CHICO! CHICO!

The weekend got off to a strange start last night.  Friday night, Sheila and I had a nice dinner at our favorite Thai place, did our grocery shopping for the week and were just settling in to bed to watch an hour or so's TV when the phone rang.  It was our daughter, Michelle.  It seems that their Dachsund, Chico, goes a little nuts when Robert is out of the house.  Last night, he apparently decided to try to find Robert which would have been difficult since Robert is in Austin, Texas.  Michelle asked if we would come and watch little BB while she searched the hood for Chico. We were there in moments.

I didn't want Michelle wandering the neighborhood alone at that time of night so I asked her to get in the car with me and we began scouring the neighborhood.  Soon, Michelle rolled the car windows down and began yelling Chico! Chico! out the window as we drove around.  It only took me a couple minutes of watching lights come on to realize just how odd we must have looked, two distinctly white people driving around an East Tulsa neighborhood yelling Hey Chico! Chico! at darkened houses and yards.  I gently tried to suggest that maybe yelling Hey Chico! Chico! in this hood might not be a great idea.  Michelle is totally oblivious to those types of considerations and continued until we had covered several blocks.  We eventually found the dog two houses down from her house.

This morning, we went to the farm.  I always enjoy the moment just before we round the curve and pass over the twin bridges over Onion Creek on

the road leading to the place.  That spot of road was always cooler in the hot summer and in my youth, I would slow down there as I passed to get a moment's rest from the heat.  This time, I actually stopped and took a picture of it with phone.

We did a few chores and I watched some Saturday westerns on the old TV.  They were the same westerns  I used to watch when I was growing up there.  I spent a while shooting my high power air rifle at soda cans.  Growing bored with that, I took aim at an old pot covering one of the water well heads.  I expected the pellet to just dent the pot and bounce off.  That did not happen.  It went straight

Not my kill.  But a good pic of the gun.

through the pot with a clean hole and did damage to the well casing inside.   I began looking at that air gun with a new found respect.  The specs said it shot its' .177 pellet with about the same muzzle velocity as a good .22 but I really didn't believe it, until now that is.

Soon, Sheila busied herself on the front porch removing years of accumulated paint from one of the chrome chairs from the dinette.  I joined her for a while and enjoyed the view from the porch.  The place is marvelously quiet and aside from my cousin delivering a load of cattle into the pasture we had the afternoon to ourselves.

There is something incredibly calming about the sun on your face, the wind in your hair and no sounds but a a few birds and cattle when you live in a city surrounded by people, cars, sirens, airliners

overhead, police helicopters and often just voices from the neighborhood.  Before we built the privacy screened deck you could see, and sometimes hear, eleven different houses from our back porch.  I have learned to tolerate it but I don't like it.

Sheila is still too shy to let us have friends from Tulsa come down.  Granted, the place is a dump but it is a cleaner dump every time we leave.  To me, it is charming and homey in a poor boy country cute kind of way and I think our friends would enjoy it too.  And,  nothing will change the fact that it is the house I grew up in and whatever it's condition I refuse to be ashamed of it or the people who put it there.  It is what it is and I am who I am.  I've both been a lot of places and done a lot of things since I was kid down there but that place will always be a part of me and to some extent ...... home.

Tomorrow, I am doing NOTHING.

A Very Fast Little Weekend

This weekend went by in a blur.  Since I am gone four nights per week learning how to be a PI (or at least how to get a PI license), I am dead tired by Friday night and really look forward to my weekend.  This one ended far to soon.

Friday night, we had dinner with the Rat Pack at the usual Chinese place on South Memorial.  After dinner, we drifted over to Mike and Jodi's.  The guys drank coffee, swapped stories and kinda followed the Thunder game.  The gals were in craft heaven in the kitchen, gluing generations worth of costume jewelry together to form Michelle's wedding bouquet.

Saturday was a hard day.  Sheila was gone at 5:30 AM to proctor the professional engineering exam at TU.  The professional engineering exam is a big deal for those engineering students.  It is literally their license to practice as a registered engineer.  Since Bill Manning passed, Sheila is the chief exam proctor, so she had to be there early to get her crew lined up and the facilities prepared.

I spent the day closing out my practice's 2012 books and doing taxes.  ALL day doing taxes. Sheila didn't get home until 8:00.  When she did, we ate some carry out chicken she brought home and went to bed exhausted.  Sunday morning, we got up and went to work on the taxes again.  I had expected us to work all day and into the night but by 2:00 PM we were more or less finished.

Sheila's reward for her hard work was to go spend an hour or two with little Ben Bob while Robert and Michelle did chores outside.  BB and Sheila both wore themselves out playing with each other.

We left their house around 5:00, bought a few grocery items and some carry out Mexican to bring home.  As we settled in, I found an APR program playing one song after the other written by Kris Kristoferson.  He is a classic example of a genius musician who should learn to keep his mouth shut about everything but his music, especially politics.

Remembering last week's successful uke lesson, I asked Sheila if she would like to learn to sing her favorite song, "Me and Bobby McGee" to  my guitar accompaniment.  She was too tired and declined.  And that is how we more or less ended the day, eating carry-out Mexican on the deck, pondering old Kris Kristoferson tunes, and watching the sun float westward over el barrio.

Little Ben Bob's First Easter

A Little Slice Life From the Adventures of Bill and Sheila

This was a strange Saturday.  My honorary uncle Sam Barnes had emergency heart surgery yesterday, so the first stop of the day after breakfast was St. John's coronary care unit. But, breakfast starts the story.

Since we were headed toward that neighborhood anyway, Sheila and I decided to have breakfast at El Rio Verde which is purported to be the best authentic Mexican place in town.  It isn't really, there are a couple of better places, but it is good and it does serve breakfast .... sort of at least.  I ordered decaf coffee.  So sorry, no decaf.  I ordered horchata.  I had to ask the waitress twice to get that and when she delivered the glass it was INSTANT made from powder stirred up in the glass.  I ordered a chicken fajita omelet made with egg whites and no cheese.  We waited while some Mexican customers who came in after us got their food.  When the omelet finally arrived, the waitress explained that the chef would not make an egg white omelet.  By then, we were running out of time and I didn't want to fool with sending it back.  So, I just pulled the eggs off and ate the filling along with some so-so at best tex mex hashbrowns.  No apologies.  So, as we were getting ready to leave I looked over at Sheila and slowly mouthed to her so the waitress could see, "UNO DOLARES PROPINO.  NO MAS."  THEN there was an apology.

We then proceeded to St. Johns.  I took my uke and my tablet with some old family pictures on it.  I also took Sam a small uke for him to play while he is convalescing.  I played for him a while and then we looked at some old family pictures.  Then we settled in for a nice long visit with Sam regaling me with tales about my ancestors.  It was a good visit despite the circumstances.  I enjoy old Sam.  He is a talker.  I just got a text from Sam's daughter telling me that he is doing well enough to go home.  So, Sam will sleep in his own bed tonight with two new stints to keep him going strong a while longer.

A friend of Sheila's died last week.  The funeral was in Nowata this afternoon.  We arrived in Nowata about an hour before the funeral and decided to have a light lunch at the Bliss Restaurant, which appeared to be the only sit down eating establishment in town except for Pizza Hut.  Sheila ordered the meatloaf.  I ordered the fried chicken.  Sheila and I then asked where the bathrooms were.  The proprietress explained to us that there were no inside toilets and gave us the keys to the gas station style outdoor bathrooms around back.  That was an experience in and of itself.

When we returned, our food had arrived.  My fried chicken meal was about two notches below a bad KFC but it was edible .... sort of.  But, Sheila's meatloaf was without a doubt the most disgusting thing I have ever seen a restaurant put on a customer's plate.  To start with, it appeared about two days old, dried out and burned on top.  The hamburger had apparently been heavily cut with some other substance. And, the taste was awful.  I used to feed my Dobermans far better dog food than that piece of meatloaf.  It was so disgusting we actually took a picture of it.

The funeral was held at a very nice little funeral chapel on main street that appeared to be a converted store front.  It was just right for a small service. Everything was handled very well.  It was all quite touching.

Bill Manning was a PHD engineer. Bill's brother Frank Manning is something of a legend at TU and has been like a member of the family to Sheila and I for decades.  Bill and Frank were twin brothers.  They were born in Barbados and educated in Canada before immigrating to the US.  Bill Manning was a mathematical genius with a true photographic memory.  He was also a formidable college athlete in his day.  There were only a few people at the funeral but it was probably the highest concentration of advanced degrees and college professors the town of Nowata had ever seen.  For many years, Sheila worked for Bill as an assistant proctor of the Registered Professional Engineering Examination in the Eastern Oklahoma testing region. Now that Bill is gone, Sheila will be the proctor.

It's a long way from the sunny beaches of Barbados where Bill was born to the little prairie cemetery in Nowata, Oklahoma where he now rests.  The path between the two places must have been quite a story.  My theology tells me otherwise but I would like to think that somehow old Bill's spirit is back on Barbados now, young, happy, swimming like a fish and basking in the tropical sun he was born under.  We did not get to stay for the graveside service.  I had a marriage counseling appointment with a young man back in Tulsa that required us to head straight back.

By sixish, Sheila and I were eating carryout hot wings and sushi on our deck.  Sheila had wanted me to play uke some more this morning when Sam wanted to talk.  So, I played for her a while this evening and then gave her a uke lesson so she could start learning to play for herself.  She did well.

It was a busy day, with a little bit of everything, bad food and bad service, lots of windshield time, a good visit with an honorary uncle I have come to love, the funeral of a truly remarkable man, an intense hour trying to save a marriage and at the end of the day a quiet hour on the deck with Sheila.  I guess you could call that a little slice of  life in the Adventures of Bill and Sheila.

First Grill Dinner of the Season

It was a beautiful afternoon.  I decided to fire the grill up for the first time this season.  Nothing complicated, just a Siggy's Jalapeno Chicken sausage cooked on the grill and garnished with grilled onions and peppers.  Side of chips and sweet tea and you have a pretty nice little Saturday night dinner. Sheila and I enjoyed it thoroughly.

I was able to tune in some good gospel music from a shortwave station in Tennessee.  So, we ate our dinner, listened to some good music and generally enjoyed our deck for the first time this year.

One of the tricks to being truly happy in life is developing the ability to take pleasure in small things and quiet moments.  This was not a gourmet meal and our deck, while nice, is certainly no lavish affair.  But, the meal was good, the temp was nice, the wind was nice and we were together.  A lot of folks spend a lot of time and worry about the things they don't have and the good times they miss.  But while they are doing that, they miss the fact that all they needed for happiness, at least at the moment, was right there for them to take.  It has taken me a long time but I think I am finally learning the lesson of Phillipians 4:11, "... for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, to be content."

Our Weekend In Pictures

This was a strange little weekend in a way but not unpleasant.  Friday evening we had dinner with the Rat Pack at the neighborhood IHOP.  As we were headed home, Jodi called and said their son had bought a new ukulele.  I asked if he would like quick lesson and she replied yes.  So, we pulled a "U-eeey,"  headed south and spent a pleasant hour or so in their living room, passing the uke back and forth between me and their son Josh.

Saturday morning, we babysat for a couple of hours.  The pictures are self explanatory. 

Sunday morning, we headed for the farm.  We had almost got there when I realized that I had left the keys on my desk.  We stopped by my cousins house to borrow his spare set.  He and his wife were in church of course and including after church lunch would not be home for several hours.  So, we headed back to Tulsa. We stopped at Charlies Chicken in Ft. Gibson for the Sunday Buffet.  Traffic was lined up back onto the street and the food line went all the way out the door.  So, we headed for Golden Corral in Muskogee.  When we got there, it was the same story.  So, we decided to just head home when we saw the Amish Kitchen and Country Store on US 69 North headed out of Muskogee.  It was a very pleasant meal.  Think of a smaller, privately owned version of Cracker Barrel with real home cooking and baked goods that tempt anyone to break their diet.  

After lunch, we headed home and took a nap.  Not a bad little weekend over all.

A Visit to My Roots

Lots of towns have them.  Like Chinatown, or Little Saigon there is often an Okie Town.  There are dozens of Okie Towns spread up and down the Grapevine in California.  Bakersfield is probably the biggest.  Tulsa, right here in Oklahoma, the home of the Okies, has one too.

Tulsa is a city made up of immigrants from all over the U.S. these days.  They know little about Oklahoma and could care less about Oklahoma customs and culture.  They spend a lot of their time griping about the fact they can't find a good bagel or chardonnay and that is their own fault because they just don't know where to look.  And, they spend even more time wishing they were back in the northern or eastern rust belt city where they found themselves unemployed.  Unfortunately, many insecure, self hating Okies pick up this attitude and shun their roots.  I have nothing but contempt for both groups.

In Tulsa, Okie Town is west of the river.  Most of my mom's family who came to Tulsa started out on the West Side.  Many of them still live there.  I visited the West Side last night and got the major dose of Okie Culture that I need from time to time to keep me grounded.

My visit started with a call from a much older cousin that I think of as an uncle.  I have come to care a lot about that old man. He is the last of my Mom's generation and tells me wonderful (and sometimes painfully dark) stories about the family history.  He is also a musician.  He called me last week and asked me if I wanted to grab an instrument and come help play a benefit for a family that had lost their home in a house fire.  I said I would certainly come to visit with him but wouldn't commit to playing.  I suspected they would have plenty of music without me which they did.

At any rate, 4:00 PM this afternoon found Sheila and I in the serving line in the Fellowship Hall of Summit Park Full Gospel Church in Southwest Tulsa.  For $7.00 per person they were serving beans and cornbread with or without chili and fixins and chicken and dumplings.  They were at least fifty cakes and pies to choose from.  The dining tables were full and the line kept moving steadily refilling the tables for at least an hour and a half.

Around 5:30 the sanctuary began filling up and musicians began tuning up.  There were musicians and singers from several churches around the area.  If you have never been around Okies it would be hard to describe the crowd.  Their clothes come from WalMart.  Their manners are shy and they are very polite in their way.  They work hard for a living and know a lot about trouble.  And, they are religious.  This night, the crowd and the musicians were pretty well an even mix of Pentecostals and FreeWill Baptists.

Pretty soon,  a couple of ladies took the pulpit, launched into a number and the band joined them.  If you have never heard country style Pentecostal music it is hard to describe.  There is a strong streak of country and bluegrass in it.  There is also blues and old fashioned rock there as well.  It is not simple music as many would suspect.  There are nuances to the harmonies and rhythms that are hard to describe.  I was amazed at the ease and flow of the music.  Several of the musicians were professional quality and they played with a grace and style that comes from genuinely enjoying what you are doing.  What is also amazing is the number of people who participate.  It seems that half or more of them play an instrument.  After the music started, the pastor walked up, strapped on a big Epiphone acoustic guitar and got down with the band for a while.  He played very well.  After a few numbers, my cousin Judy took the pulpit and literally rocked the house with an original gospel number she had written.

These photos are borrowed from the
other websites and are not an actual
photos of the service described in this
blog post.

Between the numbers there were testimonies.  The smiling pastor would call on a man or woman in the crowd and ask them stand up and testify about their faith.  And they did so with great earnestness and remarkable eloquence.  One person received a phone call that her children were broken down on the road in Arkansas on their way to North Carolina.  The services stopped and we all prayed for their safety.  A little while later, another one of my cousins who is suffering from cancer came forward.  The pastor and elders and others laid hands on him and anointed him with olive oil while we all prayed for him.  Other sick people then came.  Then there was more music.

All of the time, the ladies of the church were moving back and forth from the kitchen and fellowship hall busy at the chores of winding up the meal. Latecomers would arrive, seat themselves and be greeted on their way in.  Teenagers would slip in and out for a little quiet time or to leave for their Saturday night date.  To high church people it would seem disorganized and confused but it isn't.  If you understand the offices of the church as they see it and the culture of the community, you would have seen that everything was going just the way it was supposed to.  Was it noisy?  Yes.  Was it joyful at appropriate times?  Yes.  Was it sincere and touching when appropriate?  Yes.  Was The Lord worshipped?  Most certainly and in a manner that is hard for those with a less demonstrative style of worship to understand.

A writer whose name I have now forgotten observed that Okies are to the U.S. what the wandering Jews were to Europe in that they enrich the culture wherever they land. Many Okies make the terrible mistake of turning their back on their heritage.  While these genuine Okies may be a little rough around the edges they are also kind, hard working, gentle in their way, unbelievably resilient and remarkably complex in a way that outsiders cannot understand.  A lot of Okies go a long way from where they started but they make a terrible mistake if they break the ties to the culture that bore them.