Damascus

And I started jumpin’ up and down yellin’ “kill, kill,”

and he started jumpin’ up and down with me yellin’ “kill, kill,”

and we was both jumpin’ up and down yellin’ “kill, kill.”

A sergeant came over.  Pinned a medal on me.

Said “You’re our boy.”

Arlo Guthrie, “Alice’s Restaurant.”

.

I once had a stock comment for people who claim to have “reformed:”   “I’m sorry.  The leopard doesn’t change its spots, and I don’t believe in conversion on the road to Damascus.”

Except, as it turns out, I do.

I’ve been on that road.

**

While the rest of the nation has pretty much come to terms with the fact that the Vietnam War was a disaster and a mistake from the beginning, many Oklahomans still view it as a glorious and noble venture ending in an inglorious and ignoble betrayal on the order of Munich or Pottsdam.

The fact that Vietnam today is a prosperous, consumer-driven country, courted by politicians and trade representatives from the United States and the rest of the western world means nothing in the Midwest.  The fact that reconstruction in Vietnam was shorter, more generous (OK, less punitive) and more successful than our own Reconstruction Era means nothing. The fact that few have clamored to “escape” from Vietnam for more than twenty years is immaterial.  Oklahomans don’t let themselves be sidetracked by facts.

Our brave boys were killed by the thousands by Commies in black pajamas and that’s all we need to know.

When Lt. William “Rusty” Calley was indicted for playing a leading role in the unprovoked slaughter of 500 civilian women, old men and children at My Lai, Oklahoma City’s street corners were crammed with placard-waiving citizens urging drivers to “Free Calley” or to “Honk For Calley.”

*

It was little wonder then that the state was not only willing, but eager to invest its sons in the war biz during the 1960s and ‘70s.

Within the Selective Service System’s general guidelines, individual states were somewhat free to set their own policy and to interpret those guidelines narrowly or broadly.  Oklahoma’s Draft Board was ruthless.  While other states allowed deferments for students attending graduate school, the only grad school students in Oklahoma universities in 1969 were either ROTC kids (who, for the privilege of being allowed to attend grad school,  had to then spend six years in the military instead of two) or they were 4-F.

Or they were women, who were essentially 4-F since, not having penises, they couldn’t pass the physical.

Law school?  Nope: ‘Nam.  Med school?  Nope: ‘Nam.

*

I was graduated in May and married in June, 1969.  I was actually earning a living at journalism despite Mildred’s fears, was renting a nice three-bedroom house and was madly in love with my new wife.  But I couldn’t take an easy breath.

Uncle Sam wanted me and I knew it.

So I joined.  The choice seemed easy: I could spend two years carrying a rifle or three years punching a typewriter.  Enlistees, in exchange for the extra year, were guaranteed their choice of Military Occupation Specialty (or MOS: everything in the military has initials).

The Official Notice came only a couple of weeks later. Uncle Sam wanted me badly, but he also had a sense of humor.  I was to report on my twenty-second birthday.

My enlistment papers, however, gave me another month of freedom before I had to report.  Nevertheless, my wife never forgave me for enlisting.

Exactly what it was that I should have done was never made clear.  Only that what I had done was somehow wrong.

*

So fifty or more Oklahoma City boys gathered at the Induction Center to be processed and then to sit around and wait.  The Cowboy, Ronnie, Junior and I formed a mutual-support group, all of us scared shitless of the unknown.  Toward mid-afternoon came the first of many announcements to come in the following months pointing out to us just how helpless we were.

It seemed that some Army recruiters had been too successful or some local draft boards too ambitious.  The Army’s training capacity was full for the rest of the month.  A Specialist 4 called out the names of a dozen or so draftees and herded them into a separate group.  These kids had allowed themselves to be drafted either out of stupidity or because draftees only served two years instead of three, but they were certain of one thing: the Army was the only service that drafted recruits.

Wrong.

“There’s a bus outside gonna take you boys to the airport to ship out,” the specialist called, with only a slight note of amusement in his voice.  “Welcome to the Marines.”

Oh, Jesus!  Could it get any worse?

The rest of us were eventually bused to one of the ratty regional airlines and flown to Fort Polk, Louisiana, an Army training post whose sole maintenance since the end of the Korean War had been an occasional coat of fresh paint.

At Polk, we learned to march, to salute, to do the “low crawl” (important survival skill during the trench warfare of World War I, but of dubious utility fifty years later), to YELL IN CAPITAL LETTERS, to lie and scheme our way around the drill sergeants and to hate with a passion anything green.  The drill sergeants also made a passing attempt to teach us to shoot, but the target practices were so few and ammunition evidently so valuable that I couldn’t help wondering what was really the point.

I didn’t have anything against guns.  I grew up with them, first with a BB gun, a .22, a .410 shotgun, a 12-gauge, a .30-06.  I shot rabbits, squirrels, pigeons and pheasants – not to mention the occasional water tank.  The gun part of Army basic training didn’t bother me.  I really wanted that marksmanship medal, as a point of pride.

Well, we can’t always get what we want, but the guns would eventually give me what I needed.

**

The rest of basic training did bother me, from the group punishment and deliberate sleep deprivation (both prohibited by the Geneva Convention when dealing with prisoners of war, but not prohibited practices for a country to use on its own troops), to the attempts to turn us into bloodthirsty killers, to the drill sergeants who could barely speak the English language.

Our drill sergeant, a twenty-two-year-old Alabama kid with a sixth-grade education, was a particularly choice specimen, especially when trying to teach us to march.

“Now I step off on my right…” he would drawl lazily just before noticing his left foot out in front, “…As…you…were…[long, puzzled pause]…I step off on my left foot.”  Right, I thought.  We’re involved in a war and our guys are being trained by the likes of this moron.

They said you were right when you left.

YOU’RE RIGHT!

They said you were right when you left.

YOU’RE RIGHT.  YOUR LEFT.  YOUR RIGHT.

The CO was a young hot-shot captain filling out the last of his four-year enlistment.  I suspect he secretly longed to be referred to as “the old man,” as he tried to be simultaneously as tough as possible and an understanding father figure.

During our 900-mile Death March home from “bivouac” near the end of basic training, the CO was out in front of the marching troops, showing just how tough he was.  It took our company Sergeant Major, a career NCO and the real boss of the company, to set the CO straight.

“Sir, these mens have had it.  I say they ride home.”

“Top, if I can do it, these men can do it.”

“Sir, these mens are riding home.”

We rode the rest of the way home.

*

The CO made it a point, the first week of basic, to interview each of his men individually.  My interview was one of his shortest.

“Dimick, your test scores are pretty damned impressive.  But you haven’t applied to go to OCS.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You don’t want to be an officer?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

Are you shitting me, you dumb fuck?  You really have no idea why I would peel potatoes rather than have your job?

Or so I thought to myself.

“They showed us a movie about Officer’s Candidate School earlier this week, sir,” I said out loud.  “It said no matter where an officer was assigned, his first job was always to be ready to lead his men into combat.  I don’t want that kind of responsibility, sir.  I operate a typewriter.”

“You’re not going to give us trouble, here, are you, Dimick?”

Born just two years after the end of World War II and raised on war movies and war stories, I wasn’t then anti-war, only anti-Vietnam War and, in particular, anti-sending-Steve-to-the-Vietnam-War.  But at least I seemed to have learned something about discretion since standing in front of the night traffic court judge years before.

“No, sir,” I promised.  “I just want to serve my time and go home.”

“That’ll be all, Dimick.  Dismissed.”

For the most part, I kept my promise.

*

I certainly wasn’t alone in my resentment of being 1) in uniform, 2) in the Army, 3) in basic training, 4) at Fort Polk, Louisiana.  Of about 150 in our company, there were only four gung-ho guys who had seen too many John Wayne and Audie Murphy movies and who had dreams of parachuting behind enemy lines to blow up bridges, cut radio communications and Save the Western World for Democracy.

While the rest of us fell into our bunks at bedtime to read for a while or write a letter home, the gung-ho’s competed among themselves to see how many more push-ups each could do in addition to the two or three hundred we had already done that day.

I, on the other hand, found myself in the majority for the first time in my life.  While hanging around “at ease,” waiting (which is what soldiers do best) for the next silly stage in our training, someone would start the count under his breath: “One…two…three:”

“FUCK THE ARMY!” we would yell in unison.  We were a lot more enthusiastic in this call than in the ones the sergeants wanted us to learn.

Drill Sergeant:  “What is the purpose of the bayonet?”

“To kill!”

“I can’t hear you!”

“To Kill !!”

We never reached all capital letters, as we did in our own mantra.

Perhaps it was because Dimick was opening his mouth and moving his lips around, but making sure that no sound came out.

*

Graffiti reading “FTA” was everywhere.  This phrase was ubiquitous anywhere American troops were stationed, and the Army actually tried to preempt it in later years with an advertising campaign claiming the initials stood for “Fun, Travel and Adventure.”

Right.

*

Top (all sergeants major are referred to as “Top,” short for “Top Sergeant”) summoned us to the parade ground one afternoon to lecture us on the fact that the only enthusiasm we seemed to show was when shouting our own phrase.

“You mens don’t know what you sayin’,” he yelled.  “What this ‘Fuck da Army?’  Who da Army?  YOU da Army!  You mens want to fuck yourselfs?  Huh?”

“NO, TOP SERGEANT.”

“Then I don’t want to hear no more ‘Fuck da Army.’  Ya got me?”

“YES, TOP SERGEANT.”

Dismissed, we wandered off of the parade ground, most of us muttering “…and fuck you, too, Top.”

The next day, during a break, someone whispered “One, Two, Three…”

*

I was much too terrified to be disruptive until near the end of basic.  The Army must have found out by trial-and-error that you can use abject fear to keep raw recruits in line for six or seven weeks.  Eight weeks, tops.  Any longer than that and these chumps will have wised up.

On November 15, 1969, the New Mobilization Committee staged the largest anti-war rally to date in Washington, D.C.  More than 250,000 people converged on the capitol (significantly more, even, than had come to levitate the Pentagon two years earlier); similar giant rallies were held in other large cities across the country and those citizens not marching were urged to wear black armbands.

“DIMICK!”

It was the company lieutenant, a mean-eyed little fellow whom we saw but rarely, to our relief.  He’d been in as long as the Old Man (okay, I’ll cut the captain some slack and give him the nickname he wanted so badly – compared to his second-in-charge, he deserved it), but couldn’t make O-3 grade.  In a just world, he couldn’t have shined Top’s shoes and he knew it.  Even the Spec. 3’s and Spec. 4’s who kept the company moving had little use for him.

We were on some sort of mini-bivouac, way out in the boonies, learning to crawl underneath barbed wire and underneath the machine-gun rounds whizzing about two feet above the ground.  Very valuable skills fifty years earlier, but maybe just a little obsolete for Korea, the Dominican Republic or Vietnam?

“Sir?” I answered, snapping to attention in front of him.

“You gonna be wearing a black armband today?” he demanded.  Obviously, the captain had told him what a dangerous element I was.

“Ahhhh…no?”

I had no idea what he was talking about.  We weren’t allowed newspapers.  Had the moon landing, the end of the war and the resignation of the president all been squeezed into that week, we wouldn’t have known it.

“You joining those long-haired hippies in their anti-war protests, are you?” he pressed.

“No, sir,” and if I’d had a forelock, I’d have tugged it in subservience.  “I don’t know anything about it.  Right now I’m sort of…doing pushups?”

“Well, get over there and do some more.  And don’t stop until I tell you.”

And so I did.  And did some more.  And then some more.

*

Fragging, I thought.

A word invented during the Vietnam War.  Such a lovely lilt to it.  Fragging.  It has the well-deserved “f” sound at front, the harsh, gutteral “g” in the middle and the gerundive ending, hinting at time passing.

Fragging means casually tossing a fragmentation grenade into the tent of an unpopular officer or NCO while the bastard is sleeping.  The attack is blamed on the Viet Cong and nobody in the company disputes the official report.  Damned shame.  Captain Kurtz, he dead.

How the boy got back from Vietnam alive is more than I can fathom.  But he obviously wasn’t in a combat unit, else no one would have contradicted the story of a Viet Cong getting close enough to his tent to toss in a grenade.  I fragged him in my imagination and I picture him today selling appliances at Sears or Wal-Mart and wondering why he is still salaried, and not management.  Delightful.

*

We didn’t know this until the very end.  They don’t want to give trainees any sense of hope.  Hope brings questions, and we can’t have that.  But the secret to staying healthy and safe and sane lies in seven words: “I want to see the I.G.”

The sergeants and the officers try to beat you into submission with such phrases as “court martial” and “Article 15.”  But the I.G. trumps them every time – if the grunts only knew about it.

My military recruiter had promised me that I would be finished with basic training before Christmas, because the next class beginning at Defense Information School (DINFOS) in Indianapolis was due to start shortly after the New Year.  But our training company had started more than a week late because of a scheduling snafu.  (Or, rather, SNAFU.  It’s an acronym.)

But basic training wasn’t finished and wouldn’t be for another week.  We had hung around Fort Polk for more than a week in October before being assigned to a training company, which put us a week behind in finishing training.

Problem was, my class at Defense Information School was supposed to start before my basic training ended, and there was no room in the next class, which wouldn’t, at any rate, start for another eight weeks yet.

But, not too conveniently, the Inspector General himself appeared at Fort Polk, Louisiana.  Deus ex machina. I doubt that it was really the IG, but more likely, one of his helpers, like a department store Santa Claus.  No matter.  The NCOs were properly cowed.  They were required to ask if anyone wanted to speak to the IG.

“Oh, God, Dimick, not you!”

“Well, sergeant,” I was finally able to say calmly, having reached the stage of seven-week-old, wised-up chump, “I have this enlistment contract which says I have to be in Indianapolis in three days.  If I don’t make it, I can’t get in the class.  And if I don’t get in the class, they’re going to have to turn me loose.  So, yes, I’d like to talk to the IG.”

“Dimick, it’s okay.  We’ll make sure you get there.  You don’t need to talk to the IG.  You don’t want to talk to the IG.  We’ll make it right.”

I was stupid to believe them, but they did make it right.  The next day, when the rest of my platoon was practicing for their big graduation parade, I was on a plane to Indianapolis, which was experiencing its coldest and wettest winter in seventeen years.

*

About nine months later, I was editing the post newspaper at the now-decommissioned Oakland Army Base when the orders came.  I was going to Vietnam.

**

Defense Information School at Fort Benjamin Harrison, Indiana, was a unique military training facility in that it was not run by any of the four branches of the armed forces, but by the Department of Defense.  Its faculty and its students consisted of equal parts Army, Navy, Air Force and Marine Corps personnel.

It was also a plum assignment.  More like a real school than most advanced military training programs, its student slots and faculty slots eagerly sought and hard to nab.  It graduated print types who would later staff military newspapers on every U.S. base in the world, and broadcast types who would work for the Armed Forces Radio and Television Service.  The top graduate in each class received a gold watch and his choice of locations for his next assignment.

If I had it to do over again, I’d have asked for France, but I didn’t know any better at the time.  I asked for San Francisco and got Oakland.  That’s like asking for Manhattan and getting Hoboken.

What they didn’t tell us at DINFOS was that, while they may have promised the top graduate the closest available slot to his requested posting, there was no guarantee as to how long it would last.

*

I reported to Oakland in April.  In September, my transfer orders arrived.

September.  My birth month.  The same month I had been ordered to report for the draft.  Uncle hadn’t lost his sense of humor.

After the panic and the tears and the anger subsided came the determination.  First, since I had always wanted to write, at least I could gather a lot of color and maybe turn it into a book or two.  Second, if the bastards were going to send me to some godforsaken jungle on the other side of the world, there was going to be something in it for me.  I’d keep my eyes and ears open.  There were opportunities in black market currency (or so I had read) and who knew what else.

Had this happened to either of my parents, they would have had an easy explanation.  Dwain would have said, “I could have been an officer and gone off to Washington.  Because I wouldn’t, they made an example out of me and sent me to war.”  Mildred would have said “They never liked me, anyway.”

Evidently, a lot of desk jockeys from the San Francisco Bay Area were scheduled to go to Vietnam at the same time.  Twenty or thirty of us were sent for three days to Fort Cronkite, a largely abandoned Army post on the Marin County headlands for “RVN [Republic of Vietnam] training.”

*

Marin County is a peninsula which forms the northern portion of the Golden Gate, the narrow, labial opening into San Francisco Bay.  The headlands command spectacular views of the Bay and the Pacific Ocean.  Much of the headlands were owned, but hardly used, by the Army.  The Pacific-facing portions are dotted with concrete pillboxes, or gun entrenchments, left over from the coastal defense during World War II.  Hikers can still clamber into the pillboxes and imagine what it must have been like squatting in the bunkers and waiting for the Japanese navy to appear on the horizon.

*

It generally doesn’t rain in the Bay Area between April and October.  The hillsides are lush green during the winter rainy season and dry and brown during the summer.  The Marin headlands were thus a perfectly logical location for a bunch of grown men to be playing Army, shooting blanks at each other through the knee-high dead October grass.

Blank cartridges are dangerous as hell.

“Uh, Sergeant?  We got another grass fire over here,” the mortician called.  It would have been caused either by the hot shell casings ejected from our rifles or from the fire blazing out of their muzzles.

“Well, stomp it out.”

“What?”

“I said STOMP IT OUT!”

“You want me to stomp it out?”

“Goddamn it!  Put the fuckin’ fire out!”

“You sure?”

“Jesus Christ!  Dimick, go help that dumbass put out that fire.”

“You want me to go help put out that fire?”

“What the hell is the matter with you men?  You gonna pull this shit in the ‘Nam?  Gitcher ass shot off.  Now, Go…Put…Out…The…Fucking…FIRE!!”

I strolled down the hill to help the mortician, who was half-heartedly tapping around the edges of the widening circle of fire with his combat boots.

“Uh…Sergeant?  It’s a little too big.  You might want to call for the trucks again?”

Which, of course, was the point all along.

Our training was suspended three times while we waited for the tanker trucks to come put out the grass fires.

The mortician and I (and why they needed morticians in Vietnam wholly escaped me, since the bodies were all brought back to Oakland Army Base for processing) used these breaks to good advantage.  We had to get up damned early on the Oakland side of the bay to get to Marin County by 7 a.m.  We lay down on our backs in the warm sun, used our helmets as pillows and napped.

Neither of us understood why non-combatant troops needed to know this shit, but both of us had learned that the Army is not a for-profit corporation, but an evolutionary dead end.  All Army policies and regulations are outmoded by at least a generation.  It’s an axiom that the generals always fight the last war.  The officer who promotes modern management techniques is himself not promoted, but shunned.  The GI who questions the logic of an Army policy is invited to shut up.  “Your shit sure is flaky, Dimick!”

So the smart enlisted man finds ways to use the Army’s inflexibility to his own advantage, a talent which I picked up in basic training, which freed me from having to go through the tear gas chamber and which landed me many a typewriter job while my barracks mates were mowing lawns and scrubbing pots.

*

RVN training wasn’t so bad, really, as long as you recognized the black humor in it and didn’t take it too seriously.  But the last exercise, at the end of the third day, forced me to take it seriously.

We had been firing M-1’s, rifles left over from World War II and the Korean War, just as we had during basic training.  M-16’s, the rifles issued to actual combat troops, were evidently too expensive and too dangerous to give to mere trainees.

But if we were going to Vietnam, we had to become familiar with the M-16.

And we had to learn to shoot people.

The M-16 is a light-weight (less than nine pounds) rifle firing 5.56 mm (.223 caliber) bullets, capable of operating in semi-automatic or fully automatic mode, firing bursts of up to 90 rounds per minute.  While not as popular, reliable, flexible or deadly as the Russian-developed AK-47, it is a nasty weapon, nevertheless.  With an M-16, all you have to do is point the barrel in the general direction of the person you’re trying to kill and then hold the trigger.  You’re sure to kill something.

Back in basic training, we had shot at bull’s-eye targets, the same as I had with my BB gun and .22 single-shot as a teenager.

In RVN training, however, human-shaped targets popped up suddenly from the tall grass.

I forced myself to try it once and then forced myself not to vomit.  I could hardly hear or see for the rushing in my ears and the film on my eyes.  I dropped the rifle, heard my name shouted in anger, picked it up again and loosed the rest of my live shells well over the heads of the paper people.

I don’t remember going home.

“I can’t do this,” were my first words to Cherylle.  “What am I going to do?”

I had just had my conversion on the road to Damascus.  The next day, I sought out the CCCO, the Central Committee for Conscientious Objectors, in downtown Oakland.

Three months later, I was out of the Army.  Three months after that, I was back in Oklahoma.

Coming Next:  The Godfather of the Model City

The King of Oklahoma City

Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world

Like a Colossus

Julius Cæsar. Act 1. Sc. 2.

Edward King Gaylord scouted out Oklahoma City in 1902 and returned for good in 1903 – four years before statehood and a bare two years after the death of Queen Victoria.  He carried with him three things much more important than his luggage: a bankroll, Victorian sensibilities and a desire to own his own newspaper.  He would spend the next 71 years as social, moral and political arbiter of Oklahoma City (almost as many years as his spiritual mentor had ruled England).

Gaylord had been business manager of his brother’s paper, the St. Joseph (Missouri) Dispatch, but chaffed under his brother’s leadership.  A chance comment by a colleague led him to Oklahoma City, one of the last frontiers in America, and where a man of substance, pluck and ambition might start a successful newspaper.

Established almost a decade before, The Daily Oklahoman had gone through a series of owner-publishers and was a struggling paper relying on social columns and wire services for most of its content.  Gaylord and two partners bought a 45-percent interest.  The other daily newspaper in town at the time, the Times-Journal (along with every other general-interest paper to be founded in Oklahoma City during the next century), Gaylord would eventually manage to ruin and then to absorb.

In 1907, for instance, a pair of free newspapers were established, the morning Pointer and the afternoon Examiner.  “Throwaways” or “shoppers,” we call them nowadays – papers that depend solely on advertising revenue (in turn based on circulation) although being more than a bit light on the news side.

As the new papers drained revenue from The Daily Oklahoman, Gaylord decided to offer free classified advertising and even started his own throwaway evening paper.  Within four years, the Pointer and the Examiner folded.

The Oklahoma City Times (successor to the Times-Journal) was bought out by Gaylord in 1916.

The Oklahoma City News, a Scripps-Howard paper, began publication in 1906 and folded in 1939.  Shedding crocodile tears, Gaylord wrote in an editorial that

With the Oklahoma News gone, we feel an emptiness as real as if a human being with whom we had labored for many years had died an untimely death…The Daily Oklahoman and the Oklahoma City Times will try harder than ever to print the best newspapers circulated in any community of 250,000 in the United States.  They will provide a forum for all shades of opinion.  They will try to print all of the news and both sides of every story.

Many considered it an empty promise.

Other newspapers would come and go over the next decades, the most recent serious challenger being The Oklahoma Journal, founded in 1963 by W.P. “Bill” Atkinson as an alternative to The Oklahoman’s strident, ultra-right politics and blue-nosed moralizing.  Atkinson’s paper, by then owned by a California company, folded in 1980.

Along the way, E.K. – always the business manager – discovered that not only does advertising revenue drive newspapers, but advertising could also be used as a bludgeon to crush competitors or enemies.  He would use the power of advertising in his papers (such as running free classifieds to crush the Pointer and the Examiner) or the withholding of the same (including refusing to sell ads to merchants who also bought ads in opposing papers) with ruthless efficiency and to great effect.

Just as he forced all other daily newspapers out of town (he never bothered much with the weeklies serving a niche market), Gaylord forced a buyout of the remaining 55-percent interest in The Oklahoman in 1918, making him the majority stockholder in the paper and the sole voice of Central Oklahoma.

*

E.K. established the tone for his newspaper early on: Christian prayers were printed on the front page and Christian sermons on the editorial page.  As late as the 1970’s, his front page featured a column labeled “Sooner Stanzas” – sappy 19^th Century-style poems written by his staff poet laureate.

The paper crusaded against liquor, gambling and prostitution, both before and after statehood, although these campaigns were tempered for a while early on following a visit by a delegation of the town’s most influential businessmen.  (This temporary retreat led to an amicable falling-out between Gaylord and one of his two investors, resulting in E.K. buying out Roy McClintock’s fifteen-percent interest.)

A staunch foe of organized labor, Gaylord inveighed for decades against “labor racketeers,” once even going so far as to declare that “most union members are under the thumb of union bosses.”  His glory days were during the 1940’s and 1950’s, when no civil liberties were too dear to sacrifice for the war effort and Communists were to be found skulking behind every tree.  When a bizarre series of bombings accompanied an effort to unionize the state’s barbers (I certainly didn’t understand it at the time; barbers have never been my image of “racketeers” or bombers) The Oklahoman had a field day.  When the railroads were still thriving, but trying to break the back of the unions, “featherbedding” was the word of the day and E.K. used it often in huge, bold headlines.

*

Nor was Gaylord any too fond of Indians or Negroes, but he loved protectionism and isolationism.  A selection of headlines and bon mots from the early years:

September 25, 1907

INDIAN DRINKS, GAMBLES, FOR-

GES CHECKS, AND IS NOW

IN JAIL

May 7, 1907:

DARKTOWN POKER

PARTY DISTURBED

October 14, 1910:

FRUITS OF FALSITY SHOWN;

FALSITY STILL SURVIVE

The pages of the Guthrie State Capital [newspaper] during the campaign …constitute a political criminal record, devoid of a single virtue of a decent fight and rotten to the core with putrid, contemptible falsehoods that reek in their own puddle of filth and send out a sickening stench that stagnates to this day in the nostrils of some…

November 7, 1910:

Jack Johnson, negro pugilist, was hit on the head by a thrown brick in Chicago, but not much hurt.  Just think!  it might have struck his shin.

November 7, 1910:

…”Millions for defense, but not one cent for tribute,” was an expression when there was more patriotism than commercialism in this nation.  The sentiment today seems to be, “Millions for foreign loans, but not one cent for western investments.”

…Possibly a central bank might serve to expedite those $50,000,000 loans to build Chinese railroads, while business at home might be carried on by the employment of asset currency or wampum.

*

E.K. was terrified that his own employees might want to organize and might want to be paid a living wage.  When the Oklahoma City Press Club, which had been active in the ‘teens, finally folded, he spent decades fending off every effort to revive it, fearing that, if they had a warm place to congregate, newspaper reporters might try to organize.  A new press club was eventually established, but it was dominated by advertising salesmen and public relations types and had few actual members from the working press.

In Gaylord terminology, there was no such organization as a “labor union,” except as a part of the phrase “labor union goons.”  Union representatives were always described as “labor racketeers.”  According to E.K., these racketeers were only out to collect monthly dues and line their own pockets, at the expense of the poor working man.  In the forties, he claimed they were all but in the payroll of the Nazis.

Labor Racketeers Enemies of America

*

Government a Partner With Racketeers

*

Rick [Capt. Eddie Rickenbacker] Blasts

Out at Labor

Racketeers

*

No Goon Squad Wanted Here

THE GOOD PEOPLE OF OKLAHOMA CITY may as well recognize the fact that there is danger in the air.  If the labor racketeers get an inch they will take a mile.  The ultimate aim of such racketeers is to put every city in the United States under their thumbs and rule every industrial plant by brute force – by terror and intimidation….

*

Congress Can Stop This Racket

The racketeer who collects $16 from a common laborer is taking the bread out of the mouths of workers’ families….

*

Pastor Says President Is

Mouthpiece of Racketeers

*

Labor or Extortion, Which?

*

Tax Exemptions for Racketeers

*

Labor is Warned

Of Racketeers

*

And in what must have been one of his proudest achievements, E.K. ran a weekly anti-labor editorial in the spring of 1942 under the standing headline Idle Machines Work for Hitler:

Admittedly there are those who have exploited labor in the past, who are exploiting labor today, and who will continue to exploit labor until the universal acceptance of the Golden Rule shall purge selfishness from the hearts of men.

But no exploitation in our annals has ever surpassed in amplitude or obliquity the hijacking of hundreds of thousands of American workers by the high toll takers of labor’s exploiters.  No harder fight has ever been waged than the fight of the press to relieve citizens from the shameful necessity of paying racketeers for the privilege of working for their country….

Dwain, my father, a Santa Fe Railroad engineer, proudly paid his union dues every month without coercion by “goon squads” or “racketeers,” and was quick to acknowledge that his life was better off because of the sacrifices of the workers before him.  But Gaylord’s constant harping finally had its desired effect on the majority of the state’s citizens, and since 2001, the state’s constitution prohibits union-only, or “closed” shops.

*

In the fall of 1967, Gaylord briefly interrupted his campaign du jour (convincing Oklahomans that Vietnam War protestors were all dupes of the International Communist Conspiracy¹) to engage in a successful, full-frontal attack on the free-speech policies of the University of Oklahoma.

A junior at OU that year and a journalism major, out of curiosity I accompanied a friend of mine to the Student Union one evening to hear a speech by Paul Boutelle, someone I had never heard of.  The friend was a half-hearted member of the radical Students for a Democratic Society (SDS).  Paul Boutelle was the vice-presidential candidate for the Socialist Workers’ Party.

I went to the speech expecting the usual tired radical rhetoric and came away deeply moved by a man who spoke to the pain and longing of the black and the powerless.  My family, being neither, gave little thought to these issues.  Like many in the audience, I raised my hand and argued with him, but the speech was the first of many awakening shocks I would receive over the next several decades.

“Black Power,” Boutelle said, “simply means GET OFF OUR BACKS!  Quit trying to keep us down and let us succeed.”

On American institutions: “There are more crooks on Wall Street than anywhere else in the world.”  An exaggeration, perhaps, but only a slight one given the revelations of the last twenty years or so.

On the Vietnam War: “They say we’re fighting for the self-preservation of the Vietnamese?  Nonsense….I’ll be damned if my son will go to fight the white man’s war.”

The appearance was co-sponsored by the SDS, but that group’s OU chapter was a small one, and the majority of the audience was, if not completely hostile, at least not very receptive.  The foreign students gave him the hardest time, but he fielded every question calmly and sincerely.

*

The firestorm hit the next day and continued to grow over the next several weeks.  Gaylord’s papers raged against the appearance on campus of a man variously described as a “Harlem Negro,” “Harlem Negro taxi-driver and avowed Marxist,” “a Harlem Negro militant,” “an avowed Negro Marxist” and “an avowed Harlem Negro Marxist.”

It was important, of course, to make the point to those readers not familiar with either the man, his politics or his speech, that Boutelle was a “Negro.”  Gaylord seldom went in for the subtle code words or phrases used today.  Worse, still, Boutelle was an “avowed Negro,” which one can only assume must be the worst kind.

A scheduled Boutelle speech in Oklahoma City was cancelled.  Lecterns were pounded in the two houses of the Oklahoma State Legislature.  University funding was threatened.  A legislative investigation was called for.  Angry meetings were held between state representatives and the university president, led by Reps. Texanna Hatchett and David L. Boren.

Heads rolled.  Well, one head rolled.  A staff member with the university-connected Southwest Center for Human Relations Studies, who had helped arrange the Boutelle appearance, became the sacrificial lamb, being “relegated to full-time office work rather than being available for speaking engagements representing OU.”

Some months later, the executive committee of the Center issued a policy statement upholding its decision to allow a credentialed candidate for Vice President of the United States to speak on campus:

The public at large and members of government must realize that a major role of a university is that of creating conditions which will permit important controversial problems and issues to be discussed and analyzed in a climate conducive to their understanding and resolution…[We] insist upon the right and responsibility of the center and other recognized segments of the university to sponsor or invite any person to participate in planned educational efforts at this institution.

But the statement was too late.  Neither the university nor the legislature agreed that a person out of touch with Oklahoma politics – even if he were a vice-presidential candidate – had any place speaking at a public institution.  Weeks before, university president George L. Cross had already apologized profusely, terming Boutelle a “rabble rouser” and stating that “[w]hen you jeopardize the freedom to explore ideas by inviting a person like that to our campus [ ! ], I can see being undone what I’ve tried to do over the years.”

A few days later, a university official indicated that he did not consider the Boutelle speech to be an issue of “academic freedom” and, according to a representative at a closed meeting with legislators and university brass, reportedly said the appearance “was the basis of a clinical experience for students to see how such people talk, look and behave – not an example of academic freedom.”

Such people.  The Oklahoman didn’t bother with code words, but the university did.

The university official was, again, president George L. Cross.  One of the small group of legislators calling him onto the carpet was David L. Boren, later governor of Oklahoma, later U.S. Senator from Oklahoma and currently, thanks to his decades-long relationship with the Gaylord family, president of the University of Oklahoma.

Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. The more things change, the more they remain the same.

*

While assaulting unions, the minimum wage and any legislation more favorable to the working man than to the employer, Gaylord was himself becoming rich.  During the Depression, he faced a delivery problem throughout the state when several passenger train lines were eliminated.  E.K. started his own truck-based delivery service, Mistletoe Express, which became a successful and profitable regional carrier for decades before sliding into bankruptcy in late century.

In 1928, he bought one of Oklahoma’s earliest radio stations, WKY, a station established so early that it was one of only a small handful of stations west of the Mississippi River whose assigned call letters began with a “W” instead of a “K.”  (In the 1950’s and ‘60’s, the station was one of only two pop music stations in Oklahoma City and teenagers were divided (much like Ford drivers and Chevrolet drivers) into those who favored WKY and those who only listened to KOMA.)

In 1948, Gaylord founded WKY-TV, the first television station in the market, and a very few years later bought yet another television station in Florida.  Although long affiliated with NBC, well into the 1970’s  WKY preferred to devote large chunks of its daily schedule to locally produced programs – farm news, children’s programming and home-grown country-and-western shows, especially those featuring the owners of local furniture stores, who were their own sponsors and whose programming represented practically pure gravy for the station.

(“We plow 9 to 9 weekdays and 9 to 5 on Sundays.  Come on down and see these ol’ country boys!”)

After the old man’s death, his son established a Los Angeles television production studio, which provided such entertainment as “The Glen Campbell Show” and “Hee Haw.”  Branching out into Nashville in the 1980’s, Edward Gaylord first bought Opryland and, inside of only a few years,  owned the Grand Ol Opry, Opryland Hotel, Opryland Theme Park, The Nashville Network and Country Music Television, although most of the “Opry” empire has since been sold off.

*

E.K. only lost one race in his life: the race to establish an Air Force base controlled by Oklahoma City and the Oklahoma City Chamber of Commerce.  W.P. “Bill” Atkinson got there first but E.K. never forgot, never forgave, and ensured that his fame would far outlast that of the former pupil turned biggest enemy.  The Gaylord name lives on and is honored today in Oklahoma, while Atkinson is all but forgotten except in Midwest City.

*

E.K. Gaylord died on May 30, 1974, at the age of 101.  Waiting in the wings to turn a mediocre newspaper into a national joke was son Edward L. Gaylord, whom everyone referred to as “Eddie.”  Knowing he would never command the same respect as his father, and would never be known as “E.L.,” Eddie settled for making himself more feared than his father ever had been.

“E.K. wasn’t really all that bad,” a former Oklahoman employee, later an editor at the paper’s last serious competitor, told me. “He was actually very soft-spoken and gentlemanly.  And at least he was a newspaperman, unlike his son or Atkinson.  He always came down on the side of the news department, even if the advertising department didn’t like it.

“In the 5 ½ years I worked for him, he never once pulled a story or killed a story or asked a reporter to change a story.  He had a lot of real old-time, professional news people working for him.  People from the old school who had been in the business for years.  They wouldn’t have put up with anything other than honest journalism.  And he knew it.

“Eddie, now…Eddie was another thing altogether.  He was a vicious little bastard. All the things you think you’ve heard about The Oklahoman ignoring news that didn’t fit its own politics, and all the things you’ve read about how terrible the newspaper was – those were all when Eddie was running the show.”

*

Walter Harrison, a former Oklahoman editor, included a short, unofficial biography of E.K. Gaylord in his 1954 book, “Me and My Big Mouth.”  He contrasted father and son like this:  “Pere Gaylord’s domination of his highly successful empire has been so ruthless, that some in the know wonder whether Eddie will be capable of making his decisions when the boss finally takes his hand off the tiller.

Harrison needn’t have worried.

*

If E.K.’s Oklahoman was occasionally strident and biased, Eddie’s Oklahoman was downright vicious.

The senior Gaylord, surprisingly enough, seemed to have no great agenda against homosexuals, at least compared to his son.  There were incidents, of course.  One of E.K.’s most talented deskmen was let go by the managing editor when it was discovered that he was gay.  When friends attempted to intercede, E.K. reportedly told them he thought the former employee was “a nice young man” who had simply fallen in with bad companions, but that he left staffing decisions to his department heads.

And when an Oklahoma City mayor became a bit too notorious in his search for pretty boys, Gaylord calmly informed him that he could serve out his present term but it would be very unwise for him to seek re-election.  The mayor heeded his advice.

The stridently anti-gay editorials, however, didn’t begin until Edward Gaylord assumed control of the paper.  Eddie was hell on homosexuals and assumed the rest of the state was, also.  And his editorials were straight out of his father’s book of vitriol:

What Is to Stop It?

A society conditioned to believe that homosexuals are normal folks with equal protection under the law should have no problem accepting society’s blessing of…that minority of homosexual men whose preference (orientation?) is for young boys….We won’t even mention those whose sexual preference runs toward the non-human….

*

‘Non-Discrimination” Act

Is Gays’ Stealth Bomber

*

Homosexual Issue Signals

Divorce of Law, Morality

*

The Hate Card (July 5, 1997) used the phrase “homosexual activists” four times in an essay of less than 200 words.

*

Homosexual ‘Rights’ Based

On Propaganda, Pandering

A case could be made that more people are denied jobs because of acne and tattoos than because of sexual preferences….

*

Something to Talk About

Please don’t tell us that people once used the Bible to justify slavery.  That old dog won’t hunt any more….Unless one is Bibliophobic (afraid of what God says about this), one must agree that homosexual behavior is sinful….

*

Conservatives Must Speak Out

Against Politics of Intimidation

Men may alter laws to say that homosexual couples must be treated the same as married couples….But changing man-made laws does not change the laws of God that are written on the human heart….

*

Homosexual Agenda Trying

To Declare Flaws as Virtues

A cultural war is being waged against moral codes, traditional values and standards of common decency….

*

Eroding Core Values

Get Ready for Same-Sex Marriages

*

Another False Notion

Doctors Cave in to Homosexual Rights

Homosexual activists say two men or two women can be good parents, no different than heterosexual parents.  Yet that notion runs counter to intrinsic values of human behavior….

The foregoing represent only a small sample of the editorials railing against gay rights for only six years, 1996 through 2002.  The total number, from the beginnings of the gay rights movement in the 1970s through today, would fill a book.

Perhaps they already have.

I can’t leave this subject without quoting a couple of favorite headlines placed over letters to the editor: Homosexual Activity a Sign Of Society’s End and Gays Are Own Enemies.

*

James V. Risser, two-time Pulitzer Prize winner and director emeritus of the John S. Knight Fellowships for Professional Journalists at Stanford University, wrote a lengthy feature article on the country’s few remaining family-owned daily newspapers for the June, 1998, issue of the American Journalism Review, published by the University of Maryland.  The first newspaper featured was Edward Gaylord’s Daily Oklahoman, which Risser generously termed “a journalistic underachiever.”

Contrasting the newspaper itself with the money poured into its lavish new headquarters, Risser wrote that “It’s not clear, though, that enough Gaylord money has been spent to make a better newspaper.”  The news staff was skimpy for a paper of its size, but, after all, what “would (the paper) do with additional reporters, given its relatively small newshole”?

“The Oklahoman’s selection of foreign stories is quirky at best,” he wrote.  And “the problem with the Oklahoman editorial page is not that it’s conservative but that it’s blindly so, simplistic and loose with the facts.”

The focus of Risser’s article was not on the quality of the “independents,” but mini-portraits of the largest ones.  But the following year, the Columbia Journalism Review, the most respected periodical in the country on matters journalistic, dropped a bombshell in the form of a five-part article entitled “The Worst Newspaper in America.”  The series may be the first time that the term “The Daily Disappointment” made it into print, but many Oklahomans, liberal and conservative, who have never heard of the Columbia Journalism Review continue to refer to the paper by that nickname.

“Where else can you find a big-city editorial page…that not only demonizes unions, environmentalists, feminists, Planned Parenthood, and public education, but also seems obsessed with lecturing gays?…Want lots of enterprising, in-depth stories with plenty of world and national news…?  How about praline recipes instead?”

Or a daily front-page prayer.

And despite the fact that six out of ten Oklahoma City households don’t even bother to subscribe to The Oklahoman, its captive advertisers pay more than double the rates per 1,000 households reached than do advertisers in The New York Times, making for a pretty tidy profit.

Once a Democratic newspaper, The Oklahoman changed with the Southern times to become not only Republican, but more conservative than the Republican National Committee.  Columnists during Eddie’s reign were uniformly right-wing, without one single balancing voice.  In October, 1998, alone, the paper printed 57 anti-Clinton editorials, sometimes as many as three per day.

Oddly enough, Eddie was a registered Democrat.

Editorial page editor Patrick McGuigan proudly proclaimed, “We’re trying to change the political culture; we’re trying to make Oklahoma a conservative bastion.”  Funny.  That’s not the mission or calling of a newspaper that I recall being taught in journalism school.

Most respectable dailies catch regular hell from both sides of the political spectrum.  Liberals write to complain of the papers’ “obvious” conservative bent and conservatives write to complain that the paper is “obviously” part of the liberal media conspiracy.  These papers must be doing something right.

The Columbia Journalism Review piece termed Eddie Gaylord’s Oklahoman “a partisan bully,” although it did quote staffers as saying that, since Oklahoma has been an historically Democratic state (forgetting that Oklahoma has not been “Democratic” in the national sense of the term for more than forty years), it is only natural that Democrats come in for close scrutiny more often than Republicans.

The Oklahoman was silent about the CJR portrait, leaving it to a suburban weekly to call the series “gutter journalism” and to claim that “the lying, prejudicial, trashy article [would not have been printed had The Oklahoman] been a newspaper with a liberal, left wing editorial policy.”

*

Four years later, in 2003, Eddie died, after having turned over control, some months before, to his son, E.K. Gaylord II.  Christy Gaylord Everest, one of Eddie’s two daughters, became publisher.  The Oklahoman was gushing in its tribute to Eddie’s passing.  Others were not so generous, including lobbyist Keith Smith, who praised the “new” Oklahoman:   “There used to be an anti-gay editorial every week, and I probably haven’t seen one in six months.”

Former Oklahoma governor David Walters noted:

A paper can either highlight your negatives or accentuate your positives, and that paper had developed that into a fine art form.  Well, actually, at times it wasn’t even a fine art form – it was just a kind of bludgeoning exercise.  But they were effective at it, because you only have to bludgeon every 10^th person, and the other nine get the message.

But Frosty Troy, editor of the liberal weekly Oklahoma Observer, and a highly popular national speaker, said it best:

Thirty years ago, he took what was one of the best papers in the Southwest and turned it into what would become known as one of the worst newspapers in America.  I don’t want to say anything bad about the man now that he’s dead, but I hope if he’s in heaven, they teach Journalism 101.

Another critic much later observed that a year after The Oklahoma Journal folded in 1980, Eddie’s newspaper’s circulation figures had hardly budged, “suggesting that there were forty thousand people in town who would rather read nothing than read The Oklahoman.”

---

¹“The darkest aspect, and the greatest danger to the nation, occurs in evidence of a conspiracy.  There is far too much coordinated action for all these anti-war demonstrations to be spontaneous.  There are too many global overtones for them to be entirely indigenous to their various locales.”

Next Up:  The Leopard’s Spots

FIRST CONVERSION

For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.

Isaac Watts, Against Idleness and Mischief

Devil’s gonna get you
Devil’s gonna get you
Oh, the devil’s gonna get you
Man just as sure as you’re born.

Porter Grainger

.

When I reached high school, I discovered that I had less and less leisure time to get into much trouble.

Except, of course, for the World’s Largest Pipe Wrench and the fire hydrants in the new housing development.

“The Wrench,” as it came to be called, couldn’t possibly have been nine feet long, or it wouldn’t have fit in the trunk of a car.  It only looked that long.  And it can’t have weighed as much as I remember, or it would have taken two of us to carry it.  As it was, it only took a minimum of two of us to enjoy it.

James or Frankie or Bill would ask Warren or me (after all, “the wrench” was ours) on a Thursday or Friday afternoon, “Are you guys gonna use ‘the wrench’ this weekend?  Can we borrow it?”

*

Yet another square-mile section of Midwest City was being developed for tract houses.  Probably according to The Master Plan.

Underground utilities always go in first in a new development; then roads are graded; then building pads are graded and stakes with colored flags planted at the corner of each surveyed lot.

But this development was not your small-potatoes operation by a home-boy contractor who scraped together enough money to buy an acre or two and put in ten or twenty houses.  This development was almost an entire section, a square mile, the best part of six hundred and forty acres.  At least 2,000 homes, allowing for streets, another school site and space along the four section lines for strip malls and other commercial development.  All of the twisty streets for which Midwest City was famous were graded before a single concrete pad was poured or a single frame went up.

And within a few hundred feet of each other along those graded dirt roads were scores of fire hydrants, already connected to the municipal water supply.

All of them just waiting to do what fire hydrants were designed to do.

*

I stole the pipe wrench from a construction site and tossed it into Warren’s trunk.  It may have taken us a week or two to realize that its entertainment value was worth its own weight, but then good fortune is not always accompanied by knowledge of good fortune.

The new housing development was deserted when the contractors and workmen went home every afternoon, and was a great place to drive with your girlfriend after a movie for what was then known as “parking and petting.”  Well… “parking and/or petting,” since you could park without petting but it was difficult to pet without parking.  These are quaint concepts today, when fifteen-year-old girls are only too anxious to make their boyfriends’ dreams come true.  But in mid-America in mid-century, they were serious concerns for adults.

One church even published a series of pamphlets about the evils of “petting,” coyly never spelling out what the vile deed consisted of, but leaving no doubt that it led to pregnancy and social ostracism, with Ingrid Bergman as a prime example.  As if any of us knew anything about the Bergman-Rosselini scandal, which had occurred when we were about three years old.

But boys will be boys, girls will be girls and hormones will out.  Sooner or later, nearly all of the girls found themselves with their bras unhooked and wondering just how firmly to fend off the hand now fumbling at the button on their pants.

We still operated on the baseball analogy in those days: kissing was first base, petting above the waist was second base, petting below the waist was third base and “going all the way” was a home run.  Useful euphemisms in a more innocent age, they have since gone the way of “23 skidoo” and “cut a rug.”  I actually had to explain them to my stepdaughter.  God, do I feel old sometimes.

Today, according to Kristi, virginal girls don’t mark their progress in such slow and defined steps.  If you’ve been “going with” a guy for a couple of months, and you’re at least fourteen or fifteen, you don’t waste time on second and third bases.  You just stroll casually from first base to home plate.

*

I’m not a prude, nor am I a sexual hypocrite.  I bought Kristi her first condoms when she was fourteen, and she has repaid me by being sexually responsible, by not being promiscuous and by being open and honest with me.

Today’s kids have much healthier sexual attitudes than we did, but I can’t help feeling that they’re missing a hell of a lot of the fun, without “parking.”  Adolescent sex is supposed to be a little furtive, a little dirty, a little like the world’s longest foreplay, with each successive step savored for its delicious naughtiness.  The girl goes home to bed with an exaggerated swoon, reliving again and again the feel of her love’s hands on her body.  The boy goes home to bed and masturbates.

Once when Marianne and I were reminiscing about our teen years, Kristi could hardly believe we were serious.  “You mean you did it in a car?” she asked, aghast.

*

The embryonic subdivision could also be used for killing off the last few beers of the evening when you’ve failed again to score, or for sleeping it off in the car before driving back home the next morning to change clothes and go to work (each of you, of course, having spent the night at the other’s house…).

(Unless, of course, you were me, who came and went as I wanted and who was only moments away from realizing that I needed to get into the child-rearing business and start rearing myself.)

“Sleeping it off” was probably how Warren and I discovered what a city planning commission would have termed the “Highest and Best Use” for the World’s Largest Pipe Wrench.  The wrench was still in Warren’s trunk one night when we pulled into a hidden cul-de-sac of the new Meadowood subdivision, not quite too drunk to go home, but intending to remedy that fact right there.

Instead, while polishing off our dessert of cherry brandy, our attention kept coming back to the fire hydrant.  And then to the heretofore worthless piece of stolen equipment in Warren’s trunk.  And then back to the fire hydrant.

You don’t open the cap on a fire hydrant with just any old tool found in your average garage workshop, or, for that matter, in your average neighborhood hardware store.  Firemen have a hydrant wrench.  Lacking that, two guys can open a hydrant with a giant pipe wrench.

In all fairness, it did take us a couple of attempts to iron out the bugs.  When we first got the large cap unscrewed, we were puzzled because there was no water.  One of us eventually noticed that maybe you had to turn the faucet on?  You know, that thingee on the top?

Loosening that “thingee on the top” eventually freed a four-inch-diameter gush of water capable of gouging a trench two feet deep and at least twenty feet long across the dirt roadway.  It would have been as much fun as the cherry bomb in the Skytrain bathroom years before, except for the fact that we couldn’t hang around to see the reaction.

Of course we were careful.  Warren and I were much too smart for the adults in town, and were never caught at anything.  We weren’t dummies.  We didn’t open hydrants on any regular or predictable basis and we only told about and/or loaned the “The Wrench” to our dozen or so closest personal friends.

And it continued to be great fun for several months, until the night Frankie Kincaid dropped his wallet at the scene.

Policemen (and I’m sure they didn’t include Grady) know how to con teenagers, so Frankie ratted.  Luckily, neither Warren nor I had been along that evening, so we escaped any punishment.  But we lost the “The Wrench,” and if Frankie were alive today, I would tell him he owes me two hundred bucks for voluntarily surrendering my wrench.

*

And except for the master key to the school.  I honestly don’t remember how I scored this treasure, but it opened every lock in the entire building.  I used it for purposes both good and bad, including opening the door to home room when the teacher was late, and later passed it on to Rick as a legacy.  Rick, unfortunately, was too honest to use it for its intended purpose – mischief.  Despite my request that he pass it on to a deserving sophomore or junior upon his graduation, it probably rests today in a junk drawer at Rick’s house or in a landfill somewhere just outside of Midwest City.

My friend, Dwain, and I used it at 2 a.m. one night so he could change his English grades in one classroom while I wrote “FUCK HARMS” in felt-tip pen on the movie screen in Mr. Harms’ chemistry lab.

*

And except for Friday nights, which were still reserved for cruising and drinking beer with Warren and sometimes banging the bimbo across town while her mother was passed out in bed.

And except for being the keeper of the communal alcohol supply because I had a lockable cabinet in my bedroom.

Well, reformation was a slow process for several years, and not visible at all to Mildred, who focused solely on the family dynamics to the exclusion of my grades, my activities and the fact that I hadn’t been arrested in some time.

**

I worked after school to earn money to repay my mother for the loan she had made to me to buy the hupmobile (actually a 1954 Studebaker, but so nicknamed by one of the cooks at the cafeteria where I worked), to pay for gasoline, insurance and repairs, to pay for beer and hamburgers on Friday nights and hamburgers and movies on Saturday nights with a date.

One of my first jobs was at a discount department store called GEX (Government Employees’ Exchange), part of a chain whose gimmick was that you had to be a member, and in order to become a member, you had to be a government employee, or be related to a government employee, or know someone whose house cleaner also cleaned the house of a government employee.

“Government employees are not like the rest of the working force,” Mr. Cico would explain at the interminable employee rallies.  “Their salaries aren’t competitive with the marketplace, and it literally takes an Act of Congress for them to get a raise.  That’s what we’re about.  We were established to give an even break to our civil servants.”

It was bullshit, and the employees knew it.  But still.  A job was a job.

Like today’s discount warehouses, you had to show your membership card to gain entrance.  And employees were required to show their badges.

*

I had taken up smoking at about age seventeen because Warren smoked.  Having an addictive personality, it took me forty years to finally quit, while I suspect that Warren probably quit on a whim in his thirties.

I was technically not allowed to smoke in Mildred’s house, although Bob smoked both cigars and pipes.  But I did occasionally smoke in my bedroom (what the HELL right did they have to tell ME what to do?  I was the one rearing Steve by this point, and my boy was getting good grades, earning his own money at the rate of $1.25 an hour and beginning to plan his future.)

Big set-to one evening about the smoking:  Mildred lecturing, Bob walking through the house dramatically spritzing room deodorizer.  I grabbed another spray can and played “dueling deodorants.”  “Mine is unscented,” I challenged with a smirk, before slamming out the front door to go spend the night at Warren’s house.

Thirty minutes later, I was back, feeling incredibly stupid, not exactly knowing how to deal with the situation, but willing to take my lumps like a proper adult.

“Uh…this is a little bit embarrassing, but, uh…I forgot my employee badge.”

**

Not long before, I had discovered the high school’s speech and drama classes, and learned that my smart mouth could be used to win praise instead of to reinforce my outward image.  And I discovered that I was a ham at heart.  My occasional outbursts had always tended to be a bit histrionic.

Midwest City High School was appropriately noted first for its football team and second for its basketball squad.  But a distant third was the speech team, which always qualified several students for the state speech tournament each year at the University of Oklahoma.

So, what with speech activities, working part-time and girls (who were so much more fun after you got wheels of your own), I found myself with very little time left over for mischief.  If I changed course, it really was at first a matter of time management and only later a conscious choice.

I don’t at all think of speech class as a Monument to My Reformation, but rather as a footprint. Faulkner wrote that a monument only says, “at least I got this far.”  A footprint says “here is where I rested for a while before I started off again.”

*

Loving to read was my salvation, and Damon Runyon was the fuse that sparked my reformation.

Runyon was a New York sports writer in the 1920s and ‘30s who became famous for his comic short stories about Broadway night life and lowlifes.  The musical “Guys and Dolls” was made from bits and pieces of his stories.  I discovered an old copy of a Runyon anthology in Mrs. Dishman’s library and fell in love.

One sophomore day, a junior student came into English class to present his “humorous interpretation” event, an abridgement of Runyon’s “Rusty Minds the Baby.”

I would love to do that, I thought, and the next week switched one of my elective classes for Speech.  I wasn’t really very good at it, but I did try my hand at humorous interpretation, dramatic interpretation, writing speeches (Original Oratory), delivering other people’s speeches (Interpretive Oratory), debate and acting.  During the next three years I became a card-carrying member of both the National Forensic League and the National Thespian Society.  (Not that I could resist the humor of it.  I felt like the young George Bailey in “It’s a Wonderful Life” telling pre-teen Mary that “I’ve been nominated for membership in the National Geographic Society!”)

Contrary as always, when the class produced the musical, “Li’l Abner,” I asked for the part of Evil-Eye Fleegle.

*

Debate taught me to think. The subject my first year was “Reciprocal free trade with non-Communist nations,” a big item on the Kennedy agenda.  Each year’s subject was chosen by some national organization or other, and was the same for high schools across the country.  The second year, we debated the pros and cons of extending the Social Security system to include medical care for the elderly, a concept which later became Medicare.

This was a whole new world.  This was no longer getting in trouble at school for the sin of being bored or at home for the sin of…what?  Being a child?  Not being an adult?   For being in the way or inconvenient or for not being warm and cuddly enough?  I didn’t have to hit Sharon any more to get attention?  I didn’t have to live down to expectations?

It was maybe just the slightest bit more interesting than “I know this old boy with a blah-de-blah engine and a hoo-de-doo carb and he’d let me have it for about a buck ninety-five,” or “there was this big-ol’ buck about a hunnerd yards away, and I drawed down on him with the thirty-ought-six and dropped him with one shot.”  Or Mildred’s philosophical musings about whether Mitch Miller or Lawrence Welk was the better musician.

This was almost like accomplishing something.  It channeled my skepticism into an attempt to convince, rather than my usual half-conscious attempt to alienate, feeling that I had lost before I ever spoke.

I had a chance to win, for a change.  Not that I did win all that often, my cockiness frequently leading to sloppy research and my sloppy research to getting my butt kicked.

But I didn’t need to learn that if I got my butt kicked it was my own fault.  I had always known that.  But at least now I was evenly matched.

Most importantly, it gave me a fresh mask to wear.

Sometimes almost tongue-tied in one-on-one conversation (it would be years yet before I could look another person directly in the eyes), I could give a presentation to a group and talk, perform, “act” natural.  Just so long as I had a role to play.

Suddenly, for debate research, I was reading Time and Newsweek and studying charts in the Statistical Abstract of the United States.  I discovered not only that I should, but that I really wanted to go to college.  I discovered that I liked having good grades, but even more than that, I wanted an education.

Damn.  Better not let the folks find out about this.

But I needn’t have worried.  They weren’t interested, assuming that my new fixation was probably as unsavory as all of my other activities and letting me know, when I lost an after-school job for taking too much time off for speech activities, that maybe I should re-evaluate my priorities.  How was I going to get ahead in life, how was I going to go to college, if I couldn’t even keep a job?

*

When I was a junior, Mildred asked me to ask my senior friends if it were possible to go to college for $100 a semester, which was all she felt she could afford, what with making double monthly house payments, saving heftily for retirement, and all.  My friends laughed at me.

Tuition at the University of Oklahoma was an incredibly low $7.00 per semester-hour.  A full-time student (i.e., a male wanting to postpone being drafted) carried at least twelve hours per semester.  Serious students took sixteen to eighteen hours per semester, meaning tuition alone was around a hundred bucks, give or take.  The cheapest dormitories were $90.00 a month, and then there were the books.

Mildred had been working on me to apply to the Air Force Academy.  After all, I had always wanted to fly.  And the tuition would be free.  I did apply, and didn’t make it.  So she decided I should become a barber.

“Barber school is only nine months, and then you would have a trade and could put yourself through college,” she suggested.  “You know, your grandfather was a barber, and your Uncle Lawrence is a barber.”

“But Mil, I don’t want to be a barber.  Don’t you understand that the ambition of half of the girls in my class is to go to cosmetology school so they can spend the rest of their lives doing beehive hairdos?  I want an education.”

Wrong argument.  From the time of her divorce in her 40’s to her abandonment of most personal hygiene in her 80’s, Mil had only washed her hair once a week.  She went to the hairdresser every Saturday for a shampoo, a cut, a style and half a can of industrial-strength hairspray, and slept on a silk pillowcase to prevent her hair from being mussed in between beauty parlor appointments.  And besides, was I implying there was something wrong with beehive hairdos?

“You want a journalism degree,” she snorted.  “How do you expect to make a living?”

“I’ll make a living.  And besides,” I added, foolishly thinking that I could trump her, “if I don’t go to college straight out of high school, I’ll be drafted.”

“Well maybe the Army would pay for your college then.”  Queen of trumps.

“I am not going to barber school.  That’s it!  End of discussion!  You have the money!”  King of trumps.

“Well,” she finished icily.  “You know what my monthly obligations are.  You know I can’t spend Bob’s money for your education.  I just don’t know how you’re going to do it.”

Ace of trumps.

Next Up:  The Man Who Owned Oklahoma City

Guthrie

Politics and poker, politics and poker,
Playing for a pot that’s mediocre

Sheldon Harnick

.

June, 2005

Brick is so strange to me now, having lived more than half my life in earthquake country.  Northern California has some brick buildings – mostly old warehouses – but for the most part, they’ve either been retrofitted with giant steel trusses or have been abandoned as too expensive to save.

Oklahoma is a sea of bricks.  I didn’t remember this.  But it makes sense.  There has never been much in the way of usable timber in Central and Western Oklahoma:  some pine forests here and there, but mostly blackjack and scrub-oak, suitable only for stove wood.

But clay, now, clay the state has in abundance.  You can make bricks from the clay in your own back yard, if you only had a kiln.

Practically the entire University of Oklahoma campus is built of brick, in a curious style dubbed “Cherokee Gothic” by architect Frank Lloyd Wright.  Almost all of the state’s houses are brick.  The older houses are red or russet, the newer developments tend to be gray.  But brick still.  Except for the commercial buildings.

Following fashion, most of the newer commercial buildings are stainless steel, marble, glass, sandstone – anything but brick.

But there are no such modern oddities in Guthrie.

*

In Guthrie – probably because there are no new commercial buildings – everything is brick and nearly everything evokes the past.

Except for the streets, which I distinctly remember as being either brick or cobblestone; but as I drive randomly around town, I can’t find a single street not paved with asphalt.

Guthrie was the first capital of Oklahoma.  Its downtown brick buildings, dating mostly from the 1890s, once boasted a thriving community of banks, hotels, businesses and mercantile stores. But like all tourist destinations, Guthrie’s nicely preserved downtown today houses mostly antique shops and boutiques.

But if I squint my eyes, I can travel back in time a hundred years or more.  No wonder Guthrie has become something of an on-location Mecca for shooting films set anywhere between 1890 and 1940.

**

Oklahoma’s government began here.  And state government has always been as untamed as the state’s cowboy-and-Indian past, nearly always for sale, whether for cash or votes, nearly always beholden to special interests, be they oil companies, the Ku Klux Klan, cotton farmers or the Baptist Church, and always swinging wildly between corruption and reform.

Senator and former governor Robert S. Kerr, one of the most powerful men in the U.S. Senate in the 1950’s, and a strong force for bringing federal money to the state, once said, “I’m against any deal [my state] ain’t in on,” and also bragged that “any man elected to Congress who doesn’t become a millionaire must be a damned fool.”

And no governor was more colorful and controversial than “Alfalfa Bill” Murray, who personally drove the lead bulldozer when the National Guard blocked a toll bridge over the Red River.  But Kerr and Murray were, in the end, merely ordinary players in the theater of Oklahoma politics.

*

The first act began with the first governor and set the scene for all successive administrations.

The Oklahoma Enabling Act of 1906, joining the Oklahoma and Indian Territories in preparation for statehood, had specified that the state capital would be at Guthrie until 1913.  But the state’s first governor, Charles N. Haskell, a Democrat, disliked Guthrie and its local politics (a “Republican nest,” he reportedly called it), and definitely disliked the local newspaper which cut the Democrats no slack.

A strong proponent of the initiative and referendum systems, Haskell managed to have the Legislature place a referendum proposition on the 1910 ballot asking voters to choose among three cities as a permanent location for the state capital.  There was no strong opposition in advance of the vote, as the proposition was silent on exactly when the relocation would take effect.

But when Oklahoma City won the vote handily, Haskell saw no reason to wait.  The sheriff of Logan County, anticipating a coup, posted guards around the state offices to prevent the removal of state documents from Guthrie, but Haskell countered by ordering the National Guard to arrest him.  The governor then directed his secretary to bring the state seal from Guthrie to Oklahoma City, reportedly in a basket of laundry.

“Basket of laundry” sounds more than a little embellished to me, but it does make a good story.  Other accounts merely recite that Haskell “stole” the state seal and removed it thirty miles south to Oklahoma City in the middle of the night.

Regardless of how the seal came to Oklahoma City, Haskell proclaimed, two days after the referendum, that Oklahoma City was now the state capital and the Huckins Hotel, a downtown institution until Urban Renewal, was now the capitol building.  Guthrie protested.  Tulsa protested.  A year later, the U.S. Supreme Court upheld the move.

*

In the second act, notorious train robber Al Jennings ran for governor in 1914, and placed a respectable third in the Democratic primary.  The Oklahoma legislature impeached and removed from office two governors (the state’s fifth and sixth) back-to-back in the 1920’s and a previous attempt to impeach the fourth governor lost by a single vote.

The fifth governor, John C. Walton, was a master of patronage, who even pressured the state’s two universities to place his friends on their payroll.  Patronage was more or less a perquisite of office, however, and although it was the ostensible reason for his removal, the real reason was his war against the Klan.

In the early 1920’s, Klan membership in Oklahoma was estimated at upwards of 100,000 (or almost five percent of the total population) and its activities were growing more vicious and more open by the month.  Walton, a Klan favorite when he campaigned for governor, first placed two counties, and then the entire state, under martial law, and suspended habeas corpus, the latter in direct contravention of the state constitution.  When he called a special session of the legislature to draft laws to curb the Klan, it refused to act, but met in another special session a week later to draft articles of impeachment.

Walton served barely over ten months as governor.

*

Henry S. Johnson, the sixth governor, campaigned throughout the state for progressive Democratic (and Catholic) presidential candidate Al Smith in 1928.  Republican Herbert Hoover won the election, carrying on his coattails a substantial number of Oklahoma Republicans, including state legislators, congressmen and justices of the state Supreme Court.

The Oklahoma Democrats blamed Johnson for the debacle and, less than a month after Hoover was sworn in, joined with Republicans to remove him from office.

The third act has been mostly a reprise of the first two: corruption and reform; buying and selling; corruption and reform, broken only by the occasional boringly honest administration.

**

If there is a single restaurant in downtown Guthrie, a sleepy farming community since 1910, and later an Oklahoma City bedroom community, I couldn’t find it.

But I did stumble across the Drugstore Museum. Located in an ornate brick building built in 1890 – just a year after the Run – it has been restored to celebrate not only a time long gone, but Guthrie’s first pharmacist, Foress B. Lillie.  Lillie made the run, settled in Guthrie and received the second pharmacy license issued in the state, a license which hangs on the wall of the museum.

Straddling a careful line between a faithful reproduction of a statehood-era drugstore and a museum, the place has its original wood floors, an old-time soda fountain and authentic display cases, counters and shelves, all crammed floor-to-ceiling with bottles, tins, scales, mortars, notions and nostrums.

“We’re all volunteers, here,” the septuagenarian docent interrupted my study of hundreds of bottles of quack medicines and now-banned substances.  “We’re grateful for your donations.  Have you been to Guthrie before?”

“Yes…” but I had to stop and think.  “But the last time was probably…1966?  Wow, almost forty years ago.”

“From around here?”

“Originally, but I’ve lived in California for thirty years.  My father’s family was from Guthrie and the Guthrie area.”

“Well, I’ve lived here all my life.  Could be I knew some of them.  What was their name?”

“Um, the family name was Dimick, Roy and Daisy.  They farmed near here off and on.  Then they divorced and Daisy married Dick Collins, who was a car salesman at the Chevrolet dealership in town.  I don’t remember the name, but I’m pretty sure there was only one.”

“Austin Chevrolet,” the docent prompted.

“Austin Chevrolet. That’s right!”

“Oh, yeah.  It was a big deal in town for a long time.  Then, when the old man died, the boys tried to carry it on for a while, but you know how those things go.  It’s not here any more.  But I think I remember the name Collins.”

“My Grandma Daisy had several cafes in town over the years,” I said.  “She’d get bored sitting at home.  Or maybe they ran short of money – I don’t know.  So she’d buy a café here or there and operate it for a couple of years.  Then she’d get tired of that and sell it.  I know there was one downtown somewhere at a hotel, but I don’t remember where.”

“And what did you say your family name was?”

“Dimick.  You wouldn’t know my dad, because he left early.  But my granddad was a barber who sold moonshine out of the back door of his shop.  My aunt says the shop was across the street from the post office.”

“Well, hey, the post office is right over there.  And I know there used to be a barbershop across the street, right by the alley.  You can’t see it from here, but if you walk right around the corner, there, in front of the post office, you can’t miss it.

“And I can’t swear to it, but I think the name ‘Dimick’ is familiar, too.”

Across the street west of the post office, adjacent to an alley.  That’s just what Aunt Verna said.  I walked around the corner and found it, right beside the alley where Roy chased the kids out to play if they were being too loud, and where his customers would lurk for purposes other than a haircut.  Today only an empty store front in a larger building, it had no stories to tell me.

But Verna had already given me the story.  Now I had a picture to go with it.

Up Next:  Less of a Little Shit

Intro to Mil & Steve

Why was I born?
Why am I livin’?

Jerome Kern

.

Every litter has a pup nicknamed “Killer.”  Killer isn’t a bad dog, he’s just a bit of a bully.  He goes his own way, takes what he wants when he wants it, picks on his siblings and doesn’t cuddle well.

I have whelped and raised almost a dozen litters of puppies, including Dalmatians, golden retrievers, Labradors and mutts.  More than once I have spent 48 hours in labor playing doggie obstetrician.  One phenomenon always holds true: puppies leave the womb with their personalities fully formed.

By Day Two you can tell which pup will be the cuddliest, which will be the suck-up, which the complainer, which the loudest, and which one deserves the nickname, “Killer.”

Eight weeks later, when they’re adopted out, their personalities haven’t changed at all.  You can civilize and train them, and teach them to behave in an acceptable manner.  Within limits, you can change how they act, but you can’t change who they are.  “Killer” will always be a willful, loud tough guy.

So in the age-old debate about nature vs. nurture, I come down solidly on the side of nature as the primary shaping force of personality, with nurture running a few lengths behind.

I don’t like this observation.  It runs completely counter to my social and political philosophies.  But there it is.

My observations of human puppies have not changed my “personality-out-of-the-womb” theory. The fussy baby (absent any physical cause) becomes the fussy child and will, generally, become the fussy adult.  Subject, of course, to the nudging influence of nurture.

Sometimes, a large amount of puppy training, or a large amount of study, guidance, self-reflection and practice can so successfully apply a grease-paint gloss over the puppy/person’s true nature that it can actually seem to have developed a different personality.  In reality, it is but another mask.

Some religious sects believe that certain babies are destined, from the moment of birth, to go straight to hell, while others believe that we control our own destinies.  I can go either way: I believe we are born to be what we are, but we can be made better or worse by our nurturing and, in some instances, with a great deal of effort, can almost create our own lives.

Predestination?  That’s me.  Free will?  That’s me, too.

Up Next:  The Fun in Dysfunctional

Mil & Steve

How ya gonna keep ‘em down on the farm
After they’ve seen Paree?
How ya gonna keep ‘em away from Broadway
Jazzin’ around and paintin’ the town?

Joe Young and Sam M. Lewis

.

Which came first, my mother’s rejection of me or mine of her?

I have a snapshot in my head of Stevie sitting on a tiny suitcase. When my brother was a baby, Mildred told the story this way:

“I was on my way to the hospital to deliver Ricky,” she would say, “and we had Stevie all dressed up and in his little cap with his little suitcase packed and all ready to go to Ray and Alma’s.  He just sat himself down on his suitcase and refused to budge.

“I told him, ‘Come on, Stevie.  Mom has to go to the hospital to bring you back a little baby.  You get to spend the night with Phil,’ and he just sat there and folded his little arms and shouted ‘No! ’ ”

But there is no photograph in any of the family albums of Stevie in his little cap sitting on his little suitcase.  There are vaguely contemporary photos of me in my cap (men wore hats in 1950, and boys wore caps), but nothing with a suitcase like my memory snapshot.  I must have constructed the shot mentally after hearing the story too many times when I was quite young.

Later, she would say, “Rick was always the cuddliest little thing.  He would sit in my lap for hours and never fuss.  But Steve was always the wiggle-worm.  He didn’t want to be hugged and loved.  He liked me to read to him, but he never wanted a lap.  He always just wanted to get down.”

*

So who did reject whom first?  And why?

My Hypothesis Number One holds that I was a problem child from the moment of birth.  Like Oedipus, the Greek fellow who, had he been born in 1947, would have become a biker type with a tattoo on his arm reading “Born to Kill Dad.”  Or the puppy in every litter nicknamed “Killer.”  The differences between Rick and me were too great to attribute wholly to birth order or environmental influences.  Rick was always Rick from my earliest memories, as was Steve always Steve.

We still are.

Rick is still the family man and I am still the…the what?  Not the anti-family man, certainly, for Marianne and Kristi have taught me much about family.  The cynic?  Maybe: the guy who has to think about whether he will let you into his heart and make a conscious decision to do so.

I think I would prefer to be Rick.

*

Hypothesis Number Two says little Stevie felt rejected when the new baby came along.  In reaction, he rejected Mom, who, then feeling rejected herself, pinned all her love and hopes on the new baby, making Stevie feel even more rejected and round and round they went.

Number Two would probably be the more accepted theory in psychological circles, but I find it less likely.  There is something there that is deeper than that.

Hypothesis Number Three:  What if Rick were not really Dwain’s son?

Eureka!  Or maybe, “Duh,” as the case may be.  All is now clear.  Number Three explains everything better than One or Two, while being simpler in the bargain.  Occam’s Razor dictates that when multiple explanations are available for a phenomenon, the simplest version is preferred.

What if there had been a brief, doomed affair straight out of Hollywood with Mildred in a flowing dress blowing gently in the breeze and Him with black tie and cigarette nobly helping her into the taxi to go back to her husband and child – neither of them yet knowing that she was pregnant (or better still, perhaps He never would) – while Rachmaninoff played in the background?

This is the way Mildred would have romanticized it, even if the flowing dress were homemade from flour sack material, the black tie a pair of overalls or a seersucker suit and the nobility more a fear of social stigma.  She was, after all,  the one who wrote to Dwain during one of their first separations that “I sort of felt about you like I suppose a lot of girls feel about their favorite movie stars.”

Couldn’t she have been equally carried away with romantic fantasy for another man after learning the hard way that her Clark Gable/Randolph Scott/Alan Ladd husband was really Peter Lorre or Sydney Greenstreet?

What if Steve always reminded Mildred of the man who hurt her most, and Rick of the man she “loved” but couldn’t have?

Why do I look so much like Dwain and Rick doesn’t?

Except that it evidently didn’t happen.

A hypothesis has to be tested and re-tested against all observable facts before it can be promoted to the status of “theory.”  Counselor Mark, who first suggested the possibility, looked over my family photo albums and decided he’d been wrong.  Rick, he said, bears a strong family resemblance to the Dimicks, although I still don’t see it.

Not satisfied, I decided to go to the source.  “I have to ask you something, Mil, and I really need to know the truth.  Is Dwain really Rick’s father?”

Mildred was fairly gone with dementia.  She may not have remembered what happened twenty minutes – or twenty years – ago, but she seemed unable to dissemble any more.  Her world was a fantasy world and if the mystery man with tux and cigarette were part of that world, I believed she would tell me.

“Steve, how can you say that?  Do you really believe I was having sex with someone else while I was married to your father?”

So Hypothesis Number Three failed every test.

But still.

It would have made a damned fine theory.

*

So Hypothesis Number Three is out and I revert to Number One.  Just don’t call me “Killer.”

*

“I think I always knew that I was the ‘favored child,’” Rick told me during the week of our stepfather, Bob’s, funeral.  “I never knew why, but I knew.”

The subject had been raised earlier by Rick’s mother-in-law, Rhette – Fleurette, that is, a lady of good French stock who had married a Western Oklahoma dentist and raised two daughters on a farm in Shattuck, Oklahoma.  Like Mildred’s memories of Prairie City, Shattuck will always be home and heaven for the Miller girls.

Bob had been in and out of the hospital for weeks, the positive prognoses (“we just have to tune up his pacemaker and he’ll be fine”), alternating almost daily with the negative ones.

Our telephone rang about 10 p.m.  It was Rick: “Well…this is the call.  Bob died about an hour ago.”

“Oh, shit.  My calendar’s so jammed there’s no way I can go back there now,” I started, before noticing Marianne’s gestures in the background.  “I’ll call you back.”  Five minutes later, I was on the phone again.  “We’ll be there day after tomorrow.  I’ll call you when we get in.”

*

It had long fallen on Rick to look after Mil and Bob.  He was happy to do it (up to a point, I’m sure), they were happy to have him and I was happy to let him.

Rick tried to include them in his family as much as possible.  The four of them (and then the five and then the six of them) took short vacations together despite Mildred’s constant sotto voce complaining about how “strange” Susan was.

(“If we stop at a filling station to use the restroom?  Susie always thinks she has to buy something to make up for it.  Now, isn’t that the silliest thing?  Those restrooms are for the public.”)

(“Don’t take it personally if she doesn’t even acknowledge you,” Susan warned Marianne the week of the funeral.  “She’s never liked me.”)

As the folks got older, family road trips became less and less frequent, until they were abandoned altogether.  But family gatherings continued on a major scale at every holiday and, on a lesser scale, weekly.  Rick and “the boys” took the folks out for lunch nearly every Saturday.  Mildred insisted on going to the same restaurant every week, and she and Bob ordered the same meal each time.

My poor nephews learned some of their etiquette from these get-togethers.  If adults can demand the same thing at every meal, then it must be acceptable.  There is, after all, little difference between “I’ll have the Number Three, but with only one waffle, margarine and strawberries” at every meal and “Chicken nuggets and a Coke” at every meal.

I never heard Mildred say anything derogatory about Grandpa Tom, Susan’s dad, but she was insanely jealous of Grandma Rhette.  I heard about it on the telephone almost every holiday.

“Well! I just don’t feel like we belong there.  Everybody dotes on Rhette and waits on Rhette and she’s the center of attention, and nobody pays any attention to me.  I asked Bob to take me home early.”

*

In an inverse repetition of her feelings about her sons, Mildred also had a strong preference between her grandsons, while refusing to admit it or recognize it.  Ask her and she would gush, “Oh, I just love those little boys!  Rick has done such a fine job of raising them.  They’re so well-mannered, and they love their little old gray-haired grandma.”

But I heard few details about Cabot, the youngest, from Mil.  It was Carson, the oldest, to whom she wrote the poems and about whom she bragged.

“Rick brought the boys over, and they sure are cute.  Carson is getting all A’s in school and will be playing football this year.  Carson told me…  Carson was so…  Carson said…  Carson will sit and play a board game with me, but Cabot is just so…fidgety.

“And Cabot wants to be just like his big brother!”

*

But week after week and holiday after holiday, Rick persisted.  After Bob died and Mildred was moved into assisted living, he kept faithfully to his Saturday visits, sometimes with the “little boys” and sometimes without, and without regard to his knowledge that an hour later she wouldn’t remember whether or not he had been there.

My brother was – is – a saint.

*

I had moved half a continent away and had no interest in returning to Oklahoma until, on a whim, I decided to return seventeen years later for my 25^th high school reunion.

Even then, things hadn’t gone all that smoothly.  For seventeen years, Mil had begged me at least twice yearly to come back to Oklahoma “to see your sweet old gray-haired mother,” – even offering to pay for the plane tickets – and I had continually put her off.  When I did decide to go back, I assumed she would be insulted if I didn’t stay at her house so that was what I planned.

Mil agreed, sounding thrilled, but less than a week later was back on the telephone.  “Uh…Rick and I have been talking, and we’ve decided you’re going to stay with him.  I’m having bridge on Wednesday night, and I just don’t think it will work out.”

Inconvenient.

I booked a hotel room the next day, which had been my preference in the first place.

*

What I found back in Midwest City was a Bob I hadn’t known before.  Rick and Susan had only one son at the time, and another one on the way.  Two-year-old Carson was a terror, but he loved his “Papa.”  And Papa evidently loved him just as much.

The kid played a round of golf in the living room, throwing a golf ball around to watch it bounce – nobody stopping him – while Marianne and I envisioned windows and china cabinets and lamps and vases being shattered.  Then it was “horsey” time: time for Papa to take Carson into the back yard, play the ancient “horsey” game, and be pulled around the yard in the special wagon.

This was definitely not the Bob I remembered.

*

First, however, we had to sit through a family meal: something involving watery boiled ham, white bread, artificial mayonnaise, margarine, vegetables boiled until practically puree, with no hint of flavor left…and Jello.

Southern cooking is based on English cooking, which means it is barely edible.  What a Southern cook can do to a vegetable is considered a Class A misdemeanor in many countries.  In France it is probably a low-level felony.

The Southern states annually consume approximately five gallons of ketchup per capita, the ketchup lubricant being necessary to allow the esophagus to accept what the cook has managed to do to the steak.

But even by Southern standards, Mil had always been a bad cook.  I pushed the food around on my plate, pretending not to be hungry and remembering my pledge of years before.

When I left Mildred’s house to go to college, I clenched my fist, shook it at the heavens and made a solemn vow: “Life is too short!  I will NEVER AGAIN eat Kraft Miracle Whip or any type of margarine!  I WILL have real mayonnaise!  I WILL have butter!  I WILL have REAL ice cream!

“AND I WILL NEVER AGAIN EAT ANY FUCKING JELLO!”

Cue the orchestra.

*

Almost 18, I left her house in 1965, never to return except for brief periods, including the next three summers, but even those were only visits.

My drinking buddy, Warren Henthorn, his cousin and I went down to the Oklahoma City produce market just before high-school graduation and lined up advance jobs picking produce in California for the summer.  “Fantastic contact,” each of us explained in turn to our parents.  “The man even gave us his card and a name and telephone number to call when we get to Riverside.  The jobs are guaranteed!”

But the jobs weren’t there, the contact was nonexistent and we were just three more Okie boys standing in line at a California labor office looking for piecework.

Hired on to pick oranges, we worked all of one day and later figured we had made maybe eight or ten bucks apiece.  Without waiting for our wages, we loaded the entire back floorboard of the car with stolen oranges and spent the next two weeks bumming around California, living on oranges and bologna sandwiches, siphoning gasoline in the middle of the night and sponging off relatives up and down the state.

Then we returned to Oklahoma, tails meekly tucked under our legs.  Warren could always work for his father, the printer.  Mike signed on with the wheat harvest crew which worked its way north from Texas to Canada, following the ripening grain.  I had given up a full-time job selling Kinney’s shoes and was taken back on a part-time basis.  With no other prospects, I spent the rest of my time that summer in the local pool hall, where a rack only cost a nickle.

I had been gone from Mildred’s house for less than three weeks.  When I returned, my bedroom furniture was gone, my desk and all my files were gone and what had been Rick’s bedroom was now a spare – and sparse – room with a daybed.

It reminded me of the day six years before when Mildred informed me, nonchalantly, after school that “Boots was very sick.  I took her to the vet and had her put to sleep.”

The spare room with the daybed would be my camping-out place for three-and-a-half summers, but it would never be home.

The summer of 1965 finally confirmed to me my place in the family, but that confirmation was overshadowed by an even greater discovery: There was a world out there.  Not just a magic-carpet world from my dreams or my books, but real.  You could leave Midwest City.  You could leave Oklahoma.

San Francisco, here I come.

*

Bob and I had never, what you might call, “got along.”   Nothing evil, just your typical, tired  stepparent story.

Almost as if consciously conforming to type, Bob wooed Rick and me the same way he wooed Mildred: “I’m not particularly exciting and the earth won’t shake, but I’m solid and dependable and I won’t challenge you.  Have some peanuts.”

He took Rick and me fishing in his boat.  Once.  But after the marriage, when he found himself living with two pre-teen boys every day of the week, he realized that this wasn’t quite what he had bargained for.  Luckily for Bob, only one of the two boys was much of a problem, the one who had previously been designated “man of the house.”

This was far from the stepparent relationships of fairy tales.  Bob never hit me, disciplined me in any way or tried to turn his wife against me.  He didn’t have the power to do any of those things.  He merely disapproved and mocked.  Probably out of helplessness, and certainly because he didn’t know how to deal with children.

Plus, I had opinions.

Bob disliked children with opinions.

I didn’t know when to shut up and was frequently rude and obnoxious.  Mildred certainly didn’t know how to deal with me.  Bob either wasn’t allowed to deal with me (I doubt I’d have let him, anyway) or had no interest in doing so.  It was easier to be sarcastic and to belittle everything I said or did.

One of my worst failings was that I kept eating the peanuts out of the container that he kept beside his easy chair.

Growing up with Mildred and Bob was certainly better than had I grown up with my father.  Dwain would have had an answer for me: brute force.  Instead, I grew up with mockery from one parent and “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you; you’re just like your father” from the other.

Nobody was capable of saying, “Kid, c’mere.  Sit down.  Let’s talk.”

When I became a stepparent, I remembered.  “Kristi, c’mere.  Let’s talk.”

*

Bob almost never spoke of his background, rather like Charlie Phearman’s father.  Had Bob been my father, I wouldn’t have known my own grandfather’s name, just as my Grandpa Charlie didn’t know his.  We knew Bob was probably born in Colorado, that he had had a fair amount of horse experience in the past and had gone through a very bitter divorce, which estranged him from his two daughters.

Bob dutifully paid child support, was glad when it ended, occasionally received a Christmas card or birthday card from Jan or Roberta, but never wrote back and never called.  But he started to soften the older he got, particularly after Rick’s first son was born.  Slowly, he reconciled with his daughters, even to the extent of visiting them in Florida and Texas, and allowing them to visit him.

This was the Bob I met – my nephew, Carson’s, proud “Papa” – when I returned to Midwest City for the high school reunion.  The Bob I had never known.  Or had I?

*

Mildred had three rules for how to tell people that her sons had done something nice or something not so nice.

Rule Number One:

A.  If Steve did something bad, “Steve” did it.

B.  If Steve did something good, “the boys” did it.

Rule Number Two:

A.  If Rick did something bad, “the boys” did it.

B.  If Rick did something good, “Rick” did it.

Rule Number Three:

A.  If the boys did something bad, “Steve” did it.

B.  If the boys did something good, “Rick” did it.

Bob did stand up for me on a couple of occasions, and one that I remember in particular.  I would have been about thirteen and Rick about ten or eleven and we were arguing, which was not all that unusual.  This time, at least, Rick had started the argument and was being the unreasonable one.  Bob had been there for the beginning, but Mildred walked in on the middle of the fight.

“Steve, shut up!”

“But I’m only trying to explain that – “

“Steve, SHUT UP!”

“But Mil, he’s trying to – “

“I said I don’t want to hear another word out of you!  Go to your room and shut up!”

I didn’t take “shut up” well when I was in the wrong, and I certainly didn’t when I was in the right.  It wouldn’t be too long until I got my own wheels, took over my own child-rearing and never stood for “shut up” again.  But for now I was stuck.

Bob took me aside a while later – out of Mildred’s earshot – and said, “I told her it wasn’t your fault.”  He seemed a bit embarrassed, or maybe he was only fearful of being caught talking to me.

I did thank him then, but never properly until years later.

*

During their California visit to attend our wedding reception (the same visit that gave rise to the family saying “They don’t even keep salt on the table!  I had to get up and get my own”), I had to make a quick run to the grocery store to pick up a half-gallon of milk, with Bob along for the ride.  It was the first time I had talked to him alone in more than twenty years.

Although he had been neither saint nor father-figure nor role model when I was growing up, I realized by now that he hadn’t been all that bad, given his own background and what he had to work with.  Our personalities had been bound to clash.

If apologies were in order, Bob and I both had a lot to apologize for.  But he was from a class and a generation who could never say, “I screwed up.  I was wrong.  I’m sorry.”

For me, a verbal apology wasn’t necessary.  He had already redeemed himself by becoming the doting (or rather, “ga-ga”) grandfather of my brother’s two sons, by reconciling with his own daughters and by striking up an instant relationship with my stepdaughter, Kristi.  “Krazy K,” he called her.

Nor would he have been able to accept an apology.  So I skirted around the subject.

“I love that kid, but we sometimes have our problems,” I explained.  “But you know?  No matter how much we may argue, there’s one thing she has never said to me: ‘You’re only my stepfather.’  And Marianne has told me, ‘She’d better not ever say that.’”

Bob said nothing, but he beamed.

*

The day before Bob’s funeral, Marianne, Mildred and I were eating lunch at the only restaurant Mil liked, the Del Rancho, or as she termed it, “the Day-all Rain-cho,” (you have to say it out loud to get the full Oklahoma flavor) and I was thinking out loud about the change in Bob over the years.  He did, as it turned out, have a soft underbelly; he just didn’t expose it very often.  He was usually so cold and caustic that Mildred had once visited an attorney with the idea of divorcing him.

“He was just such a different person in his later years,” I mused.  “Rick’s boys just loved him to death and I could tell that he felt the same way about them.  He was great with Kristi and he was the one who started calling to California every couple of weeks instead of you.  He actually ended up being a really nice guy.

“Strange.  I wish I knew what did it.”

“I’m sure he saw what a close, loving family we were and it rubbed off on him,” Mildred said, in all seriousness.

Marianne and I rolled our eyes in unison.  I made a pantomime gesture of sticking my finger down my throat.  Gag me.  Marianne tried her best to kick me under the table for this, but I knew the silent exchange had gone unnoticed by Mildred.  She was not the subject of the conversation, so it held no interest for her.

**

Over dinner at Rick’s house that funeral week, Rhette began asking about our relationships with Mildred and Bob.  She had only just met me, but had known Mildred and Bob since her daughter’s wedding to Rick.  I assume the opportunity had never before arisen for her to ask these questions.  Funerals do that to people.

“I have to say she was always there for me,” Rick said.  “She came to every one of my high school football games.  She…encouraged me in sports…encouraged my education and pretty much supported me, no matter what I did.”

“That’s so special,” Rhette said with the tenderness in her voice that only a mother can muster.  “I’m so glad you could have such a good relationship with her.  Steve?  How about you?  Did she support you that way, too?”

In barely a second or two, a person can have an entire discourse with himself, in mental shorthand.  It does, of course, go more quickly after a couple of glasses of wine.

– Uh, oh.  This is not the time to get into this.

– Why don’t you just tell them the truth?

– Because Mil is around the bend and her husband just died and Rick worships her and nobody really wants my view, or maybe they think they do, but they won’t after they hear it.

– So are you going to lie and say, Yes, she was always supportive?… I thought not.  Are you going to say No, and really believe the subject will be dropped at that?  Or are you going to answer the question?

I took a breath and chose Door Number Three.

“When I was in high school, I was very active in the speech and drama department,” I began slowly.  “We were always going out of town for tournaments and we always needed parents to drive and chaperone.  I asked her over and over if she would come along on one of the trips,  because it was the same parents always doing the work, and I wanted to be able to contribute something.

“She always said she couldn’t take off work because that would eat into her vacation time.  This was from a lady who got four weeks’ paid vacation every year and was able to carry over another 30 days from year to year.

“She couldn’t spare much more than pocket change when I was in college because she said she had to make double house payments and put another five hundred away every month for retirement.  And she had to be careful not to use any of Bob’s money for me.

“Every September, I had to scrounge the Salvation Army and the thrift stores for used furniture to furnish my apartment for that school year.  With money I had earned, by the way.  Every June, I had to give it away because she wouldn’t even store it for me.  It was…inconvenient for her.

“And the only time she ever visited me at school was when she wanted a free place to park because she had tickets to a football game.”

I misinterpreted the silence.

“Sorry,” I grinned, trying to change the tone I had brought to the conversation.  “I’m sure that was a lot more information than you wanted.”

“No, dear,” Rhette said.  “I’m sorry.”

Next up:  The First State Capitol

Tolerance and Intolerance

Jesus loves the little children
All the children of the world,
Red and yellow, black and white
All are precious in his sight
Jesus loves the little children of the world.

C. Herbert Woolston

.

Oklahoma City’s garbage collection was a municipal, not a private, operation.  Almost all of the garbage collectors were African-American, and all of them were paid on the bottom of the wage scale.

In 1969 the garbage collectors pushed for a living wage, offering negotiation, mediation and arbitration, but the city wouldn’t budge.  Whether it was or not (and it probably was), it soon became a racial issue, and Clara Luper stepped in.  A true believer in the non-violent principles of Ghandi and Martin Luther King, Jr., Mrs. Luper had for decades been the spiritual lighthouse and the backbone of the Oklahoma City NAACP.

For two days I had watched from the steps of City Hall as the strikers and their supporters, sounding as if they were in an African Methodist Episcopal Church service, swayed, clapped and chanted to City Manger Robert Oldland:

You better git right, Oldland, git right
You better git right, Oldland, git right.
You better git right, Oldland, git right
Before I git maaad.  Before I git mad.

But the first day or two of the strike looked bleak.  Oldland was standing firm and Mrs. Luper, at strike headquarters, was crying.

As a reporter, I was supposed to be an impartial observer, gathering facts and color to organize later into a few hundred clear words for the next morning’s readers.  I was not supposed to give in to emotion or insert myself into the scene.  But I did.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Luper,” I said, very gingerly touching her shoulder.  “It’s going to be all right.”

*

It had seldom been all right for blacks in Oklahoma, from statehood through Jim Crow and the Tulsa Race Riots of 1921, until well after the end of the Civil Rights Era years after the garbage strike.  It had been better once, and would be again, but “all right” was only a phrase used by an embarrassed young man watching a strong woman cry.

**

Most mid-century Oklahomans were either still on the farm or no more than one generation away from it.  Living close to the seasons, helpless in the face of the never-ending wind, yearly tornadoes, gully-washin’ rain, years-long droughts and an economy and governmental system that none of them understood or could ever hope to influence, the farmers could only explain their lives as the workings of God – and God and Saturday night were their only comfort.

Members of churches opposed to drinking and dancing didn’t even have the comfort of Saturday night to anticipate.

Oklahoma was overwhelmingly Protestant fundamentalist.  Most folks felt that if you didn’t go to church twice on Sunday and to Wednesday prayer meeting, you were going straight to hell.  The true believers didn’t worry too much about things beyond their control; they worried about sin and were always sniffing around for sinners.

They were little people and knew it, and so dealt with it in the way that people of the land have always done: they transformed their helplessness into a virtue.  If God had ordained their lives, then anyone who lived differently or believed differently must be a sinner.  Particularly those folks in New York City and San Francisco, the modern Sodom and Gomorrah.

And in a neat twist of logic, while proclaiming their pride at being small and insignificant (“poor old country boys,” as the song went), they found people more insignificant than themselves to look down upon, which gave them the further comfort of superiority.

We believed in the Bible, all right.  We also believed that Indians were best kept on reservations and niggers in segregated neighborhoods.  Queers were fair game – or would have been, had any of us actually met one.  Or, rather, known that we had.  The word “queer,” then, became a mere epithet; a word teenage boys wielded to insult each other.  But our parents sure did get a kick out of Liberace’s television show.

**

Mr. Ladd was our Sunday School teacher for at least two years in junior high school.  The lessons were, I believe, laid out in advance by the church authorities, complete with teaching manuals.  Usually, they were centered around Biblical stories and what these stories were meant to teach us.  Pre-planned lessons, however, didn’t preclude a bit of unscripted banter or a healthy dose of the teacher’s own beliefs.

When Mr. Ladd used the term “nigger knockin’” with a smile, it was the first time I had heard it, although it would hardly be the last.  It referred to the custom of middle-class white boys cruising down Northeast Second Street in Oklahoma City – the very heart of “niggertown” and former home of a lively jazz scene where Ellington, Basie and Ella Fitzgerald once appeared – and throwing eggs, bottles or worse at the black people along the sidewalks or sitting on their front porches.

One Sunday morning, during the height of the space race, Mr. Ladd couldn’t wait to entertain his religious charges with the latest jokes he had heard.

“You know what NASA said when they sent the first nigger into space?” he beamed.  “‘The jig is up.’

“And you know what they said when the first one landed on the moon?  ‘There’s a coon on the moon.’”

Did I forget to mention that this was Sunday School?

Jesus may have loved “all the little children” no matter what their color, but we didn’t have to.

*

Oklahoma had a history of racism and segregation dating literally to the instant after statehood.

The Five Civilized Tribes were considered “civilized” partly because, like the South from where they came, they held black slaves.  Ironically, however, from the end of Reconstruction in the 1870s until Oklahoma statehood, blacks were freer in Oklahoma than anywhere else in the south and thousands migrated to Oklahoma for the opportunities it seemed to offer.

A sizable contingent of blacks joined the Land Run of 1889. The Territories provided equal-opportunity hardships and black farmers homesteaded and busted sod just like the whites and Indians.  In Indian Territory, former slaves – freedmen – and their descendants were entitled to land allotments and to share in federal government payments to Indians.  They could vote, they could form their own all-black towns, they could become merchants, bankers and businessmen.  And they did.

Blacks not only voted, but held municipal offices.  The Republican Party for a few years controlled Territorial politics and blacks formed about a sixth of Republican voters.  With the arrival of statehood in 1907, Oklahoma’s population was about eight percent black.

Statehood’s arrival, however, marked an end to the black dream of a free and equal southern state.  In the few years just preceding statehood, another breed of immigrants, southern white Democrats,  swarmed into the Territories, equally determined to form a new state according to their own ideals.  The Republicans, with their large contingent of relatively newly enfranchised blacks, were evidently no match for the firebrand Democrats and of the 112 delegates elected to the 1906 Constitutional Convention, 99 were Democrats, virtually all of whom had pledged to make Jim Crow the cornerstone of the new state government.
Leading the convention was the champion of the little people and my former hero, Alfalfa Bill Murray.

*

The assembly drafted a proposed new state constitution mandating, among other Jim Crow provisions, “Separate schools for white and colored children.”  President Theodore Roosevelt slowed the Oklahoma Democratic plan down (for only a short while) by making it known that he would veto any statehood bill if the new state’s constitution contained any such language.

The Democrats obediently backed off and submitted a proposed constitution without any of the offending provisions.  The constitution was adopted in September, 1907, and statehood followed in November.  But before the year was over, the state legislature met for the first time to amend the constitution to make it virtually identical to the one Roosevelt threatened to veto, and then to pass laws in accordance with the amended constitution.

Until the 1960s, Article XIII, Section 3, of the Oklahoma Constitution (adopted at the very first legislative session) read as follows:

Separate schools for white and colored children. – Separate schools for white and colored children with like accommodation shall be provided by the Legislature and impartially maintained.  The term “colored children,” as used in this section, shall be construed to mean children of African descent.  The term “white children” shall include all other children.

Immediately after adoption of this section, the legislature passed a series of laws to enforce it.  Among them were Title 70, Oklahoma Statutes, Sections 5-1 and 5-2:

§5-1.  Separation of races – Impartial facilities. – The public schools of the State of Oklahoma shall be organized and maintained upon a complete plan of separation between the white and colored races with impartial facilities for both races.

§5-2.  Definitions. – The term “colored,” as used in the preceding section, shall be construed to mean all persons of African descent who possess any quantum of negro blood, and the term “white” shall include all other persons…. (emphasis added.)

The statutes went on to define as misdemeanors such violations as “Maintaining or operating [an educational] institution [which admits] both races” (§5-5), “Teaching [at] an institution receiving both races” (§5-6), a “White person attending [an] institution receiving colored pupils” (§5-7), and “Teacher permitting child to attend school of other race” (§5-4, which not only called for a fine but suspension of the teacher’s certificate for a year.)

Thus, an administrator, a teacher or a student could become a criminal for having anything to do with integrated education, and a teacher could actually lose her license.

Other laws passed in the same legislative session required racially segregated facilities in nearly all public areas, including transportation (buses and trains) and waiting rooms.
So much for the bright promise of the country’s 46th and newest state.

For some reason, the new order wasn’t welcomed by the black citizens of the new state, who demonstrated their displeasure in the 1908 elections.  Dozens of Democratic state legislators were turned out of office, along with three congressmen.  Worse still, a black man from Guthrie won a seat in the state House of Representatives.

If black voters could actually sway an election, then something obviously had to be done about allowing blacks to vote.  The Democrats retaliated with a 1910 ballot measure proposing a literacy test for voting.  Since such a test might well have disenfranchised the majority of the population, the measure exempted, or “grandfathered,” descendants of persons eligible to vote on January 1, 1866 – a carefully chosen date, as it was just shortly before the adoption of the Fifteenth Amendment:

The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any state on account of race, color, or previous condition of servitude.

Since the measure required voter approval, the ballot was pre-printed with a “Yes” vote, and voters had to mark through the words “For the Amendment” in order to vote against it.  More than a little ballot-box stuffing helped to seal the deal.  The amendment passed.  Illiterate whites could still vote; illiterate blacks could not.

In the 1908 election, approximately 30,000 of the voters were black.  Two years later, black voters numbered fewer than 1,000.  The grandfather clause worked.

Oklahoma thus became, for the South, the shining star on the flag.  It had accomplished in four years what it had taken the other southern states 40 years to accomplish: legally mandated segregation of the races and decimation of black voting power.

*

Five years later, the United States Supreme Court, in Guinn v. United States, struck down the “grandfather clause,” although it held that the literacy test itself was not unconstitutional, being merely an “exercise by the state of a lawful power vested in it, not subject to our supervision.”

But when one scheme failed or was ruled unconstitutional, another was already waiting to take its place.

Not to be outdone, the Oklahoma Legislature struck back.  Because the literacy test was not per se unconstitutional, a specially called session of the legislature passed yet another law in 1916, graciously stating that all citizens eligible to vote in 1914 (just before the “grandfather clause” was ruled unconstitutional) would remain eligible to vote.      The rest of the state’s citizens (nearly all illiterate blacks) were also cordially invited to register to vote – and given two weeks to do so.

Failure to register to vote between April 30 and May 11, 1916, would render them perpetually ineligible to vote.

This legislative scheme lasted much longer than the “grandfather clause” scheme, and it was not until a quarter-century later that the Supreme Court found it, too, to be in contravention of the Fifteenth Amendment.  Justice Felix Frankfurter summarized the history of Oklahoma’s attempts to prevent blacks from voting (Lane v. Wilson, 1939) and concluded that “The [Fifteenth] Amendment nullifies sophisticated as well as simple-minded modes of discrimination.”

But the literacy test itself was still constitutional.  That test, fancy gerrymandering, coercion and a host of other tactics continued to limit, although not actually ban, African-American participation in Oklahoma politics until the Voting Rights Act of 1965.  While Black voters increased after 1939, Blacks didn’t vote in great numbers for decades.  There were no black candidates and blacks had little interest in voting for whites.  They did make a difference in some county elections, however, since well-heeled candidates could round up black voters, haul them to the polls and pay then a dollar each to vote.

To Oklahoma’s credit, it never instituted a poll tax like many other Southern states, including Texas.

*

Voting was the smaller part of the Jim Crow plan.  The larger part was institutionalized segregation.  The first state legislature took on segregation of schools and public accommodations, but white citizens themselves accepted the job of segregating residential neighborhoods and restaurants.

One of the most useful segregation tools was known as “restrictive covenants.”  Either a housing developer would insert these covenants into deeds as he sold his new houses, or entire neighborhoods would agree to enter into a compact, such as the following, present in one form or another in every Midwest City deed and plat map:

No persons of any race other than the Caucasian shall use any building or any lot, except that this covenant shall not prevent occupancy by domestic servants of a different race domiciled with an owner or tenant.

Sometimes the “Negro race” was specifically excluded.  In other deeds, both the “Caucasian” and “Indian” races were specifically allowed.

The covenants were enforceable by each property owner against all of the other local property owners.  If a person tried to sell his house to a buyer of “any race other than the Caucasian,” any other party to the agreement could obtain a court injunction prohibiting the sale.

Thus, in addition to constitutional and legislative restrictions against integrated education, legally segregated neighborhoods (and, by extension, neighborhood schools) ensured that blacks would not be schooled with whites.

In 1948, the U.S. Supreme Court held in Shelley v. Kraemer that these covenants could not be enforced by state courts.  Being “private agreements,” however, they were not unconstitutional in themselves (just as literacy tests were not unconstitutional), and so they remained, their very presence having a chilling effect on the attempts of blacks to move into white neighborhoods.  Oklahoma’s reaction, anyway, was simply to ignore the ruling; laws allowing enforcement of the covenants remained on the books for years.

Shelley v. Kraemer was decided in the same year that President Truman ordered the armed forces integrated.  The country was changing, but the Midwest, including Oklahoma, wasn’t yet changing with it.

*

Not too many years later, the U.S. Supreme Court decision in Brown v. Board of Education (1955) did away with the doctrine of “separate but equal” education for whites and blacks.

Except that it didn’t.  That’s merely what the textbooks say.  All Brown really did was declare the doctrine to be unconstitutional.  For two decades and more the decision actually had little effect on public school districts in the metropolitan areas.  The continued presence of racial covenants and other restrictive practices ensured that neighborhoods –  and therefore neighborhood schools – continued to be segregated. Schools might no longer be intentionally segregated by law, but they were segregated, nonetheless.  (Ironically, small towns and rural areas didn’t experience the same degree of segregation as did Tulsa and Oklahoma Counties, probably for lack of funds to support separate schools for Blacks and Whites.)

The state’s constitutional provisions and statutes criminalizing integrated education remained on the books well after 1955.  Even though they had been found to be unconstitutional, the state couldn’t gather a legislative majority to repeal them or to put repeal to the voters.

It was, of course, nobody’s fault.  Homeowners bought their properties already encumbered by racial restrictions.  Few Oklahoma City real estate agents were followers of Supreme Court decisions and those who were even aware of Shelley v. Kraemer didn’t care; no decent white person would be the first in his neighborhood to sell his house to a Negro.   The politicians were likewise innocent – they no longer relied on statutes mandating segregated education.  Neighborhood schools were just fine and segregation was just…one of the facts of life.

*

Oklahoma City in the 1960s was a textbook example of de facto school segregation.  No longer mandated by law, but simply existing.  With no official board policy of segregating schools by race, everyone went to neighborhood schools.  Nothing could be fairer, according to the School Board.  But the only integrated neighborhoods were those from which the whites hadn’t completely fled as the upwardly mobile blacks moved in.

In the 1961-62 school year, the Oklahoma City School District consisted of 101 schools.  Only fourteen of those were considered to be integrated.  But the School Board evidently defined “integration” in the same way as the state statute (then still on the books) defined “Negro” (“all persons of African descent who possess any quantum of negro blood”), for one white student in a black school or one black student in a white school was enough for the board to boast of integration.

The eleven “integrated” elementary schools, according to the School Board, included the following examples:

School            Negro    White

Creston Hills          685        7
Culbertson           1018        8
Edison                    182        4
Longfellow                 1    359
Walnut Grove         138        3

As late as the 1971-72 school year, a full sixteen years after Brown v. Board of Education, 16 of Oklahoma City’s 86 elementary schools were nearly all-black and 60 were all-white.  Only ten were truly integrated.  Not, of course, including the five examples cited above.

*

Change comes slowly to Oklahoma unless there’s a challenge to the natural order of things. Then, just watch us old boys scramble.

My first elementary school was Creston Hills, which I attended from kindergarten in 1952-53 through second grade in 1954-55.  It was all white.

In the summer of 1955, some carpetbagging niggerlover down the street sold his house to a black family.  At least that was the adult view; I didn’t know what was going on, I just watched the neighborhood change almost overnight.

During that summer alone, our street changed color from all white to almost one-third black.  There were no white buyers, but middle-class black families were lining up to move into a better neighborhood – and at bargain prices to boot.  My parents applied for a transfer to the next-closest elementary school – in a neighborhood that had not yet been integrated.

Because I was white and wanted to transfer to an all-white school, the request was granted.
The interesting point to me, however, is that within seven years, virtually the entire neighborhood had moved out.  Creston Hills Elementary School went from all-white in 1954-55 to only seven white students in 1961-62 – barely one percent.

Who says Midwesterners are slow?

*

The School Board’s policy was to rubber stamp “minority to majority” transfer requests.  Transfer requests of a black student from his local integrated school to a more distant all-black school or of a white student from a local integrated school to a more distant all-white school were routinely granted.  The reasoning, as one high school principal explained at the time, was that “if a child is unhappy in a situation, his unhappiness is not going to make a contribution to his learning experience, and if he is unhappy then he should be permitted to seek a place where he can be happy.”

Black students, no matter how “unhappy” with an inferior education, were almost never permitted to transfer to the better white schools.

In 1961, a black dentist filed an action on behalf of his son in the U.S. District Court, challenging the pattern of racial segregation in the Oklahoma City Schools and the “minority to majority” transfer policy in particular.  The case was assigned to Judge Luther Bohanon, who continued to manage it for nearly twenty years, mostly because of the school board’s delaying tactics.  Judge Bohanon presided over many other significant cases during more than forty years on the federal bench, but his name will always be Mudd in Oklahoma City because of his supervision of school desegregation.

But middle Americans, for all their lazy drawls and mulish slowness, are practically hyperactive compared to the glacial pace of the federal courts.  In 1963, Bohanon found that Oklahoma City had deliberately segregated its students, relying on restrictive covenants (a full fifteen years after Shelley v. Kraemer), on state and local laws requiring residential racial segregation and on School Board policies regarding student transfers.

The school board argued that it could solve the problem by a complex formula of re-zoning neighborhoods, but two years later, Bohanon found that this plan had not succeeded.  It was not until 1972, however (11 years after the suit was filed), that Bohanon finally ordered a plan instituted to really integrate Oklahoma City schools.  It involved busing black students to white schools and vice versa.

The mechanism was known as the “Finger Plan,” after its author, Dr. John A. Finger.  Folks had a catch-phrase ball with this title, and “Bohanon has given Oklahoma City the Finger” was a quip which only became more witty with each repetition.

The case of Robert L. Dowell, et. al v. School District No. 89, Oklahoma County, Oklahoma was filed when I was in the ninth grade, in 1961.  Busing of students to achieve racial integration didn’t begin until after 1972, when I was out of college, out of the army, and back in Midwest City working as a reporter for The Oklahoma Journal.    But Midwest City was aware of it – and afraid of it –  from the day it was filed.

By 1963, we knew what was coming.  Judge Bohanon was clearly ready to rule that Oklahoma City’s de facto segregation was not in compliance with Brown v. Board of Education.

President Kennedy was dead and President Johnson was pushing the Civil Rights Bill, which would allow for actual enforcement of the Fourteenth Amendment to the Constitution.
Midwest City was technically exempt from the school integration battle, there being no black students within our school district’s borders.  But while we may have been simple, we weren’t stupid.  We realized that racial covenants, legally mandated neighborhood segregation and what few other of the Jim Crow laws still remaining on the books were doomed.  If not today, then tomorrow.  Before you knew it, our kids would have to go to school with…them.

**

“I don’t care what the goddamned court says,” my friends all agreed, although it was voiced by my friend, Dwain, grandson and nephew of western Oklahoma cotton farmers.  “They better not let a nigger in this school.  If I see a nigger walking down the hall?  I’ll just walk up and bust him in the mouth.  I don’t care what they do to me.  But if everybody would do that?  There wouldn’t be no niggers in our high school.”

This was more than four years after the nationally televised integration of Little Rock’s Central High School, when President Eisenhower sent in an army division to force Gov. Faubus and the school administration to actually obey the law.

We weren’t really slow learners.  We were just all talk.  “My daddy,” said Dwain, “says he’ll support me and they won’t dare kick me out.”

**

There were white Oklahomans who worked tirelessly for integration and an end to racism, and whose children didn’t grow up with that disease.  I just wouldn’t know any of them until many years later.  And if any of them lived in Midwest City, they certainly kept a low profile.

I would not be honest if I did not admit to my own racism and to acting on it occasionally.  Blacks were such easy victims: they talked funnier even than whites, they drove Cadillacs when they could afford it, all of the men wore a “soul patch” on their lower lip.  The blacks who worked were garbage men, maids and waiters.

At least, that’s how we saw them.

(For this life, they came to Oklahoma City from the Deep South?  God, it must have been vicious down there.)

*

Mildred was only vaguely racist, not having met a black person until well after her thirtieth birthday, so I didn’t absorb race hatred with my mother’s milk, but only with every Oklahoma breath I took until college.

Mrs. Dishman (“Aunt Mary”), for instance, continued her hatred of Eleanor Roosevelt until her death.  It wasn’t so much the Roosevelt politics anymore (“You never met a person as opposed to socialism and the whole Social Security plan as Bob [Mr. Dishman, aka “Uncle Dish”], but you never met anyone so grateful to receive that first Social Security check”), as the memory of Mrs. Roosevelt reaching out to black soprano Marian Anderson: “She was the first one to invite niggers to the White House!”

Always an out-of-step teenager, I loved Frank Sinatra as much as I loved The Beatles and The Stones.  I thought Aunt Mary might also enjoy him, since he was closer to her generation, but she refused to listen to him.  “He hangs around with that nigger that married a white woman.”

**

But hiding behind the fear, insularity and bigotry was a growing, sub-surface desire among the urban population to shed the old ways, and it manifested itself in a remarkable and unexpected lack of violence in race relations dating back to the ‘50s, when Clara Luper first entered the picture.  She knew her oppressors and dealt with them more successfully than any young hothead could ever have done.

Certainly more successfully that I would have done, had I been in her place.

A high school history teacher, Mrs. Luper became inspired by the Montgomery, Alabama, bus boycott, sparked by Rosa Parks and led by Martin Luther King, Jr.  During a 1957 trip to New York to present a play she had written based on King’s teachings of non-violent civil disobedience, she and her students found few places for a group of black children to have lunch.

Back home again, she and her students decided to integrate Oklahoma City’s lunch counters.  Peacefully, of course, in accordance with King’s teachings.  They began with polite visits to the owners and managers of the city’s major drug stores and department stores, and then to the mayor and city manager.  They wrote letters.  They contacted churches, but neither the white nor the black churches were receptive.

When negotiations failed, Luper and twelve of her students (one only six years old) headed for the downtown Katz Drug Store.  One of the children laid a five-dollar bill on the lunch counter and asked for “thirteen Cokes, please.”

The scene grew ugly but, strangely, never violent.  The young protestors suffered verbal abuse from the staff, from white customers and the police, but other than an occasional “accidental” bumping, no physical abuse.

The next day the twelve children had grown to twenty-four and, by the fourth day, they were served.  The Katz management announced that all of its stores in Iowa, Kansas, Missouri and Oklahoma would immediately integrate their lunch counters.  It was August, 1958.

Although it received little national attention at the time, Luper’s effort was one of the first – and the first successful – “sit-ins” in the country.  The Katz success came fully a year and a half before the celebrated Woolworth’s sit-in in Greensboro, North Carolina.

The day after the Katz victory, the group moved to the drug store across the street, where management informed them that the owners had already agreed to integrate their lunch counters.

Prior to the sit-in at Katz, there were reportedly only two eating establishments in Oklahoma City serving both blacks and whites, and both of them had segregated facilities.  Less than three years after Katz, the NAACP Youth Council had desegregated more than 100 of the city’s eating establishments.

I didn’t know any of this at the time.  I was not quite eleven years old.  It would be more than a decade before I met Clara Luper, during yet another of the battles that defined her life.  She was crying.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Luper,” I said.  “It’s going to be all right.”

And eventually, it was.  And without violence.

**

Midwest City was able to fend off segregation longer than many other communities.  In a town where all of the residents were white (or at least not black, there being a few Indian families) and all of the real estate agents were white, laws and written agreements were not required to maintain the status quo.  A nudge and a wink can serve as well as a law.

Eventually, even Midwest City bowed to authority and ever-growing public pressure.  If it failed to welcome its new black residents with open arms and Christian charity, at least there was no violence and there were no troops.  Only complaining and big talk.  When the first black student was enroled in Midwest City High School in the early 1970s, it occurred almost without incident.

Next Up:  Problem Puppies, Problem Children

Outlaws

My heroes have always been cowboys.
And they still are, it seems.

Sharon Vaughn

Now as through this world I ramble
I seen lots of funny men
Some will rob you with a six-gun
And some with a fountain pen.

Woody Guthrie

.

From at least the 1930s until at least the 1980s, cowboys and outlaws were Oklahoma’s fascination, culture and collective historical memory.

Where else but in Oklahoma City could there have been established a “Cowboy Hall of Fame?”  An embarrassingly provincial attraction when opened in 1955, the complex has evolved into a nationally recognized historical and cultural center now known as the National Cowboy & Western Heritage Museum.

Where else but in Oklahoma City would the first UHF television station in town be a “cowboy station,” broadcasting nothing but old cowboy movies and re-runs of TV Westerns?

Sure, the entire country may have been gripped with TV Western fever during the ‘50s and ‘60s, but only Oklahoma, Texas and New Mexico felt they were still living in a western.  And only Oklahoma took the outlaw to heart almost as dearly as the cowboy.  Oklahoma even has a town named Gene Autry.

Ironically, very few westerns were filmed in Oklahoma and very few were filmed about Oklahoma.  But much of the western lore that developed into our collective myth of the Old West was born in Oklahoma.  And Oklahomans – feeling continually like the country’s ugly stepchild, and suffering from their Dust Bowl and farmer/share cropper/dumb Okie/hillbilly image  – lassoed that lore as their own.

*

Eight- or ten- or twelve-year-old kids are not likely to look a friend in the eye upon receiving a solemn factual pronouncement and say, “that’s bullshit.”

So I didn’t.  But by the time a third female classmate informed me that “I’m directly descended from Jesse James,” I began to wonder just how many direct or collateral descendants Jesse actually could have had.  I decided I didn’t believe any of these stories, but the larger truth behind them was in  Oklahoma’s love affair with its outlaws.

*

Woody Guthrie, the “Dust Bowl Balladeer,” has long been recognized throughout the country for his love of America and its people and as the godfather of all modern folk singers.  Yet he was scarcely acknowledged in mid-century Oklahoma because of his leftist, populist politics.  Guthrie wrote union hymns, labor songs and angry works about the “copper bosses” and the “mining bosses,” but he also wrote “This Land Is Your Land,” “Oklahoma Hills” (a love song to his home state), a paean to the Columbia River and her giant hydroelectric dams, and dozens of other songs celebrating the greatness of America and of Oklahoma.

He also wrote a passel of songs about outlaws, the most famous of which was “The Ballad of Pretty Boy Floyd.”  Woody’s songs painted the outlaws as modern Robin Hoods, stealing from the rich and giving to the poor, or as poor innocents forced into a life of crime by an unjust system.  Or both.

They are all fiction, and maybe he never meant them as truth.  But Woody knew his audience, and he knew what he wanted to say.  His audience believed in the outlaw and Woody believed that society forced people into outlawry.

Charles “Pretty Boy” Floyd, for instance – a Sallisaw, Oklahoma, boy – was an all-around bad guy who first got into major trouble by robbing a post office at age 18.  A couple of years later, he was sentenced to prison in Missouri for yet another robbery.  Described by Time magazine as “a murderously cool shot,” he was accused of at least six murders and numerous bank robberies.

Every crime in Oklahoma
Was added to his name.

Woody’s version, however, painted him as a peaceful farmer who, defending his wife’s honor against a vulgar deputy sheriff, killed the deputy in an uneven fight and then fled to live the life of a reluctant outlaw who never forgot the home folks.

But many a starving farmer
The same old story told
How the outlaw paid their mortgage
And saved their little homes.

Others tell you ‘bout a stranger
That came to beg a meal,
And underneath his napkin
Left a thousand dollar bill.

It was in Oklahoma City
It was on a Christmas Day,
There come a whole car load of groceries
With a letter that did say:

You say that I’m an outlaw
You say that I’m a thief
Well, here’s a Christmas dinner
For the families on relief.

In truth, Oklahoma was rather wild and woolly during much of its short history, having spent much of that history as a sort of terra incognita surrounded by American states.

*

Beef, of course, gave rise to the cowboy, as the cowboy in turn would give rise to the early Oklahoma outlaws.  And for most of the Nineteenth Century, American beef was – almost by definition – Texas beef.  The northern and eastern states had suffered a lamentable shortage of steaks and roasts during the Civil War, but that didn’t mean the cattle had stopped breeding.  When the war ended, Texas was awash in cattle and the north was desperate for a good steak.

Oklahoma City would later become a major railhead, stockyard and meat packing location (with that vile-smelling part of the city being known as “Packin’ Town” until its name was gentrified during the city’s revitalization in the ‘90’s), but Kansas boasted the major railheads for most of the last part of the century:  Wichita, Newton, Abilene and, later, Dodge City.

The cattle drive, that staple of the horse opera, generally left Texas, crossed through Oklahoma and ended up at one of the Kansas railheads where the cowboys were paid and sated their pent-up thirsts with whiskey and whores.  Several major cattle trails crossed Oklahoma, but the only one glorified by Hollywood was the Chisholm Trail, which ran through Lawton, El Reno and Enid, pretty much straight north and only a few miles west of today’s Interstate Highway 35.  (The only other “famous” trail was the Santa Fe Trail, which went from Texas through New Mexico and up to Denver.  How many people, after all, would pay to see a movie called “The Western Trail,” “The Shawnee Trail” or “The Goodnight-Loving Trail?”)

More than a quarter-million head of Texas longhorns were driven up the Chisholm trail in 1866, and the numbers increased every year.  With the cattle came the cowboys, and the cowboy culture was largely developed in Texas, Oklahoma and Kansas between 1866 and 1889.

Passing through Oklahoma, many ranchers noted that its vast stretches of grassland, on which the cattle grazed on their way to market, would be ideal for raising cattle – and were that much closer to Kansas.  Cattle ranches began to pop up in the sparsely populated Territories, particularly in the Unassigned Lands, but also on leased lands in the Indian nations.

*

Texas had cattle enough after the war, and little else.  But times were equally hard throughout the south: few jobs, few prospects, legions of rootless men who just happened to be fair horsemen.  Thousands of southerners drifted to Texas to work in the new profession of “cowboy,” earning $40.00 or less per month to round up, separate, brand and then herd a collection of stupid cows up to Kansas – a trip of six weeks or so at 12 to 15 miles a day.

First came the roundup.  Adult cows already had proprietary brands burned into their hides a couple of years before, but in the spring, their calves would still be trailing after them on the unfenced plains, while Mom grazed with cows from the neighboring ranches.  Brands allowed the ranchers to separate their cattle from their neighbors’ longhorns as they lumbered about in huge unsegregated herds.  A long nursing period identified whose calves were whose, so the calves could be branded each year as were their parents before them.

Cutting (the ability of a horse to turn on a dime at the rider’s slightest pressure to outmaneuver a contrary cow or calf) and calf roping, both favorite modern-day rodeo events, originated with the roundup.  (Don’t try to understand ‘em, just rope, throw and brand ‘em.)  Bull-dogging, or steer-wrestling, wouldn’t be invented until much later, on the rodeo circuit.  Bull riding also came along sometime later just for the thrill of it all.  Real cowboys didn’t ride bulls:  what would be the point?

Today’s real cowboys just as often use helicopters or pickups (the kind of pickup with the six-foot-diameter tires and oversized springs; the kind of pickup you need a step ladder to climb into; the kind of pickup you see all over, nearly always clean and waxed, not one in ten of them ever having actually gone off-road) as horses.  But there is no scarcity of wannabe cowboys in the country bars.

I live today in the suburbs of the San Francisco-Oakland metropolitan area, and just spittin’ distance from the small ranches in the Livermore Valley – those that haven’t been taken over for growing grapes.  In a local bar of a Friday night you can hear the call of the wild wannabe cowboy: “Boy, I busted that filly!”  “Shit, that ain’t nothin’.  I tooken that old blue stallion that couldn’t nobody ride and when I’s finished with ‘im, we’us haulin’ calves outa the creek.”

Sometimes, one or two of these barroom cowboys actually make it into the local annual rodeo.  For the most part, however, hanging onto a strap on top of a “buckin’ bronco” or a “Bramer [Brahma] Bull” isn’t quite as easy as hanging onto a bar stool and a glass of beer.

*

Ah, cowboys.  The last rugged individuals.  Our heritage.

Or, wait a minute.  The sodbusters were the last rugged individuals, holding their own against the ranchers dedicated to the open range.  All our folks really wanted was to have a milk cow or two, a truck garden and a cornfield or wheat field fenced in by barbed wire (“bob wahr”) against the ranchers’ cattle.

The dutiful family man drives to work every day in his Ford sedan but dreams of a fiery red Corvette.  Oklahomans have mostly adopted the values of their sodbusting ancestors, but they dream of cowboys.

And if there aren’t a lot of cowboys in Oklahoma any more (or at least not as many of them as there are farmers, businessmen, shop clerks, check cashing agents or pawn brokers), there are certainly enough cattle to satisfy anyone’s hunger for a taste of the Old West.  More than a million head a year pass through Stockyards City (the former “Packin’ Town”), which has led the country in cattle sales for more than thirty years.  Cattle auctions – open to the public and quite the tourist draw – are held twice a week and the boast is that the public can see “actual working cowboys” at the auctions.

The prime venue for seeing cowboy skills, however, is the rodeo circuit.  There are almost 100 rodeos annually in Oklahoma, including the junior ones.  Never mind that most of the participants in the qualifying rodeos are professional athletes and only a few are actually working cowboys trying their luck and skills against the pros.  These are cowboy skills – except, of course, for the steer wrestling and the bull riding.  But there is no scarcity of wannabe cowboys in the minor rodeos, either.

It’s easy for me to make light of rodeo contestants.  I’m about as non-athletic as it is possible to be.  I can’t hit a golf ball without an ugly slice; my ankles are too weak to play tennis; three bad disks prevent me from doing martial arts and general laziness stops me from taking up bulldogging or calf roping.

But I do recognize the skill it takes and the toll it takes to be a rodeo performer.  The sport is more demanding and more brutal than football, occasionally more graceful than ballet, less cruel but more dangerous than bull fighting.  And the glory moments are just that – being measured in seconds.  The performer’s professional life is short and even the best of them earn only a fraction of a professional ballplayer’s annual salary.

Just don’t call them cowboys.

*

Cowboys were hard-working men, twelve or fourteen hours a day, seven days a week, six weeks or more at a time.  At the railhead, they tended to become hard-drinking, hard-fighting, hard…well, we know…men.  Then it was back to Texas to start all over again.  All of this for a top salary seldom more than a sawbuck a week.  And when it wasn’t droving time, the ranches couldn’t keep all of the hands on salary, so the cowboy sort of drifted.

Some of them drifted into crime.  Some of them drifted in and out of crime.  As the herds passed through the Territories and the ranchers eyed the Oklahoma prairie as an ideal site for ranches, some of the cowboys eyed the area as ripe for pickings.

When the Unassigned Lands were opened for settlement by the Run of 1889, a huge part of Oklahoma’s open range became unavailable for cattle grazing.  Barbed-wire fences cropped up, ranches were abandoned and hundreds of cowboys were left without work.  Four years later, the Cherokee Strip, bordering Kansas, was opened by an even larger land run, with the same effect on cattle ranchers and cowboys.

While some outlaws chose their profession because it beat working, some took to robbing and stealing out of necessity.  Maybe Woody was right, after all.

*

Indian Territory was a patchwork quilt of separate governments and Oklahoma Territory had only municipal governments, if at all, making the future state not only vulnerable to lawlessness, but also an ideal base of operations for the lawless.  Some of the local boys confined themselves to stealing horses and cattle, or running whiskey to the Indians, but some took up robbing banks, businesses and trains.  Among the more colorful of them were Bill Dalton, Bill Doolin, “Tulsa Jack” Blake, John and Mack Glass, Bill, Henry and Belle Starr, “Little Dick” West, the Slaughter Kid, Jim, Pink and Tom Lee and Blue Duck (later fictionalized in Larry McMurtry’s “Lonesome Dove.”)

It came as quite a shock to many Oklahomans when research within the last couple of years revealed that Jesse James – ancestor of so many of my pre-pubescent girlfriends in the 1950’s – had never been west of the Mississippi River.  What is to happen to all of those stories about Jesse and Frank in Oklahoma and western Arkansas?

The occasional female also took up the outlaw trade, including Belle Starr and Tom King, the latter a skilled horse thief who was famous for her many jail breaks.  Although she dressed like a man and used a man’s name, one newspaper described her as having “a pair of eyes that would tempt a knight of St. John.”  She evidently flirted her way out of many a territorial jail, including once eloping with a deputy sheriff.  (The details of this last event read suspiciously like speculation by a sensationalist press.  If it happened at all, I haven’t found any records to indicate whether or not the love affair lasted much longer than it took Tom King to get the hell out of El Reno.)

*

Much like a Mafia family in the Twentieth Century, the most formidable Oklahoma outlaw gang handed down the reins of power from one family (the Daltons) to another (the Doolins.)

Bob Dalton was one of ten sons, four of whom became lawmen in the Territories.  Oldest brother Frank, a federal marshal, was killed in the line of duty during a shoot-out with a gang of whiskey runners.  Brothers Gratton, Bob and Emmett worked the right side of the law for a while, but decided that stealing horses and selling whiskey paid better.  More lucrative still was robbing trains, which they first tried unsuccessfully in California before returning to Oklahoma where the pickings were easier.

Train robbing in the Territories seemed fairly easy at first for a gang with guns, horses and ingenuity.  Trains carried the annual stipends promised to the Indian nations for relocating to Oklahoma, payrolls for post office workers and other federal employees and transfers between banks.  But train robbing quickly began to offer fewer rewards and more danger as federal marshals began to hide in waiting on particularly money-laden trains.

The Dalton Gang, after a couple of narrow escapes with trains full of armed deputies, decided it was time to retire.  In a real-life decision straight out of a thousand Hollywood movies, they decided to make one last big score before leaving the country for good.

Bob Dalton chose, as his farewell salute, to rob two banks at once – in the same town – something even the James Gang had never done.  I suppose he can be forgiven; he’d only been at the bank- and train-robbing business for a couple of years.  Maybe his success after the abortive California job had been mere beginner’s luck.  But of all the hubris, he chose his hometown, Coffeyville, Kansas, where his and his brothers’ faces were well known.

Five members of the Dalton Gang rode into Coffeyville on October 4, 1892.  When the smoke cleared after the shootout with law officers and local citizens, four were dead, including Bob and Gratton Dalton.  Only Emmett survived to go to prison and later write his memoirs.

Following Bob’s death, the man who would become the most notorious outlaw of his day took over leadership of the gang.

*

A sixth man had originally ridden with the Daltons toward their final shootout  that October, but turned back just outside of Coffeyville when his horse came up lame or threw a shoe.  He was never positively identified, but was believed to be Bill Doolin.

Bill Doolin was a peaceful cowboy until a misunderstanding with some Kansas lawmen over illegal possession of beer (Kansas was a “dry” state) left two of the officers wounded and Doolin a wanted man.  He had met some of the Dalton boys while he was cowboying and, since honest work was no longer an option he decided to throw in his lot with them.

Fortunately, he wasn’t with the gang that tried the double heist in Coffeyville the following year.

But during his one-year apprenticeship with Bob Dalton, he learned a good deal about the business of robbing trains.  After Coffeyville, he proved so successful as the leader of what was now the Doolin Gang that within a few months he had built his following up to possibly as many as ten or twelve other outlaws, not including the two star-struck teenage girls who called themselves Cattle Annie and Little Britches.  The girls ran errands, acted as spies and, nearly 90 years later, found themselves the title characters in a Hollywood western.

*

Until statehood in 1907, each nation in Indian Territory had its own legal system but was still subject to federal law (although tribal courts were abolished in 1898).  Oklahoma Territory’s only regional law was federal.  Oklahoma justice was handed out by the U.S. Court for the Western District of Arkansas, located in Fort Smith and personified, from 1875 to 1896, by Judge Isaac Parker, known as “The Hanging Judge.”

A former Missouri judge and two-term congressman, Parker was nominated at age 36 for the federal bench by President Grant, and charged with cleaning up the corruption of his predecessor’s tenure and the rampant lawlessness of Indian Territory.

Parker professed to be – and may well have been – opposed to the death penalty, and he was well-known as a champion of Indian rights and of women’s suffrage.    But his progressive views did not stop him from handing down the death sentence more than 160 times during his 21 years on the bench.  Accounts differ as to the number of the condemned actually executed, but it seems to have been somewhere between 75 and 90.

When the Supreme Court ruled that persons sentenced to death for federal crimes had the right to an appeal, almost 75 percent of the appellants had their convictions overturned by higher courts.  Parker was reportedly not pleased.

Parker earned his nickname during his first few months on the bench.  Incensed by the killing of so many of his appointed deputy marshals by outlaws, he ordered a gallows constructed that could hang 12 men at a time.  In the first four months after his arrival in Fort Smith, he presided over 18 murder trials resulting in 15 convictions and eight death sentences.

On September 3, 1875, six men were publicly hanged on Parker’s huge gallows, an event reportedly attended by 5,000 spectators and dozens of midwestern newspapermen.  Many accounts claim Territorial folks approved of Parker’s harsh brand of justice, but much of the rest of the country found it shocking and barbaric.  Nonetheless, it would be another 14 years before he was ordered to put a stop to public executions.

*

Almost entirely forgotten are the men who really made the state safe for sodbusting.  Only Oklahoma history buffs can rattle off the names of the “Three Guardsmen” and know who earned the title of “the man who drove the outlaws out of Oklahoma.”  Since lawmen are generally not as romantic as outlaws and cowboys, even many educated Oklahomans, who might be familiar with the legend of Bill Doolin, wouldn’t remember Bill Tilghman.

Judge Parker appointed upwards of 200 federal marshals to police the Territories and to bring outlaws (they are always referred to as “outlaws;” had the word “criminal” not been invented?) to justice at Fort Smith.  Several of these became locally famous in their day, but none more so than Bill Tilghman, Chris Madsen and Heck Thomas, the “Three Guardsmen.”

Tilghman, a former deputy sheriff under Bat Masterson in Dodge City, had already made a name for himself as an expert lawman when Parker lured him to Fort Smith in 1891.  Fearless and dogged, a sort of less-malign Inspector Javert, Tilghman dragged outlaw after crook after criminal to Parker’s court for trial.  And he brought more of them in alive than any other law officer of his time, killing only two men during his law enforcement career. He captured Bill Doolin without firing a shot, and later brought in Cattle Annie and Little Britches.

Tilghman later served in the state senate, as chief of police of Oklahoma City and as an advisor on an early motion picture, “The Passing of the Oklahoma Outlaws.”

Christian “Chris” Madsen was a soldier in the Danish Army before emigrating to the United States and enlisting in the cavalry, where he saw action in the mopping-up skirmishes with the Plains Indians for the next ten years.  In the early 1890’s, he accepted a post as deputy U.S. marshal for the Territories.  He was instrumental in tracking down members of the Doolin Gang, and there are many anecdotes (who knows how true, since they are mostly taken from newspaper reports of the time) about his skill and toughness.  Interestingly, he also later became a moving picture consultant.

The third of the “Three Guardsmen” was the only one to receive any modern recognition.  Henry “Heck” Thomas served as a deputy marshal for 30 years, and was credited with arresting more than 300 wanted men during that time.  It was Heck who killed Bill Doolin after Doolin refused his offer to surrender.  Although Tilghman was probably the better lawman, Thomas received more local acclaim and has had more books written about him.

In the 1972-73 and ‘73-74 television seasons, Heck Thomas was fictionalized as “Hec Ramsey,” played by Richard Boone in his post-Paladin days.  In the series (actually fairly good, since Boone was its star, but marred because it was produced by “Dragnet’s” Jack Webb) Ramsey was a sort of frontier Sherlock Holmes who used modern and not-yet-tested investigative techniques to solve crime in the Oklahoma Territory.

The fictional Hec Ramsey was based on a germ of truth, as Heck Thomas was noted for solving crimes by using stakeouts, logical deduction and playing one suspect off against another.

Folks who write about early Oklahoma history tend to gush a bit over “The Three Guardsmen,” but it does seem safe to say that they brought more than just a semblance of law and order to the Territories and made them a safer place to homestead.

*

Before Tilghman, Thomas and Madsen ran them down, the Doolin Gang spent five years robbing banks, trains and railroad stations in Oklahoma, Kansas and Missouri, earning extensive press coverage and even more extensive rewards on their heads.  But while they had once been hidden and protected by some local families and communities, the men found their traditional safe havens no longer so safe when the pressure against them really began to build in 1895.

At Doolin’s suggestion, the gang split up, only to be killed or captured, one by one.  Doolin himself was finally captured, peacefully, by Bill Tilghman, in January, 1896.  Deposited in the Guthrie jail, he was later joined in captivity by one of his confederates, Dynamite Dick.

Doolin and Dick staged a successful breakout in June, freeing several other big- and small-time crooks awaiting trial for everything from murder to counterfeiting to selling whiskey to Indians.

Several months earlier, Doolin had sent proposals to the marshal’s office in Fort Smith, offering to surrender if promised a minimum sentence.  The offers were refused.  Less than two months after the jail break, Heck Thomas, with the help of some of Doolin’s former citizen protectors, caught up with him.  Thomas reportedly offered Doolin the chance to surrender unconditionally.  Doolin refused and was later buried in Guthrie.

With the crushing of the Doolin Gang, the day of the big-time Oklahoma outlaw was ended.
Wait.  That’s not true.  Rampant lawlessness was ended, but big-time outlaws would flourish again.  And mid-century Oklahomans always held a special place in their hearts for their outlaws.

And as through your life you travel,
As through your life you roam,
You won’t never see an outlaw
Drive a family from their home.

Up next, Chapter 15:  Jesus loves the little children (as long as they’re not black.)

Mildred

You’re a hard man, Magee.

Molly.

“They don’t even keep salt on the table!  I had to get up and get it myself!”

It’s a catch-phrase in our household.  In a roundabout way, it has to do with our wedding.

Marianne and I were married in Paris on Valentine’s Day.  It sounds romantic, but was almost anything but.  Six of us gathered at Notre Dame cathedral: Marianne and I, my ten-year-old soon-to-be-stepdaughter, Kristi, my good friend Chuck McLain, ready to perform his wedding number three-hundred-and-some-odd, and Chuck’s Parisian friends, Georges and Christine.

Christine had allegedly obtained permission over the telephone for the ceremony to be performed in the cathedral, but forgot to ask the name of the priest on duty that day who had granted the permission.

Some member of the angry crowd that gathered around us summoned the cathedral police and we were escorted out into the bone-numbing cold of France’s worst winter in years.  Who would have thought a cathedral would have its own police force?

Chuck finally performed the ceremony in our third-floor walk-up apartment, where the wedding music on the little radio was the habanera from Carmen: “If you don’t love me I love you, and if I love you, watch out.”

[Note: a more complete version of this story is filed under "Personal:  Le Mariage."  Click here:  http://www.dimicklaw.net/thoughts/2009/07/02/le-marriage/ ]

*

Since no family members were invited to Paris for the wedding, some close friends hosted a reception for us back at home two months later.  We invited Mildred and Bob to stay with us for a few days and to attend the reception.  Rick was to fly out later.

The four of us took a day trip to Napa Valley and points west.  Rode the funicular up to the castle-like setting of Sterling Vineyards, with its spectacular view of the valley from north to south.  Had lunch at a four-star bistro and later walked on the beach at Jenner, where the Russian River meets the Pacific Ocean.  It was a genuinely nice outing and Bob loved it.  Mildred said little.

After dinner that evening, Mildred decided she had to call Rick back in Oklahoma.  Having a pretty good idea of what was up, I stood around the corner and listened.

“You can’t imagine what they put me through today,” she said, almost sobbing.  “We had to go to these…wineries.  And you know I don’t like wine.  Then we had to climb all of these stairs at the last place just to look out over a bunch of grape fields.  Then, they served me some undercooked something, I don’t even know what it was, I mean the vegetables were so crunchy I could hardly chew them.  And then, they made me walk on the beach and I was so tired I could hardly walk.

“And then at dinner?  They served me more undercooked food.  And the worst thing was, they don’t even keep salt on the table!  I had to get up and get it myself!”

Yes, when I set the table, I had forgotten to put out the salt and pepper shakers.  I still do, quite frequently, and when one of us has to get up from the table to get the salt, we all chime in.

**

Mildred had two, and only two, real friends, in her entire life: Wilma and Norma, with whom she roomed in Des Moines during the war years when she was waiting tables and going to business school part-time.  Norma married and had children; Wilma didn’t.  But they visited when they could and faithfully wrote for 60 years.  They are the only two friends I never heard Mildred disparage.

Discounting Wilma and Norma, no friendship was ever unconditional enough for Mildred, no praise grand enough, no acceptance pure enough.  In her view, people tended to dislike her, discount her and conspire against her, and she never knew why.

Friends who took her under their wing when she left Dwain and became a single mother struggling to raise two boys on a small salary and even smaller child support later turned against her, for reasons unknown.  New friends made in Midwest City would last a while – sometimes years – but they would all betray her in the end.

“Mil, how’s Mary Hattendorf?” I asked her once on the telephone.  Mary was a widow who had become a friend of Mildred’s, and had actually come with Mildred to California to visit me on two occasions.

“Oh, I don’t know.  I haven’t seen her in a long time,” she replied.

“Well, why don’t you call her?  Maybe she’s sick.  You know, she’s always been your good friend.”

“Maybe she should call me.”

“Mil, that’s not the point,” I argued, and reaching back to my Mickey Mouse Club days, tried to cajole her.  “You know, ‘to have a friend, you have to be a friend.’”

“Oh, I’ve always been her friend.  But if she won’t even call me, what can I do?”

*

Unlike my Auntie Verna on my father’s side, no one is left alive on my mother’s side of the family to give me information about what formed her.  All I have are her writings and my memories – memories which don’t begin until she was around 35 or so.  I have scoured both of these for clues to why she became what she became, with only some success.

There are snapshots of Grandpa Charlie Phearman and Stevie walking in the garden, but I was probably two or younger.  My earliest memories of him are after he went blind, broke his hip and refused to ever try to walk again.

Charlie would sit in his easy chair in the living room, alternately smoking cigars and a pipe, and listening to radio dramas.  Many of the great old shows were still on radio in the ‘50s, including “The Lone Ranger,” “The Shadow” and “Ma Perkins,” but Charlie’s favorite was “One Man’s Family.”  In later years (he died at 90), age and sensory deprivation left him in a foggy world, and the grandkids would make shameless fun of him at dinner for telling the same jokes repeatedly.

I heard a few stories about Charlie’s early years.  How he took great delight in eating Limburger cheese while the very smell drove the rest of the family away from the table.  How he ate raw eggs as a joke and once conned a girlfriend of Uncle Leo’s into following his lead, whereupon she immediately had to rush outside to throw up – all to Leo’s mortification and Charlie’s great glee.  How Mabel, after he went blind, would serve him strawberry or cherry pie and only afterwards slyly tell him it was rhubarb, which he professed to hate.

But nothing about cruelty, coldness, selfishness or narcissism.  In fact, when eight-year-old Stevie and five-year-old Ricky would wander unsupervised around Prairie City and become lost, we could ask any passerby for directions back to Charlie Phearman’s house.  The whole town knew him and liked him.

*

There are many more pictures and mental film clips of Mabel, Mildred’s mother, who to me was a saint.  She did sigh a lot, so maybe Mildred received the martyr syndrome from her mother.  But Mabel, at 70 and 75, would gladly cook a complete meal for 10 or 15 when Mildred’s (meaning Mildred, Steve and Rick), Ruth Adah’s (meaning Aunt Ruth, Uncle Daryl, Linda, Shirley and Dale), Carl’s (Uncle Carl and Aunt Berniece), Aunt Lena and Aunt Nellie (Mabel’s sisters) came for dinner.  Never a word of complaint and the sighs were less exasperation than exhaustion.

Mabel was born to be a grandmother.  She had 12 grandchildren, loved each of them as her own, and somehow made each of us feel as if we were her favorite.  Mabel’s was a lap on which I could cuddle.

(Mabel’s sister, Aunt Lena, however, was another story.  Aunt Lena was mean as a snake.  And it certainly didn’t help any that she married a Dutchman (Prairie City was largely of Dutch descent and the German families were a minority), who died long before I came along.  So maybe there was a family gene which skipped Mabel, but became dominant in Mildred.)

*

So all I have is what Mildred was and not why.  What she was was suspicious, tight-fisted and convinced that nobody liked her, for no justifiable reason.

In 1940, Mildred was living at the YWCA in Des Moines, waiting tables and going to school at Capital City Commercial College (commonly known as 4Cs – “It Pays to Attend a Good School”)  and playing basketball for the Y.  She wrote her mother on December 7, 1940,

We played the employees of the State Farm.  The girls won and the boys lost.  I got to play almost the whole game again.  He started the other girl but only let her play about 2 minutes.  Gee!  I just love to play – don’t know why he doesn’t start me in the beginning.

I made a 10¢ tip today but was asked for a dime to buy Margaret a present so I handed it over.  Isn’t that bad?  I no sooner get money than I have to give it up.

An old gentleman who is either a lawyer or court reporter went to Chicago and sent cards to the waitresses who had served him.  I got one – with the picture of a Chicago hotel on it. He’s certainly a nice old fellow but rather queer.  He always wears a stiff white collar and a black bow tie.

**

When Mildred’s second husband Bob died, it fell to my wife and me to clean out the house to prepare to move Mildred into an assisted living facility.  Rick was supposed to keep her occupied by playing board games with her, otherwise we’d never have gotten anything done.  She would question everything that went into a garbage bag.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a 15-year-old bank statement, Mil.  You don’t need it.”

“Oh…What’s that?”

“It’s a 20-year old tax return, Mil.  You don’t need it.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure, Mil.  Rick does your taxes and he said it was OK.”

“Well… I guess it’s OK….What’s that?”

“RICK!!  Help me out here!  Don’t you think it’s time for another game of Rummy-Cube?”

We tossed dumpster after dumpster of old bank statements, old tax returns, old letters and notebooks; made many trips to the Salvation Army and sorted the rest in preparation for an estate sale.  That is when I found what I have come to call the “Dwain box.”  I also found, read and tossed two spiral-bound notebooks and have kicked myself ever since.

*

After retirement, Bob had taken up golf and played nearly every day.  When he wasn’t playing, he hung around the clubhouse, eventually becoming a de facto assistant and adopted grandfather to the owner’s young daughter.  Mildred played bridge, volunteered at her church’s retirement home and took the occasional adult course at the local junior college.  She took at least two “creative writing” courses during these years, in which the assignment was to keep a journal and to write a story or essay about things the students noted in their daily lives.

Interspersed among the overly flowery descriptive essays were several pieces about interpersonal relationships, including one about her bridge friends and two about bus excursions she and Bob had taken to Nashville, Tennessee, and Branson, Missouri.

I should have these essays to quote from.  At the time, however, I was more interested in documents about family history or family stories than family psychoses.  I dare not even try to reconstruct them, but the outlines were pretty much the same:

I.  A group of people meet in a social setting that has been, or is expected to be, repeated, whether over a period of years or merely days.

II.  Marvelous time had by all;  Mildred thinks of them as (old or new) friends.

III.  Group meets again; Mildred excluded; others continue having grand time without her,

OR

III.  Mildred overhears remark or someone makes public remark;  Mildred realizes she will never be true part of group.

IV.  Mildred hurt, cries, resigns self to inevitable.

I watched this pattern for 50 years, until she got too old to even try.  Just as she described in her Iowa poem written before I was born, people were always conspiring against her, snubbing her, rejecting her or at least not paying her proper attention.  And it never occurred to her that people avoided her because she was honestly, genuinely unlikeable.

*

Having none left of her own, she pinned all her hopes on me.  When I failed to work out to her satisfaction, she centered on my brother, Rick.  There must have been a period of rootlessness before Rick’s wife had their first child and Mildred could dote on him, write poetry to him and believe he was the most perfect grandchild in the world.

There was some small room left in her heart for Rick’s second child and she would vehemently deny any favoritism between them (just as she would vehemently deny any favoritism between her sons), but nobody was fooled – not my brother and not my nephews.

There was no room left for anyone else.

*

The day after Bob died, Marianne and I arrived at the Oklahoma City airport around midnight.  Rick was exhausted from the hospital visits of the last several days.  When our plane was delayed in Denver, I told him to go to bed; we’d find our own way there.  We caught the last shuttle from the airport before it closed for the night and were taken to Midwest City.

The next day, to everyone’s surprise, Mildred’s older sister, Ruth Adah, and her daughter Linda, appeared at the door, down from Iowa.  “Don’t you remember, we called you last night and told you we were coming?”

Marianne remembered the phone ringing in the middle of the night.  Mildred, much further gone into dementia than I had realized, didn’t even remember the phone call.  Out of earshot of her sister, but not of Marianne, Mildred hissed, “I hate her.”

*

Funeral over, the family gathered at a local café for a last meal together before the Iowa contingent headed home.  Mildred had already made several comments about her “real” grandchildren (as opposed to my stepdaughter, Kristi, whom I raised from a pup and adore, and whose doting biological father even admits that it is proper that she refer to Mom and Steve as “my parents”), but was particularly offensive at this lunch.

“I always wished I had a real granddaughter,” she lamented, and was immediately attacked from all sides.  Cousin Linda was the leader.

“Aunt Mildred, I have children and stepchildren and grandchildren and adopted grandchildren, and Cal has children and adopted children and grandchildren, and to us, they’re all just…grandchildren.  We don’t make any distinction.  The kids are all family.”

But Mildred wouldn’t let go.  Advancing dementia had stripped most of her pretenses away, and  little more than an hour later, back at her house, she was at it again about her “real” grandchildren.

I could no longer hold myself back.

“Don’t you ever say that again,” I snapped, pointing a rigid index finger not a foot from her face.

“Why?”

Why?  WHY?  What the hell kind of answer was that?  I had expected something more along the lines of “Don’t say what again?”

“Because I’m goddamned sick and tired of you treating my family like shit,” I said, my voice rising and starting to sound frighteningly like Dwain.  “Marianne came out here and worked her butt off to clean out your house and help find you a place to live.  I’ve always asked Kristi to talk to you on the phone and to call you ‘grandma.’  But all you can do is snub my wife and complain because my daughter isn’t your real granddaughter.”

Neither Rick, who worshipped her, nor his wife, Susan, who didn’t, said a word.  This was between Mil and me, and I credit them greatly for realizing it.

“Steve, I don’t treat your family like shit,” she whimpered, all innocence and tears.

“The hell you don’t!  You embarrassed the hell out of a whole table full of friends and relatives at lunch.  I thought maybe Linda got through to you, but obviously not.  You haven’t let up on Marianne and Kristi since I got here.  I have one thing to tell you now, and you’d better get it straight: I changed my plane ticket to stay another three days to help get you settled, but if I hear you ever – ever – say that again, I’m out of here.  Do you understand that?”  The finger was still pointing.

“…Yes,” she said weakly.  “I’m sorry.”

This was no time for graciousness.  “You’d goddamned well better be,” I said, before slamming out of the house, walking around the block three or four times and spending the next half hour sitting on the curb waiting for my shaking to subside.

My nephews who, luckily, had missed this entire exchange, having been playing football in the back yard, found me on the curb later and asked if I would play with them.  After a three-man game, in which I switched sides depending on which nephew was on offense, we returned to the house and a world in which the scene had never happened.

*

“So the whole thing was just a waste of breath and I ended up looking bad in front of my brother and sister-in-law,” I told my counselor a couple of weeks later.  “She doesn’t remember anything that happened more than a few minutes ago.  And I certainly should know better.”

“Did she ever say it again?”

“No.”

“How long had you been there?”

“About five days.”

“And how many times had she made these comments during those five days?”

“Oh…two or three times a day, at least.”

“How long did you stay after this…incident?”

“Three more days.”

“Did she ever say it again?”

“Um…no, actually, I guess she didn’t.”

“She heard you,” said Mark.  “She heard you loud and clear.  She understands a lot more than you realize.  Don’t beat yourself up.  It’s OK.”

Next up, Chapter 14:  Tales of Oklahoma outlaws

Narcissism

C’est moi! C’est moi, I’m forced to admit.
‘Tis I, I humbly reply.

Alan Jay Lehrner

*  *  *

Personality Disorder:

An enduring pattern of inner experience and behavior that deviates markedly from the expectation of the individual’s culture, is pervasive and inflexible, has an onset in adolescence or early adulthood, is stable over time, and leads to distress or impairment.

Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders – Fourth Edition (DSM-IV)

*  *  *

When I first explained Mildred and Dwain to my counselor, he commented immediately, “So, they’re both narcissists.”

I always thought a narcissist was a person in love with himself who spent a lot of time primping in the mirror.  In the mental health profession, however, narcissism is one of the recognized personality disorders.

Well, that’s certainly my parents, I thought, after borrowing Mark’s tattered copy of DSM-IV.  Not quite like the other children, and suffering because of it.

According to the manual, five or more of nine criteria are considered necessary for a clinical diagnosis of Narcissistic Personality Disorder.  I calculate that Dwain fits six of them and that seven of them accurately describe Mildred:  A grandiose sense of self-importance; preoccupation with fantasies of unlimited success or fame or of ideal, everlasting love or passion; a belief that he or she is special and can only be understood by other special people; a requirement of excessive admiration, attention or affirmation; a feeling of entitlement or unreasonable expectations of favorable treatment; “interpersonal exploitation,” or using others to achieve one’s own ends; a lack of empathy or unwillingness to recognize the feelings and needs of others; envy of others or persecutory delusions, and arrogant and hauty behavior, or rage when frustrated or contradicted.

I also seem to see Oklahoma in five of the criteria.

Next up, Chapter 13:  Why is Mildred Mildred?