 59. I both lament and rejoice in the fact that I never saw him become an old man.

As he was recuperating from his second or third heart attack, he became my responsibility. We were a farm family and that work must go on regardless of one’s health issues. That is probably why so many people just dropped dead following a heart attack. One of the most important things a person can do is rest when tired and avoid stress. Stress really is a killer. Even today I can go through the cemetery where my parents are laid to rest and read the tombstones to verify this. From grave site to grave site I can go and see the date of death of people I knew. Invariably, I find that a man died and thirty years later his wife died. I can go to the next and see that another man died and his wife died thirty years later. I end up at my parents’ grave and note that he died and she died thirty years later.

Farming is hard work and one works at the mercy of the elements. It doesn’t matter that it’s hot or cold. It doesn’t matter that it’s raining or hailing or snowing. It doesn’t matter that the clouds have disappeared and the earth has dried up. The work has to continue. Farming is stressful and demanding. It doesn’t matter that the man has had a heart attack. Crops still must be planted and harvested. Livestock still must be cared for. Physically demanding work, it still must be performed whether the farmer is able or not.

He became my responsibility. I was the only boy remaining at home at the time and I had the chore of being with him wherever he went. If something had to be lifted I had to hurry ahead of him and lift it because if I was not there he would try to do it himself. If some animal had to be chased or corralled or manhandled I had to do it because if I was not there he would try to do it himself. If we went to feed cattle I had to grab a bale of hay and run with it to place it out for the cattle. Then I would run back to take the next bale out of his hands to keep him from lifting more weight than he should. It was working me to death but my job right then was to take as much burden and stress off him as I could.

We had gone to feed cattle late in the day on a very cold winter day, just about sundown. We parked the old truck and I went through the ritual of feeding at high speed in order to keep him from doing so much of the work. I couldn’t keep him from doing everything but I had to try to minimize things as much as I could. We were cold and I knew this too was not good for him. Cold weather can place damaging physical stress on a heart patient. We needed to get the cattle fed and get back to the house to brace ourselves for the Northerly blizzard which was forecast and expected and was in fact hitting before we ever got to the pasture. We got the cattle fed and had to break the ice in the stock tank so they could get a drink of water. We would have to come break the ice the next morning but they could eat and drink and this would help them survive the cold. We got back into the truck and it wouldn’t start.

Normally, this would not be so disconcerting. He was an excellent shade tree mechanic and whatever the problem was he could probably find it and repair it in short order. But it was dark and the weather did not allow for the working on a truck out in the open air. We decided to make ourselves as comfortable as possible and wait for my mother to come check on us. The only problem was that we hadn’t told her we were leaving and where we were going when we left the house.

The weather was getting worse. The front hit and hit hard. We were experiencing winds of about 40 to 50 miles per hour, blowing snow, rain and sleet all at the same time. The wind was coming from the north and it was proving to be every bit as bad a storm as we had expected. The precipitation increased and continued in all its forms. It was the kind of night that could kill livestock and this is why we had come to take care of them. And it was the kind of night that could kill a man and his son if they didn’t get some help.

There was the remnant of an old house standing there near the cattle lot. It was only one or two walls and they about to fall down. We were able to get in a wind break behind one of the walls and build a small fire to help keep us alive. It couldn’t be a large fire as there was too much danger of its getting out of hand in the high winds. We stood there next to the fire trying with little success to stay warm and I could tell that he was getting more and more agitated. The stress was beginning to show itself in physical manifestations and I knew there was some danger that he could suffer another heart attack at any time. And this one would likely be fatal.

He had on coveralls, overshoes, a coat, gloves and some kind of cap with ear flaps. I had on jeans, some light shoes, a coat (not all that heavy), gloves and a stocking cap.

It continued to get colder, the wind did not let up and the rain, snow and sleet kept falling. It seemed to be falling horizontally, the wind was so hard. It was beginning to build up on the roads and everywhere else. If we didn’t get out of there soon it was very possible that help wouldn’t be able to reach us.

We had been there exposed to the elements for well over an hour and his mental and physical condition were deteriorating as quickly as the weather. I had offered to walk for help when the truck had first failed us but he had said it was too dangerous to be walking in that weather. And, he had reasoned, we would build a fire and wait, “Mom’ll come look for us when she misses us.” But the fallacy of that was that she had no reason to miss us or any idea where to start looking. For all she knew we had run into town to get something and could as easily have been visiting with someone. There were dozens of places we could have legitimately been.

I had offered to go for help again and again and each time he had stressed the danger of such a trek. After a couple of hours I had offered again and he now agreed to it. I knew how bad off we were when he agreed to my walking for help in that kind of weather.

I rummaged for some gunny sacks in the truck and wrapped these around my head and shoulders. I wrapped others around my hands knowing how important it was to keep my extremities from freezing. The weather was well below freezing and the wind chill factor had to be down in the teens. “Once you start,” he said, “you have to keep going. People can die in this kind of weather.” I acknowledged that all would be alright. There was no way to get lost. I couldn’t get off the roadway. All I had to walk was half a mile to the west and then two miles to the north. Those two miles walking into the blowing wind, into the snow, sleet and rain, was what I was most concerned with. I was glad it was snowing as much as it was. Had it been raining more than snowing I would be drenched and the likelihood of survival would be much less.

I told him I would be fine. And right at that time I was not all that concerned about myself. I looked at him, his stress, his chest pains, his irrational behavior, and wondered if we hadn’t waited too long to set out for help.

“Stop at Mr. and Mrs. House’s place. They may be able to take you on home,” he said. I told him I would. Mr. and Mrs. House were an elderly couple who lived on a farm along the way. They were only a mile from where I was starting from. A half mile west and a half mile north sounded a lot more manageable.

Wrapped as well as I could be in gunny sacks, I left him standing by the fire. He looked desperate, like a sick and stressed out old man there in the light of the fire. Fifty feet away and I couldn’t see him or the fire anymore.

Engulfed in darkness, there was no moonlight or starlight. It was total darkness, just a hint of light reflecting off the accumulated snow so that I could see either side of the roadway. The wind was overpowering and it was cold. My feet were the first to get cold. The shoes I was wearing were not any good for this weather. They were wet and cold and I knew I was in some danger of frostbite. The snow was building up, making walking difficult. Mud and snow and ice were building up on the bottoms of my feet, making it difficult to keep going forward. The only good thing was that there was something of a windbreak to my immediate North as there was an overgrown fence row. It didn’t stop the wind completely but I would soon discover just how much of a difference it had made.

In normal conditions, warm but not hot and no precipitation, I could have walked home in an hour or so. But these were not normal conditions. It took about an hour to make that first half mile and then I was going to have two more miles walking directly into the storm. I estimated it would take me four or five hours to make it home. And I wasn’t looking forward to that much time in this weather.

I finished the first half mile and turned North. Unprepared for the shock of the storm, the wind and the precipitation, I just about lost my breath when I made that turn in the road. I had no idea I could get colder than I already was. I had no idea my feet could hurt any more than they already did from the cold. All I could do was duck my head and walk on into the storm. There was no turning back now and there was no stopping. I just prayed that the House family could give me a ride because the likelihood of walking all the home seemed unlikely.

About all a person can do is refuse to think about the condition in which you find yourself and keep putting one foot in front of the other. There’s no warmth to be had. One foot in front of the other. You don’t know if the fire is still going back at the pasture. You don’t know if your father’s heart has held out, making one last stand in strained and straining circumstances. One foot in front of the other. The good things about the situation was that the fields and pastures were fenced and overgrown so that it was impossible to get lost in this weather. And in those days, unlike today, there were no wild animals that posed serious threats to a lone human walking through a cold, lonely night. One foot in front of another.

It took a little longer to walk the second half mile. When I could make out the House place it was a welcomed sight. Everything was hurting, especially my feet. They never went anywhere so I knew they would be home. It probably frightened them when they heard a knock on their door. There hadn’t been any car or truck drive up, just a knock on their door. Slowly they opened the door and looked out. I said “hello” and told them who I was. They took me in, sat me at the kitchen table and gave me something hot to drink.

In the warmth of their kitchen I told them my predicament and asked if they could drive me back to get my father. They were an elderly couple living alone there in the middle of nowhere. Less than 20 years removed from when they farmed with horses, they didn’t have very good equipment. Their old car was not all that dependable. They showed genuine sadness when they told me their car wouldn’t start. Their old tractor hadn’t been running in quite awhile and probably wouldn’t start again until next Spring. There was nothing they could do but offer me shelter and warmth for a little while.

I stood and told them I had to be going on. I had to get home and get some help. Apologizing for not being able to do more, they wished me well. I thanked them for all they had done and set out into the storm again.

Another half mile brought me to the corner of our home place. Each half mile was taking a little longer. And the cold was taking its toll. I was tired and hurting but determined to get home for help. I really didn’t doubt my ability to get home, probably because I didn’t have sense enough at the time to fully understand the danger I was in. Home was still another mile away and there was no one else living between me and home. One foot in front of another. I may not have fully understood the danger I was in but I did know the danger my father was in and that kept me moving. One foot in front of another.

I would walk past our old home place, an old farm house now abandoned. There was still electricity and gas there. I could get warm but that was all. There were no vehicles there to help me. So I decided not to stop. I needed to get home as quickly as possible and get help to my father. It had been a long time since I had walked away from him and the light of that fire into the perpetual darkness. I kept going with nothing in my mind but somehow getting him some help. The storm was still raging. The rain had given way to blowing sleet and snow and now this was developing into only blowing snow. Winds were still 40 to 50 miles per hour. Temperatures had dropped further. Wind chills were down into single digits. And I was not sure what we would find when we got back to the pasture. The last mile I was imagining the very worst.

I was nearly home when I saw lights from an oncoming car. I stood in the middle of the road and waived my arms to get them to stop. And when it did, it was my mom. She was looking for us. She had decided to go to the pasture and see if we were possibly there. She knew we must be in some kind of danger, she just started looking too late. I got into the warm car with her and we quickly drove to where I had left him hours earlier.

The fire had burned out. It was with a sense of relief I saw him walk to the car from where I had left him. He, too, was cold and hurting. He was under visible stress and there was evidence that this was putting stress on his heart. He met us and we drove home.

(A side note: on the way home he insisted we stop by and tell Mr. and Mrs. House that we were alright. For that they were grateful and for their kindness I am still grateful.)

Christmas at Hext

Christmas in America is made for children. It has been that way since the last half of the 20th century. Before that time it was more of a religious holiday. After that time it became a time for gifts also. Gifts were surely given before that time but the showering of stuff took on a monstrous move after World War II and continues to today.

When someone complains about the commercialization of Christmas they usually are referring to money we spend on toys for children. Their numbers and their costs are skyrocketing out of sight, increasing each year. People spend money they cannot afford on “stuff” for people which they do not need. A simpler time of thumbing through the pages of a catalog, a wish book, has given way to “Black Friday,” “Cyber Saturday” and other special shopping days. Shoppers stand in line and rush to be the first through the doors to grab the first “stuff” off the shelf. People have died in the rush!

My memory of Christmas goes back to a small rural community in Western Oklahoma after the second world war. Hext was situated between Erick and Sayre on the old Route 66 and we lived there on the farm my parents had purchased during the war. It was nothing more than a rural community, families living on each quarter-section of land, with one store and a school. A two building school complex built by the WPA, the school consisted of eight grades when I started there in 1950. The previous year had been the last year of their high school program. The one building which had previously served grades 9-12 in two class rooms was now used solely for the lunch program. The building we used for classrooms for grades 1-8 was our primary building. A basketball court with bleachers on one side and a stage on the other was the prominent feature of the building, with two classrooms on either end of the court. Those four rooms were where we got our education, actually a very good education. After graduating the eighth grade we had to go into town for our high school years.

A small community, most everyone got together for dinner, a pot luck dinner, each month. Everyone brought their covered dishes and spread it out for all to participate in a community dinner and fellowship. These meetings, held monthly, were held at the school, utilizing the lunch room facilities. The biggest community gathering, probably outdoing even the PeeWee Basketball Tournament, was the Christmas celebration.

Days ahead of the Christmas program preparations were made. The stage was utilized to put on a morality play which featured not just the spirit of Christmas but the nativity story as well. Those who could sing were organized into a small choir just for the season and were featured during the program. The parents and others in the community came and dutifully sat through the program on the bleachers opposite the stage, some sitting on folding chairs sat up on the basketball court itself. As I recall, we were excellent on stage in both our thespian and musical presentations and the audience surely thought it was a great day to be an American.

Somewhere someone would cut down a large pine tree and bring it in to set it up. Pine trees of that size were rare in Western Oklahoma in those days and we certainly would not have purchased one from a long distance away. That just wasn’t done back then. One year a tree was taken from the shelter belt on the farm belonging to Guy Prather and perhaps that’s where they always got them. They were huge trees set up on the basketball court, on the north end of the floor. While it seemed the tree filled a quarter of the court and reached up into the rafters, that may have simply been my memory from having looked at it while standing under four feet tall.

The tree was decorated. The play and musical presentations were practiced. In the classrooms we focused on the season with morality stories and even stories of the holy family in Bethlehem. Our homes were decorated, not with the extensive decorations of today but decorated nonetheless. Presents were making a slow appearance one at a time. And then we were ready for the celebration.

The entire community turned out for the program. We kids performed our plays and sang our songs. And the parents watched and applauded our efforts. They were just as proud of us and our performances as we would be of our own children’s performances a generation later. Candy was passed out to all the kids. A paper bag with hard Christmas candy, and a few of those chocolate covered mint-filling candies, and there was always a large orange and an apple. We got the same kind of sack at Erick when the town gave them out to the kids on the Saturday before Christmas. And we got them at Hext. Kids today do not understand that this was a special time. Getting an orange was a rarity and the holidays were about the only time we ever saw a Washington Red Delicious apple.

As we were enjoying the program and our bounty, the principal, always the host for the evening, was thanking us for coming. And while he was speaking, giving the people who worked so hard their recognition, he suddenly stopped speaking, cocked his head so that he could hear better from the door to the gymnasium and asked what it was he was hearing. We all listened and we could hear slightly the sound of sleigh bells. They got louder and louder and then suddenly Santa Claus bounced into the room ringing a hand bell and yelling, “Merry Christmas!” He trotted through the crowd yelling his best wishes to everyone, spoke with kids and hugged the women. And he made his way to the tree.

There were presents under the tree, tons of presents. The families brought some if not all of their kids’ presents to the program to given them that night. And the community saw to it that there was something there for every kid just to make sure no one got left out or went home empty handed. The teachers and the principal (there was a total of 3 teachers including the principal) selected the presents one by one and called the recipient’s name. When your name was called you went forward and received your gift from Santa himself. He chatted with you a little, gave you your gift and you raced back to your seat where you ripped open the wrapping to see what you had received that year.

We didn’t get a lot of different things in those days. One or two, or perhaps three, presents were usually the limit. I would later say that when I was a kid all I ever got for Christmas was a pair of socks and that one year my mother was feeling badly about not giving any more than that so she wrapped them individually–that year I got two presents! It’s good for a laugh. But I got more than that. I remember one year getting a neat hatchet and scout knife at Hext. Another year it was a Daisy BB gun. And still another it was a chemistry set with six different kinds of chemicals, test tubes and a bunsen burner.

I would go through the 8th grade and then bus into Sayre for my high school years. Two years after I left Hext the state closed the school. There were simply not enough kids by then to keep it open. When I graduated the 8th grade there were only about 35 kids total in the entire school. The building was sold to a farmer who gutted it and used it for a storage barn. And with the loss of the school the community disintegrated.

The most important thing I ever got at Hext was memories. Memories of a simpler time and a celebration that encouraged me to understand the importance of “peace on earth, good will toward men.”

Farewell, Elizabeth. I'm Glad We Knew You

Go Down, Death

(Adapted from James Weldon Johnson)


Weep not, weep not,
She is not dead;
She's resting in the bosom of Jesus.
Heart-broken husband--weep no more;
Grief-stricken son--weep no more;
Left-lonesome daughter--weep no more;
She only just gone home.

Day before yesterday morning,
God was looking down from his great, high heaven,
Looking down on all his children,
And his eye fell on Sister Elizabeth,
Tossing on her bed of pain.
And God's big heart was touched with pity,
With the everlasting pity.

And God sat back on his throne,
And he commanded that tall, bright angel standing at his right hand:
Call me Death!
And that tall, bright angel cried in a voice
That broke like a clap of thunder:
Call Death!--Call Death!
And the echo sounded down the streets of heaven
Till it reached away back to that shadowy place,
Where Death waits with his pale, white horses.

And Death heard the summons,
And he leaped on his fastest horse,
Pale as a sheet in the moonlight.
Up the golden street Death galloped,
And the hooves of his horses struck fire from the gold,
But they didn't make no sound.
Up Death rode to the Great White Throne,
And waited for God's command.

And God said: Go down, Death, go down,
Go down to Chapel Hill, North Carolina,
Down in Orange County,
And find Sister Elizabeth.
She's borne the burden and heat of the day,
She's labored long in my vineyard,
And she's tired--
She's weary--
Go down, Death, and bring her to me.

And Death didn't say a word,
But he loosed the reins on his pale, white horse,
And he clamped the spurs to his bloodless sides,
And out and down he rode,
Through heaven's pearly gates,
Past suns and moons and stars;
on Death rode,
Leaving the lightning's flash behind;
Straight down he came.

While we were watching round her bed,
She turned her eyes and looked away,
She saw what we couldn't see;
She saw Old Death. She saw Old Death
Coming like a falling star.
But Death didn't frighten Sister Elizabeth;
He looked to her like a welcome friend.
And she whispered to us: I'm going home,
And she smiled and closed her eyes.

And Death took her up like a baby,
And she lay in his icy arms,
But she didn't feel no chill.
And death began to ride again--
Up beyond the evening star,
Into the glittering light of glory,
On to the Great White Throne.
And there he laid Sister Elizabeth
On the loving breast of Jesus.

And Jesus took his own hand and wiped away her tears,
And he smoothed the furrows from her face,
And the angels sang a little song,
And Jesus rocked her in his arms,
And kept a-saying: Take your rest,
Take your rest.

Weep not--weep not,
She is not dead;
She's resting in the bosom of Jesus.

King David and the Shunammite Virgin

I was born in 1944, a child of the war and the following years. It was a simpler time, one which was probably more similar to the preceding years than to the subsequent years. It was a rural time and place in which religion was important. And our religion, a fundamentalist Christian faith, demanded church attendance and Bible study. We were as versed in Scriptures as anyone.

While a child, one just entering puberty, I discovered a passage about King David of the Jews which I would read often and allow my youthful and silly imagination to race with all the possibilities introduced by what was done for him in his old age. A kid with a Bible can be a dangerous thing. There are stories, descriptive phrases and other literary devices which probably should not be given to a child without some kind of guidance. Of course, there are adults who develop amazing and unbelievable theological theories, which defy logic and reason, either from an honest misunderstanding of the Scriptures or from a desire to confuse and frighten people not skilled in their own studies. Such theories were originally propagated as an effort to control the masses and now are either continued for the same purpose or to make money. The Left Behind series comes to mind. But, I digress. Back to King David.

In 1 Kings, chapter 1, we are introduced to an event about King David which was never taught in Sunday School. It was an event which occurred when he was an old man. Back then I had no idea what it was like to be old. That was something for my grandparents. The Bible says, “Now king David was old and stricken in years; and they covered him with clothes, but he gat no heat.” First, I found that word “gat” to be entertaining. We used the King James Version in those days. Everyone did. It was a matter of faith. There were a few, very few, other translations available to us, the proliferation of Biblical translations would occur a few years later. But the way we looked at it, if the King James Version was good enough for Jesus and the Apostles, it was good enough for us.

“Gat” must have been the past tense of the verb “get” in earlier times. When we conjugate the verb “get” we say “get,” “got,” “have gotten.” There must have been a time when it was “get,” “gat” and whatever else, I’m not sure what. The dictionary defines the word “gat” as an archaic past tense of the verb “get.” I just enjoyed saying the word “gat” and still try to use it today whenever I can.

David was old and he gat no heat. Old people get cold easier. I speak now with some sense of authority on the matter as the older I get the colder I get. But I was a child back then and I imagined an old man laying in bed and no matter how many home-made quilts they piled on him he was still cold. He just couldn’t get warm. His trusted advisors came up with what looked like a very good idea to me.

“Wherefore his servants said unto him, Let there be sought for my lord the king a young virgin: and let her stand before the king, and let her cherish him, and let her lie in thy bosom, that my lord the king may get heat.” Now, there’s some smart advisors, I thought. What an idea! Get cold, get a virgin to crawl in bed with you and warm you up. Better than simply piling on the covers. Better than a heated brick. Better than a hot water bottle or even an electric blanket. Those people knew some really good home remedies.

(Let me pause here to comment on the outrageous actions of the King and his servants. They weren’t going to ask the young woman to do this, she was going to be taken by force and placed in this situation. It may have been better than the life from which she was going to be taken but it is still illustrative of how women were considered chattel in those times. This story may illustrate what Mel Brooks meant when he said, “It’s good to be the king,” but it still amounts to kidnapping and rape and no one cared. But, none of that occurred to me when I was a child.)

“So they sought for a fair damsel throughout all the coasts of Israel, and found Abishag a Shunammite, and brought her to the king.” I had no idea what a Shunammite was but if Abishag was the prettiest young virgin they could find in the whole kingdom they must be beautiful women. We don’t know that much about her except we speculate she was young, probably middle teen years, and very beautiful. And she dutifully served the king. “And the damsel was very fair, and cherished the king, and ministered to him: but the king knew her not.” She crawled into bed with the old man and did everything she could to arouse him but he could do nothing. He could not have sex with her. I realized he wasn’t just cold and she wasn’t just trying to warm him up. There was more to it which in my youthful experience I couldn’t understand. The great King David still “gat no heat.”

When I first read this as a child, it titillated me.

As a young man, it amused me.

As an older man, it saddened me.

And now, today, I have concluded that if they really wanted the king to get some heat, if that was really what they were trying to accomplish, they should not have selected a young virgin, they should have sought out a menopausal woman having hot flashes.

Yes, Virginia, There Was a Baby Jesus

(In 1897 Virginia O'Hanlon, then 8 years old, wrote to the editor of the New York Sun asking if Santa Clause was real. It resulted in the editor, Francis P. Church, writing a response entitled Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Clause. That response has become a classic for the Christmas season. This writing is based in part on that letter and response.)

Yes, Virginia, there was a baby Jesus. He was born 2,000 years ago of humble parents in what is today Israel. I know that today you hear a lot of people say "happy holidays" and "seasons greetings." And you see an awful lot about Santa and decorated trees. But there are more than 7,000 of us who still say "Merry Christmas" and display the Nativity scene.

This baby grew up to be a preacher and through his example as well as his preaching he taught us to give food to hungry people, give clothing and shelter to those in need, minister to the suffering and love one another. There were very few things he did not like. Most everything he saw was beautiful and positive. He tried to love everyone and everything. One thing he couldn't abide, though, was anything that divided people. He didn't want us to sit in judgment of each other, criticize each other or hate each other because of the color of their skin or because of our different stations in life. He told us to forgive each other and respond to evil by doing good. He told us to be kind and considerate to everyone and to be patient. He told us to love and obey our parents. There is a great deal more that he had to say and a great deal more he did.

People who knew him personally loved him and wrote about him. They really believed that if God should ever decide to walk among mankind, he would surely walk in the form of this preacher.

As they were telling his story, two of his followers wrote the story of his birth. They were so in love with this man that they used every literary device they could think of to help us appreciate the absolute awe and wonder that surrounded him. They told us about shepherds watching their flocks at night, about angels appearing from heaven and singing beautiful songs announcing his birth. They wrote about a star over his birthplace and about wise men coming from the east to worship him. They wrote about his father and especially about his mother who gave birth in a barn behind a hotel. And when they were through telling the story, the barn became a shrine that had housed a sacred child.

We don't place nativity scenes depicting this wonderful moment on our public squares anymore. That's all right. What matters is that we display his birth and tell these stories in our homes and in our lives like we should.

Virginia, for many of us this day is a holy day and this season is a holy season. So if your mom and dad forget in the hustle and bustle of the season to tell you about the Christ child, perhaps you could get them to slow down and allow you to tell the story to them. Because, yes, Virginia, there was a baby Jesus. And, that's what this holiday season is really all about. Merry Christmas, Virginia.

Pistol Pete

(Frank Eaton, 1860-1958)


Today, in the year 2010, we aren’t really that far removed from the old American West. It was a legendary time, a time of Cowboys and Indians. Sparsely populated, there was little established law enforcement or other institutions we take for granted which promotes civilization as we understand it. Guns were plentiful and human life was cheap. The Civil War, which introduced several undesirable things into American culture, had just completed. It introduced lawlessness, despair in the populace, internal migration and movement of the people, and an abundance of handguns, the new weapon of choice for killing people. People moving into the American West were often at the mercy of cold blooded killers.

Into this, Frank Eaton was born. Born October 26, 1860, in Hartford, Connecticut, his family moved to Twin Mounds, Kansas, when he was 8 years old. Not long after the move his father was murdered by six former Confederates, two sets of brothers named Kempsey and Ferber. They had served during the Civil War with the Quantrill Raiders and were comfortable with violence against unarmed and defenseless people. The Raiders had sacked Lawrence, Kansas, during the war, burning it to the ground and killing indiscriminately anyone who got in their way. After the war they called themselves the “Regulators” and as such regulated this husband and father by murdering him.

A friend of his father, Mose Beaman, taught Frank to use a handgun soon after his father’s death. Beginning his training at the age of 8, Beaman also did more than simply teach young Frank to handle a gun. He taught him to hate and seek revenge on the men who had killed his father. By the time he was 15 years old, Frank had become adept at the use of a handgun and had reached the status of being called Pistol Pete by the U.S. Army. He went to Ft. Gipson in Indian Territory and even though he was too young to enlist he did get further training in the use of guns. In contests he was always on top, the best gunman at the fort and hence the name and honor which would always be with him.

During his life Frank Eaton served as a scout for the Army, worked as a cowboy and lived through and participated in those years which characterized the Indian Wars in which the Indians made their final stand against what they saw as an intrusion by the government and the populace of whites into their traditional lands. He also served as a U.S. Marshall in Indian Territory, working under the authority of Judge Isaac C. Parker, the “Hanging Judge” whose office and court were situated in Ft. Smith, Arkansas. By 1887, according to Eaton, he had killed five of the men who murdered his father and he only missed killing the sixth man because that one had been killed by someone else in a card game.

Eaton was in the land run which resulted in the settlement of Oklahoma and Indian Territories and eventual statehood for Oklahoma. He settled in the small town of Perkins, Oklahoma, where he was the local sheriff, grew old surrounded by a large family and developed into the caricature and character normally associated with him. Frank Eaton died April 8, 1958, at the age of 97.

In December 25, 1890, when Eaton was 30 years old, and living in Perkins, the Oklahoma Territorial Legislature created the small land grant college known as Oklahoma Territorial Agriculture and Mechanical (A&M) College. When Oklahoma became a state in 1907, the word “Territorial” was dropped from its name and it became Oklahoma A&M College. It continued with this name until 1957.

In their earlier years their teams were called “agriculturists,” “aggies” and “farmers.” They claimed a moniker of “Princeton on the Prairie” and used the tiger as a mascot. Thus, their colors were orange and black, mimicking the stripes on the tiger. In the early and middle 1920s people began calling their players “cowboys” for reasons unknown. And then in about 1923 the school gave serious consideration to creating a new mascot and replacing the tiger with something else. As the cowboy had become a popular designation, perhaps they were attempting to find a mascot that would reflect the cowboy and the cowboy culture.

In 1923 Frank Eaton was riding a horse in an Armistice Day parade in Stillwater, the home of Oklahoma A&M. Pictures of him clearly show a colorful character and some of the Aggies decided he would make a good mascot. They could thereby better align themselves with the American West, the days of cowboys and Oklahoma’s land run. Frank Eaton had been a part of all of that.

Even though there was a popular demand to make Frank Eaton the mascot for the college, it was not until 1958 that “Pistol Pete” was adopted as the school’s mascot, probably at the time it became a university and changed its name for the last time to Oklahoma State University. The university, however, did not approve, adopt and license the caricature of the present day “Pistol Pete” until 1984.

(Pistol Pete, official mascot of Oklahoma State University.)

There are two other schools that use “Pistol Pete” as a mascot, New Mexico State and Wyoming. Both of them consider Frank Eaton as the inspiration for their Pistol Pete but neither of them use a likeness of OSU’s mascot.

(Pistol Pete of New Mexico State.)

(Pistol Pete of Wyoming University.)

Wyoming once had a caricature similar to that of OSU but neither at the present time share anything other than the name and the person on whom the name is based. It is curious since there is little credible evidence that Eaton had any significant contact with either state. His life, from at least age 15, was centered in Indian Territory, Oklahoma Territory and the State of Oklahoma. And he had an interest in Oklahoma A&M in Stillwater. Clearly, OSU should be and is the guardian of Eaton’s alter ego, Pistol Pete.

When A Hand Touches You While You Sleep

One day in about the year 2007 or 2008, I was sleeping in the early morning hours. I recall opening one or both eyes, glancing at the digital clock on the dresser and becoming cognizant of the hour. The alarm was set for 45 minutes later at 6:45 o’clock. It was during winter and at 6:00 o’clock in the morning the sun was still below the eastern horizon, still dark outside. I closed my eye, or eyes, and drifted back to sleep.

I don’t know when it occurred but some time between my 6:00 a.m. glance at the clock and the 6:45 a.m. alarm I entered that state of being where you aren’t really asleep and you aren’t really awake. A qualitative, or quantitative, analysis, had it been possible, would have probably placed it at a 50/50 state of awareness. I remember becoming aware of an intense calm, if indeed “calmness” can be modified by the adjective “intense.” Comfort in body and peace of mind worked together to bring about a transcendental experience, an awareness of flawless bodily existence uniting with an unencumbered human mind created in the image of God, resulting in an inner peace that was in a single moment both experienced and observed from afar. I was the one both experiencing and observing this sacred moment of inner peace.

It seemed as if I was experiencing this for several minutes, perhaps as many as 5 or 10. I consciously chose not to open an eye and glance at the clock as I was concerned this might destroy the moment and this experience of inner peace and the union of body and mind would suddenly disappear in a flash of reality. I was still not quite awake and not quite asleep but I could tell the ratio was moving toward 55/45 with sleep giving way to the awareness of being awake. And then I observed my breathing.

My breathing was shallow. So shallow, in fact, that the breathing process commanded all my attention. I was directing all my sense of observation to feeling the air as it went to and through my nostrils and back into my sinuses. I was looking for expansion of my chest which would cause the lungs to expand, drawing in air with the oxygen needed to burn the fuel to run this magnificent God-made and God-like human body. I became aware I could not feel the chest expand and the lungs fill. I could feel no air passing through the sinuses or the nostrils. My out of body experience was observing a body, my body, as it failed and refused to do something absolutely necessary for the continuance of life. I was not breathing and I was aware of the fact!

I was cognizant enough that I knew this was a serious malfunction. It wasn’t frightening, it was more curious than frightening. In fact, I continued to observe the situation with a great deal more curiosity than concern. I wondered how long a person could go without breathing. And then I wondered just how long had it been since my breathing had ceased. I realized, though I did not worry about the fact, that I really should consider breathing again. Probably sooner than later.

I knew I could go back to sleep and since breathing is an involuntary action I would probably start breathing again. I would often awaken in near shock, sputtering for breath, probably coming out of a state of existence similar to what I was currently experiencing. Or, in the alternative, I could force air in and thereby prime the pump which would result in my breathing again. So I was not overly concerned as I knew I could breathe at will.

I lay there quietly doing scientific observation and research. I was curious about the length of time I had spent without breath. It seemed I had been studying the condition for at least 5 minutes and perhaps as long as 10. And I had no idea how long I had been breathless before I discovered the phenomenon and began my observations.

I lay there on the right side of the bed, lying on my right side which would place “She Who must Be Obeyed” somewhere to the back of me. While lying there doing my scientific research I felt a small hand as it ever so lightly touched against my back so that the open palm was just barely touching. I wondered why she was doing that. It wasn’t a seductive touch because I think I remember that kind of touch somewhat differently. And then, just as gently, the hand pulled away and I returned to my observations. I was left wondering why she did that and was that something she often did at night while I slept. My awake-to-asleep ratio had now become about 60/40 but I was still deep in my scientific studies.

I estimated now I had not been breathing for 15 or 20 minutes and that was simply the length of time of which I was aware. There was no way of knowing how long before I became aware of the fact that I had been without breath. I reviewed the importance of breathing and reviewed the safety procedures I had put in place. I pretty well ruled out the possibility of returning to deep sleep and allowing the involuntary action of breathing to take over. I opted for the deep breath solution to break the suspension of the breathing pattern. I would simply take in a deep draft of air. But not yet. I was clearly enjoying the moment. And then, again, I felt the hand.

I felt her hand place itself ever so gently against the small of my back. Her open palm just barely making contact. And again, I wondered why. She was disrupting an important moment and I had never known her to be so against scientific research. As quickly and as gently as the hand appeared, it removed itself from my back. Leaving my “awake” status at perhaps 65%.

I was awake enough now that reason was setting in and I concluded her rationale for touching me was to see if I was breathing. But I was asleep enough that I was pleased she too was engaged in this observation of breath deprivation. She and I together would observe this phenomenon and would perhaps issue a joint report on the experience. Surely the scientific community was anxiously anticipating such a communique.

No sooner was I returning to my observations of breath deprivation, a condition I had experienced now for at least 30 minutes or so, than I felt movement at my back. I could tell without looking that she had pushed herself up and was looking over my body and into my face. For the first time I understood why she had touched me. I very calmly said in a low voice, “I’m alright.”

She hit me and yelled, “Well breathe dammit! I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!”

And now I was fully awake–100%--and my observable moment where I could behold myself from beyond myself was gone and humankind was poorer for it.

Haiti Needs Soap

This year the tiny and impoverished island nation of Haiti suffered a horrifically destructive earthquake. The population was crowded into cities when the earth groaned and shook for 35 seconds, an eternity in earthquake time, at the end of which virtually all buildings in the cities were flattened and hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of Haitians were injured and killed.

Injuries could not be treated. Disease set in, further devastating the injured people. Entire families died. In some it was a husband or a wife or children or a combination of the groupings. Parents lost their children and children lost their parents. Makeshift housing, completely inadequate to meet pressing needs, was set up. Makeshift orphanages were thrown together to care for the homeless children now without parents.

All of the suffering of this tiny nation was endured by people who were already the poorest of the Western Hemisphere and among the poorest of the world.

An agency of a Christian charity sent word to its home office that they were in need of soap. “Send us soap,” they said. There were far too many Haitian bodies, bruised and bleeding, that needed to be cleansed for the healing process to begin. The agency consciously withheld the soap and sent them Bibles. A second request came and the agency sent them more Bibles. Another request for soap and again they received Bibles to be distributed among the suffering people.

Sometimes people need soap. Sometimes a shelter. Sometimes clothing and food. Their immediate need is seldom a Bible. Even the apostle Paul, when he learned of the suffering of the Jews in Jerusalem brought about by drought and famine, put together an offering of money and substantial funds were delivered to them for their relief. He did not say, “Now this letter I’m writing will someday be viewed as Scripture so make several copies of it and send them on to the people who are suffering in Jerusalem.” No, he said he needed money from the various Christian churches of Asia which he was going to take to Jerusalem to aid in relieving suffering. It was going to buy food and other necessities of life.

Hungry people need to be fed. Naked people need to be clothed. The homeless need shelter. And Haitians obviously need soap. Send soap to Haiti.

The Day Scout Died

I remember the year Scout died. When I found his little broken body I broke down and cried. There was nothing I could do to help him and little else I could do to help me.

For a couple of years he had been a part of our lives. We had found him running the streets of Norman and at the time I would estimate his age at not more than 6 or 9 months. We were crossing through a four-way stop when we saw him ahead of us in the road. I saw him about the same time as She Who Must be Obeyed and she ordered me to stop. “What’s that?” she asked.

“It’s a squirrel,” I said with all the authority I could muster. A dog loose on the street is an open invitation for her to exhibit her prowess as a hunter/gatherer. She hunts down stray dogs and gathers them in to the family. That way she has something to love and shower her attention on and I have something to do. I take care of them. There is nothing in the Code, if there is one, which requires the hunter/gatherers to take care of that which they hunt and gather. There are “hunter/gatherers” and there are “take-care-ofers.” Or whatever we are to be called.

She had brought home a couple of dogs, large dogs, with the only explanation being that her friend had a lab that had a litter of 10 lab/boxer mixed pups. No one wanted them and she needed a home for them. So she brought home 1/5th of the litter. They weren’t very bright dogs, in fact I felt one of them was suffering from more than mere limited curiosity. I still have the other one which isn’t too bright either. But it seems these dogs of limited mental prowess take a particular shine for and toward me.

She had also brought home a beautiful Springer Spaniel she had rescued from running wildly through the streets of a large city during the third day of a wild and furious thunder storm. I had never been exposed to a Springer Spaniel before and was impressed by the beauty of the dogs. She took her to the vet, had her seen after and groomed. She was in pretty good health in spite of her ordeal, she was just old. In fact, she was so old she couldn’t hear and was suffering from well-developed dementia. We brought her home and made her a pallet next to our bed, my side of course. She wasn’t house trained which was the least of her worries. Because in addition to her deafness and dementia, she was also incontinent. My daily routine was get up in the morning and take her outside. She was only around about a month, during which time she never quite got a grip on how to make the two turns from her pallet to our front door without getting lost. For three weeks I fed her the same time each day out of the same bowl at the same location yet she could never find her way to the food. One day I took her outside and got distracted. I looked up and she was gone. She had wandered off. I ran to the neighbors and then drove all around the neighborhood. I don’t know how a dog can get so lost so quickly.

When we saw the squirrel/dog on the road running under and around parked cars She Who Must be Obeyed quickly abandoned her own car and set out after him. I imagined she would capture the thing and we would have another dog on our hands. We were down to three at the time, perhaps four, and we could always use another. He was a beautiful little red Chihuahua. We drove around the neighborhood and asked everyone we saw if they knew of a missing dog. We even posted signs and watched the paper for lost dog notices. There was no news of a missing dog and we could not find any grieving dog owners. He made his home with us and we named him Scout.

Scout turned out to be one of the better dogs we ever saved and had in our home. He was clearly a part of the family. He was an affectionate dog who demanded and received a place of honor. He allowed himself to be held on his terms but usually preferred to sit idly on the couch next to you. He barked when a stranger came on the property but not otherwise. And unlike many Chihuahuas he did not bite. He was not a snippy little dog at all.

He enjoyed being outside with the larger dogs. We had an electric underground fence around the yard and he wore a collar to keep him in. Only once did he run through the fence and get shocked. Usually he was alert to the vibration of the collar as he got close to the invisible line and would return back into the yard before it could shock him. He liked riding in cars and he liked being with you when you were out working in the yard.

A few years ago we had an unusually hard ice storm hit about 1/4th of the state. In that storm we lost nearly all of the trees we had. We lived on 2 ½ acres and loved the place because of all the trees growing on it. After that storm they were nearly all gone. All during the night of the storm we listened as one tree after another exploded, making a loud sounding boom and then a shattering crash to the ground. The next morning the trees looked like so much bombing debris.

I had worked hard sawing limbs into manageable lengths and stacking them in piles so they could be carried off. The devastation was so great that all we had to do was locate them as near the curb as possible and the city, using state and federal FEMA monies to assist, would pick them up one day and take them to a secluded area where they could burn them with the blessings of the EPA.

On that one particular day I was working outside late getting more of the limbs placed in a pile. My daughter, about 9 or 10, was home inside the house. We were the only ones home. I had been working outside until after dark, around 7:30 in the evening. There were large stacks of limbs and trees stacked about the property which was unusual. Usually the area around the house was clear of anything but grass and growing trees. The dogs had been outside with me doing whatever they wanted while I was working. There was no commotion or excitement on their part.

Around 7:30 that evening I had gone into the house. I sat down just for a second when I heard the dogs barking. I decided immediately that before getting too comfortable I needed to get up and let them in. I got up and went to the door where all the dogs but Scout were standing barking, looking off into the direction of a distant creek. One of the dogs ran off into that direction continuing with her barking. I took a head count and knew immediately that Scout was missing and knew what had probably happened.

I ran off toward where Snoopy was looking as she barked, crossed the street and got just onto the neighbor’s property when I came upon a small, still body of a little red dog. He was still wearing his collar. He had just one or two small puncture marks. It looked as if he had been shaken until his neck had broken.

I took him into the emergency vet clinic but it was no good. He was dead when we arrived. I think he might have still been alive when I first found him but he was in serious shock if he was. He didn’t last long, perhaps he died when I held him and cradled him to me.

I would later speculate that a coyote had found shelter behind those piles of brush and limbs and that he had ambushed Scout who had probably never seen anything dangerous in his life. Then, taking him in his mouth, the coyote would have carried him toward the creek but in doing so he would have had to cross the invisible fence. When he ran across the border the collar would have sent a shock and a vibration through Scout and on into the coyote’s mouth. It probably caused him to drop his prey. All of that happened in a matter of seconds.

The family mourned. We all cried for that little squirrel/dog. We all missed him and continue to miss him to this day. We buried him in a little coffin shaped cardboard box the vet gave us to take him home. He was laid to rest in a flower bed in the front of the house where he loved to play. Now and then we think of him and we share a short story about a little red dog that didn’t get to spend near enough time with us and we with him. Someone will start by saying something like, “Do you remember when Scout . . . .”