A Tradition Dies .....

Every year, for the past ten years or more I have taken a day off between Christmas and New Year to read the new W.E.B. Griffin book that is always released in that period.  I would brew a pot of coffee, make myself comfortable and then settle in to lose myself in the work of the poet laureate of the American warrior class.  Over the years, Griffin has re-told in fictional form the legends of the U.S. Military from the beginning of World War II right up through the war on terror.  Told with a confidence born of experience, Griffin became the voice of our warriors then and now.

So, it is with great reluctance that I will not buy Griffin's latest work, The Hunting Trip, a sophomoric romp revolving around a set of complex plans to allow the protagonist to commit adultery with a friend's wife.  That sad decision was based upon three factors. 

The first factor was the declining quality of Griffin's work.  The last couple of offerings from the franchise have been almost laughably bad.  Granted, they were co-written by Griffin's son who obviously lacks the breadth of the elder Griffin/Butterworth's experience.  But, once burned is forever forewarned.  I read only a few pages of Amazon's online sample of his latest offering, The Hunting Trip, before deciding that Griffin no longer had anything to say that I wanted to hear.  It read like a bad Fannie Flagg novel.  So much so actually that Fannie Flagg gave it a glowing review. I almost asked for my money back after reading his disastrous attempt to mimic the voice of Janet Evanovich.  That mistake and the withering reviews that followed it should have ended his apparently deep seated need to feminize his voice.

The second factor in my decision might explain why Griffin's latest reads like the work of a confused, sophomoric southern society lady wannabe.  Along with the release of this book, Griffin also revealed that for several years he has also written lesbian romance novels under the pseudonym Blakely St. James.  That might explain the gender confusion in the voice of his latest offering. 

The final factor however went to the heart of Griffin the man and the difference between him and his characters.  Griffin's characters were always gentlemen with a capitol "G."  His latest work is anything but gentlemanly, from the annoying "Expletive Deleted's" overused to the point of distraction to his willingness to trash the memory of his first wife.  No gentleman would do that to his children or for that matter to a woman that he chose to be his wife.  A gentleman would let sleeping dogs lie. 

This year, on this final day of the year, I may go back and read something from The Corp's series which introduced the current generation to old breed Marines, or something from the Brotherhood of War series which did the same thing for the old, upper class Army officer corps.  I might even pull out one of the Presidential Agent series and follow the exploits of the new class of special operators.  But, I won't be reading the gender confused, immoral, literary vomitus that Griffin is now producing.
 
I want to give credit where credit is due.  For decades, Griffin produced some of the best military/historical fiction ever written.  His earlier work deserves a place alongside C.S. Forester, Bernard Cornwell and the other masters of the genre.   Having said that, I will mourn for the writer that was who has now passed and politely refuse to become involved with the disappointing character he has become.

Another Incident On The Homefront .....

Last night on our way to our daughter's house for dinner, we stopped at Braum's on Sheridan near 15th to pick up ice cream for dessert. I parked near the door and Sheila went in. After a couple of moments, a thin, twenty-ish, meth addict looking white male came up the sidewalk to the door, staying close to the wall as he approached before entering the store. At the time, I thought he looked hinky but decided to just watch the door.  Half of the people in that area look hinky now.

After a while, I began wondering "What in the world is taking Sheila so long just to buy a half gallon of ice cream?" Eventually, she came out and as we drove off she told this tale. She said that as she was getting ready to check out the suspicious looking man in question came in the door. When he did, the checker said, "Oh my God, that's the guy that always robs us."The checker then headed to the back and hid until he left. The perp apparently decided not to rob the place after the clerk fled and locked herself up in the back.

But, SHEILA JUST STOOD THERE through the whole thing. She said she thought about

texting me to come in with my gun. By this time, my mind was screaming, "WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST LEAVE?" She said she was in a hurry and was just thinking about getting checked out and on her way to dinner. This is what I told her after I got my emotions under control:

(1) Take armed robberies very seriously. They happen every day in our neighborhood. The fact that you haven't been caught in one yet doesn't mean that it can't happen to you. If the clerk is afraid you should be too. If you don't like the way a situation looks JUST LEAVE. 

(2) If you can't leave, hide. Go to the bathroom and lock the door. Follow the clerk into the office. At least get down behind something out of sight. Get as many barriers as you can between you and the trouble. Stay quiet and try to make yourself small.

(3) After you have done everything you can to flee or hide THEN call for help. Don't TEXT unless you have no other option. It takes too long and I don't always look at my text messages immediately. This is a life or death situation CALL the nearest help available unless speaking would put you in further danger.

In 1980 when Sheila and I moved back to Tulsa from St. Louis, we were incredibly relieved to move away from a big, dirty old city where street crime, random violence and a blase' attitude toward it all especially by law enforcement and city leaders the order of the day.  Unfortunately, Tulsa has become a big, dirty old city that is just as tough and just as dangerous as St. Louis or even New York. We Tulsans who live north of 51st Street can no longer afford the luxury of letting down our guard while we go about our daily lives. 
Sheila and I are going to have a long talk about personal safety soon.  Our hometown has lost its innocence and now unfortunately, we all have to as well.

Christmas At Bill and Sheila's

This has been a strange but good little Christmas.  There were times when I seriously wondered if Sheila and I wouldn't be celebrating it in bed .... due to our injuries ..... not ..... well ..... you know.

It all began when I decided to make Sheila's long time desire for a kitchen remodel happen.  I convinced our long time friend and part time contractor, Bret Keathley, to take the job on the week before Christmas.  He agreed to come in in the evenings and after hours to do the hard stuff like building the new cabinets, installing the new counter top and sink, installing the new garbage disposal, etc. while Sheila I worked around him in shifts doing to the little stuff like painting, laying the new vinyl plank floor, etc.  

Bret is really very talented in this area and has helped us make the best use of just about

every square inch of our tiny, 1940's style kitchen.  He is still finishing up on a hutch with triangular shelves built around our over-sized modern fridge.  We have even re-purposed the old telephone nook into a tiny, European style coffee station.


My old friend and coffee drinking partner Tom Brock, who is a professional quality painter, came over a couple of mornings and helped me paint the walls.  With his help it only took a couple of hours.  Sheila was working half days last week, so when she came home we painted trim and she helped me lay flooring as Bret cleared a space and moved on. We got it down to a system.  I would get on the floor and stay there so I didn't have to get up and down.  She would remain upright and fetch tools, materials,etc.  Our faithful son in law Robert showed up yesterday afternoon and got more work done in a couple of hours than Sheila and I would have accomplished in a day.  


During the process, I twisted a shoulder getting up and down off the floor.  Sheila's knees .... well, need I say more.  By last night, we were both about all in.  But, by noon yesterday, there was enough finished so that we could have Christmas dinner in Sheila's new kitchen.

We kept the menu simple, savory roast pork loin with mango chutney, garlic mashed potatoes, roast green beans and butternut squash dressed in olive oil and coarse salt, hot rolls and southern vin ordinaire aka sweet tea.  Michelle and Gwenda brought desserts.  Michelle's apple pie was about the best I have ever tasted.

After dinner, we opened presents.  As usual, I was a little embarrassed by the amount of stuff that changed hands, remembering the years of my childhood when I would receive one or two gifts, maybe a toy truck or a cap pistol and there would be nothing for Mom and Dad but a good meal.  It should be noted that my grandson, Little Ben, gave me a big old red remote controlled toy sports car that I suspect we will get much pleasure out of when he is at our house.

Sheila and I will be spending the day in bed today for the most part or at least in our

chairs.  The kitchen is not finished and Bret will be coming back in to finish up the built in storage on the other wall, install new light fixtures and clean up the various details.  But, aside from little painting, our big work on the project is over except for cleaning up after the fact. 

There will be another "Christmas" Sunday when Robert's daughter from a former marriage, Ella, flies in from Texas for visitation.  So, there will be another meal, more presents to be opened etc.  But, all we have to do is show up for that one thank heavens.

Yes, we are a little battered and bruised but I have to say it has been an adventure and Sheila will soon have her remodeled kitchen.
 

Another Letter to Little Ben At Christmas

Ben,

You are a little young to appreciate one of your presents this year and I might not be around when you are old enough to understand it so a hard copy of this

blog post will be attached to the back of the frame to explain the history of your gift.

I have given you a collection of mostly old knives.  I say mostly because there is one brand new knife in there, an Old Timer 180T, the perfect, high quality, "first" pocket knife for a boy when he gets old enough to carry one. This knife was given to me by one of my clients who is a dealer.

The next knife is a bone handled Schrade "Uncle Henry" from the 1960's.  I found it in your great grandmother Rubeye Kumpe's effects after she passed.  She kept it with her sewing and quilting materials and while it had rusted, it was still razor sharp when I found it  twenty years after it had last been used.  This was a pretty high quality knife for the time and I am surprised that my mother had it.

The center knife is a Camillus from probably the 1960's or so.  Your great grandfather William Kumpe carried this knife everywhere he went.  He kept the sharp pointed blade cleaner than the rest because that was the blade he used to dig splinters and shards of steel out of his hands with after work.  The round nosed blade was usually used to "doctor" livestock.  That could mean anything from lancing an infected spot on Bossie's hip to doing a castration.  Your dad can explain that last word when you are old enough to understand it.  The big blade was used to cut the twine on old fashioned square hay bales and for just about everything else.  I have seen the knife in my dad's hands more times than I can remember.  It was a valued tool that he used daily.

The plain metal, silver colored knife with "US" stamped on the side is also a Camillus.  It is a military issue utility knife.  Camillus began making this knife for the US military in 1957 and continued until the plant closed in 2006.  This particular knife is a Desert Storm veteran.  I acquired it to replace the identical Viet Nam Era model that I carried throughout my years in the Navy and unfortunately lost a few years ago.

The big knife on the bottom is a KaBar folding hunter.  The blade is real, old fashioned 440, stainless.  It is a solid brass framed knife with rosewood handles.  A very high quality knife.  I carried it during the years I was driving truck.  That knife has been to or through the vast majority of the United States at one time or another.

The large knife standing vertically is, like your great grandfather William Kumpe, a World War II veteran.  How he, a soldier in the Army's 45th Division, acquired a  KaBar Marine Corps fighting knife is probably an interesting story that died with him.  This is my guess.  Dad made five amphibious landings, four of them under enemy fire.  He spent considerable time on amphibious ships of the types I served on later during my generation's war.  USMC equipment was pretty common on those ships.  Dad probably bartered for it on one of those ships the same way that I acquired my Camillus during the Viet Nam years.   

That old knife had quite a life after the war.  It traveled around with Dad until he married Mom and then became the family butcher knife.  It was made of far better steel than any civilian butcher knife and would take a razor sharp edge.  I have watched Mom chop everything from cabbage to chicken's necks with that old knife.  She wore out the handles and did a pretty good job of wearing out the blade as well.  She used it as her butcher knife until she could no longer take care of herself.  I found it in pretty bad shape in her kitchen and did my best to stop the rust and stabilize it.

So Ben, there is a lot of family history in that box that I gave you this Christmas.  Each one of those knives was carried by your ancestors who used them daily.   Maybe you can pass the collection along to one of your sons someday.

Your Grandpa,


Bill

 

Bill and Sheila Re-Decorate

Sheila and I's "big" Christmas present this year is a kitchen re-do.  It's been going on for three days now.  Our tiny kitchen is a giant tangle of air compressors, power tools, paint, brushes and rollers, drop cloths and building materials.

We are working around the schedule of our incredibly patient contractor, Bret Keathley, a family friend and one of my former Sunday School kids.  Bret is incredibly talented in this area.  He worked with us to squeeze every square inch possible out of the tiny 1940's designed space.

We paint and do the little stuff in shifts before Bret comes in and after he leaves for the day.  My faithful friend Tom Brock is helping me paint.  

It's actually been quite an adventure.  I wouldn't have it any other way.  It means more when you have a relationship with the people doing the work and have some sweat in the project yourself.

One of these days when we are gone, maybe our daughter Michelle will look at that kitchen and remember that our friend Bret built those cabinets.  And maybe she will tell little Ben that her grandfather and his number one coffee drinking buddy, Tom Brock,  painted everything while sitting on stools and listening to old time radio programs from an MP3 player. 

Those are the things that tie you to a place and make it more than address with a roof over it. 

Another Thanksgiving at Jincy's

Jincy's.

Sheila and I made our annual pilgrimage to Jincy's for Thanksgiving dinner this afternoon.


Turning off the turnpike and heading into the ancient hills of the Cherokee Nation has deep significance for me.  Despite the lifetime I have spent away from them, Eastern Oklahoma is my home, the Okies are my people and the Cookson Hills are often just a little shy of heaven in my thoughts.

I don't see the place with the dewy eyed sentimentality that some people ascribe to their homeland.  Like the lover of a complicated and  compromised woman, I know Eastern Oklahoma for all that she is, from the beautiful misty hills and valleys cut through by cold, beautiful lakes and streams to the pockets of generational poverty, crime and violence. But, despite its' often dark and bloody history, Eastern Oklahoma is nevertheless the ancestral home of one of America's proudest, most resilient, creative and when necessary violent ethnic groups, the Okies.  Part Cherokee, part hillbilly, part cowboy and part outlaw, a true Okie is a force of nature. 

Jincy's is located in Quall's, Oklahoma.  The  Cherokee name for the place was Quall's Burnt Cabin.  The settlement kept the former cabin's owner's name and the Corps of Engineers who mapped nearby Tenkiller Ferry Lake kept the "Burnt Cabin" part for the nearby inlet and recreation area. It is south of historic Park Hill deep in the Cookson Hills of the Cherokee Nation.  I won't go on about the history of Jincy's.  I've done it before.

The food is always fabulous and this year was no exception, country food cooked properly and seasoned not only with skill and care but with love for the heritage being preserved. A restaurant at Thanksgiving can be one of the loneliest and most depressing places on earth.  That is not the case at Jincy's.  The crowd is friendly and Debbie the owner goes out of her way to make everyone welcome.

Debbie Rucker, the owner.

As we ate our meal, I thought over the years past when we had eaten there and just how much we had to be thankful for.  There were the years that Sheila was recovering from breast cancer.  There was the year that I was in so much pain that I couldn't walk up to get my own plate even though I was trussed from my upper thighs to my ankles in high tech carbon fiber braces and was taking powerful pain killers.  And, there was the year that we were there with Sheila's sister who had just been diagnosed with breast cancer.

Sheila resting over an empty plate.

This year, Sheila and I were both healthy and feeling good.  I was walking on my own power and not even using a cane.  My latest book has been very well received, is selling well and I have a couple of more projects on the burner.

It has been a good year and this Thanksgiving was a good time to sit quietly before a plate of good food and give thanks to God for his many blessings.

Bangkok Thai Buffet With Pam and Wayne

Sheila and I had an early dinner last night with Sheila's niece (more like her little sister), Pamela Edwards, and her long time companion Wayne Elliot.  Pam is a CPA and Wayne is a local business owner. We ate at Bangkok Thai Buffet located at 32nd and Harvard.  The meal gave us a chance to catch up and even share a few family stories.

Bangkok is one of Sheila and I's favorite places.  We eat there frequently.  They serve very good, very fresh authentic Thai food which has the added benefit of being low in sodium and using almost exclusively "good fats" in preparation.  They cook in small batches so that the food on

the steam tables is always at its peak.   And, I have it on good authority (my former barber, a perky, diminutive, absolutely fascinating little Thai lady) that they close the place on Sundays so that they can steam clean it from stem to stern.

It would be a disservice to try to pick out any one dish as being particularly better than the others. They are all good.  Very good. Fresh ingredients prepared properly and seasoned well.

There are four steam tables.  The one farthest west has rice, spring rolls and mildly flavored basic dishes.  The second table has mostly mild to moderately spicy Thai dishes.  The third table has spicier Thai dishes.  Any diner of any taste should be able to find a combination of tastes, textures and temperatures to please them.

The fourth table is dessert. Sweet rice in coconut milk, tapioca pearls in coconut milk and fried bananas are among my favorites. My wife likes an exotic gelatin they serve.  They also serve fresh fruit.

There are a lot of places in Tulsa that serve a good meal.  Bangkok is consistently rated among the best restaurants in Tulsa and is frequently rated the best Thai restaurant.  But, it takes more than good food to keep people coming back year after year.  Bangkok has that something extra.  People keep coming back not only because of the good food but also because the owners, Pat and Lek, are just really nice people.  After you have been there a time or two, the place is almost like home.

Another Night On the Homefront ......

Around 11:45 last night, Sheila shook me awake. She excitedly said that someone was ringing the doorbell.  We don't normally have visitors at 11.45 at night.  I didn't bother to dress.  I grabbed my weapon and headed for the door.  As I approached the door, I racked a round into the chamber.

I heard a voice from the outside yell urgently, "He's got a gun."  I cautiously looked out the tiny viewing window in the door and could seen nothing but flashlights in my eyes.  They were yelling "Police."  I yelled back that we were calling the police now.  I then yelled at Sheila to call 911.  Then one of the voices behind the flashlights yelled back, "We are the police," and lowered his flashlight enough for me to see his uniform.  Their guns were drawn.

When I saw enough of the uniform and badge to verify that it actually was the police, I yelled "I am putting my weapon down now.  I am going to put some clothes on and you can come in."  A few seconds later as the officer entered, I told him that my weapon was lying on the table near the door. He very politely asked my permission to clear the weapon while they were in the house.

I asked the polite young officer to come into my office while I got the information he needed. The two new construction houses just south of us had been burgled again.  They needed the name of the property owner so that he could secure the property.

There had been two suspects. One got away into the neighborhood.  The other, a druggy looking white guy in this twenties, was banging his head against the prisoner shield in one of the half dozen or so police cruisers lined up down our street.   Before he left, the young officer reminded me to reload my weapon since you never know when you might need it again.

This situation played out exactly as it needed to for both sides.  The fact that someone yells "police" at your front door should not cause you to stand down.  Ghetto thugs regularly yell "POHLICE" to keep you from shooting through the door while they kick through it.  On the other hand, the police had no idea whether or not one of the suspects they were looking for had invaded our home or if we were drug dealers, terrorists or just crazies.  There are two lessons here:  (1) don't over react but also don't stand down until you have positive identification and (2) always call 911.

Burgled Again!!!!!!

We got back from the farm about two hours ago.  The farm house had been burgled again.

The last time we were there, Sheila was stung several times by red wasps who had made a nest inside the wall by the back door.  They were extremely aggressive and actually chased her out into the yard as she was stepping out the door.  I am allergic to wasp stings.  So, when I saw that she was safe in the car with the windows rolled up, the blasted things still buzzing around trying to get to her, I closed that door from the inside and left by the other door.  But, in that process I could not lock all of the deadbolts as I normally do.  The burglar apparently gained entry by slipping the doorknob lock on the front door since there were no visible signs of forced entry.


This visit started with me advancing on the door with a can of wasp spray.  I quickly filled the hole where the wasps had taken over the wall but then noticed that there was another nest at the top of the door between the storm door and the inner door.  It was nearly a third as the wide as the door,  I dispatched them as well.

When we finally got into the house, we noticed a dining chair sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor.  We never leave furniture sitting out of place since we never know when we may have to come in in the dark. Rural electric service is not as reliable as we would like for it to be. Then I noticed that the globe of the ceiling fan light was sitting on the kitchen table and that half of the paddles from the fan were missing.

Insult turned to injury when Sheila discovered that one whole electrical circuit in the house had apparently burned out.  We still had power to the receptacles but all of the overhead lighting and fans were dead.  The "person" who had apparently been staying there had obviously damaged the ceiling fan and then left it running unbalanced until it shook itself to pieces and burned out the wiring in the ceiling in the process.  Lord knows what it will cost to have it repaired and it's a miracle the place didn't burn down.

After sorting that out for a moment, we began the regular routine of sweeping and dusting.  It's amazing how much dust an empty, sealed up house can accumulate.  But, it's always been like that when you live on a dirt road. It gets into everything even through closed windows and doors. We always clean house as soon as we get there.  But this time, we also found that our rodent friends had been back and apparently had a party.  There was a huge pile of dried rat dung in the corner near one of the easy chairs.  By that time, I was so angry that I just locked the place up and we came back to Tulsa.

As I was leaving, the challenges of keep the old house semi open came back to me in spades.  A few summers back, Rural Electric cut our power off over a fifteen buck billing dispute without telling us, ruining hundreds of dollars worth of frozen food.  We arrived ready to spend the 4th of July in the country only to find that not only did we have no power and it would cost a lot of money to get it turned back on but we also had a refrigerator and freezer full of rotten meat that had to be cleaned up.

Then I remembered that the water district recently doubled our rates so that they could fund service to new homes in a nearby township.

It then came to mind that a little over a year ago, the house was burgled and several irreplaceable firearms that had belonged to my parents were stolen.

And now this.

Sheila and I decided against retiring to Sequoyah County for several reasons.  I intend to keep on working part time in retirement but the only time people down there call their lawyers is to get a divorce or when they get arrested, two areas of the law I avoid like the plague. The health care, even in nearby Ft. Smith, is a generation behind Tulsa and Oklahoma City and is no better than many third world countries in the small towns.  One of my cousins died of heart attack in the waiting room of one of their major hospitals while they argued about his insurance coverage.  Another family member was mis-prescribed a drug which destroyed his immune system nearly killing him immediately and almost certainly contributing to his premature death.

Local government down there can be simply  astonishing at times.  For a while, the village justice of the peace was working through his own DUI charges.  A nearby township made national news when it was learned that most of the city's income came from traffic tickets and that they were stopping passerby's on the portion of I-40 that passed through their city limits.  And, can you imagine a public utility in an urban area getting away with doubling their rates on their existing users to fund new construction for new homes in new neighborhoods that weren't even built at the time of the tax increase? In the real world, real estate developers have to pony up for the infrastructure costs for their developments not the rate payers.

And the crime.  This is not Tulsa style crime.  Too often, it is petty, bone assed poor, not a pot to pee in, meth everywhere, stealing from your neighbors or destroying things just for the hell of it crime.

My uncle gave up preserving his old house down the road a generation ago because of this petty BS. I guess nothing much has changed since.

A Country Funeral

Early yesterday morning, we once again made the sad journey back to Sequoyah County to attend a funeral.  A close family member and dear friend's husband had passed suddenly while on vacation.

It was a simple graveside service marked by great dignity and compassion. Around two hundred people gathered and stood under the trees in the gentle Oklahoma morning to mark the passing of a good man. Family members, friends and local business people all gathered to pay their final respects.

He was laid to rest in the perfectly manicured family plot of one of that small village's most prominent families.  The plot is surrounded by giant, native oak trees and sits in the shadow of venerable old Pine Mountain.

The sermon, while handled with great tact, was powerful. At the request of the family, the Gospel was presented and an invitation offered.  As the invitation was offered, the quiet of the otherwise still morning was suddenly broken by a gentle, steady wind in the treetops. a sign of the movement of the Holy Spirit to the faithful.  After the sermon, two people quietly announced to the pastor that they had made spiritual decisions.

After the service, we were invited to lunch at a nearby church.  When we arrived, a banquet room had been been set up for us with real china, silver, stemware and cloth napkins.  The meal was as good as any caterer could have provided.  After we ate, an incredibly talented eleven year old family member sang for us.   I was so impressed with her performance that I gave her the ukulele that I carry around in the car to play at odd moments. She was extremely grateful and several sweet, little girl hugs were offered.  Her smile alone was worth the trip.

As I looked around the room, I couldn't help but marvel at the group.  The majority of the crowd consisted of four generations of the same family.  There were successful business people, respected athletes, long time educators and three generations of girls who sang like angels from the cradle  ... a host of good, solid, small town folks, all the progeny of one man and one woman.

I remember that man and woman fondly.  In quiet moments, I can still see them in my mind, him sitting in his chair reading his Bible and smoking his pipe after work, her in the kitchen turning out meal after fabulous meal for her hungry brood and whoever else was around at mealtime.  It was a humble home but a solid one.  It was a pious home but a fair one.  He was not afraid to apply the principles of the Bible to the backside of his sometimes rambunctious offspring and she was not afraid to the apply the same biblical principles to soothe ruffled spirits and mend broken hearts.

As I drove up the turnpike on the way back to Tulsa, a deep, deep anger built within me. How dare the United States Supreme Court equate the filthy things that two homosexuals do to each other with the blessed, holy, marital union that those two godly people shared.  Adam and Steve will never produce four generations of the most solid people in a community. Ellen and Elaine will never bless multiple generations by being Godly people.  Nature itself will not allow it. That is why that until just a few years ago, the things that homosexuals do to each other were truthfully called "crimes against nature."

Make no mistake.  If America does not rise up and crush the cultural jihad against marriage being waged by the homosexual rights movement, our nation, our culture and even our families are doomed and gatherings like we attended yesterday will die with our generation.

Bill and Sheila Face the "New Normal"

Yesterday was "Tulsa Pride Day."  I have never understood why parading your sexual preference around the streets is a cause for pride especially when the behavior is shameful.  I had no reason to know that it was Tulsa's "Pride" day until I left the house. But then it hit us like a ton of bricks.

We stopped in a neighborhood eatery to split a sandwich for lunch.  In the corner was a slightly built, sixty-ish black man wearing perfectly ironed jeans and a rainbow hued tee shirt.  He was eating alone. The polished delicacy of his hand movements as he oh so diffidently pushed away the remainder of his meal spoke volumes about his opinion of the establishment, their food and the people around him.  He was quiet and dignified and the exquisite disdain he showed for the food and his humble surroundings harked back to a different era of more genteel, less in your face "gayness."

The next table up from him was another matter. A very well dressed and dignified little blue haired lady was apparently having lunch with her son.  The meeting was obviously strained.  The man was in his forties.  His shorts were a little too short and his manner was nervous.  He had brought a touch screen laptop with him to use as a crutch in the long silences over their food.

At a table near the front door there was a tallish young man with beautifully groomed auburn hair arranged in a perfect chignon on the upper rear of his head.  He completed the look with two large, different colored, ring shaped, plastic ear inserts that distended his ear lobes and multiple nose, lip and face piercings.

The grocery store was a circus.  In the dairy section, a twentyish young man lounged on the shoulder of his taller and heavier built twentyish "partner."  The smaller man was dressed in perfectly rolled up cut offs and a pair of high top basketball shoes.  The tilt of his hips was worthy of a  high school cheerleader.

Several "butched up"couples roamed the aisles but those have become so common in midtown Tulsa that they are part of the landscape.  But, the queen of aisles had to be the gal (or at least it looked like a gal) in the sarong.  She was a big gal but the weight was well distributed and the ample curves were all in the right places.  She wore a bright, red, orange, yellow and green colored, tropical print sarong crossed in the front and tied behind her neck halter fashion and a pair of matching sandals.  From what I could tell, that was all she wore.

Even QuikTrip proved interesting.  As Sheila went in to get our afternoon coke, a fascinating couple entered behind her.  Though they were both good sized people, he was shorter than her.  He wore jeans, a sun hat and comfortable shoes, the usual uniform of a middle aged festival goer.  He had a subdued manner about him.  He followed a step or so behind her.  She stood a head taller than him and wore a pair of overalls and flat, lace up sneakers. Her face would have been perfectly at home on a Marine Corps DI and her carefully gelled silver crew cut would have passed a military inspection anywhere. I stopped myself before letting my mind wonder about the sexual dynamics of that duo.

As we drove home, I thought about how much society is trying to tell us that this is the "new normal." As I pondered it all, I came to a conclusion.  The "new normal" isn't and there is nothing there to be proud of.

Bill and Sheila Eat Out ... A Lot

  

Thursday afternoon, Sheila e-mailed me and said, "I need to go to the airport and I want you to take me."  Not knowing whether she was running away to Rio or meeting an incoming VIP, I shot back, "Sure."  Turns out she just needed to get a ticket for her boss and American Airlines, ever being American Airlines, would not let him redeem his frequent flyer vouchers on an e-ticket purchase and demanded instead that somebody come out in person and buy the ticket from the ticket counter.  So, I dropped her off at departures and waited in the cell phone lot while she satisfied American's demands for bureaucracy and a trip to the airport so their paper could be seen by one of their denizens.  

As we left the airport, I suggested we eat out, thinking we might stop at the Freeway Diner or maybe grab some carryout Chinese.  Sheila responded quickly, "I want to eat at the White River Fish Market."  The White River Fish Market is a Tulsa legend.  It is located on North Sheridan Road near the airport and is famous for serving nothing but the freshest seafood possible, literally either fresh caught locally or fresh off the airplane from the coasts.  Nothing is ever frozen. But, it is expensive.

Sheila ordered frog legs and I had the catfish, two of the lower priced entrees.  Our check was still in the mid thirties.  I can't speak for the frog legs since I don't/won't eat them. But, my catfish was very good.  Very fresh, lightly battered and cooked in a very clean oil that left no taste to detract from the delicate flavor of the catfish.  The sides were just OK but the hush puppies are the best in town.  So, was the meal good?  Yes, very good.  Was it worth thirty five bucks?  Probably not.  There are a dozen places in town that do very good catfish for less money.

One gentleman about my age was entertaining a party of about ten, obviously family members  As he walked by our table, he looked at his credit card, then looked at me and said, "I might as well throw this one away.  That maxed it out."  Given that he was wearing a windbreaker from a very nice country club and designer jeans, I doubt that the cost of the evening was going to cause him to lose any meals.  But, given that his folks looked like they would probably order from the upper end of the menu, I can understand his frustration.

Friday afternoon, our friends Pam Edwards and Wayne Elliot called and asked if we wanted to go out to dinner later.  Since it was (1) our turn to pick up the check, (2) Pam likes sushi and (3) I had no intention of paying twenty bucks a saucer for raw fish rolled up in rice, I suggested that we drive up to Claremore to Asiana which has a very good sushi bar as part of its dinner buffet. Asiana is a very busy place and in some ways it is, as Wayne observed, the upscale Asian equivalent of a Golden Corral.  But, I also noticed that everyone at our table seemed to be enjoying the food given the quantities that were consumed.

We had a good visit on the way up and back.  Wayne usually drives Cadillacs and Lincolns and had never ridden in a Hyundai.  He seemed genuinely surprised that it was fast, quiet and comfortable.  On the way back we made tentative plans to do a murder mystery weekend together over in Guthrie in a few weeks.

Saturday, though we only needed a few groceries, Sheila wanted to go to a Wal Mart SuperCenter since the really big ones stock her favorite brand of undies at a very good price.  We headed out for the one at the eastern edge of  Broken Arrow near the Creek Expressway.  On the way, we stopped  for lunch at JK's Thai Buffet near Lynn Lane.  JK's is a small place with a tiny buffet line. But, every dish is freshly prepared and the food is very, very good.  They concentrate on the basics, rice, pad thai, satay chicken and pork with peanut butter sauce, steamed vegetables, cooked and uncooked spring rolls, creamy chicken and potato curry and that wonderful Thai beef.   It was a very good lunch and I didn't want much dinner.

As we were driving home Friday night, Wayne observed, "Bill, you certainly know where all of the good places to eat are in this town."  Well, I may not know them all, but I know a bunch and Sheila and I tend to frequent them I guess.

Zen and An Hour At the Range

I hadn't been to the range in quite a while, at least not to do any serious shooting. Between my knees, back, colds, allergies, work, etc. I just hadn't had the time or the inclination. But sometimes, it is good to step back for a while. Apparently, my forced hiatus has helped my shooting. This is a very solid mid 80's round and it was done against the slightly skinnier B-21 target.

However, the thing that I was most pleased with was not the respectable pattern but how I shot it. About two thirds of the way through the round, I realized that I wasn't really acquiring a full sight picture. I was just instinctively point shooting at ranges closer than fifteen yards.


Point shooting involves having the bullet hit where you are looking without thinking much about it. Is not pretty but it is deadly and blinding fast when done right. While point shooting has probably been around as long as men have been shooting pistols, it was first developed as a formal training technique by William Fairbairn, a British officer serving with the Shanghai Police during the early 20th century. During WWII his methods were taught to British Commandos and American OSS agents by another legend, Major Rex Applegate of the OSS.

Most people don't shoot enough to develop instinctual point shooting. You have to burn through some ammo and that can get expensive. Point shooting is not about target shooting. In point shooting, it is good enough to keep all of your rounds on an 8 1/2 by 11 sheet of paper at combat ranges so long as you can do it faster than the person shooting back at you and do it every time. The great advantage of point shooting is that it works without a fine sight picture. That means that the point shooter will still be deadly in low light conditions where it is impossible to see the sights. It also means that older shooters (especially those who wear bifocals and trifocals like me) can still maintain a tactical edge even though they can't fire 6 inch groups at twenty five yards any more.

I have been playing at the edges of this breakthrough for a while but I would seem that I am finally internalizing it. I would get there and slip back. But, it now appears that the Zen of the technique has settled in. It's been a long haul since nearly failing my PI shooting qualification but it would appear I am past that now and becoming professionally competent with my weapon.

Bill's Birthday 2015

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I passed another Birthday this week. I won't say how old I am or what day so that the identity thieves can't use the information. But, I will say that I am past the age where I can draw Social Security.

Thursday night, Sheila's niece Pam and her partner Wayne took us out to dinner at In The Raw in Brookside. In the Raw is a very fashionable (and expensive) sushi place.

My friends are about equally divided about sushi. Some call it bait and some call it a gourmet delicacy.  Raw seafood is perfectly safe to eat if it has been handled properly and the taste is quite delicate.  When paired with seasoned rice, crisp raw vegetables and fiery wasabi mustard, it is delicious.

In the Raw takes your order by bringing out a checklist where you tick off the menu items you want. I was stunned when Pam ticked off several items "for the table." When it arrived, there was enough sushi to fill the table and kill most family's entertainment budget for the month, especially if you included the saki. 

The place was dark, noisy and full of the "beautiful people" that haunt Brookside establishments. We were by far the oldest couples in the place but Wayne and Pam looked like they belonged there. The food was great and we were in good company.   It was a wonderful meal and we had a great visit.

Saturday night, we met at Michelle's house for dinner and birthday cake.  We brought dinner, chicken and steak fajitas carried out from El Burrito.  As usual, Oscar cooked us far more food than we could eat.  But, it was a wonderful meal.  Michelle cooked me a fancy, three layer, "Neopolitan" birthday cake composed of a layer of dark chocolate cake and icing followed by a layer strawberry cake and icing and topped with a layer of white cake and icing. It was incredibly good but so rich that I had to limit myself to a small slice.

Gwenda insisted that everybody sing "Happy Birthday" as we cut the cake.  After dinner, I settled in on the couch and watched Sheila play with Ben for an hour. It was quiet, enjoyable little evening.

Remembering My Great Grandfather .... Gasp ... A Confederate Soldier!

You can find some amazing things on the internet.  I just googled my great grandfather's name and found, among other things, his paybook from a short stint he apparently served with "Captain Marshall's Battery, Arkansas Light Artillery."  There is no readable date there but I know the service must have been short because he served almost the entire war in the 6th Arkansas Infantry and units that succeeded it as casualties took their toll.

The second record I found was even more interesting.  It is a summary of his prisoner of war record.  Edward was apparently captured a few days after the Confederate disaster at Nashville.  The records show he was captured on New Year's Eve, 1864, five months before the end of the war.  The fact that he had lived through the hell of places like Shiloh is a miracle.  Here is a list of the battles his unit (and by inference he himself) fought in:

Battle of Rowlett's Station, Kentucky, December 17, 1861

Battle of Shiloh, Tennessee, April 6–7, 1862.[28]
Siege of Corinth, Mississippi, April–June 1862.
Kentucky Campaign, Kentucky, August–October, 1862
Battle of Perryville, Kentucky, October 8, 1862.
Battle of Murfreesboro, Tennessee, December 31, 1862 – January 3, 1863.[29]
Tullahoma Campaign, June 24 – July 3, 1863.
Battle of Liberty Gap, Tennessee, June 24–26, 1863.
Chickamauga Campaign, Georgia, August–September, 1863.
Battle of Chickamauga, Georgia, September 19–20, 1863.[30]
Chattanooga Campaign, September to November 1863.
Battle of Missionary Ridge, Tennessee, November 25, 1863.
Battle of Ringgold Gap, Georgia, November 27, 1863.[31]
Atlanta Campaign, May to September 1864.
Battle of Rocky Face Ridge, Georgia, May 5–11, 1864.
Battle of Resaca, Georgia, May 14–15, 1864.
Battle of New Hope Church, Georgia, May 25 – June 4, 1864.
Battle of Pickett's Mill, Georgina, May 27, 1864.[3]
Battle of Kennesaw Mountain, Georgia, June 27, 1864.
Battle of Peachtree Creek, Georgia, July 20, 1864.
Siege of Atlanta, Georgia, July 22, 1864.
Battle of Jonesboro, Georgia, August 31 – September 1, 1864.
Franklin–Nashville Campaign, Alabama, Georgia, and Tennessee, September 18 – December 27, 1864

Battle of Spring Hill, Tennessee, November 29, 1864.
Battle of Franklin, Tennessee, November 30, 1864.
Battle of Nashville, Tennessee, December 15–16, 1864.

Political correctness be damned, I refuse to be ashamed of this man.  He fought with a unit known for its courage under fire.  He fought for a cause he believed in alongside his brothers, friends and neighbors.  He fought under legendary leaders like Hood and Cleburne.  He served well.  And, when the war was over, he came to Oklahoma and made a life for himself and his family on the frontier of one of the toughest places on earth at the time.  There is nothing to be ashamed of in that story.

New Year's Day, 2015

Sheila and I just finished a fabulous meal.  She got up this morning and started cooking like an army was coming to visit. When she finished there was a large pot of Hoppin John simmering on the back burner, a golden brown skillet of cornbread, a blackberry cobbler and a sweet potato pie. And, of course, there was sweet tea.

You have to understand Southerners to understand Hoppin John.  It starts with the fact that during the Civil War the (damned) Yankees tried to starve the South into submission by stealing every bit of food and livestock they could eat or transport and then burning the rest, leaving millions of Southerners with literally nothing to eat ... at least so they thought.  But, not knowing that Southerners ate blackeyed peas instead of feeding them to livestock like northerners, they left them because they had stolen all of the livestock. That winter, the South survived on blackeyed peas and we Southern types now eat them as a remembrance of our culture and to never forget the fact that for decades we were an occupied country.


Sheila's Hoppin John is made with a little big of hog jowl for "seasonin" but with mostly smoked turkey leg instead of fat back.  Her recipe includes collard greens, jalapenos, carrots and hot sauce all simmered together and served over rice.  It is actually a quite sophisticated dish with multiple layers of flavor and texture.  Everybody knows and loves blackberry cobbler but if you're not Southern you might not know sweet potato pie. Imagine the richest, creamiest, sweetest pumpkin pie you ever tasted.  That's it.  It was an amazing meal.

Last night, neither of us stayed awake to watch the ball fall in Times Square. I had no desire to see the show or the anti-police riot that was predicted. By 10:00, I was in bed watching a rerun of Evening Shade. By 11:00 I was sound asleep.  I haven't been sleeping well because of my strained back but last night the pain relented and I finally rested.  This morning, I felt like a new person ready to meet a new year.