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...