The Evenin' Shadders

Pink Toes

2011-07-24T19:22:00.000-06:00

Zachary has pink toes.

Thursday, that horrific, difficult, awful day, is over. And here, in the stillness of my home, the quiet is my benediction.

My youngest son – the smallest, most fragile of a large, blended family – has stood at the edge of oblivion and returned.

The weeks building to this day brought tension, anxiety, stress and fear. Overwhelmed by nature of Zachary’s needs, we, his parents, had no real plan, no other process in place. We simply turned our faces toward the storm and prayed.

For the third time in our lives, Karen and I made the long, long walk down the yellowish-tan colored hallway to the operating theater. This time, Karen went in with Zach as they put him under.

She walked out the doors sobbing.

We returned to the third floor of Children’s Hospital and started out long vigil. The clock seemed to move backward. Once again, we huddled inside the waiting room with friends and family and made mindless conversation. We talked about politics and God and life.

And waited.

The heart surgery was seven hours long.

Throughout the day, a telephone would ring. The call came from inside the operating room. A nurse would tell us things were fine. The calls were short, the conversation limited to just a few words.

But each of us hung on every word.

Late in the afternoon the surgeons had finished. Zac was taken to ICU and Karen rushed to be next to him. I helped pack up the stray bits that humans bring with them for hospital stays – food, books, gadgets and pillows.

About five that afternoon, I saw my son.

He was covered in tubes and probes and his small body outlined by thin wires. The wires led to a stack of machines. I found a chair against a wall and, again, played the ‘watch the monitor change’ game.

The monitor functioned as a numeric representation of Zach’s life: But the numbers and zig-zag patter of Zach’s heartbeat wasn’t what drew my attention. It was the color pink.

My son has pink toes.

For more than two years, I’ve watched Zack grow. Every single day since he stepped into this orb we call Earth, his tiny fingers and his small toes have been bluish purple. Because the oxygen content of his body was so reduced, Zach had never known a day with a full supply of oxygen to his lungs.

Until now.

Now, Zach has pink toes. And pink finger-tips. His eyelids are peach colored and his cheeks and lips are flesh tinted. His little hands felt warm.

Zach has pink toes.

Unless you’ve lived with a child starved for oxygen, you cannon imagine the anguish watching your son run and play and giggle for a few minutes then be forced to stop, gulp huge amounts of water and sit still trying to breathe.

All this, while his little face and hands and feet colored themselves cyan.

Now, today, after three years later, Zach has pink toes. Instead of a blood oxygen level of 71 percent, he is ringing the bell. His stats are in the high 90s.

The worst day of my life has passed. But given the choice of reliving it over or watching my son turn blue, I would gladly hit the replay button again and again and again.

Because, now, Zach has pink toes.

The Night Shift

2011-07-24T19:12:00.002-06:00

You can tell the ones who work the night shift.

Their bodies move slowly, bathed in the yellowish amber glow of neon. Exhausted by the day and drained by fear, they seek refuge beneath the glass and steel that – at this moment – is their home.

Their faces betray them. Their smiles have given way to pain. They are pale and gaunt with dark eyes and hollow, almost lifeless expressions. This is not their true being, mind you, just the mask of wear and worry assigned them by the night shift.

They have no time for fun or laughter. Under the steel and glass there is no smoky jazz club, no the out-of-the way bistro. Here, instead are the operating theaters and the nurses’ stations, their walls covered in drab paint. Here is the worn tiled floor, the proof of a billion footsteps.

This is the night shift.

Those assigned didn’t seek the task – it found them. Once the decision was made – surgery, hospitalization, medicine – they were placed in the cue like so many others.

Many were not prepared, but they came just the same. They are not here to do, but to endure, and to simply exist.

The night shift begins as the Oklahoma sun sinks beneath the horizon – scattering crimson and pink and yellow and orange over a vast expanse of sky. Misled by the evening’s beauty, those on the night shift are poised between two worlds – reality and anguish.

They have embraced the darkness because a child – their child – has needs which outweigh everything else.

So they come here.

And they work the night shift.

•

The air is warm and moist, infused with the faint scent of clover, the smell of earth, and aroma of fast food. Inside the steel and glass, a lone worker polishes the terrazzo to a high gloss.

For him the night shift is life. He says little but his eyes shine with a softness that begets understanding. He has watched those on night shift come and go for years. He knows how they feel.

He has played witness the pain and terror and raw, visceral fear. Years ago, he himself was assigned the night shift after an accident at home.

The janitor knows the night shift can be cruel and hard and even inhuman. It can bring pain and suffering – and death. But it’s also necessary. Surgeons and medicine need the night shift; they embrace it like a mother suckles a newborn.

The man understands this. He’s watched hundreds shuffle across his floor, exhausted. His warm face and soft smile spawn tiny seeds of hope; for just as the night shift brings pain, it also knows that even beauty and peace can be found while crossing the pathway of polished terrazzo.

•

For the father, the night shift is almost overwhelming. Single but with a child, normal no longer exists. Daylight has, as always, required hard work. But here in the shadow of the capitol, the father’s arms hang weary and soft and useless

His child, in pain, struggles.

The father embraces the young boy. The angry red scars on the boy’s chest offer a stark contrast to the father’s strong, muscular limbs.

The father is frustrated. As a parent, one who works with his hands, he seeks to bend or rent or break or twist something to make reality return. But on the night shift, physical strength fades quicker than the brush of a first kiss.

And for the first time, the father has come to realize that his son’s fate rests not with him, but others.

Here on the night shift, time and darkness often conspire to strangle hope. The father slumps. His aches are temporary, he tells himself. His worry rests with the child.

•

Like the cleaning man, the nurse is well known to the night shift.

Years ago she embraced the darkness, hoping to bring light. Daily she’s fought and worked and pushed back the darkness. And though she can claim victory on occasion, here on the night shift, the odds favor her defeat.

Still she remains. For her, the night shift can bring healing and quiet and, if the fates allow, a moment of peace.

•

The small boy struggles.

His days have been filled by visits from tall men with stern faces in white coats. He has been poked and prodded and moved and stuck and tested until his tiny, frail body is bruised.

He no longer plays. The confines of his small bed have become the universe, his beloved dog a distant memory. His scars offer proof of the stern faced men’s work, and of the child’s courage.

For this child, the night shift brings monsters – evil beings that were, until this moment, felled by his father. But on this night the monsters are large and menacing and even the boy’s father is powerless against them.

•

Just after midnight the night shift claims two victims – one, abandoned; the other, mourned. Children aren’t supposed to die. They are supposed to play and laugh and have sleepovers and complain about homework.

But the night shift offers no guarantees and death is always at the ready.

•

The muscular father takes the small boy in his arms. His pushes his tanned, weather beaten face against the child’s cheek. The small boy nestles closer. The monsters have faded. The boy is stronger.

For this small family, the night shift offers a pardon and passage back to that which is normal. The father, though weary, understands this and offers his benediction to the Almighty.

Heaven remains silent, but the father’s supplications were heard.

•

Long after midnight – but well before sunrise – a doctor returns. His patient, a small newborn, has beaten the odds and refused to give in to the night shift.

The child, though tiny, is strong.

The doctor, though exhausted, is willing.

•

Some parents don’t survive the night shift. The stresses are too great the emotion and pain and stuffing too huge. These parents emerge bent and twisted. Their faith broken and their relationships wrecked.

Like raw steel, the night shift can be hard and unforgiving. But others, those who carefully walk the balance of faith and fear, survive. They pray and struggle and, in the end, turn their faces into the wind.

Like the cleaning man, the nurse and the doctor, mothers and fathers who have worked the night shift, understand its necessity.

They are the ones who know that pain cannot stay forever. And trouble, they say, was born a Gypsy.

Some parents worked more than one night shift. They are the true warriors. They have girded themselves with knowledge and hope. They have the experience and understanding – and patience – to survive the summons.

They are the parents who know that even with the pain and death and suffering the night shift can bring, hope must follow. They know scars will fade and, in spite of fear, life will continue.

They believe.

Outside the window, the light of the red Medicine sigh fades. The first rays of the sun scatter across a periwinkle sky. Morning returns and day pushes the night shift back.

Some on the night shift are granted pardon. Others will continue and new recruits always arrive.

But even the brightness of the day and even there, under the warmth of the sun, the night shift awaits, embracing those who are forced to live in its darkness.

Fall, 2010

2010-11-21T20:16:00.001-06:00

My backyard is covered in leaves.

Dry brown, scratchy, crunchy leaves. They dance over our driveway and skitter down the street. Bear, the cat, hides in them; and on occasion, Zach throws a few up in the air just to watch them float back to the earth.

Autumn.

Outside at this very moment a full, round moon shines brightly in the November sky.

Our neighborhood is quiet, save for the occasional car which slips down the street. Inside the house, the noise of people finishing their day fills my ears.

Karen and Clayton wash dishes. Molly, the Border Collie trots by, her tags jingling. Zach trundles down the hall calling for his sister; she's still trying to catch up on all that school-assigned reading.

Another soft autumn day.

I'm thankful for the gift.

Back home

2010-07-04T19:26:00.003-06:00

I'm surrounded by trees.

The world is green, full and growing. Here, under the shadow of the old porch, I watch the trees sway back and forth, their limbs pregnant with leaves.

I rewind to the past; back to a time when there were no worries about jobs, or issues, or problems that come with being an adult.

For a few moments, my parent's house is again filled with the smell of summer: watermelon and fruit and the earthy-oily scent of my father's coveralls after a day in the oil field. There, briefly, I remember the dogged heat of the day, the squish of soft asphalt underneath my tennis shoes and the gritty feeling of dirt mixed with sweat.

I close my eyes and relive the pleasure of the dark, damp cool that filled the house, the aroma of cantaloupe and the taste of ice cold tea. At that time, Kick-the-Can was a national pastime and transportation was simple -- I travelled a million miles on a beat-up Schwinn three-speed bicycle.

I stand quietly and strain to remember my previous life -- the laughter of late nights, cruising Main Street, the buzz of the June Bugs and the neon sign at the Dairy Hut, and the tart, wonderful taste of the Cherry Limeade.

If I close my eyes, I can still hear the whine of the large trucks on Highway 51.

I watch the day fade into evening; great, giant slashes of pink and blue and orange and deep red outline a purple Oklahoma sky. The Cicadas drone, the crickets play and quietly, the night spreads across the yard like spilled water over glass.

Overhead a full, round moon hangs through the trees.

Behind me, my youngest child laughs and squeals, abruptly pulling me away from the past and forcing me to reconnect with the present. It's then, that the trees turn dark, green turns to black, and there, on my parent's porch, the memories of my youth fade into the shadows.

An Okie Christmas Carol

2009-12-05T11:39:00.003-06:00

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 when the event occurred, but those folks are tight-lipped and don't say anything.

So — just as most weird stories go — the truth of the tale is left for you to decide.

•

Bethany Moses was tired. She and her kids, Cameron and Casey, had spent the whole day packing. Cameron had the sniffles and Casey didn’t seem too hungry, but there was no other way. Everything was loaded into the truck and they set out. The Ford only had a half-tank of gas and one tire was bad — but like the other items in Bethany’s life, it was all she had.

She hated driving on Christmas Eve; it didn’t seem fair. This year she’d promised the kids they’d have a tree with lights and even presents. But this year, she’d used the last of the present money on two quarts of oil and a half-tank of gas.

Bethany looked at her belly. She was eight months along and the baby didn’t spend much time sleeping. This one twisted and turned and danced; it made it difficult to work full time. Plus, the nausea — which she’d had since day one — didn’t help.

•

She hit the exit just as the Ford started playing its version of the Anvil Chorus. The motor bucked, rocked back and forth, sputtered for a second or two and then, finally, died right there in the drive of Bill’s Quick-as-a-Flash Phillips 66.

Bethany covered her face with her hands — she didn’t want the kids to see her cry.

“God, I can’t go any farther,” she prayed. “I’m at the end. This is it. I can’t, and I won’t, go back. The three of us are in your hands.” Bethany delivered this tearful benediction under the buzzing neon of Bill’s sign.

Slowly, she turned and looked in the back seat. There, in the truck’s jump seats — wedged in between barstools, pillows, old blankets, and two half-torn cardboard boxes were Casey and Cameron.

“Sorry kids,” she said. “I was hoping this year would be better.”

•

The knock on the window interrupted her.

She didn’t hear it the first time, but she jumped when the stranger knocked the second time. Fearful to open the door, Bethany rolled down the window just an inch or so.

The voice was gruff, but friendly. “Hey, there missy. Ya need some gas?”

Bethany didn't notice the pumps were still on and there was a light shining from inside the Quick-as-a-Flash. She shook her head. “No. I’m okay. But my truck sounds real funny. I think something’s wrong with the motor.”

“Start ‘er up,” the voice said. “Lemme’ hear it.”

Bethany turned the key; the old Ford groaned and clanked, and belched and ran for a few seconds then shuddered for a second time and died.

“Sounds like a bad piston,” the voice said. “Might take a while to fix.”

Bethany continued crying.

“We were trying to make it to Thackerville,” she said in between sobs. “I ... I just don’t know how much more I can take.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” the voice said — now not near as gruff. “I’ll bet we can get you taken care of.”

Bethany rolled down the window another inch. “But you don’t understand. I don’t have any money. Maybe ... well, could I just use your phone?”

The man behind the voice shook his head. “Phone’s busted,” he lied. “But I’ll tell you what. You wait right here, I’ll be right back.”

The stranger disappeared and Bethany pulled her coat tight around her.

•

“Okay, I got ya’ a taxi,” the stranger said. “It’ll be here in a few minutes. Don’t worry about your truck or your stuff. It’ll be safe in the garage.”

The stranger told Bethany to shift the truck into neutral. Together — he pushed and she steered — they walked the truck into the garage.

“Get your stuff and your kids. Your ride will be her in few minutes.”

Bethany tried one more time. “But I told you I don’t have any money. I’m broke.” She waved her arm toward the back of the truck. “Unless you want to buy some slightly used household items.”

The stranger chuckled. “Don’t worry ma’am, we’ll just put it on your bill. Your credit’s good. We can settle up later.”

Bethany wasn’t sure what to do. She looked at the stranger — she could see him better in the amber yellow light of the garage — and hoped this wasn’t a trick. He was tall, unshaven, with red coveralls, workboots and a ballcap on backwards. He looked like he worked hard for a living. His large, muscular hands were calloused and slightly dirty. But she was scared; being eight months pregnant, stranded, with no cash and two toddlers, she was a disaster waiting to happen.

“See-I-really-don’t-even-know-who-you-are-and-well-I...”

“Name’s Bill ... ” the stranger said. He stuck out a hand. “You remind me of my wife. She was real pretty, too. Especially when she was carrying our oldest boy, Tate. You talk fast like she did when she’d get excited.”

Bill laughed again. “Makes me think of good times. For that, I’m obliged.”

Bethany began to calm down. Slowly, she began to realize that Bill meant her no harm. He patted her hand. “Like I said, we’ll settle up later. But right now, you need to get them little ones out of the cold. Here’s your ride. Show me what you want to put in the taxi.”

Bethany moved Casey and Cameron to the taxi. Bill helped her move blankets, pillows and clothes.

•

Thirty minutes later, Bethany and her two kids arrived at the East Sixth Motel and Truck Stop. The driver — a young man with a dark complexion whose name Bethany couldn’t pronounce — shook his head when Bethany offered him her watch as payment for the ride. “Bill took care of it,” he said in broken English.

The driver waited while Bethany went to the East Sixth’s office.

“We’ve been expecting you, hon’,” Flora, the manager said. “Got your room all ready. Number 6.” Flora handed her a key on a large, blue plastic holder. “I put extra blankets on the bed and the heat’s on, so it should be good and warm. You go get ya’ a good night’s sleep.”

Again, Bethany tried to offer something in exchange for the room. “Bill took care of it,” Flora said. “Such a nice man.”

•

She tucked Casey and Cameron in first. They snuggled in under the thick warm blankets and were quickly asleep. Bethany smiled. Knowing her children were warm and safe had somehow lessened the cold and stilled her panic. But she had no idea how she was going to pay for room or the repairs.

Rubbing her full, round belly, Bethany wrapped herself in soft blanked and settled down in the chair. The room’s television wasn’t that big, but it did work. She clicked the remote until she found a channel with a movie. Something for the holidays, she thought.

The phone rang.

A thousand thoughts raced through her head but none of them made any sense. Who would call her? Who knew she was here.? Maybe it was a wrong number. Maybe ...

“Hello?” The fear in Bethany’s voice betrayed her.

“Hi, hon’,” the cheery voice on the other end said. “It’s Flora, from the office.”

“Yes?”

“Well, Chris, the kid who delivers pizza for Big Tony’s Pizza Palace, is here and he’s got an extra large Pepperoni with thick crust and two large Diet Cokes which will just get thrown away if no one eats them. You want ‘em?”

Bethany’s stomach rumbled. She hadn’t east since yesterday. She’d used the last change she could scrounge to buy the kids a burger. Pizza sounded divine.

“You still there?” Flo asked. “Don’t worry. Chris says he’s just gonna throw them away if no one wants ‘em. I thought of you. You looked a little hungry.”

In the warmth of her room, Bethany smiled. “That would be wonderful,” she said. “I love pizza.”

“Great,” Flora said. “I’ll send him down.” Through the phone, Bethany could hear Flora telling Chris where to deliver the pizza. “One more thing,” she said. “In the morning you and kids come down about nine and we’ll have breakfast.”

Flora couldn’t see Bethany cock her head. “But I didn’t think motels serve breakfast,” Bethan said.

“We don’t” Flora answered. “But I have to work Christmas Day and I just hate having breakfast by myself. So in the morning you and the little ones come down to the office and we’ll have come coffee, scrambled eggs and bacon. You’d be doing me a favor.”

Bethany felt the tears pool in the corner of her eyes. “We’ll be there,’’ she said quietly. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Oh hon, it’s no problem. Just come at nine and bring your appetite.”

•

Her belly full of pizza, Bethany readied herself for bed. She was still amazed by how kind Bill and Flora and even Chris the pizza guy had been. They didn’t realize it, but they probably saved our lives, she thought.

She prayed quietly, thanking God for the small town and its wonderful people.

But she was still worried. Casey felt much warmer now and Cameron’s cough sounded worse. Maybe she could find some aspirin.

The knock on the door woke her.

At first, she was sure it was a dream, but when she heard the knock for the second time, she knew she was awake. Pushing herself up, Bethany moved slowly toward the door and opened it the length of the chain lock.

A tall man with a trimmed beard stood on the other side. “Hi, are you Bethany?” the man asked. “I’m Doctor Markson.”

Bethany pulled the blanket tighter around her. “What do you want?”

“Bill sent me,” the doctor said. “I think he was quite taken with you. Said your truck broke down and you would be here. Got me out of bed and made me come to make sure you and the kids were all right.”

Bethany closed her eyes and smiled. She slid the chain of the lock and opened the door.

“Hi,” The doctor extended a gloved hand. “I’m Frank.”

“Bethany.”

“Bill told me you were pregnant.” He eye Bethany’s large belly. “But he didn’t say how pregnant.”

Bethany looked down. Gently she rubbed her hands in a circle. “I’m due next month. If I can hold out that long.”

The doctor laughed. “Well, you look good. Are you feeling okay? Any problems?”

“I’m okay,” she said. “But I’m worried about my twins. She pointed toward the bed. “One has a fever and the other has a bad cough.”

Doctor Markson reached for his bag. “Do you mind if I take a look?”

Bethany nodded. “That would be wonderful,” she said. “Thank you.”

Kneeling, the doctor pulled back the covers and gently examined Bethany’s children. Temperatures were checked, breathing monitored and little heartbeats counted. After several minutes, the doctor turned and sat on the bed.

“They’ll be fine,” he said. “It’s a bad cold, with cough and it could get worse. But we caught it in plenty of time. So I wouldn’t worry.”

He reached inside his bag and handed Bethany two small bottles. “This one,” he said, “is for the fever. The other will help the cough. Make sure they get plenty of rest, some good warm food and mother the daylights out of ‘em.”

Bethany laughed. “I do that real well,” she said. “Real well.”

“And what about this one,” the doctor asked. “When was your last visit?”

“Two weeks ago,” she said. “I stopped going after my boyfriend slapped me around and kicked me out. I didn’t have any money.”

The doctor placed his strong hands on Bethany’s belly. “This one’s active,” he said. “Very busy.”

“It’s a ‘he’,” Bethany said. “And I don’t think he ever sleeps.”

•

The doctor left about an hour later. She and her baby were fine, he told her. “You just need to rest.” And so, precisely at 11 p.m., Bethany slipped in between her two sleeping children and burrowed her way underneath the warm blankets covering the soft bed.

By the time the clock said 11:05, she was sleeping peacefully.

•

Breakfast with Flora was loud. The kids, having rested, were happy and very hungry. Flora served mountains of scrambled eggs and bacon. Casey and Cameron ate their fill.

“Well, you look like you slept good,” she said. “Much better.”

“I slept wonderfully,” Bethany said. “I believe it’s the first time in days I’ve been warm.”

“Then, Merry Christmas,” Flora said. “I’m sure glad I’ve got some noise in this ol place. It’s awfully lonely on Christmas Day.”

After breakfast was over, Bethany and the twins returned to their room. A short time after that, Flora called. “You’re truck’s here, hon,” she said. “It looks ready to roll.”

Bethany and the twins walked to the office. “I didn’t think it would be done for a while,” she said. “And it’s even been washed.”

Flora opened the door. “Well start it up, see if they fixed it.”

Bethany turned the key. The Ford rumbled and purred smoothly. “It sounds great. Bill must have worked all night.”

Flora smiled. “Are you sure you can’t stay?” she asked. “You’re welcomed to.”

“I ... I need to get to Thackerville. My mom's there.” she said. “If the gas holds out.”

“Oh, you’ll make it,” Flora pointed to the gas gage — it rested on full. “I’m sure of that.”

•

Just south, outside of this small town stands a small convenience store. The Pack and Pay, and it’s owner Jerry, have been a fixture here for years. Jerry’s a decent guy; ohh, once in a while he drinks a little beer, but he fixes kids’ bikes for free, and on more than one occasion, he’s given a family down on their luck enough food and gas to see them through.

The Pack and Pay is always busy. But Jerry always has time to talk. And that’s what he was doing when Bethany pulled her Ford onto the drive.

She was on her way to Thackerville; then she remembered. “Excuse me. Do you have a telephone I can use?”

Jerry pointed to a small red phone by the cash register. “Try that one there, ma’am. Phone book’s under the shelf.”

Bethany found the tattered phone book and began turning pages. She did this for several minutes.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but is this the only phone book you have?”

Jerry nodded. “Yes ma’am. You lookin’ for someone around here?”

Bethany closed the book. “Yes. His name is Bill. I don’t know his last name. But he owns the Quick-as-a-Flash Phillips 66.”

Jerry frowned and leaned toward against the cash register. “Are you sure that’s who you’re looking for?”

“I’m sure,” Bethany said. “He told me his name was Bill. My truck broke down there last night. He called a taxi for me, so I don't know how to get to his station, and I forgot to call him from the motel and find out how much I owed him.”

Jerry scratched his head. “You stayed at the East Sixth?” he asked. “The East Sixth?”

“Yeah,” Bethany said. “Me and my kids. Bill sent us there, then this nice woman named Flora took us in. She had the room ready and Chris, the delivery boy with Big Tony’s Pizza Palace brought us a large pizza and then Doctor Markson came and checked on the kids. Why, all those people, they were so kind and so wonderful. They saved my life.”

•

Bethany sipped the Coke, opened the phone book and began turning pages again.

“You won’t find Bill in there,” Jerry motioned toward the window. “Trust me.”

“Why?” Bethany asked. “Isn’t there a way to call him. Does he have a cell phone?”

Jerry shook his head. “No ma’am. Nobody can call Bill, cause Bill’s dead.”

“Wha ... what? Dead?" Suddenly, Bethany felt cold. "That can’t be. I just talked to him last night. Did it happen this morning?”

Jerry looked down at his feet. “No ma’am, Bill’s been dead for close to ten years now.”

“But I don’t understand. Flora and Doctor Markson and, Chris, and even the taxi driver, were all talking about him last night. I talked to him myself. He pushed my truck into his garage.”

Jerry touched Bethany’s arm. “Honey, Doctor Markson and Chris died in the same car wreck as Bill. Cancer got Flora back in ‘87.”

Bethany’s eyes filled with tears. She felt dizzy, like she was in a bad dream. “I ... I...”

“Here, why don’t you sit down,” Jerry said. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“But ... if they’re all dead, then who fixed my truck and who brought me pizza and checked my kids?” She rummaged through the purse until she found the two small prescription bottles. “See. See these were given to me last night. Look at the name.”

Jerry eyed the small bottles and handed them back. “You’re right,” he said. “That’s what it says. But I’d be happy to take you to the cemetery and show you all their graves. I ain’t trying to make you upset and if there’s something you need, I’m sure happy to help. But I promise you, with God as my witness, all them folks you say helped you last night have been gone a long, long time.”

•

Bethany took Jerry up on his offer. Together, she, Jerry, and the kids drove to the cemetery. For more than an hour, she stood reverently Bill’s grave, the tears cascading down her face. Then, holding her twin's hands, she walked back to her truck and drove back into town.

•

"Thank you, Lord," she said. "Thank your for saving me. And for sending friends to help. I...I and the babies wouldn't have made it without you."

After a while, Bethany dried her tears and then bought a newspaper. She went through the want ads applied for the first job she saw. She got that job. Then she, the twins, and the baby who hadn’t been born yet, all found a small, cozy house and started their lives over.

Of course, if you ask folks in town, they will tell you they don’t know Bethany. They’ll say they’ve never heard of her.

Still, if you spend any time there — or if you attend church at the little white church with the big sign and the crooked steeple — you will, eventually, you’ll see a pretty, blue-eyed woman with three children driving an old Ford pick-up. And, if you're driving through that particular town on Christmas Eve, slow down at the Quick-as-a-Flash Phillips 66. It's true, the place has been closed for year.

But on Christmas Eve, if you look close, you'll see a single light burning.

Don't ask the pretty, blue-eyed woman with the three children about this story. And don't say anything about seeing a light on at the service station — she won't say anything. She'll just smile and hurry on her way.

Because Bethany Moses doesn’t believe in ghosts. But she most certainly believes in God.

Learning the ropes

2009-10-10T17:22:00.004-06:00

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 discussion one day, after class. "You have to go back," I told him. "Yes, you made mistakes. And your story wasn't ready to print. And, I would suspect that you know that."

"Yeah," he said. He still looked pretty sad.

For a while I worried about Kyle. Then I discovered just how much of a journalist he really was. Because this week, I got a text from him.

"Hey, Scott," he wrote. "Mel and I are going back to do the story? You want to come?"

I smiled as I flipped my phone closed. Yes, Kyle had made his mistakes. And, yes, Kyle had taken a few scars in the process.

But the real example of Kyle's character was when he decided to go back.

Instead of giving up, Kyle decided to go back to the same neighborhood and the same fast food place and talk to the people there. He decided to spend some time and see what he could find.

And that, I believe, was the story he wanted to do in the first place.

By going back, Kyle acknowledged his first problem. Then he found a solution and he set out to fix it. To me, Kyle has shown far more professionalism than hundreds reporters in the profession today.

Kyle understands the need for the story.

He understands that journalism is about people.

And he's going back, a second time, the learn.

I hope Kyle knows how proud I am of him. And this Saturday night, I'll be right there with him.

Governor Henry Bellmon, September 3, 1921 – September 29, 2009

2009-09-30T21:07:00.004-06:00

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 photo ran on the front page of the next day's NewsPress and I received several compliments from our subscribers.

Fast forward to March of 1990.

Bellmon is ending his second term as governor and I'm a new employee of the Oklahoma State Senate who is still trying to figure out where the restrooms are in the Capitol building.

One cold morning, I'm in the basement of the Capitol (trying to find the restroom) and I bump into Governor Bellmom. He walks over to me, sticks out a large paw and says, "Hi, I'm Henry Bellmom."

We talk for a second, and I re-introduce myself. The governor chuckles and says, "I remember you, Scott, you took my picture when I was voting in Billings."

You could have picked my jaw up off the floor.

I started to stammer a thank you, when he added, "I always liked that picture."

I guess that's why I always liked Governor Bellmom. He was kind and decent and he remembered my name.

While I worked for the Senate I saw David Walters a million times and he didn't give a damn who I was. Frank Keating wouldn't even speak to me in an elevator, and George Nigh was always too busy working the room for even a handshake.

But Henry Bellmom would stop and make it a point to smile and talk, and make a young Senate employee feel welcomed at the Capitol.

I guess that's why I like this photograph. For me, it's a very personal photo and, to me, it shows Governor Bellmon at his best — simply being a decent man from a small, Oklahoma town.

The late shift, at the grocery store

2009-09-01T20:14:00.005-06:00

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, this boy's face tells me he's missed far too many meals; like his mother, he seems distant and hopeless.

The woman reaches for the bread just as I lay two dollars on the dirty black conveyor belt at the check-stand. The checker takes the money, the turns toward her. "Ma'am, your covered," he says. He points a large finger at me. "He's got you."

She looks at me; her large brown eyes, searching. I smile and tell her "it's no big deal." I tell her my kids eat tons of bread and drink gallons of milk and there have been a million times that I've been a buck or two short at the grocery store, too.

For a brief second she's not sure what to think. I know she's used to having men give her cash, but usually they want something in return.

Not this time.

I smile again, and, for the second time, say "it's no big deal."

This time, she smiles back. She mouths the words "thank you" and then bends down and picks up her child. She seems a little more open now, so I take advantage of the opportunity. "That's a very handsome little boy you have there," I tell her. "You should be proud."

"He's my little man," she says quietly. She pauses, looks down, then looks a me again. "Thank you so much. My budget is kinda' tight this month."

"Trust me," I said. "I've been there."

We chat about nothing for a few more moments. Then she and her little boy, walk out of the store and climb into a beat up, rust-covered Mustang. I hear the engine rumble, then watch them drive off into the August night.

For a few seconds I stood next to my car and gazed up at the sky. "The poor will always be with us..." Christ told his disciples.

That night, there, at the grocery store, it was obvious he spoke the truth.

If I were a chef...

2009-08-19T11:54:00.005-06:00

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 peach — “because I’m a good customer” — for my breakfast.

I’d do that, if I were a chef.

If I were a chef, I would buy sacks of yellow zucchini and bundles of garlic. I’d fill my bags with green tomatoes, blood red peppers and round, luscious strawberries. I’d take them back to my restaurant and make salads, and sauces, and I’d mix the strawberries with sugar and heavy cream serve it to my customers in ice-coated crystal bowls.

If I were a chef, I have boxes of melons and fresh green beans and mounds of potatoes. I’d grill the perfect steak and serve it with freshly cooked new potatoes coated in herbs and butter.

If I were a chef, I’d try to purchase something from each and every farmer at the market. I'd place it all in cardboard boxes and cover them in burlap. The I'd put the boxes in the back of a well-worn, Ford pickup that I drove around town.

If I were a chef, I’d buy bundles of scallions, mountains of water melons and boxes of sweet onions. I’d laugh at the silly ‘organic’ label and instead look at the hands of those behind the booth, because if I were a chef, I’d know that a true farmer’s hands are worn, and calloused and marked from digging in the earth and tilling the soil. I’d look for men and women in old blue jeans and faded shirts—because that way, I could tell more about them and their farming than any sign ever could.

I’d do that, if I were a chef.

If I were a chef, I’d buy local. I’d seek out farmers and cattlemen and ranchers and little ladies who like cats, and make wool sweaters and who keep goats and rabbits and pigs. I’d buy exotic cheeses and good wine and fresh milk and cream.

If I were a chef, I’d emphasize taste and honest food. I’d have respect for those who grow crops and care for animals. And I’d feed my customers what I wanted to eat.

I’d do that, if were a chef.

If I were a chef, I stop late at night and smile. I’d stand outside under the stars and laugh with God. I’d bow my head and pray and thank Heaven and its steward for my life and for what he has provided.

If I were a chef, I’d eat the apple raw and let the sweet-tart juice run down my chin. The I’d wipe my mouth, squeeze my wife, kiss my children and sleep peacefully.

I’d do that, if I were only a chef.

Watching the ocean, wondering about God

2009-08-11T12:41:00.003-06:00

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 frightened him.

He seemed uncomfortable, uneasy.

I pulled him close and, softly, he laid his tiny head on my shoulders. He wrapped his small arms around me and, after a few minutes, was asleep.

And for a few minutes, Zach and I were in perfect harmony with the rest of God’s creation. There was no war, no hunger, no hatred—no pain.

There was, simply, peace.

But that moment, like so many other moments in my life, slipped away, and my son and I returned to the present.

I’m not sure if I’ll ever have another moment like those few minutes with my child, the moon and God. Heck, I’m not sure what I’ll have for lunch tomorrow.

But I am sure that somewhere inside each of us is the desire to know and understand our place in creation. Across the globe, billions of men and woman have fought and died for centuries, each trying to convince the other their God was the one true answer to a universe full of questions.

As for me, I still don’t understand God.

But I honestly believe the answer won’t be found at the end of a weapon. Instead, I believe the answers about God are more likely to be found standing on the beach, gazing at the full moon and being embraced by someone you love.

Golf with my nephew, Chris

2009-07-29T14:20:00.004-06:00

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 spends a Saturday afternoon on the back nine at some golf course.

He takes his clubs and totes them all over creation. He says it’s him against the ball. He says it’s the perfect blend of science and sport. He says it’s fun. He’s nuts.

Recently, Chris invited me to play. “Come on, Uncle Scott,” he said. “You’ll have a blast.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. I know as much about golf as I do the chaos theory of mathematics: And I don’t see a whole lot of difference in the two.”

Chris persisted. “Aww, come on. You like being outside. Besides we don’t do enough stuff together.”

I protested. I complained. I tried to weasel out using the “other commitments” argument. I helped him pack the car.

We ended up at a very nice local course — that due to the nature of liable laws in this state — shall remain unnamed. I watched squirrels; Chris nabbed us a cart.

Of course Chris didn’t get the nice, turbo-powered cart with the padded seats, air conditioning and CD-AM/FM-radio. No. Chris might be a great nephew. But he’s really cheap. Our cart was the golf cart from Hell.

Our cart looked like it had been driven through the back hills of Arkansas by some roadies for an angry country-western band. Our cart had mud, slime, a couple of dead animals and a real funky smell. Ours was painted with metallic-flake rust with two bullet holes. The seats were stolen from a ’43 Willis Jeep and, just for effect, there were a few empty beer cans.

But the motor worked.

“Heeeeeyyyy Chrissss?” I asked, as my spine bounced in and out of my back. “Wheeeerree aaaarrreee weeee gooooin?”

Chris had reverted to his bumper car days — we dodged the small woodland creatures and those individuals who were unlucky enough to venture in our path.

“Ovvveeeerrr thhhheeerre...” he pointed to a lush looking area surrounded by trees and lots of people with gold AMEX cards.“We’re goooooinnnnn to putttttputttt....”

I felt the cart become airborne and then slam back into the well-manicured earth; slowly my spine slowly drifted back into place. “What? We’re goin’ to Putt Putt?” I smiled. “Now, that’s something’ I can do.”

“No.” Chris swerved to avoid a herd of wild squirrels. “We’re going to practice our putting.”

“You practice. I’ll watch.”

The next thing I knew I was holding a putter, resisting the urge to make bad jokes and doing everything humanly possible to knock this tiny fluorescent orange ball into a small hole.

Exactly 47 attempts later, I began to share a few, choice four-letter words with the assembled crowd. No one cared. In fact, a small granny-like woman in $2,000 Nikes (who looked to be about 140-years-old) had already shouted better, nastier words than I could imagine.

Chris smiled, sank about 50 putts and waited. I bent my putter.

No, seriously, I really did. But I didn’t do it on purpose. “Guess you need to work on your swing,” he said.

“Yeah,” I answered. “The porch swing at mom and dad’s house needs a new chain. I’ll get to it right away.”

We finished putting and I urged Chris to think about lunch. He ignored me and we headed to the first tee. Chris tried to show me how to hold the club and how to stand, “address” the ball and stuff like that.

He failed.

Since it was just the two of us — remember, the gold AMEX people are still putting — we didn’t go by normal PGA rules. So it took me 112 stokes just to hit the ball. Who’s counting? But finally, I hit it. Hard — very, very hard.

When my club finally came in contact with that small, round object, I was excited. I hit it. And it sailed through the air just like it was hit by one of those guys on TV.

Right. Hit by one of those guys on TV who was whacked out on crack.

We never did find that dead squirrel.

But Chris was patient. Heck, he had to be, he’s family. Besides, I was buying lunch.

Still, I was thankful that my feeble attempts didn’t bother him. He kept trying to help; coaxing; offering advice; dodging the stray ball.

After nine holes we decided to call it a day. We walked back to our Conastoga golf cart and began the bone-jarring ride home.

Then Chris introduced me to my favorite part of the sport — the club bar. A few cold beers later and I felt much better.

One of the club’s more successful players — a handsome, well tanned chap with nuclear white teeth — wanted to know if Chris would like to play next week.

“Oh, bring your father, too.”

“Father? What?”

“Tell you what fellas,” I said, “accidentally” sloshing some of my beer on Mr. Whiteteeth’s perfectly pressed slacks, “have any of you ever heard about the chaos theory of mathematics?”

The world doesn't need any more bullies

2009-07-21T16:09:00.004-06:00

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 stayed. He kept coming to school and he kept trying to make friends.

But his wounds were deep.

For years, the kid trusted no one. For years, despite the fact he prayed to God for help, his prayers weren’t answered.

He continued to get beaten.

And he continued to run.

So, as he got older, the kid lost his faith. He lost his faith in fellow humans and he lost his faith in humanity. The kid gave up on most of the world.

Then a funny thing happened. By the time he got in high school, the kid discovered he could write and tell stories and make people laugh. And he learned few people will hit you if you’re making them laugh.

So the kid became the class clown.

He pushed the pain and the fear deep down in his gut. He covered the scars and faked a smile.

And he survived.

Eventually, the kid moved away from the small, rural town and went to college. And, as he grew older, he got a job, fell in love and got married.

Then he had kids of his own.

One day, while the kid was in the park with his own children, a group of little girls began to bully his son. In his mind, all those memories of his childhood came flooding back; all the pain and all the emotion.

The kid wanted to grab a stick and beat the little girls until they were bloody. He wanted to throw rocks at them. He wanted to punch and push them down and kick them until they had scars.

But he didn’t.

He pushed those dark thoughts out of his head and walked over to the little girls and talked to them. He asked them how they would feel if someone bullied them. He asked them to consider what it would be like to be punched and kicked and hurt.

And when he finished speaking, the little girls cried.

The little girls said they were sorry to the kid’s son. They said they really wanted to play but they were afraid.

The kid said he understood. Then he sat on a bench and watched as the girls and his son played together.

That evening, when he was tucking his son in bed, the son hugged his father and thanked him for making the bullies go away. The son said the kid was a great dad. The son said he loved him.

And the kid smiled.

You see, even with his pain and his scars, the kid had learned a few things from being bullied. He learned empathy for the underdog. He learned that violence doesn’t solve anything.

And he learned that God really is there, but many times, prayers are answered much later than expected. Even today, the kid remembers all those horrible times of his childhood. Even today, the kid still hides the scars.

But the kid made it.

His life is good. And he’s taught his children there is no room in the world for bullies and that God is all around us.

The kid won’t ever forget.

Because the kid was me.

More on what's wrong with journalism

2009-07-14T17:43:00.013-06:00

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 rack, is pretty piss poor marketing. Statistics show that the average American consumer is exposed to more than 2,000 different media messages each day and only one of 'em is coming from your newspaper.

Think of it, from the time you get out of bed until the time you crawl back into the sack, more than 2,000 different entities are trying to get your attention and get into your wallet (or purse). A newspaper (just the print product) represents only one of those 2,000 messages.

So, by limiting ourselves to just our product, we start the race for the eyes of the American consumer in last place. If newspapers are going to compete. If newspapers are going to rebuild circulation and attract readers, then they are going to have to advertise on the very media they compete with.

To survive, newspapers are going to have to take their message to television, radio, outdoor, buses, bathroom walls, posters, t-shirts and every other place that Nike and Coors have already been or plan on visiting.

And they're going to have to stay there.

Readers are not going to beat down our door. In face, most readers already see the newspaper as a public utility and, because of this, they don't pay attention. We have to go to the reader. The reader isn't going to go to us, because they already have 1,999 other places they can look.

Our message is just as important and if we don't start taking it to the bathroom wall, then we should all find another line of work.

Further, newspapers are going to have to reach back into their past to help save their future.

Years ago, when I worked at another daily newspaper, which served Oklahoma's other university, I made a suggestion to our circulation director. I thought it would be a good idea to send a paper boy loaded with papers out to the various hot spots on campus on game days to sell single copies. Since we covered university sports pretty well, I thought it would be a great way to increase sales.

The guy laughed me out of his office.

Well, honestly, it's 20 years later, and I still think I'm right.

If I owned a suburban daily newspaper today, every Friday night there was a football game, I'd have a bunch of carriers out at the game selling my Friday edition -- which will be chucked full of photos, stories and statistics about the game. I'd host a tailgate party for subscribers only; where they could meet the staff, win prizes, and eat. Then I'd sell the hell out of subscriptions and single copies.

I'd do the same thing -- on a bigger scale -- if I was anywhere near a college town on home game days.

I'd do it during basketball season, the fair, graduation day and any other event where more than 20 people were going to attend.

Make the subscription worth something; cross promote with the car dealer to let subscribers see the new cars BEFORE they go on sale. Host a preview party for a popular movie, BEFORE it opens.

Or, better yet, get up off your ass and think outside the norm.

Years ago, Wal-Mart helped kill many grocery stores (and their ads) by putting the hex on newspaper advertising. I have yet to see a suburban daily even up a fight. They all just threw up their hands and said, "I give."

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Why not cut a deal with the surviving local grocery stores to stuff your newspaper in their paper bag? Swap 'em an ad and see how many papers you move in a day. I've actually seen this work and it's amazing.

Promotion a good newspaper should be easy. People need it. But we're going to have to deliver that message through the channels that people are currently using. And right now they are NOT using the newspaper.

Still, driving up circulation is one thing, keeping readers and getting new ones is something completely different.

Across the country, newsroom management has become so shortsighted that they have become part of the problem.

Need an example? Consider the Associated Press.

Almost every suburban daily in America subscribes to the AP. And on any given day, almost every newspaper across the country has the EXACT SAME STORY in it. Why should I read the Daily Wombat when the paper down the road as the same piece?

Instead of fighting to hire (AND KEEP) skilled talented reporters, newsroom managers have, instead, relied on the AP and in the process, helped kill the local voices that people want to hear. Now, don't get me wrong, the AP is a great organization and their staffs do great work.

But if we don't change, in 10 years, the AP will be selling to Internet based media outlets and not newspapers.

Each community newspaper offers something unique to that community — the story of that town. And those are stories, which by and large, you can't get any place else. But because talented writers and reporters don't want to make poverty-level wages, and because newsroom managers continue to fill their beats with the inexperienced writer or, easier, the AP, the suburban daily dies a slow, painful death.

It's happening all over.

Managers should take the funds they invest in their wire service subscriptions and invest them, instead, in people. Skilled reporters, writers and editors are just as valuable as a good ad salesman. In fact, they make the the life of the ad salesman easier, by giving them something to sell.

Trust me, people don't just pick up the paper to see the ads. Don't believe me? Try spelling the name of the bride-to-be wrong and see how many telephone calls YOU get.

A quality, well-written newspaper which is stuffed full of stories about its town (or area) will sell ads. But the system won't work if readers don't have anything to read.

People will pick up a newspaper if they can find something in it they won't find on television or on the Internet.

Then there's the issue with getting new subscribers.

That its, getting youngsters to read.

Newspaper management needs to stop giving lip service to attracting younger readers and go out and do it.

The Newspaper in Education idea is an okay idea, but the kids aren't going to pay attention to the paper, if there are no stories in there that appeal to them.

Yeah, I know, I heard from editors who tell me gleefully, how they covered the latest Harry Potter movie, but what about the other 364 days out of the year? My own kids tell me the newspaper is lame. There's nothing in there for them and unless it's a photograph of them, they are not interested.

There are millions of ways we can improve and it's time we start talking about them.

And over the next few weeks, I'm gonna keep talking.

Because if we don't, we will, surely, be just as dead as the late Mark Twain.

What's wrong with Journalism?

2009-07-13T06:35:00.014-06:00

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 of the planet. Like Twain, they have told the stories of our 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 software for desktop publishing. It was here that journalism's decline began. With the development of the computer, we saw, later, the Web, Parez Hilton, the Drudge Report and the Blogosphere.

That, right after two reporters at the Washington Post helped shine the light on a crooked president, and win the Pulitzer in the process.

Along the way, newspapers (both dailies and weeklies) have struggled to stay relevant, inform the public and, in true capitalistic fashion, make a buck.

But we are our own worst enemy.

Across this state — or any state in the Union for that matter — thousands of talented, professional journalists cover, analyze, report and document everything from the City Council meeting to Michael Jackson's funeral.

Here in Oklahoma they do it for 'below poverty' wages.

After developing an addiction to 20 and 30 percent profit, newspaper publishers and owners here have held wages to record lows, but, at the same time, demanded stellar performance for their employees.

A friend of mine (who works in the industry) estimates that more than 60 percent of the reporters and photographers working at Oklahoma newspapers qualify for some type governmental aid (reduced price lunches for their kids, food stamps, etc.) despite holding a degree and being employed full time.

Look at it this way: The owners and publishers want the taxpayers to help subsidize their staffs because they, themselves, are too cheap to do it.

That's wrong.

But the greed doesn't stop there. Large metropolitan dailies have gobbled up or forced their competition out of business, while at the same time, taking on mountains of debt in huge consolidation and merger efforts.

The end result is that many of these giants won't survive.

The Rocky Mountain News and the Seattle Post Intelligencer are dead. The New York Times is bleeding money, the Boston Globe (owned by the Times Company) is on life support, and Chicago's dailies have declared bankruptcy.

In Oklahoma the state's two largest dailies have laid off huge numbers of talented, prize-winning staff members while they struggle to adapt and survive.

All during a time when people hunger for news.

Newspapers have made their own lives worse by posting their content free on the Internet, devaluing their entire product and those who help create it. In the rush to compete with Internet we cut our own throats. Bigger newspapers -- including the regional and suburban dailies have attempted to become "media portals" by converging video, audio and print into their Web site and still publishing a print product.

A noble idea, but publishers and editors have taken convergence to the extreme by demanding their existing staffs handle every component instead of hiring more professionals to do the work.

Journalists — who already have way too little time to cover stories which need to be covered — now have the added burden of doing the filming, editing and posting of the same event. And the end result isn't something that competes with television, but instead looks like it was cobbled together by a reporter with too much to do.

By limiting reporter's time to focus on quality stories, and by demanding these same professionals take on more and more duties formally performed by others, newspaper publishers and owners degrade their own product. Few papers sell, because the stories in them are all by one source - the Associated Press.

Then the publishers and owners throw up their hands and shout at the rain when their profits fail and circulation declines.

Amazing.

Students in journalism schools today, face a bleak future if the industry as a whole doesn't rise to the challenge and reinvent itself in a way that allows all parties to profit from the effort.

But that, my friends, is the fodder for another post.

One drunk driver can ruin your whole day

2009-07-08T12:53:00.002-06:00

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 to my parents home about 30 miles away.

The drive isn’t bad — usually — and it doesn’t take that long. Besides, I wanted to spend a little time with my parents and I knew they wanted to see their youngest grandchild.

So we sat off, fighting the holiday traffic and sheets of rain.

We shouldn’t have.

About three miles outside of Cleveland, Okla., the traffic had come to a crawl. People pulled over because of the downpour.

But I told myself we should keep going.

I’d just started to climb a large hill when I noticed headlights of a truck that kept veering into my lane. I pulled over as far as I could go, but the idiot who was supposed to be going the opposite direction, decided she wanted in my lane, too.

And before I knew it, we collided — head on — her truck and my van.

Because I was just crawling along, and because the other driver couldn’t see well enough to get up to full speed no one was injured.

But that didn’t matter.

Because just after the truck nailed me, she drove off. I looked for a place to turn around, and went back down the hill to the spot where the accident occurred and called 911 — the driver, however, was gone.

A Highway Patrol trooper stopped to make sure me and my family were OK, then went back into Cleveland to catch the other driver.

Now, had I been 15 years younger, I would have simply cussed and followed the other driver to find the idiot who hit me.

But this time, I was actually frightened.

This time, I realized just how close I came to losing my own life and the lives of my infant son and my beautiful wife.

Had circumstances been just a little different, my whole life would have changed. All my dreams, hopes and everything I’d worked for — school, my family, my career — everything would be gone.

On any other night that accident could have killed us all, or anyone of my family — all because someone got tanked up on alcohol and decided to take their share of the road out of the middle.

It’s happened before.

And I know it will happen again.

But what bothers me is the arrogance of the whole situation: How someone I don’t know, and have never done anything to, can fundamentally alter my life and the lives of my family — without even asking.

Now I understand why Mothers Against Drunk Driving stays MADD.

By the time we made it to my parents home, my mother was frantic. I watched the tears cascade down her cheeks as she prayed, thanking the Almighty that Karen, Zach and I were not injured.

Since then I’ve said my share of ‘thank you’ prayers, too. But the fact remains that people will still drink and drive.

And because of that act, innocent people will get hurt or even killed.

The night of July Fourth I was lucky.

But sometime in the future, another person, with just as many hopes and dreams and desires won’t be.

Times, they are a'changin...

2009-07-01T13:17:00.001-06:00

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 week with the deaths of Michael Jackson and Farah Fawcett. For years, Farah’s poster — the one with her in a bathing suit against the towel — hung in my bedroom. And I remember, still today, walking into the record store and buying Jackson’s Thriller album.

I still have the record, but the poster is long gone.

And the period of my life when both those events took place is now, nothing more than a memory. My little brother is no longer little and doesn’t need me to defend him. And those high school yearbooks look like they were produced on some far distant planet.

Yeah, times have changed.

The world is scary, the economy rocky and the monuments of my childhood are nothing more than distant, fog-shrouded places. I know what my father was saying years ago, when he told me to enjoy being a kid because I wouldn’t get those days back.

He was right.

Today, I don’t spend my summers mowing lawns, hauling hay and splashing girls at the municipal swimming pool in Yale, Oklahoma. The little weekly newspaper I grew up in no longer occupies a spot along Main Street and many of the people I called friends now sleep forever.

And still, the earth rolls on its belly.

Over the past 30 years, I have morphed into my father. I have his fears, his desires and and his stubborness. More than ever, I have taken the best he gave me and made it my own.

My Dad knows the value of a slow, summer day and the joy of laughter. He still relishes a cold glass of lemonade; and cooking a huge breakfast for his children and his grandchildren is still his favorite occupation.

And along the way, my Dad collected the memories.

The trip to the Grand Canyon. Countless hours fishing. Sitting around the campfire at the lake. Hunting for the perfect cedar tree for Christmas.

Those memories he gave to me.

Yes, I have become my father. And I am now the keeper of his legacy, too. I’m charged with remembering the events of my life with him and my mother and I’m responsible for passing those memories along to my children.

All this, while time passes quickly and my life moves into its second phase. Yeah, Bob Dylan was right, the times they are a’chagin.

I just wish they’d go a little slower as they do it.

For some, 15 minutes is just too much

2009-06-24T11:03:00.001-06:00

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 half the people in the world won’t even repeat.

No matter, cause the stuff is being sold to the other half.

Jessica Alba’s recent spat of Shark-induced vandalism drew as much attention here in Oklahoma as stories about next year’s race for governor.

I just wonder if the story about the graffiti would have been as popular if it was, say, a group of homeless people seeking help, or done by school teachers seeking smaller class sizes.

Probably not.

Jessica looks fine in a short dress and she’s done a few movies, so, naturally, we should pay more attention to her than, say the highway patrolman who lost it and pulled over an ambulance.

Maybe we just want to escape the turmoil and problems facing us right now.

Maybe we just need a distraction for a while.

Or maybe we just are idiots.

I hope the answer lies in the first two statements, because I don’t want to believe that human society had degenerated to the point that Perez is worth more ink than Watergate.

Last week, a group of kids from Cleveland County set off for Quartz Mountain to attend the Summer Arts Institute.

These kids didn’t just ‘load up and go’ they had to apply, audition and, eventually, get accepted. It took work, skill, dedication and lots of effort.

And other than a handful of newspapers, you don’t hear much about these kid’s accomplishments.

That’s wrong.

Because down in southwestern Oklahoma, nestled in the middle of the Quartz Mountains, you’ll find more beauty and talent than the Lindsay Lohans and the Britneys of the world could ever imagine.

The joy of summer

2009-06-17T12:18:00.001-06:00

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 world.

Nearby, I hear the distant hum of central air units. I say a quiet prayer of thanks for the inventor of Freon.

In front of me a fat, busy bumblebee zooms back and forth looking for a flower. Beyond his pulsating wings, I watch the heat rise off the black pavement; nearby a spider stretches a web from the front of my car to the garage. I hate to tell him, but tomorrow, when I leave for work, his web will be ruined.

A breeze stirs, rearranging the dust from the street and irritating the tomcat snoozing in the bushes below me. Bear, the feline, tolerates few interruptions. He’ll complain, but eventually, he’ll return to the shade of the shrub and his regularly scheduled nap.

I slip back inside the house — it’s cool and dark.

Karen brings me a beautiful smile and large glass of ice-cold water. I pull her close and together we stand quietly — almost reverently — and watch as our kids scamper and play — they are oblivious to any problems, concerns or issues.

And for a few minutes, our world is at peace — bathed in the glow of a warm Oklahoma sun, and the knowledge that summer doesn’t officially end until Sept. 21.

Dear Zachary...

2009-06-09T20:45:00.005-06:00

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 they’re messy and many times, have been places they probably shouldn’t have — a recent adventure involving a ketchup bottle comes to mind.

But I understand that you’re exploring your world, and I find joy in watching you experience that world for the very first time.

You remind me how beautiful — and how fragile — life can be.

Zachary, you’ll never know — at least not until you have children of your own — just how much a parent can love their child.

Just when I think all hope is lost in the world you, my son, remind me how beautiful life can be. The peace that I have as you crawl up into my arms and drift off to sleep is life-giving. Watching you giggle as your mother touches you, or seeing you react to your brothers makes my darkest day a delight.

You have left your mark on my soul.

We’ve read books, the newspaper, and written many stories together — you and I.

And I’ve loved every minute.

Zach, I am so glad you are my son. I wish half the world, just for a day, could experience your courage. We would all be far better off.

Now, I watch as you change almost daily. You’re not the same child you were six months ago. OK, granted, those skinned knees you’ve acquired aren’t that much fun, but don’t you worry you’ll get it figured out.

Please know that I’m always here for you. I’m your dad and I promise you, with God as my witness, that I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe, healthy and happy.

All you have to do is keep smiling — and flirt with your mother occasionally, she really likes that.

We’ve got stacks of books, music and things for you to experience. Yes, I know you weren’t too thrilled with that first fireworks display, but being scared once in a while is OK. Just hold onto my hand and I’ll make sure the bad guys stay away.

Take your time and enjoy the fact that your mom and I are right next to you — always. When you were born, the bets were stacked against you; so you played the only hand you had — and the results were amazing.

Know that I thank God, each day, for the chance to be your dad. But most of all, I thank God each day for you.

All my love,
Dad.

Dear Daniel...about that graduation

2009-05-26T14:15:00.002-06:00

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 work. He felt guilty about not being there and was afraid I wouldn’t understand.

Yeah, I felt like an ass for a long time.

But your dad forgave me.

Over the next few years a deep, mutual friendship developed. Over the course of many late evenings, lunch and the daily grind, your dad became my best friend. And, I like to think I did the same for him.

You were just a few years old when I watched your dad fall apart. He’d been angry and upset for several weeks, but no one could seem to figure out why. You guys lived nearby, then, so I grabbed a six pack of beer and called your dad. He met me in the park. We found an empty picnic table and began to talk.

I thought he was mad at me. Others thought he was mad at them.

He wasn’t.

He was anguishing over a decision about you. Since your foot had never developed properly, the doctors recommended that your parents have it amputated. Your dad carried all that around for weeks until he was about ready to explode. And there, on that warm sunny afternoon, he did.

I knew how deeply he loved you. But I didn’t know the depth of his anguish until almost 20 years later, when I would pour my heart out to him about my son and the surgery he needed. We talked for a long time that day, and polished off more that one six pack. We laughed, we cried, we cussed and we questioned God — together.

But when we went home, both of us felt better.

Daniel, I’ve stood on the sidelines and watched many of the events of your life. We’d told jokes, laughed and carved pumpkins.

I remember when you were fitted for your prosthesis. You were scared and sad and were sure the other kids would make fun of you. But your Dad and I quickly promoted you to head pirate, convinced you that a true pirate needed a wooden leg (even though yours was a composite mixture it didn’t matter, you didn’t know the difference at the time) dried your tears and told you to try and smile.

You were right — some of the other kids were mean and they did make fun of you.

But you stood tall.

I still laugh when I recall you father phoning me and asking me if I would stop by to talk to you. On that visit, I became your “older brother who lived real far away and who’d just gotten out of prison and who was real, real mean.” The other kids believed it and, even though the threat was implied, the scowl and the “leave my little brother alone look” worked pretty well.

I loved that role. And I’ll always remember how, after our summit meeting with the playground bullies, you took my hand and held tight, as we walked back to your house. Daniel, it’s not everyone who has the courage to confront a bully.

But you did. You didn’t back down even though you were frightened.

It wasn’t long after that, your dad would tell me, over lunch, that you re-named your stuffed teddy bear Scott. Even today, when I think about that, I get a lump in my throat. You were there when my first marriage fell apart. And you stood and smiled when I re-married.

Daniel, you’ve grown up into a fine young man. Your courage is incredible. Your compassion obvious and your sense of humor infectious.

You are my hero.

Over the past couple of years, I watched you try out for and make the football team. You never gave up. And you succeeded. Sure, you have had struggles, but who doesn’t? But you, unlike so many others, didn’t stop. You kept trying.

Know that I’m very proud of you.

Sure, the world may seem like a strange place and you may want to believe that it’s only full of pain and misery. Don’t. Because even though there are problems, there also is beauty — but you’ll have to seek it. Enjoy looking.

It’s an old tradition to give students advice when they graduate — and most of it’s useless. Because the best advice on living is, simply, to do it.

So, as you take this next step in your life, I hope your encounter all sorts of different people. Take the time to learn from them. Remember, everyone has a story. And a smart man will take the time to listen. Go. Travel. See the world.

But come home once in a while and see your folks. You’re still their little boy.

And you’ll always be my friend.

Again, congratulations on your graduation. You’ve worked hard, you stood your ground and you made it. And that, my friend, is the mark of a good man.

Sincerely,

M. Scott
Former associate pirate, brother from prison and chief pumpkin carver.

Of Jazz and Rain

2009-05-14T16:51:00.001-06:00

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 years.

The wet and the dark, conspire to make me feel cold. I pull my coat tighter around me and move quickly back to my car.

In front of me, a homeless man holds a damp cardboard sign. I empty the change from both pockets in his red, plastic cup.

He gives me a toothless smile and offers me a blessing from the Almighty.

Briefly, I remember my grandmother. She always admonished me to share with the poor and the homeless.

“Just in case the good Lord visits the Earth disguised as a begger,” she said.

I know, tonight, she would be proud.

I slide back behind the wheel and, quickly, the engine comes to life.

Brubeck resumes his music.

And I continue my way home.

Why Governor Perry should shut up

2009-05-07T10:41:00.004-06:00

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 government.

“It’s a very organic thing,” he said

Fast forward to last week.

With cases of swine flu (N1H1) all across the country — and the first American death from the disease in Texas, Perry requested that the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) provide Texas with 37,430 courses of antiviral medications from the Strategic National Stockpile to prevent the spread of swine flu.

It seems now that Gov. Perry needs help from that “oppressive” federal government.

But wait, there’s more.

Perry also has issued a disaster declaration in order to receive more government aid. In fact, according to Mother Jones Magazine, Perry has issued more such declarations than any other governor.

A listing on FEMA’s Web site shows that Texas has been the site of 13 “major disaster declarations” since Perry took office following George W. Bush’s departure in 2001. That includes five instances of severe storms and flooding, two tropical storms, one “extreme wildfire threat,” and Hurricanes Claudette, Rita, Dolly, and Ike. (Texas received significant federal assistance following Hurricane Katrina, but it did not appear on FEMA’s Web site in the “major disaster declaration” category.)

David Riedman, a public information specialist at FEMA, explained disaster declaration is issued when a governor “determines the state’s resources are overrun.” From that point forward, the federal government, under federal law, is required to reimburse the state for at least 75 percent of the cost of recovery. Help is primarily targeted at rebuilding roads and bridges, debris removal and repairing damage to public buildings. In the relief efforts that are still under way from the damage done by Hurricane Ike, the federal government is reimbursing Texas for 100 percent of all expenses, according to Riedman.

In fact, since FEMA’s record-keeping began, Texas has received federal disaster assistance more times than any other state. From FEMA’s Web site:

So let me get this straight. Gov. Perry and the Texas Playboys don’t want to be part of the Union, but they want the Union’s help when things go south?

And, additionally, the governor raises hell about lowering taxes and but is one of the first in line to request tax money.
Unless, of course, it’s money to help the unemployed.

Rick Perry is a hypocrite.

And he should should probably stop talking right now. Because, as Mother Jones said, he’s fine about shredding safety nets as long as it’s not his own.

Let's spend some capital on the Capitol

2009-04-28T11:22:00.001-06:00

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 has a unique history all to itself.
Heck it almost didn’t get built in Oklahoma City.

There was the ill-fated fight with the town of Guthrie and the intense struggle that followed which brought the Capitol to Oklahoma City.

Then, instead of picking out a single plot of land and constructing a building, Oklahoma did things differently.

Instead of locating our seat of government at Capitol Hill — which of course, was being pushed aggressively by Capitol Hill folks — they decided on a plot in the middle of a field.

A plot straddling land owned by the William F. Harn family and the Frank I. Warren family. Instead of choosing one family over the other (and causing a ruckus of untold proportions) they decided to split the different and put the building on both plots of land.

If only the United Nations had the same diplomatic skill.

Groundbreaking was held July 20, 1914, and the state took possession of the building June 30, 1917. Granite steps were added in 1921 and various other office builds followed during the next few decades.

Eighty or so years later, we added a dome.

There is a great deal of history of those granite steps. The common-folk talk of “Alfalfa” Bill Murray. The heated debate over legislation. And the shuffle of the millions of tiny feet belonging to the school kids who traipse thought yearly to see their government at work.

And now, a movement is building to invest more than $100 million in the Capitol building and refurbish it.
It’s about time.

Long suffering under intense daily use and several misguided attempts to improve what Layton designed, our Capitol needs a face lift. A major face lift.

Like our state, our Capitol building is wrapped in history. It still functions as a work place for all 149 members of the Oklahoma Legislature, the governor, state treasurer, attorney general, their staffs and various other officials.

It’s still the scene of political infighting, and well-thought ideas. It’s seen the angry protest and the late-afternoon press conference. On it’s south steps many a political career has been launched — and crashed.

In short, it’s quite a place.

And it needs our help, now.

Summer

2009-04-23T11:33:00.001-06:00

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 population will scamper across the heat-softened blacktop in search of a cooler place.

At one sun-bleached white house, an amber tomcat has poured itself across the worn back steps. He’ll sleep deeply — as far as tomcats do — dozing with one eye closed and the other focused on a scrawny, obnoxious blue jay.

On these days, the heat intensifies the din.

Already a chorus of cicadas have started a day-long chant — an almost mechanical sound that ebbs and flows with the intensity of an ancient engine.

The elders of the town respect these days.

They know the power of heat; how it induces sleep. How it inspires conversation. How it causes ordinarily busy humans to move every-so-slowly.

On this day, on the front porch of the sun-bleached house — the one with the cat — one of the elders has settled himself in a decrepit wicker rocker. A sweat-stained ball cap shades the last few hairs on the wrinkled, weather beaten head.

From the shadows a withered hand grasps a frost-covered glass. The hand shakes just enough to cause ripples in the ice-cold liquid.

Then, slowly, the hand brings the glass to a shadow beneath the ball cap. The liquid disappears.

The withered hand appears again, placing the empty glass on a small wicker table.

On these days, the blackjack tree — which, itself, has seen more summers than the old one on the porch — seems almost alive with droning insects.

A lone car passes. The tires gouge deep scars in the moist blacktop. The gnarled hand moves in a deliberate side-to-side motion. The car is long gone before the old one stops his wave.

Above, the sun continues its journey until it’s moved — too slow, for many — across the faded, blue sky.

The dust devils have ceased their dance. And, like the smoke of a wood fire, the red dirt has settled once again on the Oklahoma prairie.

But, Oklahoma is like that.

On certain days, when the sidewalks melt.

Good advice is priceless

2009-04-16T10:06:00.000-06:00

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 told me this, I understood. Even today, I feel like I rushed through the first part of my life and I’m still trying to learn to slow down. But there are times, on the drive home or late when all the kids are asleep, I find myself standing outside looking up at the stars.

“Find out what you like to do and give it your best.” I hadn’t worked at Homer’s newspaper very long when I developed a life-long desire for a career in jounralism. Even today, I’m still thrilled to see a photograph or a story I’ve worked on appear in print. I’ve made many, many mistakes in my life, but I was smart enough to take this advice at a very early age.

“Don’t worry about your critics, because in the world of journalism, you’ll always have one.” Homer once told me that he couldn’t remember a single day when someone didn’t come in his newspaper to complain. Usually they didn’t dispute the facts of the story — but the fact that he wrote the story. Homer said you had to develop a tough, thick skin to work in this field. He was right. And in this age of instant communication, many times the complaint gets to you before the newspaper does.

Homer was my friend.

He and his wife, Beth, told me stories, taught me well, and showed me at a very early age a world that I wanted to make my own. Throughout my life I counted him among the few non-family members of my circle that I truly respected.

I miss him.

Sadly, Homer’s life came to an end nine years ago in a tragic accident — he was on his way to cover a football game. He was a decent, talented and honorable man and I wish there were more people like him.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve tried to take Homer’s wisdom to heart and I’ve tried to learn from each moment. This week, I was reminded of what I consider the best advice I received from the man — “never pay a dime for a nickel whistle.”

Honestly, I believe Homer was trying to tell me not to sell out; to make sure the deal was good or the object was worth the cost.

Wisdom that, even now, I’m still learning.

An Open Letter to Archbishop Beltran

2009-04-07T14:43:00.003-06:00

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 invitation to President Barack Obama to be your commencement speaker in May” and ask that the school “refrain from giving him any award whatsoever.”

Sir, I’m disappointed.

Whether you voted for him or note, Barack Obama is the President of the United States — a country, that you, yourself, live in, work in, and expect certain things from. While it’s easy for you to claim President Obama has “publicly and ruthlessly affronted the Catholic Church of America during the short time of his presidency” you also expect this same president to protect your borders, fight to make sure your church remains free from government interference, and enforce the laws which make sure that you — and every other member of the Catholic faith in America — have the opportunity to live and worship as you see fit.

Obviously you fail to grasp the true concept of First Amendment, when you continue to claim that President Obama’s “single-handed actions have totally reversed decades of successes of the church in the prolife cause” — an action underscored when neither you, nor other church leaders who have written similar letters, are privy to what the president plans to speak about.

In addition, you fail to include in your definition of “prolife movement” groups which advocate the elimination of the death penalty or which seek to eliminate torture. Issues which you, as Archbishop of Oklahoma, have been strangely quiet about.

I find it ironic that you also did not mention the president moved to prevent the torture of war prisoners and ordered closed a facility where torture had occurred; issues which a true “pro-lifer” would applaud and support.

Or perhaps this definition of “pro-life” only applies to certain classes of humanity; but not those who are outcast, poor or criminal.

Mr. Archbishop you speak more like a politician and less like a man of faith — and you disappoint me.

You ask Father Jenkins to “have the courage to take this extraordinary stand in view of the extraordinary scandal you have generated,” when all the good Father did was offer his students an opportunity not few college students will get — the chance to hear the president.

You ask for courage, when you, yourself, have failed on numerous instances to make public statements about social justice issues such as Right to Work, immigration and equality — all tenets of the Catholic faith.

Archbishop Beltran you know, as well as I do, that just because you allow someone to speak doesn’t mean you support what that person is speaking about. You, of all people, should understand this.

Sir, I expect more from the leader of my church. As the leader of Oklahoma’s Catholics, I would hope you, too, would follow the Lord’s admonition — so clearly written in the Book of Isaiah — to “come, let us reason together” something which cannot be done unless both sides are allowed to speak.

Sincerely,
M. Scott Carter

A little about keeping government open

2009-03-31T12:54:00.000-06:00

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 of story?” she said.

“I prefer to discuss that with him.”

Long pause. Little Miss Personal Assistant is frosted. I’m not playing by her rules. I’m not telling her what she wants to know so she can decide whether or not to give her boss the message.

“Well, he wants to know.”

“That’s fine,” I answered. “Just tell him I called.”

Needless to say our civic official — the man who gets his salary from your tax dollars — doesn’t call me back.

Four hours later, I try again.

Same issue; the secretary wants to screen calls before she can decide whether or not to give her boss the message. Sorry, I don’t play that game.

“I’ll keep calling,” I tell her.

Now, honestly, I’m not so egotistical that I expect any government official to drop whatever they are doing and take my call. I’ve been in the newspaper industry long enough to understand that government officials are, truly, busy.

But being busy is one thing.

Openness in government is another.

Because it shouldn’t matter why I, or any taxpayer for that matter, makes a call. Each of us contributes and each of us should be allowed to question those leaders that we elect and hire to work for us.

There should be no screen.

Whether I’m an investigative reporter or a waitress at a local restaurant, the laws apply equally. Those laws are known as the Open Meeting and the Open Record Acts and they, along with our state’s Constitution, are the foundation for transparency in government.

Openness in government doesn’t rest on the shoulders of a personal assistant with an attitude problem. Instead, it’s a concept that acknowledges the government, which serves us, is available to us all.

And that “out” city official?

I finally talked to him.

I called him on his cell phone, while he was driving from one meeting to the next.

“You can call me at the office,” he said. “I’m usually there.”

“I couldn’t get through the thought police,” I told him. “So I’ll just use your cell number. That way, the communication between us is direct and open and there’s not a third party involved.”

'Nuff said.

2009-03-29T20:31:00.001-06:00

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.”

In 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 the state does not investigate veterans nursing homes, but it became a federal responsibility after a state legislator decided they did not have sufficient resources to monitor, the judges said.

David Page of the Journal Record took home the sweepstakes trophy in Division C for his general news category entry, “Developing Wind Power.”

The judges liked the background included in his report and said his writing was clear, clean and “in a word, relevant.”
In the photography category, Mike Simons of the Tulsa World won the sweepstakes in Division A. Ed Blochowiak of the Shawnee News-Star won in Division B and the Division C sweepstakes winner was Maike Sabolich of The Journal Record.

The more things change, the more they stay the same

2009-03-23T16:04:00.003-06:00

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, perky blond cheerleader-princess who, even though she’s only 13, has the body of a high school senior but the maturity of fifth grader. Cheerleader-princess flirts back, bats her long eyelashes, and struggles to make sure her other girlfriends notice who she is talking to; after all, jelousy is an important weapon when you’re 13.

Just down from the cheerleader-princess stands the Geek.

He’s dressed in pressed khakis which are just a little too short and a shirt that’s always tucked in. He mom got the pants on sale at Old Navy and she lovingly irons them. She has no idea she might as well staple a sign to her kid’s head which reads “Kick Me.”

Geek boy is smart, and when he hits college, he will probably make a fortune from the scholarships that schools across the country throw at him.

But right now, at this very moment, he’s the outcast. Right now, he’d give up his soul to flirt with the cheerleader-princess — and have her flirt back. Which is too bad, because he doesn’t notice the little doe-eyed sweetheart who’s standing three people away from him.

She’s too short to be a cheerleader and her small body hasn’t developed its curves yet. But she has the face, and the personality of an angel. She spends her time buried in books. This year, she’ll set a record for the number of As one student can earn in a semester.

The kids stand there — not dancing. A faceless discjockey plays a cut from Kayne West. A handful of brave couples try their hand at some slow moves, but quickly stop and fade back into the shadows.

Thirty years ago, the song was by Journey or — God forbid — Air Supply. The moves are the same; it’s just the music that’s changed. Of course, back then, eighth graders didn’t stop dancing to take a call on their cell or to send a text message.

Kayne continues his ballad.

My wife pulls me close and hands me our toddler.

Zach smiles, coos and points to the scrum of kids, where, somewhere, his sister stands, reminding her group that she, too, has been nominated as one of the dance’s potential queens.

For the moment I’ll pulled back to reality, but all too quickly I go back to 1977. Standing there, watching, I’m back in a time where the whole world seemed to revolve around who fit in where.

Behind me, Karen giggles.

She watches as Sara and several of her compadres practice their Rockett-style kicks, then fall in a heap on the floor. The Geek and the little Doe Eyed girl join them, laughing, too.

Over to the side, superjock stands alone. The cheerleader-princess has rejoined her gaggle of friends while superjock has sacrificed an evening of laughter for the chance to silently cultivate his image.

And still, the music plays.

Yeah, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Science shouldn't be left to the Oklahoma Legislature

2009-03-17T11:02:00.000-06:00

“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 Rep. Todd Thomsen sought to roll back time.

Thomsen, a Republican, filed a resolution condemning the University of Oklahoma for bringing professor Richard Dawkins to campus for a speech about evolution. Dawkins appeared during a week-long celebration of the work of Charles Darwin.

Thomsen’s resolution expressed his “disapproval of the actions of the University of Oklahoma to indoctrinate students in the theory of evolution; opposing the invitation to Richard Dawkins to speak on campus; and directing distribution.”

In this legislative example of the 2-year-old tantrum, Thomsen claimed “the department of zoology at the University of Oklahoma has, as evidenced on the departmental homepage, been framing the Darwinian theory of evolution as doctrinal dogmatism rather than a hypothetical construction within the disciplines of the sciences” and “the department... has been engaged in one-sided indoctrination of an unproven and unpopular theory and made an effort to brand all thinking in dissent of this theory as anti-intellectual and backward rather than nurturing such free thinking and allowing a free discussion of all ideas which is the primary purpose of a university.”

Thomsen goes to, requesting an “open, fair and honest discussion” about the issue, but also condemning “the invitation to speak on the campus of the University of Oklahoma to Richard Dawkins of Oxford University, whose published statements on the theory of evolution and opinion about those who do not believe in the theory are contrary and offensive to the views and opinions of most citizens of Oklahoma.”

Amazing.

To say on one hand “let’s talk about it,” then add, “but don’t bring in anyone I disagree with,” is, perhaps, the most intellectually dishonest statement I’ve seen in a long time.

With this one resolution, Rep. Thomsen has not only embarrassed himself, but the other 3.5 million souls who call themselves Sooners. I am amazed that during a time of great national trouble issues such as the Thomsen resolution and silly, idiotic ideas like “let’s build a monument to the Ten Commandments” on the capitol grounds are of greater concern than making sure our schools have enough funds to operate.

Rep. Thomsen and the leadership of the Oklahoma House of Representatives should ask themselves if resolutions like this are really helping solve the state’s problems.

But, before Thomsen and his Republican leaders do that, perhaps they need another lesson in the First Amendment. Perhaps, the good representative should crawl out of his cave and look at the world around him. Or maybe he should just remember the words of Spencer Tracy: “If you take a law like evolution and you make it a crime to teach it in the public schools, tomorrow you can make it a crime to teach it in the private schools? And tomorrow you may make it a crime to read about it. And soon you may ban books and newspapers. And then you may turn Catholic against Protestant, and Protestant against Protestant, and try to foist your own religion upon the mind of man. If you can do one, you can do the other. Because fanaticism and ignorance is forever busy, and needs feeding. And soon, your honor, with banners flying and with drums beating we’ll be marching backward, backward, through the glorious ages of that Sixteenth Century when bigots burned the man who dared bring enlightenment and intelligence to the human mind.”

Springtime in Oklahoma

2009-03-12T12:54:00.001-06:00

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 building — look like their branches are filled with huge cotton balls.

The Legislature has reconvened, determined this year to save our souls, and solve every problem facing the residents of the Sooner State.

They are the primary reason for the vast expanse of hot air which has settled over central Oklahoma.

But even then, the nights are still cool, the breeze is soft and warm sunny days are now the norm.

Here at the office, I see more colorful dresses and the occasional knit shirt. The view from the balcony draws more people.

And my desire to lie under a large tree and spend the afternoon, sleeping in the sun is almost overwhelming.

When I was a kid, I remember asking my father which of the seasons was his favorite. He smiled, pulled me close to him, and said each one. He said, for him, the joy came in watching each season come and being around to witness the change. “That’s how you know God’s up there, lookin’ out for us,” he told me.

I find comfort in that idea.

I find peace in knowing that somewhere in the vast expanse of blue, the Almighty is in control and he’s making sure the Earth is spinning just as it should.

I also find happiness in knowing that the view from heaven must be pretty spectacular; because here, below, on a warm spring night, with some really nice steaks sizzling on the grill, the view of heaven is pretty spectacular, too.

Humans need face-to-face conversation

2009-03-10T11:07:00.002-06:00

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 into their iPods or the phones, oblivious to those other students who also are plugged into their iPods and their cell phones.

Frankly, I prefer old school.

I prefer talking.

I prefer the face-to-face approach.

Last week, I met a friend for coffee. A fellow reporter, he agreed, provided we disavowed any technology. There were no iPods, no laptops and no cell phones.

We simply talked.

Over several cups of coffee and a few muffins, we caught up on each others lives, swapped kid stories, laughed a great deal and, generally, had a great time.

Several weeks ago, I had the same type of meeting with my niece and several other friends. We all met on a warm Sunday afternoon at a small, funky coffee shop and just talked.

The results were amazing.

Instead of feeling disconnected and out-of-touch, we shared our thoughts and fears and concerns. We learned more about the depth of each person and what, exactly, made them like they were. We communicated as humans are supposed to communicate. And in the process, it gave us a richer understanding of each other.

As I write this, the newspaper industry is struggling to redefine itself. Newspaper experts are telling editors, reporters and writers that we must embrace technology and provide information in the form the reader wishes to receive it.

But, last year’s big ice storm — and the smaller one this year — reminded me just how far we have to go. Last January, with no electricity, no computers, televisions or e-mail, residents turned back, again, to ink on paper to get information.

Those newspapers found on icy sidewalks didn’t need extension cords or pdf readers. They simply needed to be unfolded.
The same goes for us humans.

We don’t need gadgets, earphones or Facebook.

We, simply, need to sit face-to-face, open our hearts and listen.

One time, one night

2009-03-09T16:55:00.000-06:00

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.

Covering a Westboro Church protest

2009-03-07T16:29:00.003-06:00

— 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 release calling the students at Moore sluts, whores and other names not normally used in polite conversation. All this was underscored by church members, who also defaced an American flag — standing on it like a doormat.

Across the street stood the residents.

There, they carried messages such as “God Loves Moore,” “Hatred Sucks” and my personal favorite, a long, well-written spoof on a Visa card advertisement.

The group also sang religious song and, in a well-behaved but obvious crowd-like fashion, encouraged the Westboro group to go home. Veterans on motorcycles cruised up and down Eastern Avenue, reminding those from Westboro that they, too, had something to say.

A huge contingent of police — more than 52 of the department’s 80 men — were on hand, standing quietly in the street.
There was no violence.

There was no death or destruction.

Just freedom of speech raw and unvarnished.

When word of the church’s protest first broke, many of Moore city and school leaders were justifiably worried. Plans were made and students were released early.

Additionally, many of those same leaders urged this newspaper not to cover the incident or pay any attention to the Westboro group.

And while I understand their fear, there was no way the newspaper could ignore the incident. Not only were media outlets from across the metro there, but the event was taking place in Moore.

Municipal, civil and school officials were involved, taxpayer funds were being expended and there was a concern for the lives and safety of Moore residents.

Of course we had to cover the story; its part of the history of the town and The American is tasked with recording that history.
In the end, nothing bad happened.

The police kept order, the Westboro group got the chance to prove to the rest of the world what idiots they are and the residents of Moore (and everywhere from Warr Acres to Guthrie) had the chance to come together, stand on a street corner and speak their minds.

It was democracy at its best.

And I’m proud of what I saw. I’m proud of how city and school leaders took their jobs seriously and protected the students of Moore High.

I’m proud of the students for banding together and making their voices heard.

I’m proud of the bikers, the veterans and those who came from across the metro to stand with us, as brothers.

And, yes, I’m proud we covered the story.

Because had the media not played witness to this event, there would have been no way to tell the public just how incredible the citizens of Moore can be when they feel threatened.

And there would have been no one there to show the world what raw, visceral hatred looks like first-hand.

This little iPod thingy now has all my music

2009-01-17T19:05:00.006-06:00

The kid at Office Depot scratched his head.

"Well, yeah, I think we've got one that big," he said. He pointed to the vast area behind him. "Somewhere...somewhere over there."

"You're sure?" I asked. "Because I fought all sorts of traffic to get here and I don't want to go home empty-handed."

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure," the kid said.

"Pretty sure? or for sure?" I replied.

"Okay, I'm sure." The kid gave me one of those "you'd better buy something or else" looks. I, however, smiled in return. I resisted the urge to asked for directions a second time.

Ten minutes later — which included some serious prices versus quality type of thinking — I purchased the small piece of computer equipment and left.

I'd come to Office Depot on a quest.

It had recently become apparent that I needed to upgrade my home-based Mac and this included a great deal more hard drive space. Now this isn't that big of a problem, because in my 45 years on this earth I have installed many hard drives and wasn't worried about the process.

I was worried, though, about finding a drive large enough.

You see, I was on a quest; like Don Quixote I had charged myself with the task impossible. And despite the urgings from family and friends, alike, I charged ahead.

I was going to digitize all — read that literally — all my music and store it in iTunes and on my iPod.

I know, you're laughing.

Go ahead, because I have more than 3,000 vinyl records and close to a thousand CDs. But no matter, because the directionally challenged youth at Best Buy sold me a 1-Terrabyte hard drive — the digital equivalent of the Library of Congress and King Solomon's mines all rolled into one.

After I arrived home, the set-up was easy. Actually it took more time to unwrap the drive from its plastic-covered tomb than it did to set the whole thing up, plug it in, and turn it on.

Once the little white light came on, I saw a new icon on my Mac — and there, in that tiny little box, I know I had found an empty treasure chest. It was the electronic equal to a blank canvas and I was going to fill it with sound.

I grabbed stacks and stacks of CDs and began loading. Elvis, Buddy Holly, the Cars, Elton, Jimmy Buffett (lots and lots of Jimmy Buffett), Hank Williams, Sr., and even Johnny Cash all found their way to their new home.

As I write this, I'm about half-way finished. Loading the CDs is the easy part; the more difficult adventure — which I'm saving for last — will be converting all those vinyl albums to a digital format.

That will require another new piece of equipment — a newfangled turntable which automatically digitizes the record as it plays it. Which means that I'll have to listen to all 3,000 or so of my albums.

Damn. What a horrible thought.

Spending the weekend playing old records and listening to the music of my youth. But once the project is finished, all that music will be stored, labeled, catalogued and listed by artist, album, genre and even length.

Yeah, I'm liking my little iPod thingy. No matter what the kid at Home Depot says.

Dear President-elect Obama

2009-01-06T11:57:00.000-06:00

Dear President-elect Obama:

By the time this month is over, America — and, yes, that includes us Okies — will have inaugurated a new president.

It is, by all accounts, a historical moment; the country’s first black president, elected during a time of severe financial turmoil and strife in the world.

But, inversely, it’s also an opportunity.

A chance for you to make changes for the better and to improve the lives of millions of those who call this country their home.

With that in mind, I’d like to offer you a few suggestions for your administration.

•Be open. Talk to the press on a regular basis; tell them up front what you’re trying to do. Sure there are times when you need to keep things quiet but, overall, an open dialogue with members of the Fourth Estate will benefit you greatly.

•No matter what you do, you will always have critics. Accept that. There are many people on both sides of the political landscape who are sure that they are 100 times smarter than you.

They are absolutely positive they know better. Don’t worry; they don’t. Seek their input, hear what they have to say, but in the end, do what you think is right. You’ll sleep better.

•Learn quickly the difference between governing and campaigning. Your campaign is over. Now the hard work begins. As president you are the leader of more than 350 million Americans and most of ‘em can’t even agree on whether or not Elvis is dead. Now you need to govern. You’ll need to balance needs versus wants against available resources. Those steeped in Washington politics can be an asset, but most of the time they aren’t. Understand that and learn from it.

•Be yourself. You’re blessed with a speaking ability that few possess. Take your messages public, talk to those you represent and, most of all, be yourself. You have a great deal of hard work to do over the next four years, but you can make your job so much easier by simply being yourself.

•Know that many support you. Millions upon millions of Americans have placed their hope in your hands. Know that you are not alone; million want to help and are willing to do so. Sure not everyone is going to agree with everything you do, but at this point in time, the country has your back. Take advantage of that and roll up your sleeves and get to work.

Good luck and God bless,

M. Scott

Dear Ethan

2008-12-31T12:12:00.000-06:00

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 fact the alter boy who knows his Catholic hymns by heart, also groves on AC-DC, Ben Folds and can quote me the lyrics to most songs by the Beatles or Led Zeppelin.

You make me smile.

Watching you with Zach or seeing you play with the smaller kids in the neighborhood remind me that there is good in everyone.

I also love the way you listen to others.

Many times, when you didn’t think I was listening, I would overhear you talk to your sister.

She would tell you her problems and how she felt and you would be there as the sounding post.

For you, that moment — and Sara’s problems — were the only thing that mattered.

You listened. And you actually heard what was said.

I wish more people were like you.

Your intelligence, your good heart and the simple fact that you put others above yourself have all been combined to make you a great kid.

The fact that you are creative is an additional bonus.

You have become an excellent cook in your own right, and I feel secure in the knowledge that even with just a few eggs, some bread and milk in the fridge, you won’t starve.

Of course, you could do with a little more laundry training; but overall, I’m sure you will do fine when you’re on your own.

Ethan, I probably don’t tell you enough, but I love you with all my heart. I smile as I think of the two of us studying at the kitchen table or doing our homework together.

The past year has been a difficult one for our entire family and yet, you dealt with the fear and the pain with remarkable ease and grace.

I am so proud of you.

And I am so proud to call you my son. Know that wherever you go and whatever you do, I will always love you. And know that I will always proudly call myself your father.

Sincerely,

Dad

Christmas Day, 2008

2008-12-25T17:35:00.003-06:00

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 the contrast of being at the noisy, hurly-burly dinner, then coming back to an almost tomb-like newsroom could be.

I wonder about many of those I saw at the dinner, today.

For some, their poverty was evident; written on their faces in harsh, jagged lines that were draped with tattered clothes and thread-bare shoes.

Others just seemed distant -- sad faces filled with vacant expressions.

Having experienced all this, I understand more what Dickens was trying to say when he wrote that "mankind was the business" of characters such as Jacob Marley and Ebenezer Scrooge.

There is a need for noise and human contact during the Yuletide season. Just as there is a needs for silence, reflection and peace.

An Oklahoma Christmas Carol

2008-12-17T14:14:00.011-06:00

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 when the event occurred, but those folks are tight-lipped and won’t say anything.

So — just as most weird stories go — the truth of the tale is left for you to decide.

•

Bethany Moses was tired. She and her kids, Cameron and Casey, had spent the whole day packing. Cameron had the sniffles and Casey didn’t seem too hungry, but there was no other way. Everything was loaded into the truck and they set out. The ol’ Ford only had a half-tank of gas and one tire was bad — but like the other items in Bethany’s life, it was all she had.

She hated driving on Christmas Eve; it didn’t seem fair. This year she’d promised the kids they’d have a tree with lights and even presents. But this year, she’d used the last of the present money on two quarts of oil and gas.

Bethany looked at her belly. She was eight months along and the baby didn’t spend much time sleeping. This one twisted and turned and danced; it made it difficult to work full time. Plus, the nausea — which she’d had since day one — didn’t help.

•

The knock on the window interrupted her.

She didn’t hear it the first time, but she jumped when the stranger knocked the second time. Fearful to open the door, Bethany rolled down the window just an inch or so.

The voice was gruff, but friendly. “Hey, there missy. Ya’ need some gas?”

Had Bethany been paying attention she would have noticed the pumps were still on and there was a light shining from inside the Quick-as-a-Flash. Bethany shook her head. “No. I’m okay. But my truck sounds real funny. I think something’s wrong with the motor.”

“Start ‘er up,” the voice said. “Lemme’ hear it.”

Bethany turned the key; the old Ford groaned and clanked, and belched and ran for a few seconds then shuddered for a second time and died.

“Sounds like a bad piston,” the voice said. “Might take a while to fix.”

Bethany continued crying.

“We were trying to make it to Thackerville,” she said in between sobs. “I ... I just don’t know how much more I can take.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” the voice said — now not near as gruff. “I’ll bet we can get you taken care of.”

Bethany rolled down the window another inch. “But you don’t understand. I don’t have any money. Maybe ... well, could I just use your phone?”

The man behind the voice shook his head. “Phone’s busted,” he lied. “But I’ll tell you what. You wait right here, I’ll be right back.”

The stranger disappeared and Bethany pulled her coat tight around her.

•

“Okay, I got ya’ a taxi,” the stranger said. “It’ll be here in a few minutes. Don’t worry about your truck or your stuff. It’ll be safe in the garage.”

The stranger told Bethany to shift the truck into neutral. Together — he pushed and she steered — they managed to get her truck into the garage.

“Get your stuff and your kids. Your ride will be her in few minutes.”

Bethany tried one more time. “But I told you I don’t have any money. I’m broke.” She waved her arm toward the back of the truck. “Unless you want to buy some slightly used household items.”

The stranger chuckled. “Don’t worry ma’am, we’ll just put it on your bill. Your credit’s good. We can settle up later.”

Bethany wasn’t sure what to do. She looked at the stranger — she could see him better in the amber yellow light of the garage — and hoped this wasn’t a trick. He was tall, unshaved, with red coveralls, workboots and a ballcap on backwards. He looked like he worked hard for a living. But she was scared; being eight months pregnant, stranded, with no cash and two toddlers, she was a disaster waiting to happen.

“See-I-really-don’t-even-know-who-you-are-and-well-I...”

“Name’s Bill ... ” the stranger said. He stuck out a calloused hand. “You remind me of my wife. She was real pretty, too. Especially when she was carrying our oldest boy, Tate. You talk fast like she did when she’d get excited.”

Bill laughed again. “Makes me think of good times. For that, I’m obliged.”

Bethany began to calm down. Slowly, she began to realize that Bill meant her no harm. He patted her hand. “Like I said, we’ll settle up later. But right now, you need to get them little ones out of the cold. Here’s your ride. Show me what you want to put in the taxi.”

Bethany moved Casey and Cameron to the taxi. Bill helped her move blankets, pillows and clothes.

•

Thirty minutes later, Bethany and her two children arrived at the East Sixth Motel and Truck Stop. The driver — a young man with a dark complexion whose name Bethany couldn’t pronounce — shook his head when Bethany offered him her watch as payment for the ride. “Bill took care of it,” he said in broken English. “He’s a good man, that Bill.”

The driver waited while Bethany went to the East Sixth’s office.

“We’ve been expecting you, hon’,” Flora, the manager said. “Got your room all ready. Number 6.” Flora handed her a key on a large, blue plastic holder. “I put extra blankets on the bed and the heat’s on, so it should be good and warm. You go get ya’ a good night’s sleep.”

Again, Bethany tried to offer something in exchange for the room. “Bill took care of it,” Flora said. “Such a nice man.”

•

“Oh hon, it’s no problem. Just come at 9 and bring an appetite.”

•

Bethany pulled the blanket tighter around her. “What do you want?”

“Bill sent me,” the doctor said. “I think he was quite taken with you. Said your truck broke down and you would be here. Got me out of bed and made me come to make sure you and the kids were all right.”

Bethany closed her eyes and smiled. She slid the chain of the lock and opened the door.

“Hi,” Doctor Markson said, extending a gloved hand. “I’m Frank.”

“Bethany.”

“Bill told me you were pregnant,” he said, looking at Bethany’s large belly. “But he didn’t say how pregnant.”

Bethany looked down. Gently she rubbed her hands in a circle. “I’m due next month. If I can hold out that long.”

The doctor laughed. “Well, you look good. Are you feeling okay? Any problems?”

“I’m okay,” she said. “But I’m worried about my twins. She pointed toward the bed. “One has a fever and the other has a bad cough.”

Doctor Markson reached for his bag. “Do you mind if I take a look?”

Bethany nodded. “That would be wonderful,” she said. “Thank you.”

Kneeling, the doctor pulled back the covers and gently examined Bethany’s children. Temperatures were checked, breathing monitored and little heartbeats counted. After several minutes, the doctor turned and sat on the bed.

“They’ll be fine,” he said. “It’s a bad cold, with cough and it could get worse. But we caught it in plenty of time. So I wouldn’t worry.”

He reached inside his bag and handed Bethany two small bottles. “This one,” he said, “is for the fever. The other will help the cough. Make sure they get plenty of rest, some good warm food and mother the daylights out of ‘em.”

Bethany laughed. “I do that real well,” she said. “Real well.”

“And what about this one,” the doctor asked. “When was your last visit?”

“Two weeks ago,” she said. “I stopped going after my boyfriend slapped me around and kicked me out. I didn’t have any money.”

The doctor placed his strong hands on Bethany’s belly. “This one’s active,” he said. “Very busy.”

“It’s a ‘he’,” Bethany said. “And I don’t think he ever sleeps.”

•

After breakfast was over, Bethany and the twins returned to their room. A short time after that, Flora called. “You’re truck’s here, hon,” she said. “It looks ready to roll.”

Bethany and the twins walked to the office. “I didn’t think it would be done for a while,” she said. “And it’s even been washed.”

Flora opened the door. “Well start it up, see if they fixed it.”

Bethany turned the key. The Ford rumbled and purred smoothly. “It sounds great. Bill must have worked all night.”

Flora smiled. “Are you sure you can’t stay?” she asked. “You’re welcomed to.”

“I ... I need to get to Thackerville. My mom's there.” she said. “If the gas holds out.”

“Oh, you’ll make it,” Flora said. “I’m sure of that.” Bethany didn't notice the gas gage rested on full.

•

Just south, outside of this small town stands a small convenience store. The Pack and Pay, and it’s owner Jerry, have been a fixture here for years. Jerry’s a decent guy; ohh, once in a while he drinks a little beer, but he fixes kids’ bikes for free, and on more than one occasion, he’s given a family down on their luck enough food and gas to see them through.

The Pack and Pay is always busy; but Jerry always has time to talk. And that’s what he was doing when Bethany pulled her Ford onto the drive.

She was on her way to Thackerville; then she remembered. “Excuse me. Do you have a telephone I can use?”

Jerry pointed to a small red phone by the cash register. “Try that one there, ma’am. Phone book’s under the shelf.”

Bethany found the tattered phone book and began turning pages. She did this for several minutes.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but is this the only phone book you have?”

Jerry nodded. “Yes ma’am. You lookin’ for someone around here?”

Bethany closed the book. “Yes. His name is Bill. I don’t know his last name. But he owns the Quick-as-a-Flash Phillips 66.”

Jerry leaned against his cash register. “Are you sure that’s who you’re looking for?”

“I’m sure,” Bethany said. “He told me his name was Bill. My truck broke down there last night. He called a taxi for me, so I don't know how to get to his station, and I forgot to call him from the motel and find out how much I owed him.”

Jerry scratched his head. “You stayed at the East Sixth?” he asked. “The East Sixth?”

“Yeah,” Bethany said. “Me and my kids. Bill sent us there, then this nice woman named Flora took us in. She had the room ready and Chris, the delivery boy with Big Tony’s Pizza Palace brought us a large pizza and then Doctor Markson came and checked on the kids. Why, all those people, they were so kind and so wonderful. They saved my life.”

•

Now most folks in town know that it’s pretty hard to rattle Jerry. He did two tours in Vietnam and worked as a beat cop in Detroit, so it takes a lot to get his attention.

Until that day.

He listened to Bethany talk for about 10 minutes then he walked back to the cooler and grabbed two Budweisers and a Coke. “Here, you drink the Coke,” he pushed the bottle to Bethany. “Pregnant girls don’t need beer.”

Bethany sipped the Coke, opened the phone book and began turning pages again.

“You won’t find Bill in there,” Jerry said. “Trust me.”

“Why?” Bethany asked. “Isn’t there a way to call him. Does he have a cell phone?”

Jerry shook his head. “No ma’am. Nobody can call Bill, cause Bill’s dead.”

“Wha ... what? Dead?" Suddenly, Bethany felt very cold. "That can’t be. I just talked to him last night. Did it happen this morning?”

Jerry looked down at his feet. “No ma’am, Bill’s been dead for close to 10 years now.”

“But I don’t understand. Flora and Doctor Markson and, Chris, and even the taxi driver, were all talking about him last night. I talked to him myself. He pushed my truck into his garage.”

Jerry touched Bethany’s arm. “Honey, Doctor Markson and Chris died in the same car wreck as Bill; and cancer got Flora back in ‘87.”

Bethany’s eyes filled with tears. She felt dizzy, like she was in a bad dream. “I ... I...”

“Here, why don’t you sit down,” Jerry said. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“But ... if they’re all dead, then who fixed my truck and who brought me pizza and checked my kids?” She rummaged through the purse until she found the two small prescription bottles. “See. See these were given to me last night. Look at the name.”

Jerry eyed the small bottles and handed them back. “You’re right,” he said. “That’s what it says. But I’d be happy to take you to the cemetery and show you all their graves. I ain’t trying to make you upset and if there’s something you need, I’m sure happy to help. But I promise you, with God as my witness, all them folks you say helped you last night have been gone a long, long time.”

•

Some folks in town say the story is truth.

Others say it’s just a legend.

And a bunch of folks say its part truth and part legend. But the fact remains that at one time Bill, Flora, Chris, and Doctor Markson did live in the town — and they are buried there. It’s also true that Bethany drove a battered ol Ford into town with her two kids. And, it’s true she was pregnant and very down on her luck.

But that's all the folks will say.

It's the legend that's more talkative.

According to the legend, after she left the Pack and Pay that Christmas Day, Bethany drove back right back town and bought a newspaper. She went through the want ads applied for the first job she saw. She got that job. Then she, the twins, and the baby who hadn’t been born yet, all found a small, cozy house and started their lives over.

Of course, if you ask folks in town, they will tell you they don’t know Bethany; they’ll say they’ve never heard of her.

Still, if you spend any time there — or if you attend church at the little white church with the big sign and the crooked steeple — you will, eventually, you’ll see a pretty, blue-eyed woman with three children driving an old Ford pick-up. And, if you're driving through that particular town on Christmas Eve, slow down at the Quick-as-a-Flash Phillips 66; if it's late, you just might see a single light burning.

But don't ask the pretty, blue-eyed woman with the three children about this story. And don't say anything about seeing a light on at the service station — she won't say anything. She'll just smile and hurry on her way.

Because Bethany Moses doesn’t believe in ghosts. But she most certainly believes in God.

300 words

2008-12-04T08:24:00.005-06:00

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 idea. I'll just hop a ride on the GM company jet and fly to Washington an ask for say, $1 million a word (I can live off $300 million; I'm not greedy). Congress will do it; they're good guys. They want to keep the economy strong.

Yes, fellow taxpayers, my 300 words is helping to keep the economy strong.

Or, I'll just sit here in the dark and do my homework.

Damn, 300 words.

How to terrorize children

2008-12-02T17:42:00.004-06:00

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 text at all hours I opened the door a tiny crack and witnessed the aforementioned texting in progress.

"So why couldn't you sleep?" I asked. "Something keeping you up?"

I watch her eyes roll back in her head; they slide left to right and then up and down. She's trying to figure out how to spin the the story of texting without actually telling a lie — I do give her credit for that.

I wait. The look on my face shows nothing but Grade-A Parental Stupidity.

"Ahhhh, people kept texting me and it kept me up."

I feign concern (I'm really good at this).

"That's terrible. All those horrible kids at your school kept pestering you until the wee hours of the morning. What a bunch of smucks. Why...I just can't believe that! Do you want me to call their parents and tell them their children are bothering you and keeping you from sleeping?"

Thirteen-year-old girl, thinking she's outsmarted me, smiles. "Oh no," she says. "I'll take care of it. Remember you tell me I have to solve some problems for myself?"

"Oh right."

"So I don't have to go to school today?" Her long, beautiful eye lashes flutter like a Monarch Butterfly.

"Well..." I pause for dramatic effect. "No. You should probably go. I mean you don't want those other smucks determining your educational future."

"But...but..."

"And maybe, next time, you should turn the phone off when you get in bed."

"But...but..."

"Because it's not good for 13-year-old girls to stay up until 4 a.m. texting their boyfriends. Ya' know?"

Her face crashes. She knows she's busted.

"But...how did you...? The question remains unasked.

I point to the back of my head. "Eyes, chickelet. Eyes."

"That's not fair," she whines.

"Too bad. Because God, the courts, and your mother all agree that I am your father, and that means no more texting until 4 a.m. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes sir."

"Oh, honey one more thing?"

"Yeah?"

"If I catch you doing it again, and then giving me some really lame-assed excuse, I'm breaking both your thumbs and then tossing your phone in Lake Hefner -- along with your broken fingers. Understand?"

Yes, freaking out your kids is one of the true joys of parenthood.

The revenge of the Sage Ladies

2008-11-26T17:36:00.003-06:00

They're dangerous and they're old.

They come out of hiding late in the afternoon and they lurk on the spice aisle. They start out alone but once at the store, they travel in packs.

They are the Sage Ladies and they don't take no for an answer.

They arrive in their Sedan DeVilles or their Contentials. Their hair is a remarkable shade of blue not normally found in nature; it matches the attitude.

And any man — absolutely any man — who is under the age of 50 is fair game.

"Excuse me sonny," one ancient leader of the Sage Tribe asked. "Can you direct me to the spice aisle?"

"Your standing on it," I replied.

"Well aren't you a smart one," she snorted.

I kept waiting for her to hop and broom and zoom out of site; she didn't. So, I began to push my cart east, toward Mecca and the produce aisle.

"Well...?" she snorted again.

"Pardon me?"

"I asked you a question."

"I'm sorry, I guess I didn't hear you," I said. Of course, my thoughts were a little different: "well you snooty ol' broad, if you'd asked the question in the first place I might have answered you."

No, I did not say that out loud. Instead, I smiled and gave her my best, "please forgive me I really stupid and I worship you and all those like you" look.

"Oh," she replied. "Do you know where the sage is?"

"I'm sorry, I don't work here" I said. I pointed to the spot between Salt and Saffron which was empty.

"It looks like they're out," I said.

This answer did not please her.

"Well how come? Why don't you people keep enough on hand for the holidays?" she asked.

"Ma'am I don't work here."

"We'll home come?"

"How come I don't work here?"

"Yes," she said.

"I've never been big on retail," I replied. "My father was in the mafia and he used to knock over grocery stores - it left scars."

She snorted again.

"I was thrown out of dairy product school for pushing organic," I said. "I hate cheese. I'm a Communist. My dog is gay. My cat had puppies. Huge Hefner is leaving me the Playboy fortune so I won't have to work. My wife is a Lesbian-Vegan-Wiccan Agnostic Methodist."

At this point, the Sage Queen is almost overwhelmed. Sensing weakness, I go for the kill.

"I'm a liberal Democratic newspaper reporter and I'm doing an expose on the black market for sage in Oklahoma," I said. "Would you care to comment."

"Is there someone else who can help me?" she said. "I'm going to report you to your manager."

I pointed to a huge black man standing over by the eggs — I knew him an a policeman and a frequent shopper at the store.
"You might ask him," I suggested. "I hear he's very important."

She trundled off and I, slipped the small container of Sage in my shopping cart.

God will probably get me for this, I though. But a thousand years in purgatory would be worth it.

Book Review: A Shadow of Red

2008-11-18T08:37:00.000-06:00

It’s no secret the 1950s were a time of great economic revival and growth for the United States.

The USA had won World War II.

Hitler was dead; Germany and Japan were defeated. Our troops had come home. Babies were being born. Ike was president. On the surface, things looked great.

But underneath all this starched, white prosperity, a fear grew. This fear festered and seeped until it infected the core of society.

It was a fear which pushed neighbor against neighbor and friend against friend. It was a fear which forced family member against family member. It was a fear which started the Cold War.

And while most people have a pretty good understanding of that era in history, fewer realize just how the fear of Communism spread, and what effects it had on society and freedoms.

Enter David Everitt.

A former magazine editor, Everitt — who writes on entertainment and media issues for The New York Times, Entertainment Weekly, Biography and other publications — understands this fear better than most. And he explains it in his book “A Shadow of Red.”

Everitt’s book paints a dark and disturbing picture of the Red Scare and the problems it caused for America’s radio and television industry.

Written with a historian’s eye for detail, Everitt outlines the beginnings of the Red Scare with rise of the anti-communist booklet, Red Channels. Published by men who considered themselves “guardians” of America’s freedoms, Red Channels used spies, snitches, and other questionable sources to allege that there were 151 suspected Communist sympathizers working the broadcasting industry.

It didn’t matter that it was not — and is still not — illegal to be a Communist.

Like their counterparts in motion pictures, those who were “blacklisted” by Red Channels soon found their lives destroyed.
And Everitt’s book gives the reader an in-depth look at that destruction; caused, primarily, by three ex-FBI men, a former naval intelligence officer and a grocer from Syracuse New York.

Using documents, letters, transcripts, federal reports and interviews, Everett’s research is impeccable.

But his book isn’t perfect.

While some critics believe Everitt’s work is balanced and without flaw, I disagree. My reading of Everitt’s work shows a subtle conservative tilt which is present throughout. And though I applaud Everitt for presenting both sides of the Red Scare story, it doesn’t take a reader too much brain power to realize that Everett is sympathetic to many of those involved.

Still, “A Shadow of Red” is a great read.

Years ago, I had a friend whose parents were pegged as Communists. And while my friend eventually recovered from the destruction of his parents’ lives; his parents never did.

Which is why I believe books like “A Shadow of Red” are necessary. With its dense, fact-based reporting, “A Shadow of Red” is, presently, one of the few recent works about the Red Scare and the blacklist which covers the list’s effect on the radio and television industry.

David Everitt has done the country a service by distilling a great deal of history down into 412 pages. But his history, like the author, has its bias.

Still, bias or not, I’m planning on keeping Everitt’s book; perhaps in the future, another historian will use it to bring the history of the 1950s back toward neutral.

I also plan on buying it for my friend.

Published Ivan R. Dee, “A Shadow of Red” is available at your local bookstore or at Amazon.com.

Bordering on the surreal

2008-11-13T07:23:00.002-06:00

Being a Watergate junkie, last Saturday's assignment was to die for. My boss, Andy, wanted me to cover the ACLU's annual Bill of Rights banquet in Oklahoma City.

I was being asked to go becasue Daniel Ellsberg was the guest speaker.

Okay, you remember who Daniel Ellsberg is, don't you?

The Pentagon Papers? Watergate? Richard Nixon?

I jumped at the chance.

Karen, my wife, went with me. The bash was being held at the Clairon in Oklahoma City and dinner was included.

Hey it doesn't get any better.

We got their early for the interview—and for about 30 minutes I had Daniel Ellsberg all to my self. We sat in the lobby outside the room where the dinner would be and talked.

I got to ask him several questions I'd always wanted to, then the weirdness started.

Behind me, in another of the hotel's room, a group of people were dancing — and just as Ellsberg began to speak about Watergate the band started playing The Chicken Dance.

Yeah, the Chicken Dance.

So, my interview with Daniel Ellsberg was done to the soundtrack of the chicken dance.

I'm hoping if I ever get to interview the Pope, Black Stabbath will be nearby.

Harris book a must for political junkies

2008-11-13T07:19:00.001-06:00

Most people don’t remember him.

He served as a United States Senator. He was from Oklahoma — a native son. He was born poor, but smart. He attended the University of Oklahoma and, eventually, earned a Law Degree.

His name is Fred Harris.

And he came damn close to being President of the United States.

With the 2008 presidential election finished, former Senator Fred Harris’ memoir, Does People Do It? offers political junkies (who didn’t get enough of the recent presidential campaign) a chance to visit the past and discover a vivid, personal, and at times touching portrait one of Oklahoma’s most successful politicians.

A child of the Great Depression, Harris grew up in Walters, Oklahoma. He hit the political scene early, running for and getting elected to the Oklahoma Legislature.

From there, at 33, he went on the United States Senate, filling the seat formerly held by “the uncrowned king” Robert S. Kerr, who had died.

Elected during the time of the Kennedys, Nixon and Watergate, Harris would serve with some of the titans of government: Lyndon Johnson, Robert Kennedy, Hubert Humphrey and George McGovern.

Later, he would serve as chair of the national Democratic Party and, after that, a candidate for president.

A short, brief memoir, Harris’ book isn’t the usual collection of rambling memories from an aged politician. Instead, it’s a concise, personal lesson on national politics.

In Does People Do It? We learn of the tension between Harris, Lyndon B. Johnson and Robert F. Kennedy. And while Harris wasn’t the principle character in each drama, he did play a major role in the supporting cast.

Describing Robert Kennedy, Harris wrote that he was impressed by the former attorney general’s wit. “It was that dry, wry wit that got me,” he said.

Later, Harris writes of watching Kennedy at the 1964 Democratic Convention in Atlantic City:

“I was terribly moved on that occasion. There were tears in all our eyes…caused by his narration of a film about his dead brother, President John Kennedy. In that vast hall that night, we all saw Robert Kennedy, bereft and alone.”

Now comfortable in his role as U.S. Senator — and, himself, a major player on the political stage — Harris would run for, and be elected as, the chairman of the national Democratic Party in 1972.

“It seemed like a dubious honor to me,” he wrote. “One reporter likened my becoming chair of the Democratic Party to somebody parachuting on the Titanic.”

Remember, this was shortly after 1968, the trouble at the Chicago Democratic Convention, and at the height of the Vietnam war.

Written in a conversational, easy-to-read style, Harris’ book gives us the view inside — with the usual hyperbole.

While I’ve never met Fred Harris, I’ve interviewed some of the people he worked with and, on more that one occasion, worked with a few on political campaigns.

And during those times — when Fred Harris’ name was mentioned — it was spoken with a reverence that I have not often encountered — especially among politicians.

His populist-type personality evident in his book, Does People Do It? should be a must read for any student of political science.

Sure, those of the conservative bent probably won’t agree with Harris’ philosophy or his policies, but they will be intrigued by how this simple boy from Watlers, Oklahoma, almost became president.

Does People Do It? is one of those rare political memoirs which doesn’t try to convert the reader to a new philosophy. Instead, it simply tells the story of the person in his time.

And, in the case of Fred Harris, that story is fascinating.

Published by the University of Oklahoma Press, Does People Do It? is available at Amazon.com or your local bookstore.

My friend Jack

2008-10-11T17:58:00.004-06:00

Jack and I used to work together.

He's taller than me, bald and very smart.

Every morning we'd hit the break room for coffee and some conversation — which usually lasted throughout the day. Often it was religious. Jack's very well read and if the they gave out PhDs in Theology for just a general, rock-solid knowledge of Christianity, Jack would have several.

I miss him.

Oh, it's not that anything is wrong.

Jack and his family are fine.

But I simply miss him.

I miss the conversation, the lunches, and the friendship. I miss hearing about his family and what he was planning for the weekend.

I miss a conversation between two men about something more than football.

Funny thing, too, Jack and I work in the same town.

He's my friend and, over the past several months I've let that friendship slide.

And that's wrong.

I need to call Jack.

I need to tell him I miss him.

I need to be a better friend.

September 11, 2008

2008-09-13T20:19:00.005-06:00

Driving from north Oklahoma City to Norman daily, you begin to notice things.

The guys on the road. New construction. New buildings.

Stuff like that.

But Thursday, Sept. 11, was different.

The road was slick with rain and the sky, dull and gray.

I drove alone, listening to Simon and Garfunkle.

It was at the 23rd Street overpass, that my trip became more than just the daily trek to Norman.

There, standing alone on the overpass was an elderly man.

He looked, say, about 60.

Jeans. Large checked shirt. Ball cap.

He stood silently. In the rain. Holding a large American Flag.

It was obvious that for him, this date had some importance.

I reached over and turned off the radio — the silence of the car broken only by the slap of the windshield wipers against the glass.

I slowed and, acknowledged him with a sort of salute-wave.

He saw me and, in return, nodded his head.

I'm still not sure how I felt, but I know the day somehow seemed better because of that brief exchange.

Someone else had given image to the emotions I felt that day.

Standing there, silently.

On an overpass.

Holding an American flag.

Lessons from the van, Part One

2008-09-09T21:18:00.006-06:00

I was tired.

It had been a long, long day.

School. Work. Latin. More Latin. Homework.

Then the, "Honey can you pick up the kids?" phone call.

Thankfully, the parking lot of Incredible Pizza is big and they don't mind if you hang out in the fire lane (at least as long as you stay in your car).

So I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The kids didn't want to leave. Karen went back inside for a meeting, and Zach wasn't happy.

More waiting.

Then, the storm.

For some unknown reason, the youngest Carter — now sporting a bad attitude and three teeth — started crying. The cries quickly became a scream.

A real, loud, destroy-your-hearing scream.

Seriously, Zach was not happy — he went from screaming to crying and wailing, then he broke out the soul-wrenching, window shattering unhappy screams.

Now I understand why some parents murder their children.

Nothing I did, absolutely nothing, could make Zach happy. The screaming -- at several decibels higher than the average Van Halen concert -- continued non-stop for 10 minutes.

The kids arrived.

I shoved them in the van, slammed the doors shut, and drove quickly to the exit. Home was only a couple of miles away, but already my teeth felt like I'd eaten several lemons.

More screaming.

Then, from the back, I heard Sara say quietly, "Sing Ethan. That always works."

Softly, my 13-year-old son began to sing the folk song, "Big Rock Candy Mountain" to his nine-month-old brother.

Sara joined in. So did Clayton.

Their voices were low and, as I looked in the mirror, each of them sang directly to their little brother. They touched his tiny hands and looked directly at him.

I continued to drive, then realized that several minutes had passed and Zach had calmed down.

No more screaming.

Just quiet.

Then only sounds were those of my children singing a song by Ben Folds to their now sleeping baby brother.

They didn't see me smile. They didn't understand that by their simple act, they'd taken me full circle again.

You see, it was 13 years ago, on a cool fall night just like this one that, I, too, had driven the streets of Oklahoma City singing to a tiny red-haired boy who was screaming at the top of his lungs.

The song was by Gordon Lightfoot. And, after a while that tiny boy had also gone to sleep.

Funny, that little boy was now the one doing the singing.

And I simply smiled in the dark.

Remembering Jessie Helms

2008-09-03T14:39:00.003-06:00

A few months ago — July 4th, to be exact — former U.S. Senator Jesse Helms died.

Across the country, many politicians spent days fawning over Helms and his “devotion, kindness and faith” they missed a good portion of the man’s life.

They told touching stories.

They talked about Helms love of his fellow man.

But they left a few things out.

They didn’t talk about Helms’ entire career in the United States Senate.

Now, please, don't think I'm going to sit in judgement of the former Senator's soul. That's not my job, I'll leave that for the Almighty.

But I do think we should look at Helms' work as a public servant.

And in that arena, Helms failed miserably.

Sure there were all sorts of tributes to Helms, praising him for his conservative credentials and Christian values.

In fact, according to CNN, the Rev. Billy Graham, said folks “honor his legendary life and extraordinary legacy.”

But as honorable as the Rev. Graham is, he failed in his eulogy.

Because Jesse Helms was a bigot.

A product of the segregated south, Helms, for years, opposed laws that gave African-Americans the right to vote.

Sure, he hired several African Americans for his office, but only after public pressure grew too big. Throughout his career, policies toward the African American race were, in my opinion, racist.

And he was mean spirited.

Once when he was on an elevator with former Sen. Carol Moseley Braun, Helms started to sing “Dixie.”

Now, unless you’ve been living under a rock for the past several decades, you know that signing “Dixie” to a black woman is the equivalent to a racial taunt. Instead of public policy at the time, Helms was more concerned about the Confederate Flag.

Later he even admitted he sang the song so he could make Braun cry.

This from a man honored for his "Christian" values.

I’m not sure, but I wouldn’t call that Christ-like behavior.

Helms didn’t like people of color.

He worked to block the appointment of African Americans to the 4th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals during the Clinton administration.

And then there were his campaigns.

Remember the race between Helms and former Charlotte Mayor Harvey Gantt in 1990 and again in 1996?

During the 1990 race, Helms ran an ad which showed a white hand destroying a job application, while in the background, an announcer says that person needed the job but it was given to a minority.

Yeah, Jesse was a bigot.

The ad worked, he got reelected and we, American, were worse for the effort.

Funny thing, now today, we see the almost exact same spin, only this time it’s directed at Hispanics and undocumented workers.

So Jesse Helms died.

God caught up with him.

And, for the record, I do believe we should all remember the famous senator from North Carolina.

But I believe we should also remember his full record and work to pray that something like it never happens again.

Coming full circle

2008-08-31T09:43:00.004-06:00

At 45, I went back to school.

The desire to go back, to get that Masters Degree, has haunted me like a vengeful spirit from a B-grade horror movie. I found myself dreaming about college; I read the want ads in the newspaper and would mentally circle the listings which called for a degree.

I remembered my past — almost three decades ago — and how foolish I'd been. I wondered if I could ever atone for my mistakes. Then, somewhere between the end of my first marriage and the the start of my second, I realized I'd been given a gift.

A chance to start over.

Honestly. There it was, the real opportunity to return to my roots, rebuild my life and take another shot at the brass ring. I just had to be smart enough to see the chance and take it.

I did.

Several years ago I left a job I truly loved (and was very good at) because the work environment became so poisoned I couldn't stay. I'd lost hope. I felt I'd come to the apex of my career only to have it all come crashing down around me.

There was one positive. After many years of being a single father, I met and married a wonderful woman who proved to me that it's okay to fall in love again. She helped ease the pain and she kept me from drifting.

And, for the first time in years, I was happy at home.

I didn't know it then, but that was my first step toward starting over.

The others came later.

After trying to make it as a free-lance writer, I had decided to return to the world of politics. I'd been negotiating with a job offer for a while, only to be told at the last minute that I didn't make the final cut.

Still looking for work, I got a telephone call from the managing editor of the Norman Transcript who asked me if I wanted "to return to my roots."

So I returned.

That was the second step.

I'd left the industry more that 20 years before because public relations — and politics — paid more. And I'd never looked back. But the ghosts of my past weren't through with me.

I'd no sooner accepted the position at the Transcript, when the first job offer returned. The pay was higher — at least $10,000 more — and the health benefits were incredible.

Yet something in the back of my head told me to stay put. Something told me that I belonged at the Transcript; that I was supposed to be there; that I wasn't supposed to take the other job.

So I turned down the higher paying offer and took another step toward rebuilding my life.

The messages weren't always clear. The Transcript newsroom was filled mostly with young reporters and it was only myself and one other reporter who were past the age of 35 — for a while things were awkward.

Real awkward.

Then, slowly, the atmosphere changed. The newspaper discovered that I could write well, my sources learned I took them seriously, and the politicians discovered that I wasn't afraid of them.

I also added to the Transcript's collection of awards.

And yet another part of my life fell into place.

The, one Sunday afternoon, in Aug. of 2007, I was sitting here, at the computer, web surfing. Somehow (and don't ask me, because I can't tell you how) I ended up at the United States Department of Education's web site.

Before I knew what was happening I had filled out an application for federal student aid, sent it to OU, OSU and UCO and applied at all three schools.

I heard from OU and OSU; UCO never said anything.

But the ghosts were sill there.

My application was denied at OU because my degree was so old and due to some poor grades from my past at OSU. "Okay," I thought to myself, "this was a stupid idea."

But the nice lady in OU admission's office didn't.

She recognized my name (a Transcript reader, she was) and asked me if I worked there. I told her yes and she said, I should seek an appeal. She told me who to contact and suggested I write a letter to the Dean of the OU Journalism school asking to be admitted.

"Include a list of all the awards you've won and you're work history," she said. "You'd be surprised how that works."

She was right.

My appeal was accepted and I was admitted to OU.

Funding was my next problem. I didn't think I could afford the cost of the part-time tuition, but the U.S. Government though otherwise. They considered me a worthwhile investment, and I was amazed to learn that I qualified for loans and government aid.

So I enrolled at a part-time student at the University of Oklahoma.

And, holy shit, I was scared. I'm 45. I've got kids. I"m not young. I'll be in classes with kids right out of high school. What if I look stupid? What if I say something stupid? What if....

"I must have been kidding myself," I kept thinking. "This is nuts."

It wasn't.

My first semester, I took a political science class and Latin (at OSU I didn't need the foreign language but things had since changed.)

I knew I'd do fine the PolySci class, but Latin looked like it was going to kick my ass. I failed the very first quiz and I could see my college career going down in flames before it ever got started.

So I went to the Latin instructor and whined. She just smiled.

"You know, I went back to school as an adult, too," she said. "It was just your first quiz. You'll do fine. Just relax and come to class."

She was right.

After a while things settled down and I discovered I really enjoyed the class. It was a Helluva' lot of work, though. Learning a foreign language at 45 isn't for the faint of heart.

But my kids helped me study, my wife suggested flash cards and, together, the entire family embraced my return to school.

My grade also went from an F to a B — and it stayed there. Oh, I also aced the PolySci class.

By the time the semester ended, I had completed 8 hours at OU with a 3.34 GPA. Since I wanted to get ahead, I enrolled in the summer session and took six more hours — a journalism class about the Hollywood Blacklist and a westeren culture class about ancient martyrs.

Aced 'em both.

In addition, I applied for a scholarship (on a whim) and got it.

Now with my 3.64 GPA, (yes that summer semester 4.0 rocked) I enrolled in the fall -- more Latin and a class on professional writing.

And I can tell you I'm loving it. I realize now, that the reason I was supposed to take the job in Norman was so I could return to school and work. God pushed me toward the Transcript to ensure I'd go back to college.

During that same time, Karen and I had a baby and my return to "Go" was complete.

Truly, this all was a sign, I was supposed to start over.

So I have. I've embraced this second chance, vowing to treasure every gift and exploit every opportunity. And yes, it's hard work. Juggling a full-time job, a full-time family, the role of a full-time father with that a of part-time student is not easy.

But it is so worth it.

So here I am. By the end of the fall semester I should have about half my hours needed for my degree. My financial aid is ready and my grades are rock solid.

By now, the kids are used to me in school and, often, we all do homework together. They whine less, too. They've seen me study hard so they know it's expected of them. My wife has also been wonderful; cheering me on every step of the way and pushing me to write and trying an sell my novel.

I've discovered that my life is good.

But I've also discovered that getting a second chance to correct my mistakes and start my life over is even better.

Lessons from God's "Cultural Warrior"

2008-08-28T13:38:00.004-06:00

I dont' understand state Rep. Sally Kern.

She says God wants her to be a "cultural warrior."

She says God wanted her to run for state office.

She says she's a good Christian.

Okay, I'll give her the benefit of the doubt. But if the good Rep. Kern is going to stand before a group of men and women in Cleveland County and use that faith as a tool of her Legislative agenda, then she should expect to be held to a higher standard than the rest of those lawmakers who don’t make such claims.

Being a Christian is one thing, being God’s Cultural Warrior, is another.

Then, there are those two incidents of bringing a weapon into the State Capitol building.

Her first attempt, she said, was an accident.

Okay, most people will give her a break there.

It’s that second time that bothers me.

Granted, she was not arrested. But the fact remains, Rep. Kern — who believes we must use Biblical values in the operation of state government — knowingly broke the law a second time when she attempted to bring a weapon into a building where weapons are not allowed.

This in itself is a problem, but perhaps, not the largest of the incident.

What really bothers me is Rep. Kern’s response.

When I ask her about that second incident, Rep. Kern noted she wasn’t the only state representative who has “forgotten and taken a gun” into the building.

“I’m not the only one, there are others, but I’m not saying who,” she said.

In short, she was saying “other people did it, so that makes it OK for me.”

Sorry Rep. Kern, but you know better.

You can’t call yourself a Cultural Warrior and then try and hide behind the “well, they did it too” cloak.

It doesn’t work.

Each and every day I try to teach my children right from wrong.

Each and every day, a main part of that lesson is this: Just because someone else does something, doesn’t make it right.

Or in this matter, legal.

Rep. Kern used that statement to justify her actions. “I’m not the only one, there are others, but I’m not saying who.”

Sorry, Sally, but that is, quite possibly, the lamest excuse for knowingly breaking the law I’ve ever heard.

Try applying it to a DUI fatality: “I’m not the only one, there are others, but I’m not saying who.”

Or how about stealing: “I’m not the only one, there are others, but I’m not saying who.”

Or murder: “I’m not the only one, there are others, but I’m not saying who.”

Doesn’t work there, either.

So, Rep. Kern, if you’re going to truly wear the cloak of God’s Cultural Warrior, then suck it up and behave like one. Make damn sure you are without sin, before you start throwing stones. Remember the law says you can’t even attempt to bring a weapon into the State Capitol.

Leave the gun in the car or at home before you go to 23rd and Lincoln and finally, please, don’t give us the tired, worn out, “I’m not the only one, there are others, but I’m not saying who,” excuse.

It doesn’t work for my kids.

And it doesn’t work for you.

Zach's tale, part four

2008-03-20T12:41:00.002-06:00

OKLAHOMA CITY — The music wasn’t much comfort.

Sitting in the small waiting room at OU Children’s Hospital, I tried to escape from the overwhelming sense of dread about Zach’s surgery with my son’s iPod.

Ethan had loaned me the gadget because he though some of my favorite music make me feel better.

It didn’t.

Time, it seems, had betrayed me.

The weeks preceding this day seemed to race by and an almost unnatural speed.

But today, time reversed course, and the world stopped in its tracks.

Zach was taken to surgery at 7 a.m., sleeping. Since then, Karen and I had sat in the small waiting room surrounded by a sense of dread which hung over us like the smoke of a wood fire.

Around 9 a.m. the telephone rang.

Debbie, the surgical assistant, called to let me know the surgeons had started and things “were going well.”

I felt myself breathe for the first time in days.

Debbie called the second time at 11 a.m.

“They’re over the halfway point,” she said. “The surgeons still have several things to do but Zach’s fine.”

At 12:30 Debbie called again. She said the surgeons were finished and Zach was OK. I hung up the phone and held Karen.

A few minutes later Dr. Paliotta came to the waiting room and spoke with us. He said things went smoothly and he was able to do all the procedures he needed to do. “We did encounter more scar tissue than expected,” he said. “But we were prepared for it.”

Slowly the sense of dread began to fade.

And, quietly, I thanked the Almighty for looking after my infant son.

•

For the record, pediatric thoracic surgeons are not of this earth.

Yeah, I know they’ve had years of medical school, study and training. And, they’ve spend years in residency perfecting their skills.

But they are not of this earth.

Honestly, I don’t know how such a person can set aside all emotion as they stop an infant’s heart, open the chest, rewire the strawberry-sized organ, then restart it to beat again.

Their skill is beyond my comprehension.

This is more than a talent.

This is more than ability.

This is a calling; a connection with God, the universe and the soul that only a handful possess. Dr. Fontan, Dr. Palliota, a few others, are blessed with something the rest of us mortal will never understand.

Something not from this earth.

•

The parents who have been there know.

The ones who have spend the countless hours waiting, hoping and praying know well what it’s like to live at the hospital.
They seek hope wherever they can find it.

•

For me, hope was a nurse named Jill.

You could tell Jill had kids. From the way she talked to my wife to the gentle, caring way she touched my son, I knew Jill understood.

Jill answered a million questions.

Then she answered a million more.

She quickly befriended Karen and, together, they spent countless hours helping Zach recover from his surgery.

The room seemed brighter when she was there, and even when Zach had the occasional setback, Jill was there to pull him, and the rest of us, through.

•

Exactly seven days after we brought Zach to the hospital, he came home.

He still requires a small amount of oxygen during sleep and we monitor his heart rate and his blood oxygen level daily.

He’s also taking a collection of pills that would choke a normal person.

But he’s home.

He’s alive.

And he’s recovering.

He has no idea of the fear.

He won’t remember the pain.

He doesn’t understand how a group of total strangers — from those who delivered his care, to those across the state who offered prayers for his recovery — came to his aid.

But the rest of us, his family, are eternally grateful to each person and every person who touched Zach’s life.

This morning as I drank my coffee, I saw the end result of that effort.

Karen had been up early, feeding Zach and changing diapers. Then, because this week is spring break, she slipped back into bed, trying to recover just a few minutes of last week’s lost sleep.

Zach lay next to her, his tiny hand resting on Karen’s cheek.

Together they rested — in a deep, peaceful bliss — each close enough to the other to know that the pain and the fear of last week had passed.

And, there, bathed in the morning sun, I saw just what it meant to be loved.

Zach's tale, part three

2008-03-19T08:34:00.002-06:00

“The waiting is the hardest part
Every day you see one more card
You take it on faith, you take it to the heart
The waiting is the hardest part...”

Tom Petty — The Waiting

OKLAHOMA CITY — Last week, the world ended.

The earth stopped rolling on its belly, the stars failed to shine, and time quickly came to a halt.

At least it did for me.

For several months now, my wife, Karen and myself, have lived in that gray area between sadness and euphoria. We were elated by the birth of our fourth child, Zachary, but overwhelmed when we learned of Zach’s life-threatening heart defects.

Since then our lives have been a roller coaster of emotions — stress fear, reason, love, anger and those practical elements of life: schedules, doctor’s appointments, insurance nightmares, money and the myriad typical household problems that drive “normal” parents nuts.

The fear reached its climax last week.

•

After Zach’s first surgery (detailed in two previous American stories late last fall) Karen and I finally were able to be parents.
From the end of November through February, Zach thrived. He gained weight, grew in height and developed his own, unique personality.

He smiled often.

He wanted nothing more than a full belly, a warm blanket, and to be in that safest of all spots — his mother’s arms.

And there, Zach spent most of his time.

Honestly, I don’t know why we bothered to get a crib because Zach spent very little time in it. Between his mother, grandparents, siblings, friends, relatives and all those people who just “like babies” Zach did not want for love or attention.
He also proved to be a serious chick magnet.

In December, during one of those last minute, “let’s run to the mall” type adventures, I got the rare — read that literally — privilege to be Zach’s keeper. Karen, Sara, Clayton and Ethan had shopping plans, so it was just me and Zach.

Of course, since traveling with Zach was akin to traveling with the 45th Infantry — you’ll need supplies.

Lots and lots of supplies.

We had the collapsible, regulation-use stroller — complete with sun roof, plushly padded interior and its own milk supply.

We had the official diaper bag — also known as the baby’s portable closet — with spare clothes, diapers, toys, diapers, milk, diapers, mommy’s keys, diapers, previously lost-but now-found-ATM card, diapers and a handful of diapers.

We also had several spare blankets, a couple of Zach-sized hats and one brown pair of little baby shoes in the shape of monkeys.

I liked the shoes.

As the rest of my family scurried through the mall like so many deranged rodents, Zach and I — he was wearing the monkey shoes — found a large, comfortable couch and watched the Christmas shoppers stroll by.

I’d assumed we’d be by ourselves.

I was wrong.

Little girls, old granny ladies, moms, and several really attractive cheerleader types all stopped to coo, talk, flirt with and generally admire my youngest son.

“How old is he?” one asked.

“When was he born?” quizzed another.

“What’s his name?” a little girl wanted to know.

One woman, who smelled really good — and who looked like a Victoria’s Secret model — wanted to hold him. Briefly I considered granting her request, but stopped short, after having a vision of my wife sprinting across the mall with Christmas packages in one hand and a small caliber revolver in the other.

The gun would have been pointed at me.

“I think he’s wet and he kinda’ leaks,” I said.

“Oh,” Victoria’s Secret girl answered. “I understand.”

She seemed a little down, but I knew her disappointment would be far easier to deal with than my wife’s wrath.
So we didn’t mention Victoria’s Secret girl.

Anyway, by the time my family had returned, Zach and I made several hundred new friends — all on a first named basis.
Then, time began to accelerate.

•
The holidays passed, Karen returned to teaching and I returned to the world of journalism.

Zach continued to grow.

He now was having full conversations with anyone who would listen and while those conversations sounded more like a blend of Swahili and Latin, we didn’t care. Zach smiled frequently, learned that really loud burps entertained his two older brothers, and continued to thrive.

Slowly, the scar on his little chest faded — instead of an angry red line, it became a thin, whispy mark — a simple reminder of just how fragile life is.

Zach also discovered his swing.

Despite the fact this contraption was designed by an evil, unbalanced engineer with a fetish for seatbelts and Velcro, Zach learned that swinging was fun.

He’d giggle and laugh and then, overcome by the back-and-forth movement, he’d sleep.

January faded into February.

And February raced into March.

As the snow and ice melted, we again were reminded that Zach had a heart defect.

His blood oxygen level — which for months now had been in the high 80s — began to slowly drop. He became more irritable and his appetite began to decline.

All signs that we were quickly approaching Zach’s second heart surgery.

And this surgery, we knew, was far more serious than the first.

•

Doctor Marco Paliotta — Zach’s surgeon — scheduled the surgery for March 10.

By March 5, we were in Red Alert mode.

Still, several steps remained before the actual surgery.

A few days before he went to the hospital, Zach underwent a cardiac catheterization procedure. The procedure would test his heart’s pulmonary vascular resistance. That resistance must be at a certain level before the surgery can take place.

Karen and my parents were with Zach during the short, hour-long procedure. And despite my wife’s tears, things went well.

Zach passed and was OK’d for surgery; we moved to the second step.

Preadmittance to the hospital.

More paperwork, insurance cards, telephone calls and documents to sign (Zach, now, has a huge notebook filled with documents all detailing his four, short months of life, which already fills one shelf at our home).

Once we were preadmitted, Karen and I rearranged our lives to accommodate our life at the hospital.

We knew things would be difficult.

But we weren’t prepared for the fear.

•

At OU Children’s the surgeries take place on the third floor.

Just down from the operating theater, there’s a small waiting room with cream colored walls, overstuffed furniture, a telephone and a television.

The television is for entertainment.

The telephone is for the call.

The telephone call from the nurse saying the surgery has started.

The telephone call from the nurse saying they were about halfway through the surgery.

The telephone call from the nurse saying the surgery was over.

The telephone call from the nurse saying Zach was OK.

At 7:30 a.m. last Monday, Karen handed a sleeping Zach to Debbie, the surgical nurse. Debbie was the same nurse who took care of Zach during his first operation and I found comfort in this fact.

We wouldn’t see Zach again until 1:30 that afternoon.

•

It’s called a Hemi Fontan.

Developed in France in 1971, the surgery is named after Doctor Francis M. Fontan, who originated the procedure.

The Fontan, our doctors told us, is used on children with complex congenital heart defects and involves diverting the venous blood — blood needing oxygen — from the right atrium to the pulmonary arteries without passing through the right ventricle.

The Hemi is part one of a two-part operation.

Also known as a Bidirectional Glenn procedure, this surgery requires the doctors to redirect the oxygen-poor blood from the top of the body to the lungs.

In short, Zach’s pulmonary arteries were disconnected from their existing blood supply. His superior vena cava — which carries blood returning from the upper body — was disconnected from the heart and redirected into the pulmonary arteries.

Zach’s inferior vena cava — which carries blood returning from the lower part of his body — remains connected to his heart.

According to several different medical reports, since 1971 thousands of the Fontan surgeries have been done in the United States and, today, the Fontan is used when a child only has a single effective ventricle, either due to defects of the heart valves, a problem with the heart’s pumping ability, or has complex congenital heart disease.

Children with heart defects like Zach’s usually have a single effective ventricle supplying blood to the lungs and the body and “are delicately balanced between inadequate blood supply to the lungs and oversupply to the lungs.”

Because of this, that lone ventricle is doing almost twice the amount of work — it has to pump blood for both lungs and body.

The result of this problem is simple: Children like Zach have trouble gaining weight, and can have major complications from things as simple as minor illnesses or colds.

But those problems pale compaired the larger issue.

Without this type of surgery, Zach would die.

Happy Birthday, Dr. Suess

2008-03-08T23:22:00.001-06:00

In the annals of American history, March 2nd is not the most noticeable of dates.

True, it can be claimed as the birthday of both Desi Arnaz and Mikhail Gorbachev and, for those whose tastes run somewhat darker, it’s the day cowboy actor Randolph Scott died.

And those Americans who are truly students of history know that March 2nd would was the date in 1923 when the first issue of Time Magazine rolled off the presses.

They also know that, on that same date in 1927, Babe Ruth was listed as the highest paid player in baseball (he earned $70,000 that year). Further, historians can tell you that on March 2nd, 1933, King Kong premiered at the Radio City Music Hall.

On March 2, 1950, Silly Putty was invented.

Fourteen years later, the Beatles would film “A Hard Day’s Night” and on March 2, 1974, a federal grand jury would conclude President Nixon was involved in Watergate.

Still, even these events don’t accurately portray the true importance of March 2nd.

For that, you must jump back to 1904, where, in Springfield Massachusetts, a young child was born to a family of second-generation German immigrants.

Named after his grandfather, and his mother (her maiden name) he would be called “Ted” around the house.

Though, legally, he was Theodor Seuss Geisel. It was his fictional degree — years later, while attending Dartmouth, he would supply himself with a Doctorate — coupled with his mother’s maiden name that the rest of the world would come to know him by.

Dr. Seuss.

For millions he is known as the author of 47 silly, irreverent (and very funny) children’s books.

For others, he was a subversive who destroyed children’s literature and sought to impose his “liberal views” on the rest of society.

And to a select few, he was the childlike friend down the road who loved a vodka martini and enjoyed composing bawdy limericks.

With a literary career which spanned five decades and included a Pulitzer Price, Seuss was considered just “an average” student at Dartmouth.

Granted, he attended Oxford University, but never actually earned his Doctorate.

Instead, he loafed.

He spent years traveling throughout the country promoting reading (and his books), yet he was painfully shy and absolutely hated public appearances.

He was loved by children across the globe, yet he was not particularly fond of anyone under 21 and, never had children of his own.

Today, more than a decade after his death, Seuss is still one of the most recognized authors in the country and, unlike many others, can claim that all of his work remains in print.

But Theodor Seuss Geisel didn’t start out to write children’s books.

Instead he was an illustrator and an editorial cartoonist.

He got his first real break in 1927 when the Saturday Evening Post purchased a cartoon for $25. Ted signed his work simply, “Seuss” but the editors of the Post added the line, “Drawn by Theodor Seuss Geisel.

It was not an auspicious beginning.

Seuss struggled.

Then, in 1938 as he and his wife, while he and his wife returned from an extended vacation, Seuss noticed the rhythm of the ship’s engine, as it chugged across the ocean. With that sound in his ears, Seuss penned a story about a young boy walking home and telling and somewhat exaggerated tale of what he saw.

The result was entitled, A story no one can beat.

And it was rejected by 27 different publishers.

Most told Seuss that his tale was “too different.” Or that it didn’t have a “moral or a message to help children grow up and be good citizens.”

Seuss, who felt that children should be allowed to read for the joy of it, grew disheartened. In fact, after the 27th rejection he bundled he book up and headed home to “burn the manuscript.”

But fate, again, held the upper hand.

On his way down Madison Avenue, he encountered an friend from college, who just hours before, had been named the children’s editor of Vanguard Press.

The pair struck up a conversation and, Seuss’ book was purchased. However, instead of bring printed with the title, “A story no one can beat,” the book saw life as “And to think that I saw it on Mulberry Street.”

Dr. Seuss had found his calling.

And children found their hero.

Over the years seuss would pen dozens of books which made kids laugh, simle but, most of all, made them read.

Dick and Jane were history.

Seuss’ skill with rhyme, his ability to invent new words and his quirky, wonderful drawings sat children’s literature on its ear.

And still, today, almost two decades after his death, seuss’ work is still with us.

Beginning readers still laugh at the “Cat in the Hat,” and, this year, a new full-lengh animated version of “Horton Hears a Who” hits the theater.

So while many in the world consider March 2nd just another day, for those of us who still hang with the good Doctor, March 2nd is a landmark event.

On that day day we remind ourselves of the joy of reading.

We also visit McElligot’s Pool, learn from the Lorax and even imagine what it would be like to run the circus.

And on March 2, we pause and can be thankful that the man who rejected by 27 different publishers, didn’t really have a doctorate, and wasn’t that fond of kids, walked among us.

Moore things that make you go, "hmmmmmmmm"

2008-03-06T23:19:00.000-06:00

You’ve seen them.

You’ve experienced them.

Those questions that stick in your head and pester you until you can’t sleep.

They’re not profound, life changing ideas, but stuff you just wonder about.

Like the old song says, they are the “things that make you go hmmmmm?”

Such as:

•

Why do young women wear shorts and sweats with the word “Pink” written across the rear? And why, when asked about the fact that having a word stretched across their butt does, in fact, draws attention to their butt, do they complain because you looked at their butt?

•

How come the Fox news channel claims to be “fair and balanced” when it’s not?

•

Why some churches will spend millions of dollars sending groups across the world when people starve in the shadow of their buildings?

•

Why my children can tell me the last 10 people that called our house, when they called, and what they wanted to talk about and their income level and voting record, but these same children can’t remember to take out the trash.

•

Why Americans love their animals more than their kids?

•

Why good people die young, but the evil and rotten seem to live forever?

•

Why politicians continue to shout on behalf of God, when the Almighty is perfectly capable of speaking for himself.

•

Why Oklahomans will get all mad because a politician didn’t pay his taxes on time, but won’t say a thing when people can’t get health care and children starve?

•

Why some politicians will tell you that 80 percent of Oklahomans are worried about illegal immigrants, but don’t tell you who these 80 pecent are, how they got their information and when the question was asked.

•

Why automobile companies try to sell $35,000 vehicles shaped like a cardboard box, then wonder why they don’t make any money?

•

Why whether or not Britney is wearing underwear and who Paris is dating are bigger news items than a record federal deficit and the war in Iraq.

•

Why a returning soldier is forced to fight, once again, just to learn what benefits that soldier is entitled to?

•

Why my wife and daughter will carry a purse the size of a medium sized piece of luggage filled with stuff, then complain about how heavy it is.

•

Why we don’t have any more heroes like Jackie Robinson.

•

Why more and more people watch television instead of reading, then whine and moan because they don’t know what’s going on.

•

Why my beagle will bark at the wind but sleep through a riot.

•

Why people don’t talk to their neighbors anymore.

•

Why documents such as the Constitution, the Magna Carta and the Bill of Rights are not required reading in schools anymore?

•

And finally, why beginning legislators make more money in Oklahoma than beginning school teachers.

Dear Mr. Red Dodge Truck Driver:

2008-03-04T14:07:00.000-06:00

Dear Mr. Red Dodge Truck Driver:

You didn’t realize I was watching, did you?

Naww.

For you, it was just another trip to Crest. You needed a few things and you were in a hurry.

Believe me, with a wife and four kids, I understand those unannounced grocery store trips.

But once you raced through the parking lot, things changed. That big red pickup you’re driving isn’t a toy. It’s a vehicle and in an enclosed area like a parking lot, any speed above five miles per hour is way too fast.

But that wasn’t your worst offense.

Since the Crest store in Moore is usually pretty busy, most people have to park further back and spend a little shoe leather to get to the doors.

Not you.

You circled the lot twice, then pulled right up to the front.

Right next to the door.

In the handicap spot.

Remember those?

They are usually painted blue and white with the image of a person in a wheelchair. They’re pretty hard to miss.

I know, it may seem like a small thing to you, but it’s not.

Allow me to explain:

Back in the ’80s, several congressmen put their political careers on the line to develop and pass a measure called the Americans with Disabilities Act. Now, I know, you don’t pay much attention to politics because, hey, there might be a basketball game on, or because you were too busy with NASCAR, but that little ADA thingy was — and still is — a pretty major piece of legislation.

You see, one of the features of this law was that it changed building codes. It said that new buildings had to provide adequate access for people who were disabled.

In other words, new buildings had to have doors wide enough for a person in a wheelchair to get through and they had to set aside a certain number of parking spots in their parking lots for people who were handicapped.

Now, here’s where you figure into this whole ADA debate.

To take advantage of these spots, a driver has to display a handicap sticker in their vehicle. That sticker tells the world that the driver — or someone that driver is transporting — is physically disabled and, by law, is allowed to park in spots designated for handicapped individuals.

Funny thing, that big red truck of yours didn’t have a handicap sticker.

And, my friend, from the way you bounced into the store, you were not handicapped, either.

I know, to you it was no big deal.

But for the thousands of people — taxpayers just like you — who are disabled or who use a wheelchair, those spots are a godsend. Those little blue and white icons mean that people in wheelchairs, too, easily can get inside the grocery store.

Until you spend your life in a wheelchair, you have no idea of the struggles these people face. Until you have lived day in and day out with a physcial disability, you have no idea what it takes just to live a “normal” life.

Granted, it was a warm, sunny day.

But just imagine trying to navigate your wheelchair through a narrow doorway while the wind is driving snow and sleet in your face.

Life could be just a little bit easier if you had access to a blue and white spot.

Especially if you’re in a hurry.

I guess what really frosted me, beyond your blatant insensitivity to the needs of others, was that you managed to take up not one, but two, handicapped spaces — all because you didn’t want to walk across the parking lot.

But wait, there’s more.

Just after you went inside, a tan and brown four-door Buick pulled into the lot, too.

It was an older car, well cared for, but older.

The driver was careful.

Unlike you, she slowed down for the pregnant mother with the two small children who were walking their groceries to their car. She waited patiently as a stock boy pushed stray carts back into the store. And when she went to park, well, she chose a spot about half a block away from the door.

I had just put my groceries in the car, so I watched this other driver.

She parked, got out of her car and walked to the trunk.

She opened the trunk and reached inside.

From inside, she placed a collapsible aluminum walker on the pavement and began moving slowly toward the store’s entrance.

She walked right past your truck.

After she went into the store, I walked to the front of her car. There, hanging from the mirror was a blue and white handicapped parking pass.

King's speech still a vital, needed statement for society

2008-01-24T11:20:00.001-06:00

It was August 1963.

JFK was president and America still believed in Camelot.

In Washington, the Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr., and hundreds of his supporters marched to the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.
There, in the shadow of Lincoln, King reshaped American’s civil rights debate with a single speech.

In just a few minutes, he spoke eloquently of the need for peace, and brotherhood.

He spoke of the dream of equality which is found the hearts of all good men.

Kennedy would be assassinated in November.

Dr. King would be killed by James Earl Ray in 1968.

But his speech, that wonderful essay on hope, trust and equality, lives on. Forty years later, King’s evangelical call still rings in our ears:

“I say to you today, my friends, so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: “We hold these truths to be self-evident: That all men are created equal.”

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today.

I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of interposition and nullification; one day right there in Alabama, little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.

I have a dream today.

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together...”

Our country has come a long way since Dr. King spoke in Washington, D.C. We have, in some ways, become better stewards of the good doctor’s legacy. Yet, King’s dream remains, still, a dream.

The truth is in America, not all men are seen as equal.

In our country, hatred and bigotry remain.

And, in many places, thousands still struggle for simple equality.

But King’s dream lives on.

And for those who choose to hear and live those famous words, they desire to make their country a better place burns deep.

Perhaps this year, our leaders will remember Dr. King’s dream and, once again, fight to make it a reality.

The directions are there.

The road lies before us.

We simply need to continue the journey.

So this is Christmas...

2007-12-19T16:06:00.000-06:00

“So this is Christmas
And what have you done
Another year over
And a new one just begun
And so this is Christmas
I hope you have fun
The near and the dear one
The old and the young...”
— John Lennon

Driving down the Broadway Extension, being passed by the reindeer-decorated Hummer, it’s pretty obvious that Christmas is close.

Very close.

The stores are well decorated, and a least one radio station is playing wall-to-wall Christmas carols. BC Clark has dusted off the jingle and we’ve already had snow and ice and winter isn’t even officially here yet.

Yeah, call it Christmas in Oklahoma.

But, to borrow a line from the late John Lennon, “what have we done?”

I wish I knew the answer to that question.

All across the state people are making plans, shopping and generally celebrating the Yuletide. Children — from 1 to 92 — are trying their best to behave and the rest of us are finding it difficult to focus at work.

Christmas does that.

Still, what have we done?

For a brief time, we’ve let go of the normal and found refuge in the silly, the fun and the sacred. With one breath we pause to celebrate a 2,000-year-old miracle and, that same day, find ourselves singing “Grandma’ got ran over by a Reindeer.”

We wrap ourselves against the cold by opening our hearts to others.

For a short time, the poor have souls and those who suffer are remembered. We allow ourselves to care and, briefly, we reach out to others.

All because of Christmas.

Many find comfort in movies and Christmas specials. We smile as the Grinch and English brethren, Ebenezer Scrooge, both find redemption through Grace.

Charlie Brown may always be a blockhead, but he does know how to choose Christmas trees and, yes, Burl Ives will always be a first-class snowman.

But what have we done?

Sure, we see daily examples of anger, spite and meanness. We see bigotry disguised as policy and hear hatred spoken of as justice.

But we also see faith.

And hope.

And love.

Across this state you’ll find thousands who truly care about their fellow man. You’ll find gentle, decent people who want to help and who seek to share what they have with others.

You don’t have to look hard.

I’m always amazed by Oklahomans when we run a story in the paper about a family’s struggle. The ink is barely dry on the newsprint before the telephone is ringing with offers of help.

I still smile as I remember the attorney — whose pledge of secrecy I continue to honor — who offered to help a Norman woman “for as long as she needs or wants it.”

This same attorney is known by several other names — most of which are unprintable — by those who have locked horns with him in court.

So, this is Christmas and what have we done?

We’ve lived, my friends.

We’ve recognized that there is something out there greater than ourselves and, many of us, have opened our homes and our heart to those fellow passengers we share this world with.

We’ve also loved.

For some, Dec. 25 my be just another day.

But for many others, the Christmas holiday is that time to reaffirm our faith in humanity and in our Creator. A time, again, to say “I love you.”

Yes, this is Christmas.

And may yours be bright, warm and filled with hope.

Zachary's Tale Part 2: Dealing with the overwhelming fear of heart surgery on an infant

2007-12-02T22:09:00.001-06:00

(Editor’s note: This is the second of a two-part series detailing the birth and heart surgery of Transcript reporter M. Scott Carter’s son, Zachary.)

OKLAHOMA CITY — For a brief moment, we thought Zach might draw a bye for his first surgery. His blood oxygen levels were tracking much higher than normal. Because of this, the doctors wanted to stop the drug and see if those oxygen levels would stay high enough to send him home.

If so, Zach might go home early and, even better, bypass the first surgery.

The normal blood oxygen level for an infant is 100 percent; for Zach, a high was 87 percent.

Two days after he was born, he was taken off the drug and slowly, his blood oxygen numbers fell. Wednesday night, Nov. 14, his oxygen level crashed like a bad ride on the stock market, falling into the low 40s.

Surgery was scheduled for Nov. 20.

•

That Tuesday dawned cold, bright and smelling of fall. Karen — who had been discharged just a couple of days before — made a rare appearance home. She tried keeping herself busy, but the pain from surgery and the fact she was frightened beyond all reason did nothing for her.

Neither of us slept Monday night.

By Tuesday morning, we were both a tense bundle of frayed nerves.

We arrived at the hospital early to visit Zach before his operation. He opened his eyes and smiled.

Karen cried. She trembled as I held her hand.

At 11:30 a.m. we made the longest walk of our lives; we left our newborn son in the third floor surgery at the University of Oklahoma Children’s Hospital.

Once again, we were told “everything would be OK.”

Surrounded by relatives and friends, we spent the next few hours in a waiting room just down the hall. Debbie, the bubbly, cheerful nurse assisting Dr. Marko Turina and Dr. Peter Pastuszko — incredible surgeons with last names I still haven’t figured out how to pronounce — reassured us, even telling us that she, herself had the same surgery decades ago.

Debbie was a bright spot on an otherwise dark and gloomy day.

She doesn’t know it, but I drew a great deal of strength from her during that time; her smile, her energy and her concern spilled over on all of us.

She kept us sane.

Before she took Zach, she promised to call us three times: when the surgery started, when they were about halfway through and once the surgery was over.

We left Zach in Debbie’s care and sat numb in the surgery waiting room.

Time slowed to a crawl. Around me people made chit-chat and talked about everything but the reality of the situation.
Finally, we gave up and went down to the first floor cafeteria to eat.

Debbie’s first call came just as we started our meal.

“We’ve started and everything is going fine. Zach didn’t even cry when he was prepped,” she said.

I watched the tears roll down Karen’s face. Neither of us wanted to imagine what was happening at that exact moment.

By the time we’d returned to the waiting room, Debbie called again — the doctors were more than halfway through, she said. Again, she told us things were going well.

Shortly after that, Debbie made her final call, “he came through it wonderfully,” she said. “He’ll be fine.”

My family offered a quiet prayer of thanks and when he heard the news Ethan, my oldest son, said he felt like an “8-ton chain” had been lifted off his back.

The world began its return to normal.

Several minutes later Dr. Marko, one of the two surgeons who operated on Zach, came to the waiting room. He told us how smoothly the surgery went.

My father told him he was a blessing from God.

The doctor, who seemed unaccustomed to praise, stammered his thanks and then left. Others slowly drifted out of the room.
Karen sighed deeply and held my hand.

Zach’s recovery had begun.

•

In the Jewish faith, they call it wresting with God.

It’s that point in our lives, when we humans get pissed off enough about our earthly situation, that we get angry.

Real angry.

We get so angry that sometimes, we have a one-sided argument with our Creator.

Or, we wrestle with God.

I guess I have yet to realize the folly of this act. It doesn’t do a whole lot of good to shout at the most powerful being in the universe.

Nonetheless, God and I locked horns one evening in the parking garage at the hospital, a couple of days after Zach’s surgery.

And, for the record, let’s just say I did all the shouting.

The long hours of fear, the months of anguish, the pain, the frustration, the joy and every emotion in between, all collided into loud collection of shouts, screams, curses and rants.

Yeah, I was mad.

I threw a fit and, and in no uncertain terms, let God know just how unhappy I was with his operation of the universe at that moment in time.

And I wasn’t too concerned about lightning bolts.

I was defending my family.

Something I told God he hadn’t done very well.

In fact, I told him I thought it was pretty mean to try and teach me any type of lesson using a newborn baby that my wife and I had longed for.

“Besides,” I shouted at the top of the parking garage. “It’s not fair to have to have surgery right after your birthday. Where in the hell did that idea come from?”

It was an intense, emotional discussion.

But as I yelled, God listened.

Funny, though, after 10 minutes of venting most of the negative emotion trapped inside me, I didn’t feel any better.

I drove home, alone that night, emotionally drained.

Around 3 a.m. I awoke. Lying in bed, with the house quiet, I apologized. I walked to the living room and sat on the couch and this time, much more reverently, told God how scared I really was.

“I’m not used to this,” I told him. “I’m not strong enough. I won’t make it.”

The room stayed quiet.

There were no lightning bolts.

But, thankfully, God accepted my apology.

In fact, somewhere, between the time of that argument and my late night benediction, God let me know he was still on my side.

But he didn’t do it Cecil B. DeMille style.

There were no angels or classical music.

Still, I knew, just the same. I began to see God in all the little things surrounding Zach and funny, weird events that I still can’t explain:

• He reminded me that me and my family were loved by sending a gentle caring friend to the hospital to pray and talk with Karen.

• He made me remember that somehow we managed to hook up with the two best pediatric surgeons in the country.

• It wasn’t just luck that the other doctors were top notch and the nurses who took care of Zach brought their “A” game.

• I still can’t explain how Dr. Ward — Zach’s cardiaologist — is the same Dr. Ward who treated the son of my best friend almost 20 years ago.

• And, no, its not an accident that Zach was strong enough to withstand his surgery without any problems.
Yeah, we had help.

Even though it wasn’t in the Old Testament style, God was there. And Karen and I felt the love of others and a simple, reassuring peace.

•

Zach’s recovery has been quick.

In fact, his doctors said he made remarkable progress.

And, somewhere, deep in my heart, I heard a soft gentle voice tell me things would be OK.

This time I knew it.

By last Thursday, my little boy was cheerful, hungry and healing. Slowly all the lines, IVs and tubes were removed from his body.

My two older brothers visited the hospital over the weekend and Zach was in rare form. He flirted with my sisters-in-law and, while my oldest brother talked to him, Zach softly reached out and held onto his finger.

For the first time in years, I saw my big brother cry.

By Saturday, the nurses were telling me what a charmer Zach was. His mother spent hours by his bed feeding him, holding him close, and seeking to recapture those first days she missed.

I watched Zach snuggle next to Karen, wiggle close to her breasts, then fall asleep peacefully in her arms.

The world was normal.

And the weekend passed quickly.

•

Monday, Zach came home.

Sure, his second surgery is just six months away, but half a year is a lifetime for us right now. Granted, we’ll have to watch him closely and do everything in our power to keep him healthy and strong, but this whole process; from the moment we discovered his heart problem until this very day, has been a lesson.

A lesson designed by God, but taught by Zach.

Even when he was at his lowest, he would nestle next to his mother. He would seek the comfort of her arms and the softness of her touch. There, he found peace.

And watching them, so did I.

Zach also taught me a lesson in patience.

He does things at this own speed, reminding me that sometimes, it’s better to take your time, because the results are worth the extra effort.

He also reaffairmed my faith in God and humanity.

Across this state, hundreds of people — many known to me but many others strangers — have all prayed for my child.

Friends and co-workers at this newspaper and dozens at Karen’s school have given up their own comforts and set their lives aside to help us. They offered to run errands, bring food and were willing to do whatever was asked.

Dozens called daily just wanting to know if we needed anything or if they could help.

My family gathered together and surrounded us with a love and support that would humble even the biggest cynic.

My niece, Shannon, became an impromptu taxi taking my parents everywhere and even cooking Karen and I Thanksgiving dinner. Our children embraced their brother with a pure, gentle love which still amazes me.

And all the while, the newest Carter took his surgery in stride, smiled and slept and, frequently, burped.

In a time when it’s easy to write off humanity and the often displayed stupidity of the human race, feeling the warmth and love of family and friends has pumped new life into my very tired, aching spirit.

All those hearts, beating in unison, have connected with us — reminding Karen, myself and our children that we are not alone in the universe and that there is something out there, greater than ourselves.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve become amazed by the power of the heart.

Amazed by its strength and resilience.

A lesson taught to me by a tiny red-headed boy who’s own heart may be the strongest I’ve ever known.

Zachary's Tale Part 1: How a tiny cardiac patient reaffairmed one man’s faith in God and humanity

2007-12-02T21:47:00.000-06:00

“No I would not give you false hope, on this strange and mournful day
But the mother and child reunion is only a motion away…”
— Paul Simon, Mother & Child Reunion

(Editor’s note: This is the first of a two-part series detailing the birth and heart surgery of Transcript reporter M. Scott Carter’s son, Zachary.)

OKLAHOMA CITY — It’s said that the heart — both spiritually and physically — is the essence of our human existence.

Spiritually, the heart is the repository of grace; the lockbox of the soul. The direct connection with the Almighty. For ages, humans have been classified by the quality — the worth, if you will — of their heart.

“She has a good heart,” people will say of a giving woman.

Or, “he’s got the heart of a lion” — high praise for a man of courage and resourcefulness.

Our hearts, we are taught, make us who we are.

On the physical side, the heart is THE muscle of the body. It pulls in blood needing oxygen, shoves it down to the lungs were the oxygen is infused, then pushes that oxygenated blood back out to the rest of the body.

You can live without some organs or limbs; a good friend has only one kidney. I’ve known people with only one lung or who were missing a leg.

But the heart is vital. Without it, we are just tissue with no warmth. Remove our heart and we die.

And so, to be truly human, our hearts must be both physically and spiritually intact.

A point I was reminded of over the past two weeks.

•

I’m sitting in a tan and brown waiting room. It’s small, with several industrial type chairs and one big, overstuffed couch.

There are no windows, just one door, a telephone and a small color television mounted near the ceiling.

There are pamphlets and some magazines which are several years old.

It’s Tuesday, Nov. 20th — two days before Thanksgiving. One week and one day since the birth of my son, Zachary.

For most families — including mine — the birth of a child is a time to celebrate. A new baby is affirmation by God that the world should continue.

Most of the time.

But for my family, this celebration is bittersweet.

Zach was born with several life-threatening heart problems.

And right now we’re waiting to see if those problems can be solved.

•

Karen and I had wanted another baby, we’d talked about it for more than a year, then decided, the time was right.

She told me she was pregnant sometime in late February. And for the first few months, we were elated. Our 20s were a long distant memory, and we are both well past our 30s. Still, having already raised three kids, one more wasn’t going to be a problem. We knew what we were doing.

At least that’s what we thought.

The first few doctor visits went great.

Karen was classified as a “high risk” because of her age, but since we were in good health we didn’t worry.

Everything changed in July.

An Ultrasound showed Zach had a major heart defect. At first, we watched the grainy images of him sucking his thumb then listened, stunned, as the doctor destroyed our euphoria.

“There is a serious heart defect,” he said. His next few statements were blurred and misty.

Finally, he brought us to our knees. “If you’d like to terminate this pregnancy, I can help you make arrangements,” he said.

I could hardly believe what I heard, the world seemed surreal. The silence was broken only by Karen’s sobs.

I looked at her and she shook her head, “no.”

We had chosen our path. But as we drove home in the rain, our dreams lay in ruin.

Two days later we found a faint glimmer of hope.

Dr. Kent Ward, a Oklahoma pediatric cardiologist, explained Zach’s problems in detail.

“Instead of four chambers in the heart, you child only has three,” Dr. Ward said. “There’s a single chamber on the bottom of the heart instead of two.”

There also were other issues.

Zach has a defect called Patent Ductus Arteriosus — an abnormal circulation of blood between the two major arteries near the heart.

According to the National Heart Lung and Blood Institute, PDA causes a blood vessel called the ductus arteriosus to remain open. This opening allows blood to flow directly from the aorta into the pulmonary artery. The process can be a strain on the heart and increase the blood pressure in the lung’s arteries.

PDA would be the first problem Dr. Ward and his team would tackle — the first of three separate heart operations.
The second problem was even worse.

Known as Transposition of the Great Vessels, this condition is a defect where the heart’s two major vessels — the pulmonary artery and the aorta — are switched.

Because of the switch, blood does not travel from the lungs to the body and back to the lungs again. Instead, the blood flow in the lungs and blood flow in the body occur independently.

The result, Dr. Ward said, is the blood with the oxygen from the lungs does not get to the heart where it feeds the rest of the body. The blood that goes through the body lacks oxygen.

A second surgery — planned when Zach is about six months old — would address this problem.

The third, and final surgery would correct Zach’s single ventricle. That surgery would take place around the age of 2.

Doctor Ward walked Karen and I through the process, answered a million questions and helped us get a grip on our fear.

“I’ve been doin’ this for 20 years,” he said. “It’s going to be OK. Your baby might not grow up to be a star athlete but he’ll be OK.”

Karen asked about the survival rate of the surgeries. Doctor Ward smiled.

“95 to 98 percent,” he said.

Outside the rain stopped.

•

Kenneth Zachary Clark Carter — the double middle name is a family tradition — was born at 8:45 a.m. Nov. 12 at the Univeristy of Oklahoma Children’s Hospital.

Zach weighed 6 pounds, 13.5 ounces and was 19 inches long. He has a head of beautiful red hair, 10 perfect little feet and toes, a round funky little nose and a beautiful, cherubic face.

He also came into the world with an attitude.

Born breech, Zach promptly announced his arrival on planet Earth by peeing on his doctor.

The nurses in the operating room — and there were many given his heart condition — laughed out loud and encouraged him to take another shot at the doctor who delivered him.

“This boy has an attitude,” one nurse said. “What a kid.”

As she laughed, the nurse gently handed me my son.

And there, for a brief, small moment, I held him. I touched his tiny nose and stood amazed at this brand new human.

From her hospital bed, Karen asked if Zach was OK. I placed his small, round face next to her. Gently, she stroked Zach’s cheek.

For those few seconds, the world was perfect.

Mother, child and father, all together. We had come full circle, once again.

But all too quickly, the moment ended.

Zach was taken to the hospital’s neonatal intensive care unit on the seventh floor, Karen was sent to a recovery room on the fifth floor.

She wouldn’t see her son again for two days.
And then a race against time began.

•

No matter how often the medical professionals told me things would “be all right” I couldn’t find the strength to believe them.

My faith was almost gone. I felt like I had been beaten and twisted. I was angry and not a whole lot of fun to be around.

Conversations with family and friends were strange and meaningless.

Instead of celebrating my son’s birth, I spent my days in his hospital room, staring at a computer screen.

After she was strong enough, I’d get Karen and we would trek to the NICU and sit next to Zach’s bedside.

Seeing him there was tough; a series of wires connected him to a computer which monitored his heart rate, respiration and blood oxygen levels.

IVs were placed his arm and heel, and a central line entered his body through his umbilical cord. For the next week Zach would receive a drug called prostaglandin, which helped the blood flow through his lungs and body.

Day after day I watched numbers flicker on the computer monitor.

177, 48, 81, 79. They changed by the second, a digital representation of Zach’s first week in the world.

177 — his heart rate; 48 — the number of breaths he takes; 81 — the percentage of oxygen in the blood flowing into his heart; 79 — the percentage flowing out.

Four numbers I couldn’t seem to escape.

Four numbers that were the sum of my infant son’s life.

Four numbers which I would grow to hate.

Occasionally, the numbers would drop below a pre-set level. When that happened, the computer was programed to sound an alarm — a signal that one of the numbers was too low.

The alarm chimed the first few times.

But if Zach’s numbers didn’t adjust quickly, the sound became more frantic and the machine rang a telephone carried by each nurse in the ward. When the phone rang, the nurses came running.

Over the course of the week I’d get well acquainted of the chime of the monitor and the sound of a nurse scurring down the hall.

Meet Roy Smith, pricipal of the state's newest 6A high school

2007-11-08T07:30:00.000-06:00

Right now, Roy Smith is pretty busy.

As the new principal of Moore’s Southmoore High School, it’s Smith’s responsibility to hire all the school’s teachers, coaches and professional staff, monitor construction and make sure the building has the right equipment needed.

A project, that’s worth, say, about $40 or $50 million — that’s taxpayer money, too, so every move he makes is public.

And — just to make things interesting — Southmoore has to be open in time for the fall 2008 school year.

“It’s an enormous task,” Smith said. “It’s not everyone that gets to be on the ground floor of a new school.”

Named principal on Aug. 1, Smith — a 20-year veteran of the Moore district — is one of the administration’s front men for its new multi-million dollar high school. And once Southmoore opens its doors, the responsibility rests fully on his shoulders.

“Sure, it’s a big responsibility,” he said. “But there are a lot of positives to be said for that. I will interview every staff person, I will have a say about every person that comes on board at this school. Not many people have the opportunity to do that. I feel very privileged.”

Built to help Moore address its rapidly growing student population, Southmoore — the district’s third Class 6A high school — is expected to have about 1,800 students from grades 9 through 12. Those students, school officials said, will be shifted from the Moore and Westmoore districts.

“We’re starting something new,” Smith said. “We’re starting a new a school, establishing new traditions and a new culture. It’s the coming together of the faculty and staff.”

But before that first day, Smith needs almost 100 teachers, professional staff, counselors and equipment.

“Each month we’re posting openings for different teachers of different core courses,” he said. “We’re taking the core courses — math, English, science and history — one month at a time.”

Response to the postings, he said, has been tremendous. “Many teachers in the district have applied,” he said. “I’m interviewing people almost every day.”

Then there’s the building itself.

“Inside, it still has a long way to go,” he said. “The rain this year has been a hindrance, but the crews are doing a great job of getting caught up.”

After the crews finish, Smith will be involved in the purchasing decisions for the entire facility.

“The startup costs will be tremendous,” he said. “Right now, just an empty building under contraction is all that has been purchased.”

That will change quickly as administrators buy furniture, computers and equipment for the school.

“Soon we’ll have to equip the building,” he said. “We’ll need furniture and classroom equipment, such as lab equipment for science classes.”

Southmoore also will have computers “throughout the building” Smith said. “Our district uses computerized attendance and grade programs. We will have computers in every classroom.”

But even with a sparkling new building stuffed full of the latest technology, Southmoore, Smith said, will emphasize learning.
“We want to give our students every opportunity to succeed,” he said. “We’re going to be advanced placement oriented. We’re going to really emphasize that.”

That success also includes athletics and the search for head coaches.

“We’re taking resumés right now,” Smith said. “The search for head coaches is ongoing, at least to the end of January.”

While Smith was reluctant to predict how the SaberCats athletic teams would fare next year, he did say he expected his teams to be “competitive.”

“We’re going to put together the strongest staff we can put together,” he said. “We’ll be competitive. We will field teams in all sports.”

And with sports, such as football, hugely popular in Moore, Smith said he expects a rivalry to develop between Southmoore, Moore and Westmoore.

“Next year we will be in the same district as Moore,” he said. “Westmoore will be in a different district.”

But the rivalry, he said, will be three-way.

“We’ll be right there in the middle,” he said. “It’s like the Edmond situation. It’s taken a long time for the Edmond rivalry to develop.”

Still, despite the competition, the primary goal, Smith said, is to be a quality school.

“Our job at Southmoore, just like in the rest of the district, is to prepare kids for the future,” he said. “That’s what it’s all about.”

Halloween, The History

2007-10-31T10:01:00.000-06:00

A few thousand years ago, some ancient, Irish Celt got the wild idea that the dead wandered around the earth on Oct. 31, the night before the Celtic New Year.

Whoever came up with this idea passed it along to his fellow Celts, and pretty soon, the whole tribe decided that New Year’s eve, the boundary between the living world and the world of the dead became sorta blurred.

They even coined a name for this little shindig, they called it Samhain — pronounced “sou-wen” — which meant, literally, “summer’s end.”

But Samhain, it seems, had its good and bad points.

On the plus side, the Druids — the Celtic priests — said they could make better predictions about the future if the dead guys were roaming around.

On the bad side, the ghosts of the dead didn’t always behave; they’d scare people, cause trouble and damage crops.

Yes, it does sound like Congress.

How we got the name

Anyway, as part of the celebration, the Druids built big bonfires and sacrificed some crops and several unlucky animals to their gods to make the gods, and the dead guys who were hanging out with them, happy.

They also dressed in costumes — animal heads and skins — tried to tell each other’s fortunes and even danced a little, too.

The bonfire — which they believed was sacred — kept the spirits in check and everything rocked along just fine until the Romans showed up a few years later.

By A.D. 43, the Romans had thumped the Celts pretty good and for the next 400 years the Romans were in charge. Of course, if you’re making the rules you get to plan the community social events and pretty soon two Roman festivals merged with Samhain.

It seems those in Rome also had a day to commemorate the passing of the dead, called Feralia. They added it, and another day to honor Pomona, the Roman goddess of fruit and trees, to Samhain and the fall party continued.

At least until the Christians got there.

By the 800s, Christianity had spread into ancient Ireland and, in the seventh century, Pope Boniface IV came up with the plan to honor all the church’s saints and martyrs.

This, he cleverly named All Saints’ Day, and set the celebration for Nov. 1, the same time as Samhain.

Many religious scholars believe Boniface was attempting to replace the pagans’ party with a church sanctioned holiday. Whatever the reason, the celebration became known as Allhallows or All-hallowmas (which, in Middle English, meant All Saint’s Day)

Because they enjoyed All Saints Day so much, church officials added another day, Nov. 2, to honor the dead: All Souls Day.

Given the course of several hundred years and a few different dialects, All-hallowmas was eventually corrupted into Halloween.

Fast forward to Great Britain.

The Jack O’Lantern

The story — which could have come from anywhere, but many say England — was simple: Jack was a bad guy.

A scoundrel, Jack was too greedy to get into Heaven and he’d played too many tricks on the Devil to be allowed in Hell.

No his last name wasn’t Abramoff.

Still, Jack was a bad lot with no place to go and because of this, he was required to roam the earth with a lantern until Judgment Day.

His lantern evolved into a pumpkin and the pumpkin grew a face and the modern day Jack O’Lantern has occupied porches for decades.

Trick or Treat

If you were one of the fire-dancing, ghost fearing, hey-the-dead-are-back-for-the-evening-type, ancient Irish dudes, you probably went to more than one party for Muck Olla, the Irish sun god.

At this party, you’d form a parade and go beg for food — today we all them political receptions.

Anyway, the parade leader would be dressed in a white robe with an animal-head mask, again, the sun god thing.

Over the centuries, the parade would eventually merge with the English tradition of going “a-souling.”

To do this, you had to be English and be willing to go door-to-door where you promised to pray for the souls of the neighbor’s dead in exchange for a pastry, called a “soul cake.”

The soul cake morphed into candy and, today, instead of praying for the souls of the dead, parents, instead, pray their kids won’t eat all the sweet stuff before bedtime.

Those $*(%! Puritans

You’d think that after more than a 1,000 years of pagan parties, bonfires and ghosts roaming around, that people would get used to Halloween. Sit back, relax and enjoy the goat sacrifice.

Not so.

During the 18th century the Halloween celebration took it on the chin. And most of the country’s pumpkins ended up in pie and not as Jack O’Lanterns.

Due to the Puritans’ strict religious beliefs — and the fact they were busy hunting for witches to hang — Halloween was rarely, if at all celebrated.

Then, in the 1820s, things changed again.

Today’s Halloween

A massive influx of Irish and Scottish immigrants — who brought their beliefs and customs — pumped new life into Halloween and the modern celebration as we know it took off.

Complete with costumes, parties, candy and Bobby “Boris” Pickett’s version of the Monster Mash, today’s Halloween has all the fun but little of the belief.

Sure, come tonight you may see a ghost or two wandering the earth.

But rest assured it’ll be the neighborhood kid trying to scarf all the candy he can before bedtime.

Guthrie's Centennial bash expected to be big

2007-10-26T11:04:00.000-06:00

OKLAHOMA CITY -- Close to 100,000 people -- and media outlets from across the nation -- are expected to converge on Guthrie next month for the apex of the state's Centennial Celebration.

Scheduled the week of Nov. 9 through 17, Guthrie's celebration will include a ceremonial special session of the Oklahoma Legislature, a State Senate ceremony, a celebration by the state's African American community, a Native American sunset ceremony and a Statehood Inaugural Ball.

A Nov. 16 statehood day reenactment, parade and picnic will highlight the celebration.

"We're excited," said Guthrie Mayor Chuck Burtcher. "We're going to put on the dog for the rest of the state."

Known as Oklahoma's first state capital, the city of Guthrie lost the capital following a statewide election called by then-Gov. Charles Haskell.

Haskell, the state's first elected governor, was in Tulsa the day of the election, where he learned the results shortly after midnight. Haskell quickly signed a proclamation designating Oklahoma City as the new state capital and ordering the state seal to be moved.

Those events continue to generate myth and controversy in the Logan County town.

And come November, the seal will return to Guthrie.

But only for a few days.

On Nov. 12, Guthrie officials along with Secretary of State Susan Savage will return the seal to its original home for just four days -- Nov. 12 through 16.

The seal, which will be on display during the Legislature's ceremonial session, will be "guarded" by Savage as Oklahoma City Mayor Mick Cornett and Burtcher exchange barbs about the seal's rightful home.

"It should be quite an event," Burtcher said. "A lot of fun."

On Nov. 16, the statehood announcement will be reenacted on the portico of the State Capital Publishing Museum -- then known as the home of the Oklahoma State Capital newspaper.

Hugh Scott -- the grandson of Dr. Hugh Scott, who made the original statehood announcement -- will shoot a gun and make the announcement at 9:16 a.m. After Scott's announcement, actors will again stage the symbolic wedding ceremony of Oklahoma Territory and Indian Territory.

A second Centennial Parade will take place at 11:30, winding through Guthrie's downtown area and ending at Mineral Wells Park, the site of town's original statehood barbecue.

Burtcher said the menu will be same featured 100 years ago.

"Just a piece of smoked beef, a slice of bread, a pickle and coffee or lemonade," he said.

On Nov. 17, Guthrie will host its second Statehood Inaugural Ball at the Guthrie Scottish Rite Masonic Center. The black-tie event will include Oklahoma Gov. Brad Henry and the descendants of Gov. Haskell.

"The community is excited and everyone is very positive," Burtcher said. "People are coming out of the woodwork to help. This is a once-in-a-lifetime event."

A celebration, he said, which could take place only in Guthrie.

"Guthrie is probably the only place in the country where its statehood celebration can still be held in the original buildings," he said. "You can walk down Main Street and realize how much history is there. All the history is there. It's wonderful."

Oh, how dreadful

2007-10-20T10:32:00.000-06:00

(Since it's this close to Halloween, thought you all would like an original Halloween poem. My apologies to Edward Gorey!)

A is for Annabel, (who died by the lake)
B is for Billy, (impailed on a rake)
C is for Charles, (the piano did fall)
D is for Derick, (they found him in the hall)
E is for Edward, (with a knife in his back)
F is for Frank, (found a snake in a sack)
G is for Gertrude, (she swallowed a toad)
H is for Herald, (he stood too long in the road)
I is for Icabod, (the rats liked his toes)
J is for Jasper, (the beans plugged his nose)
K is for Kiki, (her baton caught on fire)
L is for Lenoard, (he swallowed barbed wire)
M is for Michael, (very alergic to Bees)
N is for Nathan, (the sharks ate both knees)
O is for Orin, (he was folded and pressed)
P is for Perry, (he's quite dead and depressed)
Q is for Quanna, (her bones do look grim)
R is for Ralphie, (there’s not much left of him)
S is for Sasha, (the poison was runny)
T is for Terance, (he’s no longer funny)
U is for Untray (he was crunched in a vice)
V is for Vera (her funeral was nice)
W is for William (they blamed the dog)
X is for Xarvon (now flat, under the log)
Y is for Yancy (the worm’s got him clean)
Z is for Zane (he’s now very green)

Oh, it’s quite dreadful, all these things that I’ve seen.
You'd best be careful, this Halloween.
So, pay heed to my warning
(please take my advice)
On All Hallow's Eve,
be sure to play nice.
The witches are watching,
And ghouls, they abound,
Be sure that you not,
The 27th that’s found.

Commentary: Doing the right thing a moral, not political judgement

2007-10-17T08:18:00.000-06:00

It doesn’t take an act by the Oklahoma State Legislature to know it’s wrong to steal. Nor do we need a gubernatorial proclamation that lying, cheating on your spouse or killing someone are not the best of ideas.

Because, long before members of the Oklahoma House and Senate convened in their marble chambers at 23rd and Lincoln there were rules of conduct.

The Bible’s 10 commandments were a pretty good start.

From there, society was given the “Golden Rule” — based on Matthew 7:12. “So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the Law and the Prophets.”

That simple idea has been the basis for our modern concept of human rights since the time of Christ.

But right now it’s taking it on the chin.

Especially here in Oklahoma.

With state Representative Randy Terrill’s anti-immigrant bill now law, Oklahoma has set aside its moral principals and, in the process, lost its humanity.

Terrill’s recent blast at the Oklahoma Health Care Authority is the perfect example: Terrill criticized the OHCA for allowing women who may or may not be in the country illegally — but who will be giving birth to a United States citizen — to offer treatment to the mother and the child.

In story after story, Terrill called the move “an attempt, by tugging at the heart strings, to backdoor an expansion of government-run health care.”

Terrill went on to say that we “cannot allow Oklahoma to subsidize illegal activity” and the OCHA’s action “would encourage other women to illegally cross the U.S. border.”

He added that the proposal creates a “slippery slope” and called on the OHCA board members to withdraw the proposal.

Thankfully the OCHA passed the rule 6-1 and Gov. Henry signed it.

But what seems lost over this ongoing, almost vitriolic debate over illegal immigration is our collective humanity. An attitude that — for decades — would inspire one Oklahoman to help a neighbor — no questions asked.

We have survived Dust Bowls, tornadoes and terrorists. We have suffered and seen thousands of strangers ride to our defense. And we have done the same for others. Those simple facts has always made me smile.

But now, we’ve embraced the god of Mean.

Now, we have taken the Golden Rule and, in one legislative act, thrown it away.

Today, thousands of our fellow humans, living here now, live in fear.

Today, we have declared war on a race of people simply because of language as “legal status.”

We’ve forgotten the fact that these people — whatever that status, skin color or country of origin — are our brethren.

Like us, they too bleed red.

And like us, they, too, are human.

When Rep. Terrill first offered his immigration proposal, I questioned the idea. I said it was mean spirited.

I still believe that, today.

And since that first column ran, more and more people have done the same. Several state lawmakers had the courage to ask Oklahoma Attorney General Drew Edmondson whether the idea was sound.

Others are planning legal challenges.

Many have protested.

Good.

Because when you finally get through all the politics, the rhetoric and the blizzard of press releases, what you have in this legislation is simply, a lack of compassion and humanity.

There has been no “come let us reason together” and regretfully, few members of the faith community have stood in opposition.

That, too, is a sad statement about our current social climate.

Oklahomans don’t need advice from members of the legislature on how to do the right thing.

We simply need to act.

Ex-pastor suing Moore's First Baptist Church

2007-10-12T09:20:00.000-06:00

MOORE — A former official with Moore’s First Baptist Church is suing the church for his termination, and for “spreading false rumors about his mental health throughout the community,” court documents show.

Jimmie D. Lady, the church’s associate pastor, filed the suit in Cleveland County District Court last week seeking $10,000 in actual damages and $10,000 in punitive damages for “severe emotional distress and mental anguish as a result of statements made about him when his job was terminated.”

Lady’s attorney, Andrew Hicks of Houston, claimed church officials terminated Lady for being bi-polar, then spread rumors about Lady in the community.

“Although a man of God, Dr. Lady cannot ignore the dramatic, adverse effects these untrue and unfair accusations have had on him and his family,” Hicks said. “First Baptist Moore’s efforts to tarnish Dr. Lady’s reputation have threatened his family’s livelihood. Through this suit, we hope to restore Dr. Lady’s good name.”

Church officials denied the allegations.

In a statement e-mailed to The Transcript, Dr. Kevin Clarkson — First Baptist’s senior pastor — said the church “regretfully acknowledged” Lady’s suit.

“We regretfully acknowledge that Jim Lady has filed a lawsuit against First Baptist Church raising various issues that we strongly disagree with and...we will timely and appropriately respond,” Clarkson said. “In that the matter involves employment-related issues involved in litigation, our policies preclude significant responses and public announcements.”

According to court documents, Lady served as First Baptist’s associate pastor for four and a half years, until Aug. 2. On that day, the suit claims, the church terminated Lady by contacting his wife and informing her church officials believed Lady was bi-polar and was “not to come back” to the church.

Hicks said Lady is not bi-polar and the former pastor “has no idea” why he was terminated. “It’s been a mystery we’re trying to figure out,” he said.

Lady, Hicks said, does suffer from diabetes but has no mental health issues and exhibited “no signs of strange behavior.”
Following his termination, Hicks said Lady attempted to “resolve the matter amicably,” but church officials rejected those efforts and, instead, threatened to terminate Lady’s severance benefits if he “made any trouble.”

Clarkson said church employment matters, and those regarding ministerial staff members, are “spiritual decisions reached after great prayer.”

“The proper functioning of the ministerial staff is critical to the Lord’s calling on our church and the ability of our church to fulfill God’s call and command to impact our community in a positive way for the glory of Christ,” he said. “We believe the religious freedoms acknowledged in the First Amendment of the United States Constitution protect our church from this claim, but the claim will be thoroughly investigated and properly defended as necessary.”

Clarkson also denied Lady “was in any manner” mistreated.

“We regret his decision to force us to respond publicly to what should be a private matter,” he said. “However, we still continue to wish both he and his family the best as he moves forward with his life.”

While Lady’s suit seeks $10,000 in actual damages and $10,000 in punitive damages, Hicks said the final amount sought “remains to be seen.”

“We haven’t yet quantified damages,” Hicks said. “Not only has this impacted Dr. Lady’s livelihood, but the rumors that have been spread impacted his ability to obtain suitable employment. Plus the damage for mental and emotional stress caused by this.”

The case has been assigned to District Judge William C. Hetherington, Jr.

Dear God...

2007-09-27T07:01:00.000-06:00

Dear God,

Standing against the morning sunlight, she’s beautiful.

Her small, shapely body is round and full — inside her womb, our child plays.

She tells me how this tiny, divine person pushes and moves and stretches and floats on a life-giving island known only to females. Silhouetted against the 6 a.m. sun I watch her as she rubs her belly, reverently, touching this child she so willingly bears.

Heavenly father, she is so frightened.

Each night she prays, asking you to help her. She seeks your guidance; your forgiveness. She prays that you will take care of the life growing within her.

She prays because you, father, are our only hope.

The doctors, though upbeat, tell us this newest member of the human race will need three separate surgeries to ensure its life.

The first, to place a shunt inside an artery flowing into its tiny heart.

The second, to literally replumb the top portion of the heart; the third, a similar operation on the bottom.

That news devestated her.

I felt her sob and cry with a pain that came from her very soul; a pain so deep that I’m sure only you can understand. Her suffering is beyond my capability to fathom.

I am simply a man, you are eternal.

And so, we pray.

Like so many others, we’ve turned to you in our time of darkness. In the stillness I feel her heart beat. As she nestles next to me, I, too, can feel my infant move.

And though I cannot imagine what you truly are, or understand your being or your existence, I do believe you are love.

I do believe you care.

And I do believe that you — in whatever way — are protective of us, your creation.

But I cannot look at you with the mind of a peer — I can only understand and fathom you through the eyes of a human. A human who cannot grasp all that he faces.

Father, I know for certain you brought my wife into my life; and I know that you are responsible for the life which dances inside her.

My prayer is simple, I want nothing for myself, just that you protect both my wife and my unborn child.

Please, give us the opportunity to see this small, wonderful creature grow and become a part of this world. I know, many say the world is full of evil and dark.

I disagree.

I’ve seen the stars twinkle against a velvet sky, I’ve stood, amazed at the sunsets painted by your hand. I’ve listened to the rain and stood silently amongst the brightly colored leaves.

I’ve witnessed kindness. I’ve known love.

For me, your world is full of beauty and life.

And all I ask of you is that you share that bounty with a beautiful, fragile woman whom I live with, and a small, innocent child inside her.

Please, God, know that I do have faith, but also know that deep inside — in the far corners of my heart — I fear the anguish of a heartbroken woman and the vision of an empty crib.

State Fair food needs a stick

2007-09-22T18:10:00.000-06:00

OKLAHOMA CITY — If you’re going to eat at the fair, you’ll need a stick.

Preferably, a clean one.

But a stick, just the same.

Because at the Oklahoma State Fair food must be portable. Forget the plates, and you probably won’t need that knife either. Sure, you’ll see an occasional fork, and OK, a spoon or two, but fair food is a truly unique creation in the culinary world.

And it’s not for the faint of heart.

Great fair food must be tasty, incredibly fattening, messy and a dietitian’s nightmare. And, yes, fair food needs a stick — think walking and eating.

For some foods this is easily accomplished.

And others come with their stick built in.

But today, the latest in deep frying technology has brought a vast, and ever-growing collection of foods — previously though unavailable — to the stick.

•
Just southeast of the Space Needle, now adorned with advertising and slogans from one of Oklahoma’s larger utilities, are the food vendors. They stretch along a corridor about a full city block long and intersect with the State Fair grandstands and the midway.

Early in the afternoon the food vendors heat up their griddles and began frying mounds of onions. Sure, onions taste good, but it’s the aroma — that intoxicating blend of autumn in Oklahoma and grilled onions — which will put your saliva glands into overdrive.

If you can resist that wonderful smell long enough, stroll up and down the fair’s version of restaurant row and scout your food-on-a-stick possibilities.

There are many.

This year, nestled in among the Indian Taco stands, the beer sellers and the famous Silver Dollar Cinnamon Rolls, is quite possibly, the newest example of the marriage of food and stick.

Deep fried garlic mashed potatoes — on a stick.

No, I am not making this up.

Sporting a huge white banner cleverly titled “Deep Fried Garlic Mashed Potatoes On A Stick,” Tony Diventuri and his wife Sara, have managed to capture the imaginations of Oklahoma fair goers.

For $5 — $6.50 if you want the sampler — Tony and Sara will hook you up with four ball-shaped dollops of garlic (and bacon if you want) mashed potatoes, coated in seasonings and deep fried.

For those of you who want a little taste of everything, Tony’s sampler includes: fried mashed potatoes, friend chicken strips, fried macaroni and cheese and fried ravioli.

Served with a seasoned sour cream, the mashed potatoes on a stick are amazingly tasty.

“We started about three years ago,” he said. “We just fried a bunch of stuff to see what worked.”

And after a year or so of refining his recipe, Tony and Sara realized they had a hit.

“The response is, well, overwhelming,” he said. “Last weekend we had people lined up for 10 hours, it was non-stop.”
That’s understandable; it’s not everyone that gets to eat their mashed potatoes deep friend and impaled on a stick. Gravy, however, was not an option.

An independent truck driver in “his other life,” Tony and Sara make their home in St. Paul, Minn. And while they sell food at several arts shows and other outdoor events in their hometown, they only work two state fairs — the Oklahoma State Fair and the Tulsa State Fair.

•

Maybe it has something to do with Okies and mashed potatoes.

But while Tony Diventuir may have developed the latest stick food, he’s not the only game in town.

For those of the Henry VIII-type personality, the mammoth turkey legs are still a hit — it’s interesting that the majority of turkey legs I witnessed being eaten were owned by small, grandmotherly women.

There’s also pizza-on-a-stick, hot dogs-on-a-stick, cheesecake-on-a-stick, sausage-on-a-stick, chicken-on-a-stick, cheese-on-a-stick, chocolate strawberries-on-a-stick and the humble corndog.

OK, the Oklahoma State Fair version of the corndog is roughly the size of a paper towel tube and, when attached to a stick, looks more like a baseball bat, but it remains true to its corndog heritage.

Just down from the corndog vendors, you’ll find something called a Walking Taco, which is really more a Frito chili pie, but hey, its the fair and remember food has to be portable.

Of course, Indian tacos are still a hit, along with both pork and beef barbecue, Italian sausage and those massive, single French fried potatoes — regretfully, those don’t come on a stick.

You can also get hamburgers, grilled corn on the cob (its stick is built in), carameled apples (yep, with a stick), funnel cake, cotton candy (often found on a tube, so it really doesn’t qualify for the stick moniker), and Wonderbars.

Found in the Made in Oklahoma building, Wonderbars — vanilla ice cream, covered in chocolate and coated with nuts, on a stick — are made and served by the Oklahoma Hospitality Club.

If you really need a chocolate fix, there’s the Chocolate Suicide which is deep fried cake with ice cream, smothered in chocolate and served with a stick.

•

With the Sooner State celebrating its 100th anniversary this year, it only seems natural that the 2007 State Fair Centennial Expo should feature the fun, the silly, the strange and the unique.

Granted, there are still the animals, the rides, the games and the people, but it’s the food that stands out at this, our 100th anniversary.

And while food technology may have brought us far, for some fairgoers the best part of eating at the fair is its once-a-year treats.

“For me, it’s the corndogs,” said Elizabeth McCormick. “They are the best.”

Elizabeth, along with her friends Catherine Langford and Nancy Will, took time from working the Republican Party booth to sneak out, see the sights and grab a few corndogs.

“I only eat them when I’m here,” Langford said. “But they are wonderful.”

McCormick agrees.

“Don’t tell anyone, but I ate two,” she said.

Corndogs — food that still fits perfectly on a stick.

Fatherhood, part II

2007-09-12T16:07:00.000-06:00

A couple of weeks ago, I penned a column about how I though the state should change its child custody laws.

I spelled out what I thought was wrong with the system and offered some suggestions for fixing it up.

And by the message I received, you would have though I suggested canceling the football program a the University of Oklahoma.

Yes, the defecation struck the rotary oscillator.

I’m sure the computer guys here at the newspaper weren’t too happy with the quantity of e-mail I received because of that column.

I published one response — well written and thought out — but many of the others were (even for me) a little too crass for a family newspaper.

I was especially fond of the one which questioned the legality of my birth and my mother’s moral standards.

Anyway, the column caused a big ruckus.

Good.

Because I meant everything I wrote. (I can almost hear those keyboards clicking now).

So, because I’m so good at causing a fight, I thought I’d revisit the subject this week. Only this time, I’m not going to repeat my call to ditch Oklahoma’s useless child custody system.

This week, I’d rather discuss fatherhood.

Or, if you will, the art of being a Dad.

Here where I work, one of my co-workers, a tall chap named Christian, is the perfect example of decent, hardworking Dad.

Granted, Christian hasn’t had the best luck with the opposite sex, but despite his divorces, he’s a great father.

His kids are polite, they smile, they laugh and you know they live in a home where they are loved.

Christian talks about them all the time.

You can watch his face light up and he tells me about his son’s soccer game or stories about his daughter and her passage from being a pre-teen into a teenager.

I watch him smile as he talks about the smallest member of the family, who’s not yet five.

Yeah, Christian gives a damn.

He cares about his kids. And he takes care of his kids.

He makes sure they are well fed, they do their homework and they understand right from wrong.

He also makes sure each child knows how much they are loved.

Most of you probably won’t ever get the chance to meet Christian. Heck, unless you were introduced, you probably wouldn’t know him from Adam.

Too bad, too.

Because Christian is the type of Dad that you should meet.

He’s the perfect example to use when you hear all that crap about how a single Dad can’t be as good a parent as a single Mom.

We all can learn a lot from guys like Christian.

Patience, humor and the ability to remember that kids — even at their best — are going to drive you nuts sometimes; these things Christian has in abundance.

His kids are lucky.

By the time they reach their adult lives, they’ll be well prepared for the world and all its challenges.

Why? Because of their Dad.

Because of Christian.

Like I said before, I’m not going to apologize for believing the child custody system in Oklahoma is screwed up and needs to be overhauled.

And I’m not going to back down on what I think needs to be done.

But please believe me when I say, we wouldn’t have to worry about a thing if more Dads were like my buddy Christian.

Because he knows that nothing can replace a decent, caring father.

Ten minutes later: Cops get the robbers

2007-09-12T16:05:00.000-06:00

MOORE — Less than 10 minutes after it was reported, two Oklahoma City men were arrested on bank robbery complaints Thursday morning by Federal Bureau of Investigation agents and Moore police officers.

Oklahoma City FBI officials say Wacey Gerron Mikles, 24, and Eric Justin Moses, 26, were arrested for robbing a Bank of Oklahoma branch inside Crest Foods at 1315 N. Eastern Ave. in Moore.

“At approximately 10:44 a.m. Thursday, a white male approached a teller at Bank of Oklahoma and demanded money,” FBI spokesman Gary Johnson said. “(The man) exited the bank and was seen fleeing in a vehicle.”

No employees of the bank or the grocery store were harmed.

About 10 minutes later both Minkles and Moses were arrested by Moore police, department spokesman Sgt. Todd Strickland said.

“Our lieutenant was in the right place at the right time,” Strickland said. “He did an awesome job.”

Strickland said Moore police Lt. Tim Bryant was near the intersection of North 27th and Eastern Avenue when he saw a black Toyota Corolla. “That vehicle matched the description of one that has just been reported as being involved in a robbery at a Bank of Oklahoma branch,” he said.

Strickland said Bryant followed the car, called for additional officers, and stopped the vehicle at a Shell service station at North 27th Street and I-35.

Mikles and Moses were arrested without incident by Moore police and turned over to FBI agents.

“After searching the vehicle, officers discovered a large amount of money and the passenger was positively identified as the person who robbed the bank,” Strickland said.

Both men face federal bank robbery charges.

Johnson said an investigation — involving the police departments of Moore, Norman, Oklahoma City and Warr Acres — is being conducted.

FBI officials said Mikles is a suspect in several other robberies in the Oklahoma City area. Both men are being held in Oklahoma County jail, Johnson said, and were expected to appear before a U.S. magistrate Friday.

Good beer, a must for Chris Milum

2007-09-04T10:50:00.000-06:00

Chris Milum started out his career a certified public accountant.

A 1996 graduate of Moore High School, Milum earned his bachelor’s of business administration in finance and accounting from Southern Methodist University.

He went on to get his master’s degree in accounting, too.

And after that, he became a certified public accountant.

Life was OK for about three years.

But at the time when most number jockeys would settle down, find a wife, and have 2.3 children, Chris Milum turned in his calculator.

“I guess I needed more adventure,” he said.

His decision came after an impromptu bull session with some friends. “A bunch of us were sitting around talking about what we would do if we weren’t CPAs. And the answers were pretty typical.”

Except when it came to Chris.

“I told them I wanted to brew beer.”

Having been a beer fan since he turned 21 — the legal drinking age in Oklahoma — Milum didn’t want to just brew any beer; he wanted to create hand-crafted, old world style beer.

Beer that didn’t taste like the six pack variety.

“I was in Dallas,” he said. “We were at Humperdinks and I tried my first crafted beer. And I really enjoyed it.”

He liked it so much, that he began visiting brew pubs and other places were he could try different beers. “When I’d go to a new town, I’d try to find a brew pub and taste everything that I could,” he said. “I wanted to try something I hadn’t tried before.”

The affinity quickly led to a hobby.

And with the help of freinds, Chris began to make his own beer.

“Some friends and I began to brew our own beer and we were making really good stuff,” he said. “It was as good as some of the pubs we visited.”

And it was at this point that Chris Milum began to realize his future was tied to hops and yeast and not numbers.

“A couple of my friends said we should try to open our own microbrewery. But I really didn’t ever think about going back to school.”

Even so, about two years later, Chris enrolled at the University of California at Davis to study brewing.

“The program was developed by the Institute and Guild of Brewing from Burton, England, he said.

Twelve weeks later, he’d learned how to brew beer on the large scale.

“I earned my certificate in brewing and packaging,” he said. “And learned how to brew beer on heavy machinery.”

But Chris didn’t want to work for Budweiser.

“I wanted to learn the art and the science,” he said. “I wanted to study the craft.”

Armed with his basic brewer’s knowledge, he set off again, this time to Middlebury, Vt., and the American Brewer’s Guild.

About six months later, he received his Master Brewer’s diploma and an apprenticeship at the Otter Creek Brewing Company and Wolavers Organic Ales.

The world of accounting was now well behind him.

After completing his apprenticeship, he began searching for a job in the brewing industry.

“I wanted to leave Vermont,” he said. “The winters were pretty rough and I’m a warm-blooded mammal, so I started looking for jobs back south.”

A tip from his brother led Chris to Fayetteville, Ark., and a job at the Hog Haus Brewery.

Two years later, he returned to Moore.

“The brewery began to have financial problems, so I got out,” he said. “Plus I wanted to get back to my microbrewery plan. So I came back here last December.”

With his training and a great deal of practical experience, Chris, now 29, launched an Internet-based business designed to help those home brewing hobbyists.

“We started out as an educational resource,” he said. “I realized there were a whole bunch of misconceptions about home brewers. I was sitting around and thought, ‘I need to correct some of these things.’”

He developed a series of videos which helped answer the home brewer’s questions.

And business took off.

“We spent all of 2006 making new videos and writing scripts,” he said. “And we would always tell people to go to your local home brew shop. After a while we decided we need to start offering the equipment ourselves and from there, business just skyrocketed.”

He was so successful that this June Chris opened his store, Learn to Brew, at 2307 South Interstate 35 Frontage Road in Moore.

“We moved in on June 1st,” he said. “The store looks like a pub with bars in the front and back.”

Built with fixtures created by his father, the store began to offer brewing supplies, advice and even classes to those who want to make their own beer. The store hosted its grand opening Aug. 24.

“Business has been awesome,” he said. “It’s a lot better than I expected, but word-of-mouth is huge among home brewers.”

By coupling training with equipment and supplies, Chris says he can help even the most inexperienced beer fan.

“Beer is basically a recipe of four ingredients: hops, malted barley, yeast and water,” he said. “And here, we offer basic classes and those for the intermediate learner. We want people to learn to brew like a craft brewery.”

Additionally, he says, Learn to Brew will host beer tastings to teach brewers how to analyze and solve problems in their beer.

“It’s not a get-together and drink thing,” he said. “We take beer and then we add different chemicals to it, so people can taste when something goes wrong. If they recognize what it tastes like, then they can learn where in the bewing process to fix it.”
Along with beer, Learn to Brew also will offer classes for wine making.

“Our classes are small, limited to 10 people. That’s because it’s all hands on; it’s not just me lecturing, the students are doing the brewing themselves.”

Future plans include a microbrewery — connected with Learn to Brew’s store.

“We’re probably about five years away from the microbrewery,” he said. “We want to get Learn to Brew up and running, then we’ll move on to the microbrewery.”

And while Chris will acknowledge that beer and home brewing isn’t for everyone; he believes there is a great reward in making a well crafted, good tasting beer.

Because good beer, he believes, is the result of knowledge and patience.

“It’s a great hobby,” he says. “We don’t try to convert anyone. We just want to teach people how to brew great tasting beer at home.”

A noble aspiration for a one-time accountant.

A special blend: The Sorrels family

2007-08-19T20:13:00.000-06:00

MOORE — This is a story about a family.

A big, big blended family, mind you.

It’s a story about two divorced adults who struggled, then found each other.

It’s a story about six little kids who joined forces to become brothers and sisters.

It’s the story about four other little girls who might have been lost, had it not been for the gentle, hardworking plumber and his loving wife.

This is a story about Steve and Maylene Sorrels.

It’s also a story about Taylor, Cody, Michael, Nicole, Aylee, Gabriella, Breanna, Dalton, Victoria and Jaden.

Yes, this is the story of one big family, but mostly, it’s a story about love.

nnn

The first thing you notice when you arrive at Steve and Maylene Sorrels’ home in Moore is the shoes.

They’re everywhere.

Small shoes. Tennis shoes. Boots. Overshoes. Snow boots. Casual shoes. More tennis shoes. They’re piled on the porch on a curved black shelf, just to the right of the door.

What, at first, looks like the remains of a Wal-Mart sidewalk sale, is actually one family’s shoes.

Each pair belongs to someone different — and in the Sorrels family, that’s 12 humans.

Past the shoes, inside the house, it’s bright, clean and the walls are covered with family photos. To the right, a handful of kids watch a movie; in the kitchen two girls bake a cake.

At any moment, there are six, or maybe seven, kids scurrying back and forth — but the noise level is low, and the kids are polite and happy. A smaller girl slips away from the TV for a hug from mom. One of the boys starts to wrestle with his brother; he’s gently reprimanded and sent for a brief time out.

He’s back quickly — and his mother smiles.

Because this small boy is part of a family that’s been blended several times over. Call them the Brady Bunch, plus four.

“At first, it was kinda’ hard,” Maylene Sorrels said. “At first the kids were … skeptical. It was hard on both of us.”

Things have gotten much better.

nnn

Maylene wasn’t looking for a boyfriend.

An employee of Old Dominion truck lines, 2003 had been a rough year for this round, pretty woman with bright eyes and a smile which fills her face. She had just survived a nasty divorce and was trying to move on and raise her three children — a girl and two boys.

“I was just trying to live,” she said. “It had been a difficult time.”

Then, there was a problem with the office water fountain.

“We called a service man to come fix the water fountain,” she said. “And when he walked through the door, I thought ‘wow!’”

She’d had her first glimpse of Steve.

And, she couldn’t help but flirt “a little.”

“Yeah, I flirted with him,” she confessed. “I was real impressed.”

The plumber flirted back.

“I walked in there one day to fix the drinkin’ fountain and change the air filters and we’ve been talkin’ ever since,” Steve said.

In fact, he left that day without ever fixing the water fountain.

“I had to go out and get him,” Maylene said. “I had to bring him back in.”

Steve smiles.

Strong, and muscular with dark hair and a day’s worth of beard, he says he couldn’t stay focused on his work. “It was kinda’ hard to keep my mind on what I was doing.”

It didn’t take long before phone numbers were exchanged.

Slowly, a relationship blossomed — the conversations ran long. And even though each tried — for one final time — to reconcile with their ex-spouses, they remained friends.

“We each tried to reconcile,” Maylene said. “But it didn’t work.”

By the end of the 2004 they were inseparable.

“We dated for about a year-and-a-half,” she said. “Then in February of 2005 we got married.”

Two adults. Six kids. One dog.

For most families the story would stop there. Steve and Maylene had found their soul mate, blended themselves into one large — though cramped — family and life was OK.

But fate had other plans.

nnn

For several years, Maylene Sorrels had grown more concerned about her four nieces. Taylor, Nicole, Gabby and Breanna, were loved deeply by their aunt, but their visits were infrequent and Maylene knew the girls’ home life was rocky.

“We would only see them when my sister would come around for money, or when she needed something,” she said.

Sometimes she didn’t see the girls for years.

“For long periods we didn’t get to see them, we didn’t know how they were. We were afraid of something happening to them.”

And even as she built her new family, Maylene Sorrels worried more and more about her four nieces.

“They were all born addicted to meth,” she said. “Many times they had lice. She (her sister) had dogs, and they never cleaned up from them. It was awful.”

Steve saw the pain, too.

“When they would come over it was wonderful,” he said. “They were like my own.”

But he couldn’t stand to watch them leave.

“Maylene would have to take them back by herself,” he said. “I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t watch them go, it was awful.”

Around Christmas 2003, the trouble reached a climax.

“My sister took her four girls to a friend’s house and said she was going Christmas shopping and she’d be back,” Maylene said. “She never returned.”

By Christmas Eve the friend was frantically calling family and others trying to locate the girls’ mother.

“She called around for a day and a half,” Maylene said. “Then she called the Department of Human Services.”

At that point the children were taken from Maylene’s sister and placed in foster care. Later the girl’s grandparents — of their biological father — took them in.

“Their grandparents were raising them, but it was pretty tough,” Maylene said. “And after a while, they felt like they could no longer take care of them.”

At this point, Steve had an idea.

“I wanted to adopt them,” he said. “I asked her ‘Who’s going to take care of them if not us? Who’s going to know them like you do? Who’s going to help them?’”

Over the course of a week, he convinced Maylene to start proceedings to adopt her sister’s children.

Three years later they succeeded.

And on July 24 the couple who built a family of six, added four more.

nnn

From the time they met until today, Steve and Maylene Sorrels’ lives have changed dramatically.

Each went from having three children, to a family of 10 — four boys and six girls. They watched their living space shrink, their disposable income fall and their expenses increase.

They’ve also seen the love of a child who was sure no one cared.

“I have kids in my arms all the time,” Steve says, smiling. “They’re like freckles — they’re attached.”

Still, there’s a house to manage.

Breakfast, lunch and dinner are well planned culinary maneuvers. Two freezers, stuffed full of food, live in the garage and, in this house, there’s no such thing as leftovers.

“Just imagine …we go through 15 gallons of milk a week and two boxes of cereal a day,” Maylene. “Family outings involve two vehicles. Getting ready for church begins the night before especially with six girls who all want their hair curled.”

And while it’s often late before the adults have time to chat, talk or even spend a little time together, the pictures hanging on the beige walls speak volumes — this is, simply, a family.

A family that blended six, then adopted four more.

In fact, the Sorrels’ adoption of Nicole, Gabby, Breanna and Taylor was the first public adoption at a Oklahoma Department of Human Services meeting. The DHS commissioners served as witnesses.

But it’s not the history, nor the notoriety that moves Steve and Maylene. It is, they said, the warmth and the love of a child. The fact that in this neat, two-story house in Moore, lives have changed, people have come together and a family was born.

A family, that Steve says, is truly unique.

“It’s like that country song,” he said. “I am a lucky man.”

Remembering the 'Okie'

2007-08-18T12:32:00.001-06:00

Sixty-six years ago, Paul Goodyear had to run to save his own life.

A Petty Officer Third Class assigned to the USS Oklahoma, Goodyear had enlisted in the Signal Corps, believing that, after four months worth of training, he would return to a civilian life.

“When the training ended, they wanted me to sign a request for a year’s sea duty,” he said.

Shortly thereafter, Goodyear found himself stationed at the Pearl Harbor Naval Base in Hawaii.

And on this particular Sunday — Dec. 7, 1941 — the job was easy.

At Pearl Harbor, Sundays usually were.

Sure, the miliary brass was concerned: In 1937 China and Japan had locked horns and two years later, Hitler had invaded Poland. But so far, the United States had stayed neutral.

And even though then-President Franklin Roosevelt had signed the Lend-Lease act in March of 1941, American soldiers had seen little conflict.

But the country was on high alert.

“We knew before long we were gonna get involved in that deal in Europe,” Goodyear said. “It was gonna happen.”

Still, if he was going to serve, then being stationed at the Pearl Harbor Naval Base “was paradise.”

“We were certainly enjoying Honolulu,” he said.

• Day of infamy •

Sunday morning started slow.

“I began (that) Sunday morning with only the activities of a secretary,” he said. “We were there, just kind of walking around the signal bridge trying to look and locate what ships were in.”

With several battleships safely in port, Goodyear and his colleagues spent most of their time looking at a beautiful blue Hawaiian sky and relaying messages back and forth between officers.

“In port, all of our responsibilities were to make sure Ensign So-and-so made his connection with Lt. So-and-so for a tennis game,” he said. “That was our main obligation on the morning of Dec. 7.”

Just before 8 a.m. all hell would break loose.

From his perch atop the Oklahoma’s signal bridge, Goodyear began to watch a small, single engine airplane about a mile-and-a-half away.

“That first one dropped a bomb, but that didn’t set off any alarms,” he said.

Since the Oklahoma was anchored next to a naval station, many small U.S. planes came and went. And for those planes practicing their bombing runs, the island was the perfect spot to drop that remaining practice bomb which wasn’t used.

“If they went off and, for some reason, didn’t expend their practice bombs, then rather than land with the bomb strapped to the fuselage of those little planes, they just dropped them on the little island,” he said. “Then the practice bombs were recycled.”

The scene, Goodyear said, seemed perfectly normal.“We just thought it was our guys.”

Paul Goodyear was wrong. It wasn’t a practice run. And the small planes weren’t American.

“When the third plane dropped its bomb, we saw the wheels, they were retractable,” he said. “Then we saw the mushroom cloud.”

At that point, Goodyear said something that he, later, wished he’d copyrighted.

“I said, ‘it’s the goddamn Japs.”

By the time he’d completed that expression, Goodyear watched the first of several Japanese torpedos speed through the water.

“The first torpedo was headed right at us. I said, ‘hang on, here comes the fish.’”

Those fish killed the USS Oklahoma.

“About eight or nine of ‘em hit us,” he said. “The torpedos obliterated about 250 feet of the port side of the ship; water came pouring in there.”

The damage was extensive, he said, because the Oklahoma had been preparing for an admiral inspection and all of its watertight compartments were open.

“We weren’t a watertight ship. We were an eggshell.”

About 11 minutes later, the once proud USS Oklahoma would roll on her belly, going from straight up to 151 degrees down.

“Many of our men were trapped inside,” he said. “Most of them were running to get to their battle stations.”

About one third of them never made it.

Of the Oklahoma’s 1,200 member crew, 429 died.

“The Oklahoma sailors were trapped in pitch black,” Goodyear said.

“You can’t imagine how pitch black it was. And at some point in time, realization sets in — there ain’t no way out.”

• Looking back •

For Goodyear, the trauma was almost unthinkable.

“Can you imagine the fear you’d have if you were in that position, and you know that every breath you took, every breath that every occupant of that compartment took just shortened your own life?”

Before the morning was over, more than 4,000 soldiers would die.

On the USS Arizona, 1,177 were killed mercifully, Goodyear said. “They had no pain, no trauma. They were just vaporized.”

The attack would devastate the Navy. Of the ships in Pearl Harbor, five were destroyed — the USS Arizona, the USS Oklahoma, USS Utah, the USS Cassin and the USS Downs; 13 other ships were damaged.

Yet, somehow, Goodyear survived.

“When the Oklahoma started to roll we just decided that discretion was the better part of valor and ran down the ladder to the deck below,” Goodyear said.

After returning back to the signal bridge to grab a secret signal code book, Goodyear, still riding the Oklahoma as it rolled, dropped into the sea and swam toward the USS Maryland.

“When I got there, they threw me a weighted rope,” he said. “I reached up with my right arm and grabbed it on my wrist.”

As he was being pulled out of the water, bullets flew overhead.

“I looked up and saw white spots appearing inches above my head. I realized that was not what I wanted up there and immediately dropped back into the water.”

Eventually Goodyear would make it onto the Maryland and, he said, return all the marine fuel he’d swallowed.

But the fight would continue.

The United States would quickly enter the war.

And the world would change, again, for Paul Goodyear.

• Today •

At 89, Paul Goodyear is spry, engaging and easy to talk with.

His knowledge of his place in history is deep and he enjoys answering questions.

Speaking recently at the Cleveland County Republicans’ noon luncheon, Goodyear talked reverently about those soldiers who died on his ship, the “Okie.”

“Those soldiers, all 429, made the ultimate sacrifice,” he said. “And I believe, because of the way they died, their sacrifice was great. That’s why we’re going to dedicate a monument out there. That’s what we’re trying to do now.”

This year, Goodyear has traveled across the country to raise money and support for a memorial to the USS Oklahoma and the 429 men who died there.

“This memorial isn’t about us. This is about our 429 shipmates,” he told the Oklahoma State Senate in November 2006.

“The boys on the Arizona died instantly — they never even knew what was happening, but on the Oklahoma, they had a horrific death, drowning in dark compartments before they could be rescued,” Goodyear said. “It isn’t right that they had to go that way, and it isn’t right that we’ve had to deal with so much red-tape and federal bureaucracy just to get this far — but I’m grateful we’re finally on the verge of getting this memorial completed while some of us are still alive to see it.”

• Going back •

Two years after the attack on Pearl Harbor, Paul Goodyear went back. He returned to the Oklahoma — now salvaged and in dry dock — because he wanted to retrieve some personal items.

“I wanted to go over there and get my girlfriend’s wedding ring and the $130 I’d left on the ship.”

Stepping around the crew working on the former battleship, Goodyear borrowed a flashlight and went below deck.

“It was as pitch black as I’ve ever seen,” he said. “I put my right foot into the compartment and I had the light in my left hand.”

Then, as he moved his other foot, Paul Goodyear stopped.

“That was as far as I could go,” he said.

The deck was covered with bones.

“There were two divisions in that room. I have no idea how many men were trapped in that compartment. Their bones were just piled up there, just commingled together.”

Paul Goodyear never retrieved his ring or money.

But he has worked to return the remains of many a lost USS Oklahoma sailor to their families.

“Just last month the Army finally returned the 39th man, a man from Indiana, to his family,” he said. “He was returned without any use of DNA or dental records. He was returned solely based on the information on his death certificate. We have 27 more Okie sailors in exactly the same condition.”

Sailors that Paul Goodyear has spent a lifetime remembering.

The night shift at the National Weather Center

2007-08-17T15:10:00.000-06:00

About an hour before midnight, the vast Oklahoma sky is a blanket of dark, inky velvet.

Only a handful of stars dot the night.

There’s a slight breeze; it’s cool, but enough residual heat remains to remind you that this afternoon the tempreature was in the triple digits.

It’s August, so it’s dry and it’s hot.

And it’s the type of weather that — sometimes — might bore a guy like Kevin Brown.

But Brown, a senior forecaster the National Weather Center, knows that here, in Oklahoma, the weather doesn’t remain boring for very long.

“Some people say we try to read God’s mind,” he says with a chuckle. “I get asked that at church a lot.”

But Brown’s real mission is much simpler — protect life and property by trying, as he says, to “anticipate what the most likely outcome will be” from the weather data he has available.

Arriving for the 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. shift, Brown and a co-worker will spend the next eight hours of this warm, August night surrounded with mountains of computer images and data at the University of Oklahoma’s National Weather Center.

They are seated in a room filled with wall-to-wall monitors — the Situational Awareness Display — which show images from satellites, ground-based equipment, and even human weather spotters.

Data that Brown is constantly reviewing.

Data that can be used to predict, or forecast if you will, the next day’s weather.

Or, even save a life.

It’s a job that — at its best — is incredibly tough in Oklahoma.

“Anybody who thinks there are gonna’ get the forecast right and never miss, and basically read God’s mind, well that’s not gonna’ happen,” he said.

We observe and record data, he said. “And that data is then put into a computer model to try and anticipate what the weather will do.”

It’s a big responsibility.

Brown’s forecasts affects all aspects Oklahoma life: farming, business, sports, government and even public safety.

And his goal is accuracy.

If his forecast says the temperature will hit 100 degrees, he considers it wrong if the temperature only reaches 99 or goes on to 101.

“We do our best to be accurate,” he said. “It’s important.”

Slim, and dressed casually in jeans, a maroon T-shirt, and a ball cap, the 39-year-old Brown has spent 15 years trying to discover the weather’s next move.

Be it a thunderstorm.

A tornado.

Or a warm August night.

The joy of summer

2007-08-09T07:21:00.000-06:00

I stand on the porch and watch.

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 an 8-year-old.

On the driveway, my step-daughter, Sara, hovers with a covey of girls. I hear them giggle and gossip — the conversation is hushed, but if you watch closely, you’ll see her glance quickly at the tanned blond boy on the skateboard (who manages, easily, to stay just within eyesight).

In the distance I can hear 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.

The rain has gone — for a couple of weeks now — and it’s hot.

But my kids don’t care.

Around me, I can hear the distant hum of central air units. I say a quite prayer of thanks for the inventor of Freon.

In front of me a fat, busy bumblebee zooms back and forth looking for a flower. Beyond his pulsating wings, I watch the heat rise off the black pavement; I’m suddenly interrupted by a cold spray of water and the menacing laugh of my eldest son.

Ethan has the hose, 10 feet of shrub and several water balloons as his defense. It looks like he’s planning a full scale, frontal attack.

I’ll check my wrath for now.

I’ll get him later when he goes back outside to retrieve a lost shoe. Little does he know I’ve managed to scam two full, buxom water balloons.

Both have his name on them.

A breeze stirs, rearranging the dust from and irritating the tomcat snoozing in the bushes below me.

Hoover, the feline, tolerates few interruptions. He’ll hiss and yowl, but eventually, he’ll return to the shade the shrub and his regularly scheduled nap.

I turn to go back into the house just as a mammoth water balloon explodes inches from my head.

Across the yard, my son laughs.

His time in parental purgatory has increased; but he doesn’t know that now.

Right now his day is filled with football, gossip, soaking his old man with water baloons and fun.

My wife meets me at the door; her ample, pregnant belly announcing her arrival.

Inside it’s cool and dark.

Karen brings me a beautiful smile and large glass of ice-cold water.

I touch her belly and feel the warmth from another soul.

Together we stand quietly — almost reverently — and watch as our kids scamper and play — they are oblivious to any problems, concerns or issues.

And for a few minutes, our world is at peace — bathed in the glow of a warm Oklahoma sun and the knowledge that summer doesn’t officially end until Sept. 21.