Any young man who doesn’t learn to cook has a miserable life ahead. I try to explain to my son that he should have more pride than to expect a girl, or a wife later on, to cook for him. And, it is a shameful reflection on his parents, us, for that to occur. Every boy, every young man, needs to be able to cook for himself. The more independence he can assert for himself, the better person he will be, and not only that, there are a lot of girls, and young women, out there who cannot cook. So, every young man needs to be able to cook for himself.
There is a second benefit for being able to cook: it impresses girls. So, allow me to walk you through a date night, your place, a meal prepared by you for a girl you want to impress.
Clean your apartment, or other place of residence. (If you’re living with your parents, stop it. Move out and get your own place, something you can afford.) No one wants to spend the evening in a messy place. The best way to clean a place, and keep it clean, is to get rid of stuff, simplify your life and living. Get rid of clutter. Get a magazine or a sales catalogue from a hip store specializing in young people’s life and décor, and try to decorate using their suggestions. Find a picture you like and mimic it. Once you get it clean and organized, keep it that way. It is a lot easier to keep it clean than it is to get a dirty place straightened up. Simply make it a habit of picking up after yourself.
Get a pound, or slightly more, of round steak which has been run through one of those meat tenderizers, the kind that somewhat shreds it. It will take you a little time to prepare, but this, your major course, can be prepared while she’s sitting there in the kitchen in awe of your many talents. Cut the steak into bite sized pieces and throw it into a microwaveable safe dish. I prefer to cook this in a Corning Ware dish, just large enough to hold everything.
Sprinkle a little salt and lemon/pepper on the meat and allow it to sit while preparing something else. Have a little wine available for you and your date, along with a small tray of cheese and crackers. Have both a red and white wine available so she can have a choice before dinner.
In the refrigerator, have a salad made of mixed spring greens, in which you have dropped a few cherry tomatoes. You can buy it already made, but transfer it from its packaging into a bowl, covered with Saran Wrap, so it will give the impression of homemade. Also, buy a packaged dessert, a desert similar to a cheese cake. It is easy to make, just follow the directions. After completed, put a little canned cherry pie filling on top and keep it in the refrigerator.
Get some walnuts, no more than a handful, and toast them in a non-stick skillet. Simply place them in the skillet over a medium heat and allow them to toast. Mix well and often, shaking and tossing them. Don’t allow them to burn. It would be preferable to do this while she is there watching you because she will be impressed with the shake and toss method, but do it early because they need to cool down after being toasted. Set aside.
Earlier in the day, you should get some frozen rolls and prepare them according to directions. Try to have them come out of the oven just in time for dinner, or a little earlier. I recommend serving with a soft margarine, or, if you want to really impress her, get a quart of whipping cream and, assuming you have an electric mixer, mix it in front of her until it becomes whipped cream. Then mix it a little longer and it will turn to fresh butter. Mix this with honey to form a honey-butter spread. That little touch will be a winner and she will be duly impressed. If you smoke, I could tell you how to impress her by lighting your cigarette, but you don’t need to be starting now. And, she doesn’t need to be kissing a smoker; it’s something like licking the bottom of an ashtray.
You will need a bell pepper, red or green or a combination, cut into slices. You also need an onion peeled and cut into slices which are then separated into rings. You can prepare these two items, onions and peppers, ahead of time if you want and have them available in the refrigerator. Dump these pepper slices and onion rings on top of the meat. If you don’t have enough room, you need something a little larger. Next, dump in a can of Campbell’s Golden Mushroom Soup. Pour in enough red wine to cover the meat, cover and place in a microwave. Cook for 25 minutes on high setting.
Put on some music, some soft crooning preferably. Don’t play hard rock or anything else which would suggest agitation and dancing. The only dancing you want to consider is slow and close. Besides, you’re going to be busy preparing the rest of the meal. With slow music, she can sip her wine and sway to the music, all the time admiring your domesticity. I would recommend something by Frank Sinatra or, to show you are really cool, something by Landau Eugene Murphy, Jr.
While the dish is cooking, prepare either rice or egg noodles or chicken flavored Rice-A-Roni. If you prepare rice, use the 5-minute instant rice; it’s easier. And, if you prepare noodles, cook them, drain and put in a pan with butter; heat, salt and pepper to taste. But, I recommend the Rice-A-Roni. Have your oven set on 195° which is an appropriate temperature to keep your plates warm, as well as keeping anything warm which is prepared before the stew is completed.
Have a pot of boiling water in which you place some salt. Drop in about 8 asparagus spears. With asparagus spears, wash and cut off about the lower 1 inch of the spear. There is a more precise way to clean asparagus, but this will do for now. This is all the preparation asparagus needs. Place it in the boiling salted water for no more than 5 minutes. If you want to, experiment ahead of time. You want asparagus to still have some snap to it when served. It would probably be best to cook the asparagus after the stew has completed cooking. The stew will stay warm while you prepare the side dishes.
Prepare the salad dressing while she is sitting there. Don’t do it ahead of time and don’t pour it out of a bottle. This little action of making your own dressing will impress her. In a mixing bowl, place three tablespoons of raspberry jam and about a ¼ cup of apple cider vinegar. Thoroughly mix the two with a whisk. Add a tablespoon of Italian spices and whip in about ¼ cup or so of olive oil which is added slowly while whisking. (This is called “emulsification.” She’ll be impressed if you use that word.)
By now, the stew should be done. She may ask you what the name of the stew is and you should tell her it’s an old peasant dish, intended to bless a young couple’s relationship with health, prosperity and longevity. You’ll see a slight smile on her face as she takes another sip of wine. As the dish is preparing, when you have a break in the action, sit with her and join in with the wine and the cheese. Tell her how much you enjoy Landau’s singing.
Take the salad greens from the refrigerator and place in the bowl in which you have made the dressing. Mix the greens in the salad dressing and then place in two salad bowls which have been kept chilled in the refrigerator. Place the walnuts on a cutting board and rough chop with a chef’s knife. Sprinkle the walnuts on the salad in the individual bowls and then place two cherry tomatoes on each salad.
Using a slotted spoon, place some of the stew on each plate. (Remember, the plates have been kept warm in the 195° oven.) The liquid is simply for flavoring, you don’t need much of it on the plate. Place some of the Rice-A-Roni on the plate and then the 4 asparagus spears on each plate. Have a little melted butter ready and pour a little on the asparagus, then salt and pepper to taste. (A little lemon juice in the melted butter would be a positive. If you do that, use some of the lemon zest as well. But, don’t make it bitter to the taste. You just want a hint of the lemon.)
These servings don’t have to be overwhelmingly large. Remember, you’re not there to fatten up. You simply want to quit being hungry and, in the meantime, you want to impress her with your culinary prowess.
So, there you have it. There are two plates, separated by candles, on which you have the stew, the asparagus and the Rice-A-Roni, with a roll. You have the soft honey-butter which you have made in her presence. On the side is a salad, dressed with your very own dressing which she has watched you make. Serve this with a nice red wine, perhaps Chianti or Shiraz.
Afterwards, serve dessert. She didn’t see you make this, but she will be able to tell that you did. She doesn’t need to know you made it from a mix, but, if she asks, tell her the truth. Don’t lie when it’s unnecessary. Serve a light wine with dessert. I recommend a German wine, Liebfraumilch, which literally translates into English as "Beloved lady's milk.” You can tell her that.
There you have it. A perfect evening with Landau Murphy singing in the background. Now, I’m outta here and you’re on your own.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Ken
The day after I was born, my brother celebrated his third birthday. He was born November 2, 1941, just a month and five days before the Japanese attacked the United States Naval Base at Pearl Harbor. He was that close to being a “war baby. “ I suppose there is a name for that generation; perhaps he was a “pre-war baby” or a “depression-transition baby.” Whatever his generational placement, he was my older brother.
We were close enough in age that we had some common and contemporary interests. But, he was older than me and he was turned in another direction. It was not until recent years that I came to realize it wasn’t his fault and it wasn’t my fault either. It was Eddie’s fault, our oldest brother. Eddie was the oldest kid in the family, and he was an accomplished and entertaining person. Kennith naturally found himself in a position to compete with Eddie for attention and status within the family. He didn’t have to be concerned with me, he was older and faster and stronger and smarter than me. He had to focus on Eddie who could and would outshine him in just about any contest. As Kennith was three years older than me, so Eddie was four years older than Kennith.
Kennith became Ken in his later years, but while he was still “Kennith”, while he was a very young “Kennith”, he decided what he would do with his life. While still in elementary school, he decided he wanted to be a math teacher, a goal he pursued with some enthusiasm. Graduating from high school in 1959, he enrolled in college and went straight through, completing his undergraduate degree in four years. After graduating from Oklahoma Christian College with a B.S. degree in Mathematics, he began his teaching career at Western Heights High School in Oklahoma City. The year 1963 was an interesting time in public education in Oklahoma. Typical of his peers, he began his career earning about $3,000 annually. Yes, for that time and in that place, $3,000 wasn’t much money. And, it surely wasn’t much money for a person with a college education and a professional certification.
He taught there for a brief period and then moved to the Detroit area where he taught at Michigan Christian College. By then, he had completed his work on his M.S. degree in mathematics. He taught at M.C.C. for the next ten years.
Kennith started something by going to college. There were five children in our family and when you review all the education and higher degrees we hold, it is amazing when one considers our mother did not complete her senior year of high school and our father quit school in the eighth grade, not an uncommon situation among Depression Era kids. Ken was the first in our family, and the first in either side of the family, to attend college and eventually graduate with a degree. Both my sisters and I followed him to college where we were all able to get at least a master’s degree and even more. I’m not sure any of us would have done this without his example.
After ten years in Michigan, he returned to Oklahoma where he gave up his teaching career to work for Southwestern Bell. He began there about the time computers were making their way into the workplace. Not only were they new to companies, but the personal computer was making its way into the American society. The company purchased a large number of these and Kennith saw his opportunity to make his mark. They were a company with a host of powerful pieces of equipment, but their employees didn’t know what to do with them. Seeing an opportunity, he began rewriting the instruction manuals so the workers could understand the new versions written in plain English. He then began teaching employees to use these new devises and how to apply them for greater productivity. For years, when I was asked what my brother did for Southwestern Bell, I had to simply tell them I had no idea, all I knew was that he did something with computers.
I was always envious of Kennith. As kids, he was faster and stronger than was I. I thought he looked better than I did, and there was no doubt he had much greater self-confidence. I think he had a more positive high school experience than I did. He was three years older and, thus, three years ahead of me in school. When I went to high school, I tried to follow in his steps. I joined the same organizations he joined and tried my hand at the same activities he did before me, sometimes with greater success than he experienced, often with less.
After going to college and securing his degree in math, he entered the teaching profession. I followed three years later and selected math as my major as well. I was pretty good at arithmetic, so why not. I discovered calculus my second year in college. He tried to help me through it, but it simply made no sense at all. Even before my calculus experience, I was losing interest in math. Even as a kid, I had always been interested in the past. I liked stories and I liked to tell stories, not just for the entertainment value, but for the educational value. Of course, it doesn’t hurt anything to be entertaining as well. I first moved into history and then into religion and eventually into the ministry, leaving all thoughts of math behind. Math was Kennith’s interest and I realized from that point on that I needed to be my own person and quit trying to follow in his steps.
Kennith raised two daughters, both of whom are a credit to their parents. Like most of us, he has lived a quiet life, enjoying his family and trying to make a difference in his small community and circle of friends. And, he has made a difference. He and Linda have taken on a cause of helping abused, battered and neglected children. Through his social club, he has championed these underprivileged children, taking their pains as his own, and their needs as a cry for help he could hardly ignore. He took to heart the words of Jesus, “Insomuch as you did it to the least of these, you have done it unto me.”
Kennith became Ken and, following his retirement from Southwestern Bell, he began teaching at the Oklahoma State University campus in Oklahoma City. He teaches math. It all makes perfect sense to him and he is masterful at imparting that knowledge to his students. Some people are talented like that. Perhaps the final words used to describe him should be, “Master Teacher.”
Kennith, as he’ll always be known to me, will turn 70 his next birthday. He will be the second of the Franklin kids to enter the eighth decade of life. The 40s didn’t bother me at all. The 50s and the 60s were taken in stride, but when my oldest brother turned 70 a few years back, it was difficult for me to take. We weren’t supposed to get older; we were supposed to remain carefree kids on the farm, as we were so long ago. But, Eddie turned 70; now, Kennith is about to turn 70; and, I’m only three years behind him.
We were close enough in age that we had some common and contemporary interests. But, he was older than me and he was turned in another direction. It was not until recent years that I came to realize it wasn’t his fault and it wasn’t my fault either. It was Eddie’s fault, our oldest brother. Eddie was the oldest kid in the family, and he was an accomplished and entertaining person. Kennith naturally found himself in a position to compete with Eddie for attention and status within the family. He didn’t have to be concerned with me, he was older and faster and stronger and smarter than me. He had to focus on Eddie who could and would outshine him in just about any contest. As Kennith was three years older than me, so Eddie was four years older than Kennith.
Kennith became Ken in his later years, but while he was still “Kennith”, while he was a very young “Kennith”, he decided what he would do with his life. While still in elementary school, he decided he wanted to be a math teacher, a goal he pursued with some enthusiasm. Graduating from high school in 1959, he enrolled in college and went straight through, completing his undergraduate degree in four years. After graduating from Oklahoma Christian College with a B.S. degree in Mathematics, he began his teaching career at Western Heights High School in Oklahoma City. The year 1963 was an interesting time in public education in Oklahoma. Typical of his peers, he began his career earning about $3,000 annually. Yes, for that time and in that place, $3,000 wasn’t much money. And, it surely wasn’t much money for a person with a college education and a professional certification.
He taught there for a brief period and then moved to the Detroit area where he taught at Michigan Christian College. By then, he had completed his work on his M.S. degree in mathematics. He taught at M.C.C. for the next ten years.
Kennith started something by going to college. There were five children in our family and when you review all the education and higher degrees we hold, it is amazing when one considers our mother did not complete her senior year of high school and our father quit school in the eighth grade, not an uncommon situation among Depression Era kids. Ken was the first in our family, and the first in either side of the family, to attend college and eventually graduate with a degree. Both my sisters and I followed him to college where we were all able to get at least a master’s degree and even more. I’m not sure any of us would have done this without his example.
After ten years in Michigan, he returned to Oklahoma where he gave up his teaching career to work for Southwestern Bell. He began there about the time computers were making their way into the workplace. Not only were they new to companies, but the personal computer was making its way into the American society. The company purchased a large number of these and Kennith saw his opportunity to make his mark. They were a company with a host of powerful pieces of equipment, but their employees didn’t know what to do with them. Seeing an opportunity, he began rewriting the instruction manuals so the workers could understand the new versions written in plain English. He then began teaching employees to use these new devises and how to apply them for greater productivity. For years, when I was asked what my brother did for Southwestern Bell, I had to simply tell them I had no idea, all I knew was that he did something with computers.
I was always envious of Kennith. As kids, he was faster and stronger than was I. I thought he looked better than I did, and there was no doubt he had much greater self-confidence. I think he had a more positive high school experience than I did. He was three years older and, thus, three years ahead of me in school. When I went to high school, I tried to follow in his steps. I joined the same organizations he joined and tried my hand at the same activities he did before me, sometimes with greater success than he experienced, often with less.
After going to college and securing his degree in math, he entered the teaching profession. I followed three years later and selected math as my major as well. I was pretty good at arithmetic, so why not. I discovered calculus my second year in college. He tried to help me through it, but it simply made no sense at all. Even before my calculus experience, I was losing interest in math. Even as a kid, I had always been interested in the past. I liked stories and I liked to tell stories, not just for the entertainment value, but for the educational value. Of course, it doesn’t hurt anything to be entertaining as well. I first moved into history and then into religion and eventually into the ministry, leaving all thoughts of math behind. Math was Kennith’s interest and I realized from that point on that I needed to be my own person and quit trying to follow in his steps.
Kennith raised two daughters, both of whom are a credit to their parents. Like most of us, he has lived a quiet life, enjoying his family and trying to make a difference in his small community and circle of friends. And, he has made a difference. He and Linda have taken on a cause of helping abused, battered and neglected children. Through his social club, he has championed these underprivileged children, taking their pains as his own, and their needs as a cry for help he could hardly ignore. He took to heart the words of Jesus, “Insomuch as you did it to the least of these, you have done it unto me.”
Kennith became Ken and, following his retirement from Southwestern Bell, he began teaching at the Oklahoma State University campus in Oklahoma City. He teaches math. It all makes perfect sense to him and he is masterful at imparting that knowledge to his students. Some people are talented like that. Perhaps the final words used to describe him should be, “Master Teacher.”
Kennith, as he’ll always be known to me, will turn 70 his next birthday. He will be the second of the Franklin kids to enter the eighth decade of life. The 40s didn’t bother me at all. The 50s and the 60s were taken in stride, but when my oldest brother turned 70 a few years back, it was difficult for me to take. We weren’t supposed to get older; we were supposed to remain carefree kids on the farm, as we were so long ago. But, Eddie turned 70; now, Kennith is about to turn 70; and, I’m only three years behind him.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
“If I Were a Rich Man”
Fiddler on the Roof is one of the classics of musical theater. Set in 1905 Tsarist Russia, it features a milkman named Tevye, a member of a Jewish community who faces conflicts in his life, both within his family from his wife and daughters and from the authorities who, by the end of the play, will order the expulsion of all Jews from the area. Toward the end of the musical, or the movie if one watches the film version, there is the pathetic movement of the refugee Jews leaving what was their homeland, carrying and dragging and pulling and pushing their few meager belongings. However, with all its sadness, the story is a delightfully funny study of human relationships.
The story is based on Tevye and his Daughters (or Tevye the Milkman and Other Tales) by Sholem Aleichem. Tevye is the father of five daughters, three of whom are of marriageable age. He has been married to Golde since they were young and the two of them have not accomplished much in life, monetarily. The show in its most early scenes shows Tevye, the local milkman, delivering milk. His horse is lame so he is shown pulling the milk cart himself. Speaking to himself, deploring his lot in life, he asks God, who would it hurt “if I were a rich man?” He then breaks into a song by that title, “If I Were a Rich Man.”
If he was a rich man, of course, he “wouldn’t have to work hard.” More than that, he’d “build a big tall house with rooms by the dozen, right in the middle of the town.” That house would have “one long staircase just going up, and one even longer coming down, and one more going nowhere, just for show.”
Poignantly, he also thinks of his wife, Golde. “I see my wife, my Golde, looking like a rich man’s wife with a proper double-chin. Supervising meals to her heart’s delight. I see her putting on airs and strutting like a peacock. Oy, what a happy mood she’s in. Screaming at the servants, day and night.”
Then he turns the song to the most important thing he could enjoy, if only he were a wealthy man.
The most important men in town would come to fawn on me!
They would ask me to advise them,
Like Solomon the wise.
“If you please, Reb Tevye…”
“Pardon me, Reb Tevye…”
Posing problems that would cross a Rabbi’s eyes!
And it won’t make one bit of difference if I answer right or wrong.
When you’re rich, they think you really know!
To sit in the synagogue and pray.
And maybe have a seat by the Eastern wall.
And I’d discuss the holy books with the learned men, several hours every day.
That would be the sweetest thing of all.
I can relate to Tevye. Who would it have hurt if I were a rich man? I, too, would live in a fine tall house with three staircases, one for “up”, one for “down” and the other just to look at. I’d have ducks and chickens and geese in the front yard, making noise as if to say, “There goes a wealthy man!” And, like Tevye, people would think I was smart. I could discuss the holy books with the learned men of town and I might even get a choice seat at church. And, I might be consulted in order to give my opinion about issues which matter.
I once attended a rich man’s funeral. A large crowd showed up to share their grief with the hundreds of people who filled the sanctuary to capacity. I told someone I didn’t know he was a member of the church which he so loved and worked so hard to carry on his own shoulders. Eyes rolled with a simple declaration, “He was on the rolls.”
Ah, yes, I thought, as I tried to think of six people who would care enough if I died that they might serve as pall bearers.
If I were a rich man,
ya ba dibba dibba dibba dibba dibba dibba dum.
The story is based on Tevye and his Daughters (or Tevye the Milkman and Other Tales) by Sholem Aleichem. Tevye is the father of five daughters, three of whom are of marriageable age. He has been married to Golde since they were young and the two of them have not accomplished much in life, monetarily. The show in its most early scenes shows Tevye, the local milkman, delivering milk. His horse is lame so he is shown pulling the milk cart himself. Speaking to himself, deploring his lot in life, he asks God, who would it hurt “if I were a rich man?” He then breaks into a song by that title, “If I Were a Rich Man.”
If he was a rich man, of course, he “wouldn’t have to work hard.” More than that, he’d “build a big tall house with rooms by the dozen, right in the middle of the town.” That house would have “one long staircase just going up, and one even longer coming down, and one more going nowhere, just for show.”
Poignantly, he also thinks of his wife, Golde. “I see my wife, my Golde, looking like a rich man’s wife with a proper double-chin. Supervising meals to her heart’s delight. I see her putting on airs and strutting like a peacock. Oy, what a happy mood she’s in. Screaming at the servants, day and night.”
Then he turns the song to the most important thing he could enjoy, if only he were a wealthy man.
The most important men in town would come to fawn on me!
They would ask me to advise them,
Like Solomon the wise.
“If you please, Reb Tevye…”
“Pardon me, Reb Tevye…”
Posing problems that would cross a Rabbi’s eyes!
And it won’t make one bit of difference if I answer right or wrong.
When you’re rich, they think you really know!
To sit in the synagogue and pray.
And maybe have a seat by the Eastern wall.
And I’d discuss the holy books with the learned men, several hours every day.
That would be the sweetest thing of all.
I can relate to Tevye. Who would it have hurt if I were a rich man? I, too, would live in a fine tall house with three staircases, one for “up”, one for “down” and the other just to look at. I’d have ducks and chickens and geese in the front yard, making noise as if to say, “There goes a wealthy man!” And, like Tevye, people would think I was smart. I could discuss the holy books with the learned men of town and I might even get a choice seat at church. And, I might be consulted in order to give my opinion about issues which matter.
I once attended a rich man’s funeral. A large crowd showed up to share their grief with the hundreds of people who filled the sanctuary to capacity. I told someone I didn’t know he was a member of the church which he so loved and worked so hard to carry on his own shoulders. Eyes rolled with a simple declaration, “He was on the rolls.”
Ah, yes, I thought, as I tried to think of six people who would care enough if I died that they might serve as pall bearers.
If I were a rich man,
ya ba dibba dibba dibba dibba dibba dibba dum.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Linda and Johnny
Linda and Johnny were married Friday night, on the 23rd day of September, 2011, at the Quail Spring Church of Christ in Oklahoma City. I was there.
Sometime earlier, Johnny called me and told me he and Linda were going to be married and would I perform the ceremony. He started the conversation by saying, “Hershel, this is Johnny.” I replied, “Okay.” I had no idea who this person was and tried to run through my mind who I knew by that name, and I couldn’t come up with anyone. The first person who entered my mind was Johnny Weissmuller, but I was sure it couldn’t be him as he was dead. Even following several moments of awkward silence, even after he had told me his last name, I was still perplexed as to the identity of the caller.
I hadn’t seen Johnny since we graduated high school in May, 1962. He, Linda and I were classmates in Sayre, Oklahoma. I had kept up with Linda somewhat over the years. We had a similar background in that we were both raised in the Church of Christ. I remembered her from when we were in elementary school, she in Sayre and I in a little country school of eight grades called Hext. I remembered her coming to Hext to play sports, especially basketball. I remember her as one of the cutest little girls I had ever seen. Of course, like most boys that age, I thought all little girls were cute and fell in and out of love easily.
My freshman year of high school, I went into town to continue my education and found myself in class with both Johnny and Linda. Those four years were not the most momentous of my life, nor can I say I really enjoyed my high school years. But, I did form a few friendships. I have not remained very close to any of them, but there are some I have reached out to from time to time. I lost contact with Johnny altogether after graduation. In high school, I knew he had had a difficult childhood, but I wasn’t sure it was any more difficult than mine and several others. He was quiet, as was I; an average student, as was I. Socially, both of us were reserved and, somewhat uncomfortable in the social structure in which we found ourselves. We perceived ourselves as of a lower socio-economic class than our peers. All of this may have very well been just a perception, not an actuality. Johnny was an athlete and participated in most of the high school sports. My only extracurricular activity was public speaking in those venues provided by the Future Farmers of America (a social and academic organization run in conjunction with the Vocational Agricultural program in the school). Linda was much more involved in high school activities than either Johnny or me.
We graduated from high school in May of 1962 and that would have been the last time I had seen Johnny until the wedding last Friday night.
Not long after our graduation, Linda had suffered health problems which resulted in her being left with difficulties in speech and mobility. She had to learn to crawl and to speak babbling words all over again. Her vision was impaired. She worked hard at her rehabilitation and eventually reached the point that she could continue on with her education. And, then she was able to secure employment in the state library system where she worked until retirement. She still has some vision and speech problems, but nothing which holds her back from living a normal life. She does not consider herself handicapped or limited in any manner. She uses a cane to walk, but, then, don’t we all.
Johnny had lived away from Oklahoma his entire adult life. He tells me he had lived in Phoenix until his retirement recently, whereupon he wanted to come home. I don’t know how he and Linda made contact, but after a renewed friendship of several months, they decided to get married. That was where I came in.
Earlier in the evening, we went through the rehearsal. I assured them I had never seen a good rehearsal or a bad wedding. It was quick and uneventful. Then, at 7:30, Johnny and I stood behind closed doors, awaiting the sound of music. There was a flautist who began playing, our cue, and we entered the sanctuary, taking our place in front. I was frankly somewhat surprised at the number of people there. I would estimate the number to be about 150 people. We stood there as the maid of honor entered the room and took her place. We looked toward the other entrance and watched as Linda entered. I asked the audience to stand and we turned as if at attention to watch her make her way to the altar.
She looked lovely. Radiant. A smile crossed her face like I had never seen, something like sheer happiness warming those of us blessed to be sharing the moment. “Do you take Johnny to be your lawfully wedded husband?” I asked. “Do you promise to love, honor and cherish him, in sickness and in health, in prosperity and in adversity, and do you promise to keep yourself to him and to him alone so long as you both shall live?” “I do,” she replied.
I had Johnny place a ring on the third finger of Linda’s left hand, hold it and repeat after me, “With this ring I thee wed, and all that I am and all that I have, I give to you.”
With the exchange of vows in the presence of God and in the presence of that company of friends and family, sealed by the giving and receiving of rings, “by the authority vested in me by the State of Oklahoma, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” And, with that, they kissed.
It was a joyous event. We don’t often marry at our age, usually that is something younger people do. But, as I stated during the ceremony, the thing we have in common with the younger people is that we have the rest of our lives ahead of us. And, Linda and Johnny have the rest of their lives ahead of them. If there was any sadness in the whole evening, it was that Linda’s mother and father were gone and did not get to see her happiness that night.
My best wishes go with the two of them.
Sometime earlier, Johnny called me and told me he and Linda were going to be married and would I perform the ceremony. He started the conversation by saying, “Hershel, this is Johnny.” I replied, “Okay.” I had no idea who this person was and tried to run through my mind who I knew by that name, and I couldn’t come up with anyone. The first person who entered my mind was Johnny Weissmuller, but I was sure it couldn’t be him as he was dead. Even following several moments of awkward silence, even after he had told me his last name, I was still perplexed as to the identity of the caller.
I hadn’t seen Johnny since we graduated high school in May, 1962. He, Linda and I were classmates in Sayre, Oklahoma. I had kept up with Linda somewhat over the years. We had a similar background in that we were both raised in the Church of Christ. I remembered her from when we were in elementary school, she in Sayre and I in a little country school of eight grades called Hext. I remembered her coming to Hext to play sports, especially basketball. I remember her as one of the cutest little girls I had ever seen. Of course, like most boys that age, I thought all little girls were cute and fell in and out of love easily.
My freshman year of high school, I went into town to continue my education and found myself in class with both Johnny and Linda. Those four years were not the most momentous of my life, nor can I say I really enjoyed my high school years. But, I did form a few friendships. I have not remained very close to any of them, but there are some I have reached out to from time to time. I lost contact with Johnny altogether after graduation. In high school, I knew he had had a difficult childhood, but I wasn’t sure it was any more difficult than mine and several others. He was quiet, as was I; an average student, as was I. Socially, both of us were reserved and, somewhat uncomfortable in the social structure in which we found ourselves. We perceived ourselves as of a lower socio-economic class than our peers. All of this may have very well been just a perception, not an actuality. Johnny was an athlete and participated in most of the high school sports. My only extracurricular activity was public speaking in those venues provided by the Future Farmers of America (a social and academic organization run in conjunction with the Vocational Agricultural program in the school). Linda was much more involved in high school activities than either Johnny or me.
We graduated from high school in May of 1962 and that would have been the last time I had seen Johnny until the wedding last Friday night.
Not long after our graduation, Linda had suffered health problems which resulted in her being left with difficulties in speech and mobility. She had to learn to crawl and to speak babbling words all over again. Her vision was impaired. She worked hard at her rehabilitation and eventually reached the point that she could continue on with her education. And, then she was able to secure employment in the state library system where she worked until retirement. She still has some vision and speech problems, but nothing which holds her back from living a normal life. She does not consider herself handicapped or limited in any manner. She uses a cane to walk, but, then, don’t we all.
Johnny had lived away from Oklahoma his entire adult life. He tells me he had lived in Phoenix until his retirement recently, whereupon he wanted to come home. I don’t know how he and Linda made contact, but after a renewed friendship of several months, they decided to get married. That was where I came in.
Earlier in the evening, we went through the rehearsal. I assured them I had never seen a good rehearsal or a bad wedding. It was quick and uneventful. Then, at 7:30, Johnny and I stood behind closed doors, awaiting the sound of music. There was a flautist who began playing, our cue, and we entered the sanctuary, taking our place in front. I was frankly somewhat surprised at the number of people there. I would estimate the number to be about 150 people. We stood there as the maid of honor entered the room and took her place. We looked toward the other entrance and watched as Linda entered. I asked the audience to stand and we turned as if at attention to watch her make her way to the altar.
She looked lovely. Radiant. A smile crossed her face like I had never seen, something like sheer happiness warming those of us blessed to be sharing the moment. “Do you take Johnny to be your lawfully wedded husband?” I asked. “Do you promise to love, honor and cherish him, in sickness and in health, in prosperity and in adversity, and do you promise to keep yourself to him and to him alone so long as you both shall live?” “I do,” she replied.
I had Johnny place a ring on the third finger of Linda’s left hand, hold it and repeat after me, “With this ring I thee wed, and all that I am and all that I have, I give to you.”
With the exchange of vows in the presence of God and in the presence of that company of friends and family, sealed by the giving and receiving of rings, “by the authority vested in me by the State of Oklahoma, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” And, with that, they kissed.
It was a joyous event. We don’t often marry at our age, usually that is something younger people do. But, as I stated during the ceremony, the thing we have in common with the younger people is that we have the rest of our lives ahead of us. And, Linda and Johnny have the rest of their lives ahead of them. If there was any sadness in the whole evening, it was that Linda’s mother and father were gone and did not get to see her happiness that night.
My best wishes go with the two of them.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
By the River of Babylon
In 587 B.C., Nebuchadnezzar’s armies from Babylon surrounded and conquered Jerusalem. The numbers of Jews slain at the hand of this fearful war machine can only be speculated at. Over four thousand of the most influential people, those who determined state policy and were responsible for carrying out its policies, were carried to Babylon as captives. They lived there for nearly a century before they were allowed to return to Jerusalem and attempt to reestablish their nation. It was a hard time for these people who had seen their homeland scorched by the enemy and their city, their national and religious identity, decimated. And, their Temple completely destroyed.
Judeans living in captivity under the Babylonians was better than being in such circumstances in some other nation. Israel had been conquered by Assyria nearly a century and a half earlier and Assyria’s policy toward its captives was much harsher than the policy of Babylon. The Israelites were carried off and dispersed. Their identity was completely destroyed and lost. These are the ten lost tribes of Israel, around whom there is so much mystery and speculation. The Babylonians set the Judeans up as a community within their borders. The Judeans were encouraged to enter business, marry and have children, and, generally, live as well as possible. But, they were still living in bondage, something the Judeans would have found intolerable. Their shock at their circumstances was heightened as they recalled their existence as slaves in Egypt, from which they escaped and formed their national identity.
The Judeans also had the national memory of seeing their city and temple burning as they were force marched away from their homes and toward Babylon.
While they endured their existence in Babylon, they continued their community. They engaged in commerce, both among themselves and with others. They married and raised families, always telling their children about Jerusalem and the temple. Their stories were a longing for what was, sometimes coupled with what might be.
One of the most beautiful poems written was produced by one of these captives in Babylon. In it he shows the longing for Jerusalem and the temple. It is recorded in both the Hebrew Bible and the Christian Old Testament as Psalm 137.
1By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion.
2We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof.
3For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song; and they that wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion.
4How shall we sing the LORD's song in a strange land?
5If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning.
6If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth; if I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy. (KJV)
Sitting by the river of Babylon, the poet recalls Jerusalem. And, everything he remembers is good and beautiful. Everything he remembers about the temple is righteous and holy. He may have never seen Jerusalem. As he writes, there doesn’t appear to be any shackles or forced labor. He is sitting by the river writing poetry. They have been there long enough that they have either broken out or replaced their harps. They have time to sing and play harps. Their life is pretty good considering the circumstances, but it’s not in Jerusalem. They have hung the harps in the willow trees because they refuse to sing for their captors. Even when requested or demanded to do so.
I will never forget Jerusalem, declares the Jew. We will never forget Jerusalem, sings the poet. I would rather lose my right hand than forget her. I would prefer to lose my ability to speak than to forget Jerusalem.
This is a beautiful poetic expression of a people’s love for their homeland. Their belief was that this land and this city were given to them by God, a fulfillment of a promise He made to Abraham. And, it was more than that. It was where they met with and communed with God. They believed there was one God and that he was the God of the world, but they knew that in Jerusalem they communed with Him.
Judeans living in captivity under the Babylonians was better than being in such circumstances in some other nation. Israel had been conquered by Assyria nearly a century and a half earlier and Assyria’s policy toward its captives was much harsher than the policy of Babylon. The Israelites were carried off and dispersed. Their identity was completely destroyed and lost. These are the ten lost tribes of Israel, around whom there is so much mystery and speculation. The Babylonians set the Judeans up as a community within their borders. The Judeans were encouraged to enter business, marry and have children, and, generally, live as well as possible. But, they were still living in bondage, something the Judeans would have found intolerable. Their shock at their circumstances was heightened as they recalled their existence as slaves in Egypt, from which they escaped and formed their national identity.
The Judeans also had the national memory of seeing their city and temple burning as they were force marched away from their homes and toward Babylon.
While they endured their existence in Babylon, they continued their community. They engaged in commerce, both among themselves and with others. They married and raised families, always telling their children about Jerusalem and the temple. Their stories were a longing for what was, sometimes coupled with what might be.
One of the most beautiful poems written was produced by one of these captives in Babylon. In it he shows the longing for Jerusalem and the temple. It is recorded in both the Hebrew Bible and the Christian Old Testament as Psalm 137.
1By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion.
2We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof.
3For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song; and they that wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion.
4How shall we sing the LORD's song in a strange land?
5If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning.
6If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth; if I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy. (KJV)
Sitting by the river of Babylon, the poet recalls Jerusalem. And, everything he remembers is good and beautiful. Everything he remembers about the temple is righteous and holy. He may have never seen Jerusalem. As he writes, there doesn’t appear to be any shackles or forced labor. He is sitting by the river writing poetry. They have been there long enough that they have either broken out or replaced their harps. They have time to sing and play harps. Their life is pretty good considering the circumstances, but it’s not in Jerusalem. They have hung the harps in the willow trees because they refuse to sing for their captors. Even when requested or demanded to do so.
I will never forget Jerusalem, declares the Jew. We will never forget Jerusalem, sings the poet. I would rather lose my right hand than forget her. I would prefer to lose my ability to speak than to forget Jerusalem.
This is a beautiful poetic expression of a people’s love for their homeland. Their belief was that this land and this city were given to them by God, a fulfillment of a promise He made to Abraham. And, it was more than that. It was where they met with and communed with God. They believed there was one God and that he was the God of the world, but they knew that in Jerusalem they communed with Him.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Elsie
I don’t have all the dates worked out completely in my mind, but my dad bought a new milk cow sometime in the middle or late 1950s. We had other cows, six or seven at a time, which were part of our small dairy herd. In those days, our farms were not exactly subsistence, but we did try to produce as much as we could for our own living. A family of four young kids could always use the milk to supplement their diet, it’s being a staple in both drink and in cooking. After drinking all we wanted, we separated the cream from the milk and saved it aside until the coming Saturday when we would take it into town to sell. This produced a small cash income for the family which would go a long way toward meeting our regular daily needs. The left-over milk was fed to the hogs to help fatten them up. They were another cash crop on those small farms in Oklahoma during those years.
Most of our milk cows were just range cows we had tamed for the sole purpose of milking. For some of them, it was a challenge to sit down on their right side near their hind leg, place yourself in a position of danger and start the milking process. These old range cows considered this an unnatural intrusion on their dignity and their only response was to kick the fool out of you. We did have a somewhat gentle cow, a large one which was part Jersey or Guernsey. Her name was “Babe.”
We named our milk cows. While I don’t remember them all, I do remember Babe and another named “Flossie.” The others escape me. Then, one day my dad brought home a small Jersey cow, yellowish tan in color with small horns curving to the front of her face. She was the perfect appearance and disposition of a Jersey cow, very gentle and productive. She looked exactly like the mascot for the Borden Dairy and, probably for that similarity, we named her Elsie.
As time went on, we pared down the dairy cows. As they got older we didn’t replace them and reduced the numbers we were milking. Eventually, we were down to Elsie and Babe, and still later we were just milking Elsie. My dad had found employment nearby which reduced the necessity of selling cream for cash and my older brothers left home which greatly reduced the milk hands, reduced, in fact, to me. Wherever we lived, my parents always wanted to have a milk cow. It was probably in part to give me something to do and it was their way of holding onto their past. They were children of the Depression and remembered times when people had little to eat. I believe they felt so long as they had a milk cow and a fattening hog, they would be alright. They might have to buy flour, salt and corn meal, but so long as they could do that, and so long as they had milk on hand, they could feed themselves and their children.
As kids moved away and the family at home got smaller, the one cow produced more than enough milk for us. It wasn’t pasteurized and the facilities were not at all sanitary, but we never got sick from drinking this raw milk. Milk, butter milk, cream, sour cream, butter, cottage cheese, all these were staples in our diet. We might sit down to a simple supper (dinner to the rest of the world) of cornbread and milk, but we were grateful to have it. And, as I look back at it now, mother had been working on the family farm as much and as hard as the rest of us, if not more, and she was probably too tired at times to prepare anything other than a pan of cornbread. Our diet was usually much more hearty than that simple fare, but at times that was all we had and we never complained.
We reached the point that Elsie was the only milk cow we had. When we left the farm, we took her with us. The galvanized milk buckets we used held about 3 ½ gallons and she always produced enough milk to fill it, twice a day. And, I would say that at least a third of that was cream. That much cream twice a day makes a lot of butter and whipped cream. She remained almost a member of the family. Even when a fifth child had been born and there was no one there but me and my younger sister, 14 years my junior, and my parents, we kept Elsie as part of our daily routine. When we moved even further from the farm, we finally quit milking. Elsie was allowed to run with the remainder of the cows, a small herd of mixed cows usually run with a pretty good Angus bull, to produce calves which were a cash crop on the family farm.
Elsie was getting older and I was told to go by the farm and feed her apart from the others. I locked her up in a lot and gave her a special feed, some sorghum rich grain and some hay. She had water available and I petted her and talked to her while she ate. I left her there in the lot, intending to come by later and let her out. I don’t know what it was that I had to do, but I was distracted and forgot to come back by the farm. Two days later, my mom and dad went by and found her dead there in the lot.
I felt terrible and my dad, foolishly, ate me out for leaving her there so she could starve to death. That bothered me for a long time until I finally realized that a cow, which had access to water, won’t starve to death in a day or two without food. It’s not good for them, but it won’t kill them. The truth of the matter was that she was old and weak and that was why I was feeding her a special feed. She simply got old and died. As do we all.
We never had another milk cow, Elsie was the last. I remember well those cold winter mornings I would trudge out into the freezing weather to call in the cows. We would bring them into the barn and put them in the feeding and milk stations. We would sit down beside them, place our cold hands up between their flank and their udder to warm them, and then milk until the bucket was full. The cats would come around and make a nuisance of themselves and we would squirt some of the warm milk into their face. They would lick it off and go back to bothering us. By then we would have enough to pour some into a pan so they would leave us alone and quit trying to climb into the bucket. They had their job and we had ours. Theirs was to kill as many mice and snakes as they could and that was worthy a drink of warm milk a couple of times a day. It wasn’t really hard work, it was just constant. Every morning, every evening, the cows had to be milked.
Milking the cows was my dad’s job. Then it became his and my oldest brother’s job. Soon, it was the job of my two older brothers. Then my middle brother’s and mine. Then mine. Then, we were out of the milk cow business. It’s funny how that works. My sons would have probably been better people if they had had a cow to milk.
Most of our milk cows were just range cows we had tamed for the sole purpose of milking. For some of them, it was a challenge to sit down on their right side near their hind leg, place yourself in a position of danger and start the milking process. These old range cows considered this an unnatural intrusion on their dignity and their only response was to kick the fool out of you. We did have a somewhat gentle cow, a large one which was part Jersey or Guernsey. Her name was “Babe.”
We named our milk cows. While I don’t remember them all, I do remember Babe and another named “Flossie.” The others escape me. Then, one day my dad brought home a small Jersey cow, yellowish tan in color with small horns curving to the front of her face. She was the perfect appearance and disposition of a Jersey cow, very gentle and productive. She looked exactly like the mascot for the Borden Dairy and, probably for that similarity, we named her Elsie.
As time went on, we pared down the dairy cows. As they got older we didn’t replace them and reduced the numbers we were milking. Eventually, we were down to Elsie and Babe, and still later we were just milking Elsie. My dad had found employment nearby which reduced the necessity of selling cream for cash and my older brothers left home which greatly reduced the milk hands, reduced, in fact, to me. Wherever we lived, my parents always wanted to have a milk cow. It was probably in part to give me something to do and it was their way of holding onto their past. They were children of the Depression and remembered times when people had little to eat. I believe they felt so long as they had a milk cow and a fattening hog, they would be alright. They might have to buy flour, salt and corn meal, but so long as they could do that, and so long as they had milk on hand, they could feed themselves and their children.
As kids moved away and the family at home got smaller, the one cow produced more than enough milk for us. It wasn’t pasteurized and the facilities were not at all sanitary, but we never got sick from drinking this raw milk. Milk, butter milk, cream, sour cream, butter, cottage cheese, all these were staples in our diet. We might sit down to a simple supper (dinner to the rest of the world) of cornbread and milk, but we were grateful to have it. And, as I look back at it now, mother had been working on the family farm as much and as hard as the rest of us, if not more, and she was probably too tired at times to prepare anything other than a pan of cornbread. Our diet was usually much more hearty than that simple fare, but at times that was all we had and we never complained.
We reached the point that Elsie was the only milk cow we had. When we left the farm, we took her with us. The galvanized milk buckets we used held about 3 ½ gallons and she always produced enough milk to fill it, twice a day. And, I would say that at least a third of that was cream. That much cream twice a day makes a lot of butter and whipped cream. She remained almost a member of the family. Even when a fifth child had been born and there was no one there but me and my younger sister, 14 years my junior, and my parents, we kept Elsie as part of our daily routine. When we moved even further from the farm, we finally quit milking. Elsie was allowed to run with the remainder of the cows, a small herd of mixed cows usually run with a pretty good Angus bull, to produce calves which were a cash crop on the family farm.
Elsie was getting older and I was told to go by the farm and feed her apart from the others. I locked her up in a lot and gave her a special feed, some sorghum rich grain and some hay. She had water available and I petted her and talked to her while she ate. I left her there in the lot, intending to come by later and let her out. I don’t know what it was that I had to do, but I was distracted and forgot to come back by the farm. Two days later, my mom and dad went by and found her dead there in the lot.
I felt terrible and my dad, foolishly, ate me out for leaving her there so she could starve to death. That bothered me for a long time until I finally realized that a cow, which had access to water, won’t starve to death in a day or two without food. It’s not good for them, but it won’t kill them. The truth of the matter was that she was old and weak and that was why I was feeding her a special feed. She simply got old and died. As do we all.
We never had another milk cow, Elsie was the last. I remember well those cold winter mornings I would trudge out into the freezing weather to call in the cows. We would bring them into the barn and put them in the feeding and milk stations. We would sit down beside them, place our cold hands up between their flank and their udder to warm them, and then milk until the bucket was full. The cats would come around and make a nuisance of themselves and we would squirt some of the warm milk into their face. They would lick it off and go back to bothering us. By then we would have enough to pour some into a pan so they would leave us alone and quit trying to climb into the bucket. They had their job and we had ours. Theirs was to kill as many mice and snakes as they could and that was worthy a drink of warm milk a couple of times a day. It wasn’t really hard work, it was just constant. Every morning, every evening, the cows had to be milked.
Milking the cows was my dad’s job. Then it became his and my oldest brother’s job. Soon, it was the job of my two older brothers. Then my middle brother’s and mine. Then mine. Then, we were out of the milk cow business. It’s funny how that works. My sons would have probably been better people if they had had a cow to milk.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
A Tribute to an Oklahoma Staff
In a previous treatise, I related my experiences with a police officer from the University of Oklahoma who was rude and boorish at a concert. (The essay may be read in Thoughts I Thunk, a collection of essays written in 2010.) It was a critical commentary, however, in order to be completely fair to the University, a further comment is appropriate.
On September 3, 2011, I attended a football game at the University of Oklahoma, in which we were playing Tulsa University. I have been attending these football games for the last 25 years and in recent years it has become difficult to sit through them. My legs hurt. A few years ago, standing on concrete for four hours began causing extreme pain and a Saturday’s pain didn’t subside until Wednesday or Thursday, just in time for another game the following Saturday. That was in earlier days; it is worse today. Now, I try to go to one game a year and rely on television for the rest.
As we played Tulsa, I was continually standing up and sitting down, pushing myself off with my cane each time I tried to rise. The pain is caused by arthritis in my knees and nerve damage in the feet and legs, the result of diabetes. Most of the time I was standing on concrete and the pain got steadily worse. We decided to leave at half-time.
I got up to leave and had to walk through a crowd of people sitting on my row. Uncomfortably insecure, I used my cane to help keep me from losing my balance, and, even then, I had to reach out and hold onto a stranger’s shoulder to keep from falling on him. People moved over to give me some room to maneuver, and a young girl held back to allow me to get into the aisle so I could leave. I walked up four or five steps with some difficulty and then there was a long ramp leading down into the common area beneath the bleachers. Walking down the ramp, one of the ushers stopped me. She asked if I needed help going down, apparently noticing how difficult it was for me. I thanked her and told her that once I got to the rail I would be able to make it down.
After getting to the bottom of the ramp, with some difficulty, I still had quite a distance to go before leaving the stadium. I was moving very slowly with small, short steps. It was a hot night; the temperature at the beginning of the game had been over one hundred degrees and it hadn’t cooled down in the last couple hours. As I approached the exit, a second young lady saw me coming her way. My family had gone ahead and as far as she knew I was alone. She saw me looking like I was bothered by the heat and walking with a cane in those short, halting old-man steps. My legs were hurting and felt very weak, as if they could give out on me at any moment.
The staff member asked me if I was all right. I assured her I was okay and she offered to get me a chair to sit down. She also offered to get me a wet rag to cool my face and neck. It was a generous offer, but I assured her I would be alright and didn’t have all that far to go until I would be able to sit in an air conditioned car and that I was not alone. I thanked her for her kindness, and really did appreciate her expressions of concern. I was also appreciative of the other usher and for the kindness she showed. I continued my walk and soon ran into my family who were coming back to see if I was dead.
The kindness of the staff at the game meant a lot to me. After my disappointing encounter with the young police officer, I was glad for this experience. I only wish my legs were not quite so weak and painful.
On September 3, 2011, I attended a football game at the University of Oklahoma, in which we were playing Tulsa University. I have been attending these football games for the last 25 years and in recent years it has become difficult to sit through them. My legs hurt. A few years ago, standing on concrete for four hours began causing extreme pain and a Saturday’s pain didn’t subside until Wednesday or Thursday, just in time for another game the following Saturday. That was in earlier days; it is worse today. Now, I try to go to one game a year and rely on television for the rest.
As we played Tulsa, I was continually standing up and sitting down, pushing myself off with my cane each time I tried to rise. The pain is caused by arthritis in my knees and nerve damage in the feet and legs, the result of diabetes. Most of the time I was standing on concrete and the pain got steadily worse. We decided to leave at half-time.
I got up to leave and had to walk through a crowd of people sitting on my row. Uncomfortably insecure, I used my cane to help keep me from losing my balance, and, even then, I had to reach out and hold onto a stranger’s shoulder to keep from falling on him. People moved over to give me some room to maneuver, and a young girl held back to allow me to get into the aisle so I could leave. I walked up four or five steps with some difficulty and then there was a long ramp leading down into the common area beneath the bleachers. Walking down the ramp, one of the ushers stopped me. She asked if I needed help going down, apparently noticing how difficult it was for me. I thanked her and told her that once I got to the rail I would be able to make it down.
After getting to the bottom of the ramp, with some difficulty, I still had quite a distance to go before leaving the stadium. I was moving very slowly with small, short steps. It was a hot night; the temperature at the beginning of the game had been over one hundred degrees and it hadn’t cooled down in the last couple hours. As I approached the exit, a second young lady saw me coming her way. My family had gone ahead and as far as she knew I was alone. She saw me looking like I was bothered by the heat and walking with a cane in those short, halting old-man steps. My legs were hurting and felt very weak, as if they could give out on me at any moment.
The staff member asked me if I was all right. I assured her I was okay and she offered to get me a chair to sit down. She also offered to get me a wet rag to cool my face and neck. It was a generous offer, but I assured her I would be alright and didn’t have all that far to go until I would be able to sit in an air conditioned car and that I was not alone. I thanked her for her kindness, and really did appreciate her expressions of concern. I was also appreciative of the other usher and for the kindness she showed. I continued my walk and soon ran into my family who were coming back to see if I was dead.
The kindness of the staff at the game meant a lot to me. After my disappointing encounter with the young police officer, I was glad for this experience. I only wish my legs were not quite so weak and painful.
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