The Evenin' Shadders

MOORE — This is a story about a family. A big, big blended family, mind you. It’s a story about two divorced adults who struggled, then found each other. It’s a story about six little kids who joined forces to become brothers and sisters. It’s the story about four other little girls who might have been lost, had it not been for the gentle, hardworking plumber and his loving wife. This is a story about Steve and Maylene Sorrels. It’s also a story about Taylor, Cody, Michael, Nicole, Aylee, Gabriella, Breanna, Dalton, Victoria and Jaden. Yes, this is the story of one big family, but mostly, it’s a story about love. nnn The first thing you notice when you arrive at Steve and Maylene Sorrels’ home in Moore is the shoes. They’re everywhere. Small shoes. Tennis shoes. Boots. Overshoes. Snow boots. Casual shoes. More tennis shoes. They’re piled on the porch on a curved black shelf, just to the right of the door. What, at first, looks like the remains of a Wal-Mart sidewalk sale, is actually o

Sixty-six years ago, Paul Goodyear had to run to save his own life. A Petty Officer Third Class assigned to the USS Oklahoma, Goodyear had enlisted in the Signal Corps, believing that, after four months worth of training, he would return to a civilian life. “When the training ended, they wanted me to sign a request for a year’s sea duty,” he said. Shortly thereafter, Goodyear found himself stationed at the Pearl Harbor Naval Base in Hawaii. And on this particular Sunday — Dec. 7, 1941 — the job was easy. At Pearl Harbor, Sundays usually were. Sure, the miliary brass was concerned: In 1937 China and Japan had locked horns and two years later, Hitler had invaded Poland. But so far, the United States had stayed neutral. And even though then-President Franklin Roosevelt had signed the Lend-Lease act in March of 1941, American soldiers had seen little conflict. But the country was on high alert. “We knew before long we were gonna get involved in that deal in Europe,” Goodyear said. “It was

About an hour before midnight, the vast Oklahoma sky is a blanket of dark, inky velvet. Only a handful of stars dot the night. There’s a slight breeze; it’s cool, but enough residual heat remains to remind you that this afternoon the tempreature was in the triple digits. It’s August, so it’s dry and it’s hot. And it’s the type of weather that — sometimes — might bore a guy like Kevin Brown. But Brown, a senior forecaster the National Weather Center, knows that here, in Oklahoma, the weather doesn’t remain boring for very long. “Some people say we try to read God’s mind,” he says with a chuckle. “I get asked that at church a lot.” But Brown’s real mission is much simpler — protect life and property by trying, as he says, to “anticipate what the most likely outcome will be” from the weather data he has available. Arriving for the 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. shift, Brown and a co-worker will spend the next eight hours of this warm, August night surrounded with mountains of computer images and data

I stand on the porch and watch. Outside, my kids run and play in the twilight. The smallest, a sports nut, has organized an impromptu neighborhood football game. Their stadium is the street. Their turf, the asphalt. Clay goes long and catches a well thrown football. Not bad for an 8-year-old. On the driveway, my step-daughter, Sara, hovers with a covey of girls. I hear them giggle and gossip — the conversation is hushed, but if you watch closely, you’ll see her glance quickly at the tanned blond boy on the skateboard (who manages, easily, to stay just within eyesight). In the distance I can hear that damned ice cream truck — it plays the same song over and over and over. I like ice cream, but I really would like to deflate this guy’s tires. Thankfully, he bypasses our street. The rain has gone — for a couple of weeks now — and it’s hot. But my kids don’t care. Around me, I can hear the distant hum of central air units. I say a quite prayer of thanks for the inventor of Freon. In front

MOORE — It’s 5:30 a.m. A Thursday. Outside the first, faint rays of sunlight scatter through the dark, tall trees. Somewhere down the street, a small dog barks. It’s still in this neighborhood — just a stones throw off Fourth Street — most people are asleep. Most, but not all. At home, Daniel Allen is awake. He sits up, rubs his face and “wonders if he’s still on Earth” for several minutes before getting dressed — work-out shorts, a tank top, shoes and his right leg. “Can’t forget my leg,” he says, with a chuckle. “A leg is always a good thing.” Once the wayward limb is reattached, he heads downstairs, grabs an energy drink and leaves. He’s got about 30 minutes to get to the field. Thirty minutes before football practice starts. Thirty minutes and Daniel Allen is ready to play. • Standing about five-foot, six-inches tall and roughly 140 pounds, Daniel is slim, with curly black hair, brown eyes and a never-ending smile. At 17, this high school junior is the typical teenage kid. He’s fa