The Evenin' Shadders

The public official’s secretary claimed she was only doing her job. “Mr. Public official’s office,” she said. I’d called because I was working a story about how some public funds were being spent. “Hi,” I answered. “This is Scott Carter with the newspaper may I speak with Mr. Public Official?” Now at this point, everything was OK — but it changed quickly. “He’s not in,” the secretary answered. “OK, may I leave a message?” There was a pause, and a sigh, sorta’ like I was taking up too much of her time. “Well, yes,” she finally said. “Great. Please have him call me at the paper at 3-6-6-3-5-4-5.” “And what is this regarding?” she asked me. “Pardon me?” “Well, what do you want to talk to him about? He likes for me to find out.” “He does?” “Yes.” she said. By now she’s getting more frustrated with me; strange I was the one who made the call. “So why are you calling?” “Like I said, I’m a newspaper reporter and I’m working on a story. I’d like to get a comment from him about it.” “What type

From the Associated Press: NORMAN, Okla. (AP) — Three Oklahoma City area newspapers picked up the annual AP/Oklahoma News Executives’ Carl Rogan awards for coverage of a deadly tornado, a local veterans center and the development of wind power at the AP/ONE banquet and award ceremony on Saturday. The Oklahoman staff won the sweepstakes in the Division A spot news category for stories about the 2008 Picher tornado. According to the judges, “The Oklahoman staff produced a really strong team coverage of the tornado that destroyed part of the town of Picher in 2008 and resulted in seven deaths. It was an outstanding effort.” I n Division B, Norman Transcript reporters Carole Cole-Frowe and M. Scott Carter won for an investigative report on a veterans facility in Norman. “The pair made sure that their readers were given both sides when the Veterans Center in Norman was facing turmoil between families, patients and employees,” according to judges. As part of their coverage they revealed that

So I’m standing in a large darkened gym, watching a bunch of middle school kids fake like they are dancing — for the record they’re not very good. I’m here, because in a moment of weakness, I told my school teacher-wife I’d help chaperone. The music is loud. Between 40 and 50 kids line the walls — boys on one side, girls on the other. The dance floor is empty. I’ve been here before. About 30 years ago. Over to the left, there’s the arrogant little twit who is sure he’s the perfect specimen of masculinity. He thinks he’s immortal and he honestly believes that every girl here is dying to hook up with him. He struts around like a rooster, high-fives his buds, and practices that same look Rod Steward made famous in 1975. Rod’s version was better. Thirty years ago this kid’s name was Greg; he started on the eighth grade football team and his Dad bought him a real motorcycle. He was just sure he had qualified as the Alpha Male of the eighth grade. Superjock is talking to the standard issue,

“He that troubleth his own house shall inherit the wind.” Proverbs 11:29 In the 1960 movie “Inherit the Wind,” there’s a marvelous statement by actor Spencer Tracy in which Tracy (portraying attorney Henry Drummond) is asked if he finds anything holy. Drummond answers, “Yes, the human mind. In a child’s power to master the multiplication table, there is more sanctity than in all your shouted “amens” and “holy holies” and “hosannas.” An idea is a greater monument than a cathedral. And the advance of man’s knowledge is a greater miracle than all the sticks turned to snakes or the parting of the waters.” And it’s with that simple statement, that the debate between science and religion is brought into sharp focus. Having taken place in the summer of 1925 — more than 75 years ago — one would think the American public would have moved forward since then. Think again. This year, while the rest of the world dealt with problems such as education, poverty and the economy, here in Oklahoma state

From the spot by my grill in the backyard, there’s a beautiful view of the moon rising over the trees. I spend a lot of time there, outside, listening to the steaks sizzle and watching the smoke drift across the warm evening breeze. Around me, the grass is making a quick transition from brown to green and the neighborhood kids have put down their cell phones long enough to play a little basketball before they go to bed. The little lady a few houses down is trimming her yard with a pair of pruning shears or, maybe, a big pair of scissors — I can’t be sure. Whatever the tool, her yead is Better Homes and Gardens perfect. In garages throughout our neighborhood, mothers have drug out the empty blue plastic tubs; they’ll be filled with winter clothes, while the T-shirts and the shorts which were once there will be moved to the front of the closet. It’s springtime in Oklahoma. The flowers begin to bloom and the bartlett pear trees which line south Lincoln Boulevard — in front of the Capitol

My friends use Facebook. And, yes, I do, too. My professional colleagues send text messages or send small notes via instant messenger. I know newspapers that Twitter news stories. You can read this column on the Web and write me your thoughts via e-mail. My kids love to send text messages via their phone. Yes, we all love technology. The small, gray cell phone I own flips open, makes a StarTrek bleep, and looks just like the communicator used by Captain Kirk. It’s simple, easy and convenient. And it’s making us forget the simple act of conversation. Not that long ago, I watched my daughter sit on her bed with her cousin and send text messages back and forth and, just for the heck of it, to another cousin sitting on the floor at our house. For the record, this occured with three 14-year-old girls — quite possibly the most vocal species known to man. But instead of talking, they texted. On any given day, as I walk across the University of Oklahoma campus, I watch my fellow students plug

She reminds me of well-written song lyrics. —the type that break my heart. She reminds me of the innocence of childhood. —small feet, giggles and deep, soft naps. She reminds me of the rain. —the slow, misty, erotic type calling to me in a gentle, sensuous voice. She reminds me of the snow. —full curvy mounds and valleys like a shapely woman’s body. And, she reminds me of love. —that all-consuming, fire-like, a passion that can overwhelm you with a volcanic frenzy. But mostly, she reminds me of fall. —the season of color, of passage. The season that proves the circle will be unbroken. The season of harvest — the season of my life. We have memories, she and I. Memories of one time, and one night.

— In the end, democracy came out the winner. While most people were appalled that members of the Westboro Baptist Church had come to Moore to raise hell there was actually some good that has spawned by the visit from the country’s most well known hate mongers. Freedom and democracy live. Yeah, it may not look like it a first glance, but there, on opposing street corners in Moore were two textbook examples of the freedom of speech and American democracy. On one side, stood the folks from Westboro. Armed with signs that said everything from “You will eat your children” to “God Hates America” the Kansans came to Moore to spread their twisted, bizarre message of hate and divine retribution. Church spokesman Shirley Phelps-Roper said the church chose Moore High School because it represented all the schools in the country and that the teachers there, and I’m assuming in the rest of the U.S., were telling students that God was a liar. To help make their point, the church, earlier, sent out a