The Evenin' Shadders

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

Dear Archbishop Beltran: You don’t know me, but I’ve been a converted Catholic for close to a decade now. I’ve lived in Oklahoma all my life, and I chose to join the church because there, I found faith, tolerance and intelligence. However, after reading your recent letter to Notre Dame’s Father Jenkins, in which you verbally spank him for inviting the president of the United States to deliver a commencement address, I’m questioning my decision. In your letter you say you are “appalled, disappointed and scandalized” and accuse Notre Dame of having “certainly turned against the Catholic Church” becase they dare offer the president — a man elected to lead our country — the opportunity to speak. You imply that now, after years and years, that Notre Dame is somehow less faithful because the university — an institution where one is supposed to go and seek knowledge — extended an invitation to our president. You continue to say that Father Jenkins has “a moral responsibility to withdraw the