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Domestic Violence 1103

She was tall curvy and tanned, like a Vegas showgirl.   She was beautiful; blond with a perfect smile and long, slender legs. I watched her as she moved quietly through the mass of humanity that had invaded the Made in Oklahoma Building at the Oklahoma State Fair. Believe me, she stood out in the crowd.   She was dressed to show off her body—tiny, short shorts, a tube top, no bra. But the more I watched her, the more it seemed to me the choice of clothes wasn’t her idea. She seemed like more of a trophy — like an animal a hunter would tie to the front of the truck.   He was dressed in jeans, boots, a T-shirt and a stained, dirty ball cap. I’m assuming her was her husband -- because they both wore rings. But this was not a mutual relationship. It was obvious that he was the in total control.    Most couples I watched that day talked and held hands seemed to enjoy each other. This couple, though, was different. They didn’t walk together. He pulled her, she was always struggling to catch
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From Photographer to Lobbyist: The Story of Mandell Matheson’s Iconic Photograph of Elvis

Twenty-one-year-old Elvis Presley, performing as The Hillbilly Cat, swings his hips during a 1956 concert in Oklahoma City. The photo of Elvis was captured by Tulsa photographer Mandell Matheson. TULSA – The picture is black and white.  Taken 67 years ago in Oklahoma City, it’s a photo of Young Elvis. Slim. Hair in a pompadour. Standing on tiptoes.  Elvis had just turned 21.  His guitar is swung to the right side. His left hand is thrust toward the audience. His legs are doing all the heavy work, call it an early version the pelvic thrust. Behind him, the stage is sparse, a couple of amplifiers and a single microphone.  This was Elvis when he was known as the Hillbilly Cat. He wasn’t yet the king. This was young Elvis, appearing in Oklahoma City at the Civic Center Music Hall.  The photo is an iconic image of early Elvis. But that photo, taken on April 19, 1956, by a 17-year-old photographer named Mandell Matheson, would never be published by the newspaper Matheson worked for, the

Yeah, it's been a while.

 Around 12 or 13 years to be exact. Not sure why I stopped writing here. Life got busy, perhaps, or there was something else. Anyway, my apologies. I'll try to do better this time around. It's March 2024, it's sunny and the house is quiet.  I'm sure there's something out there for me to pontificate about. After all, it is Oklahoma...

Pink Toes

Zachary has pink toes. Thursday, that horrific, difficult, awful day, is over. And here, in the stillness of my home, the quiet is my benediction. My youngest son – the smallest, most fragile of a large, blended family – has stood at the edge of oblivion and returned. The weeks building to this day brought tension, anxiety, stress and fear. Overwhelmed by nature of Zachary’s needs, we, his parents, had no real plan, no other process in place. We simply turned our faces toward the storm and prayed. For the third time in our lives, Karen and I made the long, long walk down the yellowish-tan colored hallway to the operating theater. This time, Karen went in with Zach as they put him under. She walked out the doors sobbing. We returned to the third floor of Children’s Hospital and started out long vigil. The clock seemed to move backward. Once again, we huddled inside the waiting room with friends and family and made mindless conversation. We talked about politics and God and life.

The Night Shift

  You can tell the ones who work the night shift.             Their bodies move slowly, bathed in the yellowish amber glow of neon. Exhausted by the day and drained by fear, they seek refuge beneath the glass and steel that – at this moment – is their home. Their faces betray them. Their smiles have given way to pain. They are pale and gaunt with dark eyes and hollow, almost lifeless expressions. This is not their true being, mind you, just the mask of wear and worry assigned them by the night shift.             They have no time for fun or laughter. Under the steel and glass there is no smoky jazz club, no the out-of-the way bistro. Here, instead are the operating theaters and the nurses’ stations, their walls covered in drab paint. Here is the worn tiled floor, the proof of a billion footsteps. This is the night shift. Those assigned didn’t seek the task – it found them. Once the decision was made – surgery, hospitalization, medicine – they were placed in the cue like so many oth

Fall, 2010

My backyard is covered in leaves. Dry brown, scratchy, crunchy leaves. They dance over our driveway and skitter down the street. Bear, the cat, hides in them; and on occasion, Zach throws a few up in the air just to watch them float back to the earth. Autumn. Outside at this very moment a full, round moon shines brightly in the November sky. Our neighborhood is quiet, save for the occasional car which slips down the street. Inside the house, the noise of people finishing their day fills my ears. Karen and Clayton wash dishes. Molly, the Border Collie trots by, her tags jingling. Zach trundles down the hall calling for his sister; she's still trying to catch up on all that school-assigned reading. Another soft autumn day. I'm thankful for the gift.

Back home

I'm surrounded by trees. The world is green, full and growing. Here, under the shadow of the old porch, I watch the trees sway back and forth, their limbs pregnant with leaves. I rewind to the past; back to a time when there were no worries about jobs, or issues, or problems that come with being an adult. For a few moments, my parent's house is again filled with the smell of summer: watermelon and fruit and the earthy-oily scent of my father's coveralls after a day in the oil field. There, briefly, I remember the dogged heat of the day, the squish of soft asphalt underneath my tennis shoes and the gritty feeling of dirt mixed with sweat. I close my eyes and relive the pleasure of the dark, damp cool that filled the house, the aroma of cantaloupe and the taste of ice cold tea. At that time, Kick-the-Can was a national pastime and transportation was simple -- I travelled a million miles on a beat-up Schwinn three-speed bicycle. I stand quietly and strain to remember my previo