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
A blog dedicated to good writing and journalism as a career. Inspired by the poetry of Paul Lawrence Dunbar. Consider this that small, funky coffee shop at the corner of Main and Cyberspace. All stories are written by M. Scott Carter, chief political reporter for The Oklahoman. Your comments are welcomed, but only if you're willing to include your name, we don't do anonymous. My name's on every story, you want to play in the big leagues? Post yours, too.