The Evenin' Shadders

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 that particular year, during that 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 whe

Kyle is a friend of mine. He's young, and he's a fellow writing student. Kyle is quiet, kind and very, very smart. When he's not writing for class, he's writing for the student newspaper. And not too long ago, Kyle got his first scar as a journalist. He decided he was going to write a piece about a 'colorful' fast food place on the northeast side of Oklahoma City. Kyle loaded up with a few friends — remember, he's in college and any roadtrip -- even a short one -- is still a roadtrip – and headed north, up the Interstate. Kyle visited the place, came back and wrote his story. And up to that point, everything was fine. Then the story ran in the newspaper. And everyone from the editor on down jumped up and down on Kyle with exceedingly great jumps. People turned out in droves to denounce Kyle. They wrote letters. His colleagues pissed and moaned. And my friend Kyle was ready to give up. He didn't. Kyle and I and Mel, our professor, had a long, intense disc

November, 1986. As a young photographer for the Stillwater NewsPress I was assigned to photograph former Governor Bellmon voting in his hometown of Billings, Oklahoma. The polling place was a tiny spot in the gymnasium of Billings High School. The polling spot was dark, lit only by a single bulb. Governor Bellmom and his wife came in and greeted every precinct worker by name. He walked over to the polling booth and began to vote. I asked him if he minded if I took his photograph and he smiled and said warmly, "not at all," but ask me if I would "make him look good." I laughed. There were other photographers there, but none spoke him at the time, and they all used flashes because the room was so dark. When I looked through the viewfinder I saw this image. I was struck by the glow of the single bulb, the serious look of the governor's face, and the imposing nature of his body. I shot several frames, then turned and thanked the governor (and Mrs. Bellmom) and left

The girl standing in front of me is for sale. There's about two feet and at least one child between she and I, but trust me, she's for sale. Her short, black skirt, the bruises, the lack of underwear, and that vacant, pain-filled look in her eyes tell me her life's story. She hungry, like a small animal struggling to survive. She clutches the small male child close, as if he is her only connection to humanity. She looks at her feet (wrapped shiny black stiletto heels) and waits while the checker rings up her purchases — a loaf of bread, a gallon of milk, and a small carton of eggs. The checker tells her she's a dollar and fourteen cents short. I watch her fumble through her purse, searching for stray change, or a wayward dollar bill, to cover her deficit. She fails. The little boy whines and shuffles and tugs on her arm. I can tell he's hungry, too. I've seen that same look — briefly — on my own children's faces right before we all sit down for dinner. Today

If I were a chef, I’d spend early Wednesday mornings at the Farmers Market. I’d get there around 7 a.m., when the produce was wet and fresh and the day was young and the people were still drinking their coffee. If I were a chef, I’d wait patiently while the wrinkled granny lady individually fondled all 631 tomatoes on the table in front of her. I’d quietly tap my foot as she sniffed and touched each of the red, buxom vegetables before she finally selected two, and paid for them. I’d do that, if I were a chef. If I were a chef, I buy peaches — boxes and boxes of peaches. I’d buy them from the old, snaggle-toothed man with the radiant smile whose booth sits to the right of the entrance to the fairgrounds building. I’d buy his peaches because I know the old man understands fruit and earth and trees, better than anyone else there. I’d smile as his wrinkled, gnarly hand gently placed peach after peach in my basket. And I’d give him a sly wink after he handed me a bruised, but succulent pea

Last week I stood on a beach at the Gulf of Mexico and watched the full moon hang round and pregnant in the night sky. In front of me, the waves of the ocean splashed quietly against the sand. All around, me millions of stars twinkled while a few children scampered and played in the dark. I heard my own kids giggle and laugh—but I was somewhere else. As I stood there, I thought about God. I looked skyward and wondered what type of being could spin oceans and stars and moons — even sand — into existence. I wondered how this world, this solid round globe that we call home, can hang in the sky, spin around the sun and serve as a home for billions of souls. I wondered why I’m here. I wondered about my connection to God and about my existence on Earth. I kept asking those questions, but, honestly, I still don’t have the answer, but I kept asking, anyway. As I stood there in awe, my youngest son squirmed in my arms. I’m not sure, but I think the waves and smell of the ocean and the night fr

NOTE: It’s strange, but I’ve received several requests to republish this column. Maybe it’s so those of you who are talented on golf course will have someone to laugh at. Or maybe you just like my column. Nawww, it’s probably the first reason. My nephew, Chris, is a golf wizard. He’s not just “good” — he’s great. Seriously, he should have one of those sparkly cloaks with moons and suns and a tall pointed hat with a crest of eagles crossed with five irons. He’s got the nifty leather bag and all the hand-polished-titanium-mahogany-and-brass clubs endorsed by Tiger Woods or some other famous pro player. He’s got the funky shoes, too. You know, those shoes that — at first glance — make you look like you have really bad taste. Then when you turn ’em over they’ve got spikes embedded in the soles. Sorta’ like a piranha. Yep, piranha shoes, that’s what I call ’em. Anyway, Chris has all these clubs and the piranha, er, golf shoes, and when he gets the chance he puts his pointy shoes on and spe

The kid was new to the school. Frightened, afraid and unsure, he and his family had just moved to the small, rural town. He was without friends. The other kids didn’t make things any easier. Suspicious and uncaring, they went out of their way to make the kid’s life miserable. They chased the kid everywhere. The kicked him. They punched him and they beat him. Even the girls got into the act. Once, as the kid walked home after school, a group of the girls chased the kid for four blocks. They cornered him in the woods and threw rocks at him. They beat him so hard his eyes swelled shut. He stumbled to the door of his house bloody, bruised and crying. On another occasion, when he was in class, a girl in the class kicked the kid over and over and over because he didn’t know anything about horses. The girl wore pointy-toed boots. She was a cowgirl and she said the kid was stupid. She kicked the kid so many times, that his legs would carry the scars for the rest of his life. Still, the kid sta

Where do we start? Where do those of us who still care, who still give a damn, go? What does it take to help make journalism as a craft and the newspapers we write for survive? How do we, the people who hold the institution of journalism (and NOT the industry) dear, fix it? I don't think anyone has all the answers, but in my 30-plus years in the communications industry, I've seen some pretty moronic decisions made by those who claim to be leaders in the field. Let me give you an example: It's no secret that newspaper circulation numbers and single copy sales are tanking. Across America, people turn to the Web or television -- hell, even radio -- for that matter for their news. Readership numbers continue to decline and newspapers suck big time at bringing in new subscribers. Well, maybe we need to embrace marketing. I know, I'm preaching heresy here, but limiting the marketing of a newspaper to ads in that same newspaper and, maybe, a few cardboard signs on a vending r

We are the profession of Mark Twain. For more than 200 years, those men and woman who put ink to paper have acted as the historians and the watchdogs of this country. Like Twain, they have told the stories of their times. But those times have changed. And now, professional journalists face a world full of turmoil and change. The path leading to this change has been long, but the change it has spawned has been rapid. About 600 years ago, Gutenberg (adopting an idea from the Chinese) gave us movable type. Benjamin Franklin showed us how to use that type to inform the public, share opinions and make a buck in the process. Mergenthaler took it a step further with the Lineotype and, a few decades after that, the boys of Compugraphic showed the world true phototypesetting; and that little history lesson doesn't include the development of offset or digital printing technology. Steve Jobs set the newspaper world on its collective ass with the development of the Macintosh computer and softw

Usually I enjoy the Fourth of July. I like the celebration. I like seeing the flags fly and I love watching the kids pop their fireworks. Yeah, the Fourth and I go way back. But this year, I’d just like to fast forward past the Fourth and go on to say, maybe this Friday. Or next week. The day started out good. We’d traveled to Pawnee County to visit my brothers and their families — Karen and me, plus a van full of kids and food. And most of the day went off without a hitch. Sure, there’s always a little family drama, but show me a family without drama and I show you family that doesn’t exist. I should have suspected something because it wasn’t the typical July day. The sky had been dark and overcast most of the afternoon, and even though it threatened rain, it was cool and there was a breeze. Then, just at dark, it started to rain. And in rained and rained and rained. Since it was obvious there weren’t going to be any more fireworks, Karen, Zach and I decided to call it a day and drive

Bob Dylan was right. In between the period of my life when Saturdays were filled with Pop Tarts, early morning cartoons, and swimming at the municipal pool, I got married, divorced and witnessed the birth of my second son. The world changed. Two of the Beatles died. Billy Joel lost his hair. And my life grew more complicated. My parents — who have been a monumental presence in my life — now look their age. My mother doesn’t hear very well, and my father, who used to cut ricks of firewood for sport, now moves much slower. He sits more and chops less. My children are quickly growing up. Ethan, at 14, is tall, gangly and sporting the first vestiges of a mustache. Sara is willowy with curves and a smile that melts hearts. Clay is no longer three and toddling; he’s ten and a starter on the baseball team. I feel like that song by Bowling For Soup: “...and bring back Springsteen, Madonna Way before Nirvana, There was U2 and Blondie And music still on MTV...” Things got even weirder this wee

So the manager of the Blacked Eyed Peas smacked uber-blogger Perez Hilton upside the head and now poor Perez is all upset. Meanwhile, Britney has been seen topless, yet once again; Lindsay is having problems with her girlfriend, and Paris is swapping spit with athletes. Wow. Across the country, page after page and video after video about this group of “stars” continually finds its way to the public. The idea of living vicariously through celebrities has reached a new height here in the good ol’ U S of A and, honestly, it makes me laugh. While the Hiltons and the Lohans are throwing their public tantrums, thousands of people are losing their homes, people are hungry and that weird dude in North Korea keeps trying to take over the world. Of course, part of this is the press’ fault. Photographers stake out nightclubs hoping for a photograph of a drunken starlet, and writers devote countless man hours and thousands of inches of magazine and newspaper space to reprint rumors and trash that

I’m alone on the porch. 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 a 10-year-old. On the driveway, my daughter, Sara, hovers with a covey of girls. They giggle and gossip — the conversation is hushed, but if you watch closely, you’ll see Sara throw a quick glance quickly at the tanned blond boy on the skateboard (who manages, easily, to stay just within eyesight). In the distance I can hear the drone of 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, exiting the neighborhood after a long day of pushing frozen treats. It’s warm and the evening is clear. Quietly, Ethan walks his little brother down the street. Zach simply looks around him, taking in the

My darling boy: This week you turned 18-months-old. And as I watch you learn and laugh and smile, I’m so grateful… Because you’ve earned each and every day. Your little body carries the scars of two heart surgeries. Scars which serve as a constant reminder of the fear your mother and I faced as you made your way into our world. Of course, since then, you’ve been a delight to your parents, your brothers and sister and the rest of our loud, raucous family. You’ve discovered that chocolate is wonderful and that a well cooked French Fry is worth waiting for. You’ve learned that dogs are great to sleep against and that there’s nothing quite like splashing in the bathtub. I’ve watched you watch your brothers and sister. And I know that you take in and absorb everything they show you. You’re too young to realize it Zach, but living with you and seeing your strength has renewed my faith in God. You reinforce my hope in making the world a better place. Your tiny hands are everywhere. Most often

Dear Daniel: By the time you read this, your graduation ceremony will be over. You and 500 or so of your friends have reached the first big intersection on that road we call life. Congratulations. As I watched you sit at the Ford Center last Thursday, I couldn’t help but remember your childhood. Granted, you are not my son, but instead, you’re the son of my closest friend. And, therefore, you are family. You were only 3 months old with I met your father. We both went to work for the Oklahoma Legislature and both found ourselves stuffed into this tiny office with no windows and very little space. Your dad had been there, maybe two days, at the most, when he told me he was going to be taking several weeks off. I wasn’t too happy about that. I’d started a week before he did and I didn’t understand why he was so special. I remember cussing him and pretty much acting like schmuck. Later, when he returned, he told me how his newborn son had to have heart surgery and that’s why he wasn’t at

It’s dark. The neon reflects in the rain-slicked streets. Around me, a million cars seek a path known only to them. Inside my car it’s quiet. The steady hum of the tires on the pavement and the slow, fluid sounds of Dave Brubeck’s Take Five fill the void. Somehow, for me, that piece of music sounds like rain. The saxaphone splashes notes against the windshield like so many raindrops. The sun has long since faded for the day. For the week, maybe. Above me, the sky hangs low, moist and soft and gray. Colors are more vivid — the red dirt, so prevelent here in Oklahoma, has been washed way. Brubeck continues. In my mind I see a single man, wrapped in a dark overcoat, moving quietly through the rain-soaked street. I change lanes and merge smoothly toward the downtown exit. Near Broadway and 23th Street the aroma of newly baked bread hangs heavy in the moist air. It swirls and blends with the smell of my large coffee, and takes my mind places on this late, wet night that I haven’t visited in

It wasn’t that long ago that Texas Gov. Rick Perry stood in front of a crowd of his fellow conservatives and pontificated about how bad the federal government was. In fact, it was so bad Perry said, that Texas should succeed from the Union. “But if Washington continues to thumb their nose at the American people, you know, who knows what might come out of that,” the governor said. “But Texas is a very unique place, and we’re a pretty independent lot to boot.” The governor complained and whined about Texas’ share of federal stimulus money. And, as a show of Texas independence, Perry rejected $550 million in federal economic stimulus money slated to help Texas’ unemployment trust fund. Perry said Texas didn’t want the money because it would come with strings attached that would leave Texas paying the bill once the federal money ran out. Then he said he believes he could be at the center of a national movement which is coordinated and focused in its opposition to the actions of the federal

Straddling the intersection of 23rd and Lincoln Boulevard is a large, limestone and granite building. The floors are marble, as are the stairs and wall bases. It was built by convicts. And, when completed in 1917, cost the staggering sum of $1.5 million — roughly 25 cents a square foot. It’s the Oklahoma State Capitol building. Remember running through those marble halls squealing as a little kid in Mrs. Anderson’s second grade class? And don’t forget that oil field surrounding it. Yes, at one time that little field generated more than $1 million in revenue for the state. But I bet you didn’t know the architecture is classic Greco-Roman, designed by Solomon Layton and Wernyss Smith. Yeah, you probably scurried up and down those Vermont marble staircases, too. But did you realize you were standing in a building that takes up more than 11 acres of floor space and has some 650 rooms? Didn’t think so. You see, just like the rustlers and cowpokes who founded this state, our Capitol building

Since we’ve lived through so much recent rain and cold, it’s a joy to see the sun again. And, soon it will be summer. Those days when the sidewalks melt and the sun transforms itself from a gentle, warm orb to a menacing, white-hot inferno that hangs just low enough to scorch all in its view. Even the sky fades. What was a deep blue pallet, is bleached and faded — a pale, listless, faint type of blue — like a young girl’s favorite jeans. On these days, there is no breeze. Yet, somehow, small clouds of red dust drift, swirl and dance like angry ancient spirits. They float quietly reminding those around them that nature has long ruled the 46th state. On these days, there is little movement. Life is still. Most humans have, long ago, retreated inside thankful for the technology that birthed air-conditioning, icemakers and television. On these days, an occasional, fat bumble bee will assault a wilting flower. Today, in this small town, a lone, rust-colored representative of the canine popu

I’ll bet that most of you never met my friend Homer. He was the publisher of the Yale News, the small newspaper where I started my journalism career — years ago. Homer was a large man, with a huge smile, and even bigger hands. But he also was a natural teacher and perfectly willing to answer any question a 13-year-old kid would ask. And I asked tons of ‘em. I spent years working for Homer and, over the course of our friendship he gave me some great advice. Like my father, Homer’s views on the world helped mold my faith and my beliefs. I should have listened to him more. But I do remember some of his better sayings: “Always remember, you’ll be the other guy some day.” It took me a while to figure what this meant, exactly. But once I discovered how it felt to be the other guy, I realized there were, in fact, two sides to every story. I try to keep this in mind in both my personal and my professional life. “Take the time to watch the sunset; it’s good for you.” About 25 years after Homer