Steve Dimick — Law 'n' Stuff

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.

Notre Dame de Paris, Feb. 14, 1991

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.

Grandpa Charlie Phearman

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.

Mildred. Undated (probably early 1930s)

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.

*

Bob Pilkinton

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.”

*

Ruth Adah and Mildred, after Bob's funeral, 2000

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?

Prairie City

Would you like to come over for tea
With the missus and me?
It’s a real nice way to spend the day
In Dayton, Ohio,
On a lazy Sunday afternoon
In Nineteen Hundred and Three.

Randy Newman

1947 – 1967

Mildred tried to vacation in Prairie City every August for Old Settlers’ Day, and once or twice a year she would flee Oklahoma to return to Prairie City.

Until I was in high school, we always took the train to Des Moines.  Even after the divorce, Dwain could still get rail passes for Rick and me, and Mildred buying a ticket only for herself was cheaper, and certainly easier, than driving 600 miles.

I loved trains; loved the soothing click of the wheels on the rails, the gentle sway of the coach, the dining car with its starched linen tablecloths (where we almost never had enough money to venture), the black porters, the conductor with his magical ticket punch, the expansive leg room, the seats that folded all the way down for sleeping.  Once, we even rode in a Pullman car with real upper-and-lower beds and curtains, just like in the movies.

We would leave from the Santa Fe station in downtown Oklahoma City.  The station was nice enough, but nothing like Union Depot in Kansas City, where we frequently had to change trains.  Union Depot was larger than my elementary school playground, with a ceiling a mile high, all sculpted and rounded, with tiny helium balloons way up there, loosed by tiny children way down here.

Sometimes, if the layover between trains was long enough, the Dishmans would pick us up and take us home with them, so the adults could catch up and the kids could sleep.  The Dishmans were former next-door neighbors in Oklahoma City, who had moved to a suburb of Kansas City.  As a baby, I couldn’t say “Dishman,” so it was settled that I, and later Rick, would call them “Aunt Mary” and “Uncle Dish.”

Driving through downtown Kansas City at night revealed a magical world compared to Oklahoma City.  Huge buildings, all lit with giant neon advertising against the night sky.  (“They went and built a skyscraper seven stories high/That’s just about as tall as a building oughta grow…”) When I first saw Times Square it had nothing on my memories of downtown Kansas City.

Charles & Mable Phearman, 1940s

Later, it was back on the train from Kansas City to Des Moines, where someone would pick us up and drive us to Prairie City.  Usually Uncle Carl or Aunt Ruth Adah.  My memories of visits with Grandma and Grandpa Phearman are just as warm as were Mildred’s, with the exception that I don’t believe that all of the world outside of Iowa is full of hateful people.

But for a two- and three- and ten- and fifteen-year-old Oklahoma boy, Prairie City was gentle and calm, a world out of time and nothing like Oklahoma City or Midwest City.  I would go back if I could, but I can’t.  It wouldn’t be the same.  Everybody I knew back then is now long dead and I prefer the town of my memories to what I fear I would find today.

In the 1950′s and 1960′s the population of Prairie City was pretty stable at about 700 to 750 people.  I used to quip to my friends that its population had remained steady for forty years: “Every time a baby is born, a man leaves town.”  Later in the century, it became something of a bedroom community for Des Moines, and its citizenry almost doubled.  The 1990 census gives its population as 1366; the 2000 census puts it at 1365.  Maybe there was a woman in that decade who was uncertain of paternity.

*

The streets were wide and tree-lined, the lots were large and no one wanted fences.  The city lots flowed into each other like a town commons.  The Phearmans were among the poorest people in town, yet their lot directly abutted that of Mr. McKlveen, owner of the lumber yard, and the richest man in town.  As a very small child, I would “recite” for Mr. and Mrs. McKlveen, and he would give me a dime.

The Phearman house was two blocks from the town square in one direction, and two blocks from farmland in the other.  Charlie and Mabel, ever the farmers until they became too feeble, rented a plot of land just at the end of their street for a truck garden, where they grew corn, tomatoes, melons and strawberries.

There is probably a strip mall in the Phearmans’ cornfield now.  Then, however, the commercial district was solely the four streets surrounding and facing the town square.  The grocery store and hardware store still had worn wooden floors.  The weekly newspaper was on the square, as was Travis Walters’ furniture store and the funeral home, also owned by Trav Walters, a high school classmate of Mildred’s.

Dr. Ella’s office was in her home, where she treated me for various problems, including a concussion (from falling off of playground equipment at age eight) and a horse kick to the groin (during my 13th summer which I spent on the dairy farm of my great-aunt Lena’s son, Dale).  Dr. Ella was a fixture.  One of the first women doctors in Iowa, she had delivered most of the babies in town and had practiced there for just about as long as anyone could remember.

**

Forty-some years later, I had a client with some legal dealings in Iowa.  To my surprise, a recent letter to her was from an attorney with two offices in central Iowa – one in Prairie City.

This was worth a phone call.

No, he didn’t remember the Phearmans, but many of the same names were still there: Walters, McKlveens, Jarnigans.

“How about the Berkenbosches?” I asked.

“Would that be Dale or Beryl?”

“Either one,” I said.  “They’re my mother’s cousins.  Their mother was Mabel Phearman’s sister.”

“I’m in the Lions Club with Beryl,” he said.  “Have you read ‘Prairie City, Iowa?’”

“No…never heard of it.”

“Find a copy.  You’ll like it.”

I did and I did.  Douglas Bauer, a Prairie City boy who went off to Chicago to become a Playboy editor, returned years later to chronicle a single year of prairie life and to prove, as one review put it, that “you can go home again.”  Bauer captured the soul of the small midwestern farmer and the small midwestern town with respect, skepticism and humor.  I am, of course, prejudiced.  Even so, I have to discount the glowing reviews in Playboy and The Des Moines Register.  But The Washington Post also loved it, as has everyone to whom I have loaned my copy.

**

Mildred referred to her frequent visits as “going home” – a curious word usage to me until I went away to college and found myself referring to my college apartment as “home” and Mildred’s house as “Mildred’s house.”  I realized then that Iowa would always be “home” to Mildred, “home” being not a place, but a concept.  Home is a security blanket, a place where you go for safety and healing.  Home is where the heart is and I can’t believe I just wrote that, except that it’s true.

Grandma always cried when we arrived and cried when we left, even though they wrote each other two or three times a week and seldom went six months without seeing each other.

*

The Prairie City house had a kitchen sink by the time I came along, and an electric range, installed in what had been the pantry, although the huge coal stove would still stand in the country kitchen at long as the Phearmans lived.  The indoor toilet, however, didn’t arrive until 1952, when the kids chipped in and had it installed for the folks’ 50th wedding anniversary.  Until then, the facilities consisted of a two-holer outhouse in the barn, a good thirty or forty feet from the house.  Understandably, each bedroom had a chamber pot tucked underneath the bed.

Dimly lit, smelly, dusty and full of spiders, the outhouse caused me to develop voluntary constipation each time we visited.  I simply wouldn’t go until I couldn’t help it anymore.  I also learned early that I could pee through the window screen of the upstairs bedroom out onto the porch roof, and it would drain down the gutters.

*

Every August the town celebrated “Old Settlers’ Day,” commemorating its founding in 1856, with the festivities centered around the town square.  The festival itself probably hadn’t changed much in a century:  picnics on the square, John Philip Sousa blaring from the bandstand, patriotic speeches, introduction of the town’s oldest and youngest citizens, and an amateur talent competition after dark.  I once won two dollars for singing “Your Cheatin’ Heart” and “How Much Is That Doggie In the Window.”

It was the biggest event in town, and the only thing that came even close was the Odd Fellows annual clam chowder feed.

Old Settlers’ Day, 1956, was more festive than usual, it being the town’s centennial, and the Old Settlers’ Association made money by selling cast-iron doorstops in the shape of oxen pulling a covered wagon, with hand lettering reading “Prairie City – 1856 – 1956.”  This too, had once been Indian land and then the white man’s frontier.

Grandma Phearman’s doorstop stayed in Prairie City until her death in 1967.  It then moved to Midwest City for more than 30 years and now sits atop a bookcase in a law office in Castro Valley, California.

**

When the Oklahoma branch of the family was in residence, Sundays were family day, when the house would overflow with Mabel’s sisters, nieces and nephews, children, grandchildren and not a few great-grandchildren.  Mabel wouldn’t stop from morning until well after dark and no amount of “Mom, please sit down and let us do that” would make her rest.  Even as a five-year-old, I couldn’t see how she kept it up.

Being underfoot anyway, the children would go outside to pump water from the wells (just for the novelty of it) or wander down to the schoolground to play, or out into the cornfields just two blocks from the house.  You could walk anywhere in Prairie City since it was (and still is) only about one square mile in area.  And you could do it unsupervised; there was no crime in Prairie City.

On weekday evenings after dinner, we played games.  Mabel taught me Acey Deucey (twenty years later, I learned it was Backgammon).  Or the four of us would sit in the porch swing for hours until bedtime playing “I’ve Got a Secret,” or I would listen while Mabel and Mildred gossiped and Rick slept.  Charlie, of course, was back in his easy chair, nursing his pipe and listening to the radio.    What are “Amos and Andy” doing on the radio? I thought at the time.  It’s a television show!

Everyone who walked down the street waved and spoke, and Mabel had a story about each one.  Whose son almost lost a leg in a tractor accident; whose husband had taken to drinking; whose father just died; who was expecting her fourth grandchild; who told her that a “darkey” was going to move to town.

Sometimes the village idiot – Garrett, I think his name was – would shuffle by.

There would have been ugliness there, too, and some unhappiness and occasional violence and general intolerance of anything different.  They were people, after all, and farm people, and midwestern people just two generations away from the Indian wars and half a generation away from the Depression.  But I was too young then to know it and am old enough now to be thankful that I didn’t.

When I first heard singer-songwriter Randy Newman’s song, “Dayton, Ohio,” I thought immediately of Prairie City and I wished I could take my wife and daughter back there, and I still think of Prairie City and of the old house with its long-unused barn and two-holer privy and of the town square and Old Settlers Day and reciting for the McKlveens and of the rich black dirt in Charlie’s leased cornfield and of Grandma Mabel’s hugs made of genuine, unqualified love and of the warm summer nights on the porch swing playing “I’ve Got a Secret,” and I no longer find it strange that Mildred always called it “home.”

Old Settlers' Centennial memorial doorstop

Next up, Chapter 12:  A couple of narcissists

Statehood

WEE yah, HEY yah,
WEE HEE yah HEY yah.
HEEEY yah.
HEEEY yah.

Indian Gibberish Wedding Song, 1957.  Author best forgotten.

1907 – 1957

“Uncle Joe!  Uncle Joe!  Tell us a story!”

It took me months in the fourth grade to live down the nickname of “Uncle Joe.”  Mrs. Melton, the music teacher, a budding theatrical impresario, had prepared a “pageant” for the kids to present to the student body and parents.  It was a lovely story and a well-known one to Oklahomans, losing little of its glory for being basically untrue.

We believed it, and proudly, and probably Mrs. Melton did, too.  It was, after all, in all of the history books.

I was chosen as the narrator.  At nine years old, I had only to look about 59 or 69, this being the 50th anniversary of statehood.  So with string-mop beard and deep wrinkles drawn on my face with eyebrow pencil, I held my arms out in a symbolic embrace of my large stage family.  Eager children were in front, soon joined by ghostly noble Indians to stage right and ghostly noble (white) settlers to stage left.

“I shall tell you the story of the Wedding of the Oklahoma Territory to the Indian Territory.”

“Oh, yes, Uncle Joe!  We love that story.”

“Well, my children, as you know, Oklahoma was the 46th out of the 48 states to be admitted to the Union.  But fifty years ago, Oklahoma was still only a territory, like Hawaii or Alaska today.  Right next door was Indian Territory.

“And the Great White Father in Washington decreed that there could be only one State of Oklahoma.  And thus it came to be that the Indian maiden was married to the white settler in a ceremony symbolizing the union of their two territories.”

Ceremonial music played on a scratchy hi-fi in the elementary school “cafetorium” as the Great White Father pronounced his blessing on the young, innocent couple.

Fifty years later, I remember the chant sung by the fourth-grade Indians, the white robe worn by the symbolic Indian maiden and the noble and conflict-free way in which the love story was presented.

Except it didn’t happen that way at all.

*

In 1800, Oklahoma was home to approximately 60,000 Indians.  By 1889, there were 80,000.  The Territories’ total population in the 1900 census was 400,000 and was estimated to be 700,000 in 1906 – Indians to the east and the settlers to the west – with more than 300,000 of these inhabitants claiming membership in the Five Civilized Tribes.

The pressure from settlers made statehood inevitable, but in what form?  One large state?  Two small states?  Oklahoma Territory becomes a state and the landlocked Indians are left to their own devices?

As always, the civil servants (bean counters, chart makers and plan formulators) had their way, but how to break this to the Indians?  For reasons obscure to me – given that Louisiana had become a state with a set of laws based on the Napoleonic Code and not on English Common Law – Washington insisted that real property law in the new state must conform to Common Law, which was the basis for the laws of all the other states, save one.  Title must be held by individuals, and must be capable of being passed down to heirs.

But Indians did not own land.  They had never owned land.   Land was for all; it was incapable of being “owned.”  Mankind merely occupied it, or the tribe controlled it, but the idea that “these acres are mine and those are yours” was more than just a foreign concept: it simply made no sense.  Even after Reconstruction stripped much of their lands from them – relegating reservations to 160 acres per tribal member and opening the surplus lands for settlement – the tribes had continued to hold their lands in common and without survey or private title.

The Great White Father therefore established the Dawes Commission, whose mission it was to survey the Indian lands, to decide who was an Indian and who was not, and to “allot” parcels of land to the qualified, including the Indians and – in some instances – their slaves.

The Dawes Commission compiled the Indian Rolls – which my great-grandmother Susie Crick refused to sign – establishing just who was full-blood, three-quarter blood, half-blood or less than half-blood, and therefore, who was to be allotted a parcel of tribal land.  These parcels ranged from as small as 40 acres for Cherokee minors to 320 acres for certified Choctaws and Chickasaws.

As early as 1898, the GWF (always planning ahead) abolished all tribal courts, and decreed that all of Indian Territory was subject to federal jurisdiction out of Fort Smith, Arkansas, notorious for its recent overlord, Isaac Parker, the “hanging judge.”  The Dawes Commission, among its many other accomplishments, stripped the last bit of sovereignty from the tribes by “negotiating” that all Indian governments would cease to exist in 1906.

As usual, the Indians sent delegations to Congress, protesting the allotment scheme and promoting an Indian state to be called “Sequoyah.”  As usual, the Creeks rebelled.  As usual, the Indians were given no choice in the matter.  The Oklahoma Enabling Act was passed in 1906, decreeing that the two territories would be joined into a single state, setting forth the parameters for a state constitution and authorizing a constitutional convention of delegates from both territories.

*

My fourth-grade Indian pageant should have had a weeping bride being brought to the altar in shackles, forced to marry her uncouth suitor.  And she should not have been wearing a virginal white robe, having been repeatedly raped by the white man over the centuries.

But given our inferiority complex, our next-to-the-last-state, dirt-poor, dust-bowl history, we had little to be proud of other than Indians and oil.  And, as folks said in those days, “why dwell on the unhappy part of the past?”

*

William H. “Alfalfa Bill” Murray was elected president of the Oklahoma Constitutional Convention.

Alfalfa Bill had always been something of a hero of mine, based on what little we had been taught or I had heard. President of the Oklahoma Constitutional Convention, first Speaker of the Oklahoma House of Representatives, two-term congressman, ninth governor, presidential candidate, firebrand and all-around colorful character.

And, oh, that marvelous droopy, soup-strainer moustache.

I knew people who used to eat breakfast at the same Oklahoma City restaurant every morning as Alfalfa Bill.  He would order a whole, sliced, raw onion and munch it down with his steak and eggs.  You evidently didn’t want to get into too intimate a conversation with Bill Murray.

A life-long agrarian, Murray contended that “Civilization begins and ends with the plow.”  In the early 1930′s, he organized an unsuccessful colonial expedition to Bolivia, hoping to found an agrarian utopia based on cotton.  Later, after returning to Oklahoma and being elected governor, he became a pint-sized Huey Long, publicly championing the little man while making sure that his patronage powers did well for him.  He promoted free textbooks, secured an appropriation to provide free seed for kitchen gardens for destitute people and allowed citizens to grow vegetables on state property.

Murray used the Oklahoma National Guard as his own personal police force, including ordering them to collect tickets at University of Oklahoma football games and to take over thousands of oil wells to slow down the excess production that was glutting the market and causing prices to plummet.

His most famous exploit, and the one which first brought him to my attention, involved several toll bridges built by the state of Texas over the Red River, which separates Texas from Oklahoma.  Murray was fervently opposed to toll bridges and ordered the Oklahoma state highway department to construct a free bridge on a different state highway crossing the river.  When Texas obtained a court injunction ordering the free bridge closed, Murray summoned the National Guard, blocked access to the toll bridges and forced the reopening of the free bridge.

Prominently driving the lead bulldozer blocking the major toll bridge was Alfalfa Bill Murray.  That’s my kind of governor.  Or he was, until I began my research for this book.

*

Nearly twenty years before his bulldozer heroics, my erstwhile hero’s first proposed constitution for the new state contained such severe restrictions on the civil liberties of black citizens that President Theodore Roosevelt threatened to veto it.  The convention delegates simply shrugged their shoulders and drafted a squeaky-clean constitution which, no sooner than it was ratified by Congress, they proceeded to amend in their first legislative session.

Alfalfa Bill was Speaker of the House when state constitutional amendments were passed mandating segregated educational facilities for whites and blacks, segregated hearses, segregated water fountains and segregated transportation facilities.

We didn’t learn this in school, any more than we learned about the shotgun wedding between the Territories – with the shotgun paradoxically pointed at the bride.

*

Murray’s second draft of the Oklahoma Constitution (minus the racial restrictions which were later re-inserted) was actually pretty progressive, compared to most other state constitutions. It prohibited child labor and convict labor, mandated an eight-hour work day on public projects and established an initiative process whereby citizens with enough signatures could place a petition on the ballot for approval or rejection by all of the voters.

The initiative process was referred to as “direct democracy” when it was proposed in California four years later, but Oklahoma got there first.

It was a progressive and reformist time in the country, except for the White House.  Roosevelt didn’t like the state’s second proposed constitution either, but felt politically unable to veto it.  Instead, he sent his hand-picked presidential successor, then-Secretary of War William Howard Taft, to Oklahoma to campaign against its adoption by the citizens.

The Democrats countered by inviting the country’s most famous speaker, William Jennings Bryan, to stump the state to urge adoption of the proposed constitution and support for Democratic candidates in the upcoming election.  Bryan declared the constitution “the best…of any state in the Union,” and “one of the great documents of modern times.”

The proposed constitution was ratified overwhelmingly by Oklahomans in 1907, as was a separate constitutional amendment for prohibition.

Equally overwhelming was Bryan’s loss the following year in his third presidential bid.

Bryan’s final defeat wouldn’t come for another 18 years yet, with the Scopes “Monkey Trial” in 1925, and the “silver-tongued orator” would continue to help shape progressive (for those days) American politics until that time.

A bigot, braggart and blowhard, but a champion out-of-step with his time, Bryan not only lost a handful of presidential elections, but saw the free-silver monetary policy for which he fought for decades (“You shall not crucify mankind upon a cross of gold”) defeated or ignored, again and again, in Congress.

Bryan just might be the most famous loser in American history.  Yet it can be argued that, for all his failures, he ensured the passage of the most progressive state constitution of all the forty-six, and that he closed the American frontier and placed the hasp on its gate.

Give Bryan his due: the closing of the frontier was no mean feat.  And a glorious feat it was…if you were European…as was Bryan.

But if you were Native American or African American, the clanking sound of that gate signaled the end of any hope of freedom or dignity for the best part of the rest of the century.

Next up, Chapter 11:  Prairie City, Iowa.  More home than home.