The Evenin' Shadders

Dear Ethan: With all that’s happened over the last year, it seems ages since I’ve sat down and just thought of you. It seems like just yesterday, I carried you, wrapped in blankets down the hall to meet your grandparents for the first time. I remember rocking you to sleep and the endless hours of singing old Jimmy Buffett songs. You and I have constructed thousands of miles of train tracks, read Dr. Suess backward and forward and ridden our bicycles across the city. I’ve watched you grow from a small, busy little red-headed boy into a remarkable young man and I’ve laughed out loud at some of our Boy Scout camp out adventures. Yes, you amaze me. It would take far too many words to list the faults and the mistakes I’ve made in trying to raise you. Yet, somehow, inspite of my own inept attempts at parenting, you managed to grow into a happy, strong and creative teenager. You smile, you’re happy and you care about those around you — all traits, my son, which will carry you far. I love the

The Transcript newsroom is quiet. Where there are usually at least 10 different people all going about the required motions to publish a newspaper, today it's just myself and the city editor, Linda. Occasionally, the scanner will crackle and remind you that police, firemen and the guys who drive the ambulance also have to work on Christmas Day. But at this moment, it's still. Earlier this afternoon, I covered (along with my wife and my infant son, Zach) Norman's annual Christmas Day Dinner at Norman High School. Being thrown into a huge mix of humanity was good for me; it forced me to get out and connect with people again. There, I saw the poorest of the poor having dinner with those who only lacked company. The kids lined hundreds deep to see Santa and then hit the toy line. The murmur of voices provided a soundtrack for the dinner.  It was only later, while sitting in front of this computer and hearing nothing by the clack of the keyboard, that I realized just how stark t

Somewhere southwest of here — before you get to the Red River — there’s a small town that’s typical of most Oklahoma small towns. Between two and four thousand people live there; most of them farmers and the families of farmers. They’re good people — caring, hardworking and mostly honest. They eat at the local diner, buy their cars from the local dealer, and get their groceries at the family-owned grocery store next to the post office. It’s not a metropolis, but there’s a dry cleaners, a post office, a small newspaper and a motel. And, as far as Oklahoma small towns go, it’s a pretty good place to live. But on this particular year, during this particular December, an event occurred in this small town that some residents still only whisper about. Some don’t believe it happened; other swear they got the truth from “a friend of a cousin’s uncle” or some other loose, non-traceable connection. There are a few people in town — the ones who go to church regularly — who were actually there wh

Mel wants 300 words. By Wednesday. He doesn't care what they say; the subject is up to me. Great. No problem. Just 300 words. Compared to War and Peace, that's the literary equivalent to spelling Tolstoy's name. Okay, 300 words. Let's count: 299, 298, 297, 296, 295, 294, 293, 292, 291...granted it's not saying much, but — and you have to admit this — it does flow well. Heck, I can do 300 words easy. Oh, and then he wants another 300 words? So this is an on-going thing? That makes 600. What? Then another 300 words? Lemme see, (furiously counting on fingers and toes) that's makes 900. Damn. I need 900 words? That cold, Twilight Zone type of feeling creeps into my skin. What do I write about? What do I say? For that matter, who cares and does anyone want to read this stuff? Oh yeah, that's just the words needed for this week. Next week it will be the same. Say, didn't Dickens get paid by the word? Yep, he did. Made a bunch of cash, too. Maybe that's an

My kids are all geniuses - at least that's what they tell me, their stupid father. I am ignorant. I don't understand; I just don't get it. Okay, so I'm dumb. But I'm still the parent and I take a deep, fulfilling joy from yanking my kid's chains. I love messing with their tiny, fertile brains. I love turning the tables on them and giving them a dose of their own twisted logic. For example, my 13-year-old daughter sees nothing wrong with lying in bed and sending text messages back and forth until say, maybe, 4 a.m. Our conversation went something like this: "I'm sooooooooooo sleepy," little Miss Sore Thumbs said. "I'm tooooooo tired to go to school." "Why are you so tired? You went to be at 9:30." "Well I didn't go right to sleep. I laid in bed with my eyes open for a while." Now, what she doesn't understand is that at 3 a.m. I was up, and I happened to see light under her door. Knowing her propensity to tex

They're dangerous and they're old. They come out of hiding late in the afternoon and they lurk on the spice aisle. They start out alone but once at the store, they travel in packs. They are the Sage Ladies and they don't take no for an answer. They arrive in their Sedan DeVilles or their Contentials. Their hair is a remarkable shade of blue not normally found in nature; it matches the attitude. And any man — absolutely any man — who is under the age of 50 is fair game. "Excuse me sonny," one ancient leader of the Sage Tribe asked. "Can you direct me to the spice aisle?" "Your standing on it," I replied. "Well aren't you a smart one," she snorted. I kept waiting for her to hop and broom and zoom out of site; she didn't. So, I began to push my cart east, toward Mecca and the produce aisle. "Well...?" she snorted again. "Pardon me?" "I asked you a question." "I'm sorry, I guess I didn't

It’s no secret the 1950s were a time of great economic revival and growth for the United States. The USA had won World War II. Hitler was dead; Germany and Japan were defeated. Our troops had come home. Babies were being born. Ike was president. On the surface, things looked great. But underneath all this starched, white prosperity, a fear grew. This fear festered and seeped until it infected the core of society. It was a fear which pushed neighbor against neighbor and friend against friend. It was a fear which forced family member against family member. It was a fear which started the Cold War. And while most people have a pretty good understanding of that era in history, fewer realize just how the fear of Communism spread, and what effects it had on society and freedoms. Enter David Everitt. A former magazine editor, Everitt — who writes on entertainment and media issues for The New York Times, Entertainment Weekly, Biography and other publications — understands this fear better than

Being a Watergate junkie, last Saturday's assignment was to die for. My boss, Andy, wanted me to cover the ACLU's annual Bill of Rights banquet in Oklahoma City. I was being asked to go becasue Daniel Ellsberg was the guest speaker. Okay, you remember who Daniel Ellsberg is, don't you? The Pentagon Papers? Watergate? Richard Nixon? I jumped at the chance. Karen, my wife, went with me. The bash was being held at the Clairon in Oklahoma City and dinner was included. Hey it doesn't get any better. We got their early for the interview—and for about 30 minutes I had Daniel Ellsberg all to my self. We sat in the lobby outside the room where the dinner would be and talked. I got to ask him several questions I'd always wanted to, then the weirdness started. Behind me, in another of the hotel's room, a group of people were dancing — and just as Ellsberg began to speak about Watergate the band started playing The Chicken Dance. Yeah, the Chicken Dance. So, my interview w

Most people don’t remember him. He served as a United States Senator. He was from Oklahoma — a native son. He was born poor, but smart. He attended the University of Oklahoma and, eventually, earned a Law Degree. His name is Fred Harris. And he came damn close to being President of the United States. With the 2008 presidential election finished, former Senator Fred Harris’ memoir, Does People Do It? offers political junkies (who didn’t get enough of the recent presidential campaign) a chance to visit the past and discover a vivid, personal, and at times touching portrait one of Oklahoma’s most successful politicians. A child of the Great Depression, Harris grew up in Walters, Oklahoma. He hit the political scene early, running for and getting elected to the Oklahoma Legislature. From there, at 33, he went on the United States Senate, filling the seat formerly held by “the uncrowned king” Robert S. Kerr, who had died. Elected during the time of the Kennedys, Nixon and Watergate, Harris

Jack and I used to work together. He's taller than me, bald and very smart. Every morning we'd hit the break room for coffee and some conversation — which usually lasted throughout the day. Often it was religious. Jack's very well read and if the they gave out PhDs in Theology for just a general, rock-solid knowledge of Christianity, Jack would have several. I miss him. Oh, it's not that anything is wrong. Jack and his family are fine. But I simply miss him. I miss the conversation, the lunches, and the friendship. I miss hearing about his family and what he was planning for the weekend. I miss a conversation between two men about something more than football. Funny thing, too, Jack and I work in the same town. He's my friend and, over the past several months I've let that friendship slide. And that's wrong. I need to call Jack. I need to tell him I miss him. I need to be a better friend.

Driving from north Oklahoma City to Norman daily, you begin to notice things. The guys on the road. New construction. New buildings. Stuff like that. But Thursday, Sept. 11, was different. The road was slick with rain and the sky, dull and gray. I drove alone, listening to Simon and Garfunkle. It was at the 23rd Street overpass, that my trip became more than just the daily trek to Norman. There, standing alone on the overpass was an elderly man. He looked, say, about 60. Jeans. Large checked shirt. Ball cap. He stood silently. In the rain. Holding a large American Flag. It was obvious that for him, this date had some importance. I reached over and turned off the radio — the silence of the car broken only by the slap of the windshield wipers against the glass. I slowed and, acknowledged him with a sort of salute-wave. He saw me and, in return, nodded his head. I'm still not sure how I felt, but I know the day somehow seemed better because of that brief exchange. Someone else had giv

I was tired. It had been a long, long day. School. Work. Latin. More Latin. Homework. Then the, "Honey can you pick up the kids?" phone call. Thankfully, the parking lot of Incredible Pizza is big and they don't mind if you hang out in the fire lane (at least as long as you stay in your car). So I waited. And waited. And waited. The kids didn't want to leave. Karen went back inside for a meeting, and Zach wasn't happy. More waiting. Then, the storm. For some unknown reason, the youngest Carter — now sporting a bad attitude and three teeth — started crying. The cries quickly became a scream. A real, loud, destroy-your-hearing scream. Seriously, Zach was not happy — he went from screaming to crying and wailing, then he broke out the soul-wrenching, window shattering unhappy screams. Now I understand why some parents murder their children. Nothing I did, absolutely nothing, could make Zach happy. The screaming -- at several decibels higher than the average Van Halen

A few months ago — July 4th, to be exact — former U.S. Senator Jesse Helms died. Across the country, many politicians spent days fawning over Helms and his “devotion, kindness and faith” they missed a good portion of the man’s life. They told touching stories. They talked about Helms love of his fellow man. But they left a few things out. They didn’t talk about Helms’ entire career in the United States Senate. Now, please, don't think I'm going to sit in judgement of the former Senator's soul. That's not my job, I'll leave that for the Almighty. But I do think we should look at Helms' work as a public servant. And in that arena, Helms failed miserably. Sure there were all sorts of tributes to Helms, praising him for his conservative credentials and Christian values. In fact, according to CNN, the Rev. Billy Graham, said folks “honor his legendary life and extraordinary legacy.” But as honorable as the Rev. Graham is, he failed in his eulogy. Because Jesse Helms

At 45, I went back to school. The desire to go back, to get that Masters Degree, has haunted me like a vengeful spirit from a B-grade horror movie. I found myself dreaming about college; I read the want ads in the newspaper and would mentally circle the listings which called for a degree. I remembered my past — almost three decades ago — and how foolish I'd been. I wondered if I could ever atone for my mistakes. Then, somewhere between the end of my first marriage and the the start of my second, I realized I'd been given a gift. A chance to start over. Honestly. There it was, the real opportunity to return to my roots, rebuild my life and take another shot at the brass ring. I just had to be smart enough to see the chance and take it. I did. Several years ago I left a job I truly loved (and was very good at) because the work environment became so poisoned I couldn't stay. I'd lost hope. I felt I'd come to the apex of my career only to have it all come crashing down

I dont' understand state Rep. Sally Kern. She says God wants her to be a "cultural warrior." She says God wanted her to run for state office. She says she's a good Christian. Okay, I'll give her the benefit of the doubt. But if the good Rep. Kern is going to stand before a group of men and women in Cleveland County and use that faith as a tool of her Legislative agenda, then she should expect to be held to a higher standard than the rest of those lawmakers who don’t make such claims. Being a Christian is one thing, being God’s Cultural Warrior, is another. Then, there are those two incidents of bringing a weapon into the State Capitol building. Her first attempt, she said, was an accident. Okay, most people will give her a break there. It’s that second time that bothers me. Granted, she was not arrested. But the fact remains, Rep. Kern — who believes we must use Biblical values in the operation of state government — knowingly broke the law a second time when she a

OKLAHOMA CITY — The music wasn’t much comfort. Sitting in the small waiting room at OU Children’s Hospital, I tried to escape from the overwhelming sense of dread about Zach’s surgery with my son’s iPod. Ethan had loaned me the gadget because he though some of my favorite music make me feel better. It didn’t. Time, it seems, had betrayed me. The weeks preceding this day seemed to race by and an almost unnatural speed. But today, time reversed course, and the world stopped in its tracks. Zach was taken to surgery at 7 a.m., sleeping. Since then, Karen and I had sat in the small waiting room surrounded by a sense of dread which hung over us like the smoke of a wood fire. Around 9 a.m. the telephone rang. Debbie, the surgical assistant, called to let me know the surgeons had started and things “were going well.” I felt myself breathe for the first time in days. Debbie called the second time at 11 a.m. “They’re over the halfway point,” she said. “The surgeons still have several things to d

“The waiting is the hardest part Every day you see one more card You take it on faith, you take it to the heart The waiting is the hardest part...” Tom Petty — The Waiting OKLAHOMA CITY — Last week, the world ended. The earth stopped rolling on its belly, the stars failed to shine, and time quickly came to a halt. At least it did for me. For several months now, my wife, Karen and myself, have lived in that gray area between sadness and euphoria. We were elated by the birth of our fourth child, Zachary, but overwhelmed when we learned of Zach’s life-threatening heart defects. Since then our lives have been a roller coaster of emotions — stress fear, reason, love, anger and those practical elements of life: schedules, doctor’s appointments, insurance nightmares, money and the myriad typical household problems that drive “normal” parents nuts. The fear reached its climax last week. • After Zach’s first surgery (detailed in two previous American stories late last fall) Karen and I finally

In the annals of American history, March 2nd is not the most noticeable of dates. True, it can be claimed as the birthday of both Desi Arnaz and Mikhail Gorbachev and, for those whose tastes run somewhat darker, it’s the day cowboy actor Randolph Scott died. And those Americans who are truly students of history know that March 2nd would was the date in 1923 when the first issue of Time Magazine rolled off the presses. They also know that, on that same date in 1927, Babe Ruth was listed as the highest paid player in baseball (he earned $70,000 that year). Further, historians can tell you that on March 2nd, 1933, King Kong premiered at the Radio City Music Hall. On March 2, 1950, Silly Putty was invented. Fourteen years later, the Beatles would film “A Hard Day’s Night” and on March 2, 1974, a federal grand jury would conclude President Nixon was involved in Watergate. Still, even these events don’t accurately portray the true importance of March 2nd. For that, you must jump back to 1904

You’ve seen them. You’ve experienced them. Those questions that stick in your head and pester you until you can’t sleep. They’re not profound, life changing ideas, but stuff you just wonder about. Like the old song says, they are the “things that make you go hmmmmm?” Such as: • Why do young women wear shorts and sweats with the word “Pink” written across the rear? And why, when asked about the fact that having a word stretched across their butt does, in fact, draws attention to their butt, do they complain because you looked at their butt? • How come the Fox news channel claims to be “fair and balanced” when it’s not? • Why some churches will spend millions of dollars sending groups across the world when people starve in the shadow of their buildings? • Why my children can tell me the last 10 people that called our house, when they called, and what they wanted to talk about and their income level and voting record, but these same children can’t remember to take out the trash. • Why Ame

Dear Mr. Red Dodge Truck Driver: You didn’t realize I was watching, did you? Naww. For you, it was just another trip to Crest. You needed a few things and you were in a hurry. Believe me, with a wife and four kids, I understand those unannounced grocery store trips. But once you raced through the parking lot, things changed. That big red pickup you’re driving isn’t a toy. It’s a vehicle and in an enclosed area like a parking lot, any speed above five miles per hour is way too fast. But that wasn’t your worst offense. Since the Crest store in Moore is usually pretty busy, most people have to park further back and spend a little shoe leather to get to the doors. Not you. You circled the lot twice, then pulled right up to the front. Right next to the door. In the handicap spot. Remember those? They are usually painted blue and white with the image of a person in a wheelchair. They’re pretty hard to miss. I know, it may seem like a small thing to you, but it’s not. Allow me to explain: Bac

It was August 1963. JFK was president and America still believed in Camelot. In Washington, the Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr., and hundreds of his supporters marched to the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. There, in the shadow of Lincoln, King reshaped American’s civil rights debate with a single speech. In just a few minutes, he spoke eloquently of the need for peace, and brotherhood. He spoke of the dream of equality which is found the hearts of all good men. Kennedy would be assassinated in November. Dr. King would be killed by James Earl Ray in 1968. But his speech, that wonderful essay on hope, trust and equality, lives on. Forty years later, King’s evangelical call still rings in our ears: “I say to you today, my friends, so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream. I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: “We hold these truths to be self