Memorial Day 2017

Memorial Day is national holiday in the U.S. set aside for honoring our military dead.  It is usually celebrated by placing flowers on their graves, military ceremonies at cemeteries, concerts, speeches, etc. 
In many communities, Memorial Day has been merged with the local "decoration day" in which all graves are decorated.

For a lot of people, the unknowing, the ungrateful, the uncaring and the un-American, Memorial day is simply the first big holiday of the summer season, a time to barbecue, go to the beach, get drunk, celebrate and make fools of themselves.

We decorate at the small town municipal cemetery where my father is buried.  The first thing you notice when you drive into the cemetery is the sea of American flags.  Even in a small town with a population of less than ten thousand that most people have never heard of like Sallisaw, Oklahoma, there are hundreds of flags.  Each flag marks the grave of a U.S. or Confederate military veteran.  They are placed there by the members of a private organization, the American Legion, whose membership is limited to veterans.

My father's headstone simply reads William A. Kumpe, U.S. Army, WWII.  It is no different from hundreds of others like it around the cemetery.  But, each headstone has a story.  My father's story includes North Africa, Sicily, Italy, France, the low countries and Germany.   A similar military headstone is one grave down from my father's.  It reads Charley Kumpe, U.S. Army, WWII.  My uncle Charley spent his war as an MP guarding German prisoners here in the States.  He was too old to serve overseas.  There is a similar military headstone in the windswept little cemetery in Worland, Wyoming.  It reads Henry Kumpe,  U.S. Navy, WWII.  Uncle Henry made the island hopping campaigns in the Pacific as a SeaBee until he was severely wounded in a Japanese air raid.

Even in this small town in the middle of America there are veterans graves from every War from the Civil War right up to the current "war on terror."  Small town America always seems to give more than its share of its sons to the defense of the country.  That is because here in small town America people still believe in America as an idea, as a homeland to be honored and defended.  The sons and now daughters of small town America still go willingly and shed blood on foreign soil to protect the freedom of others both abroad and at home.

The last thing I did before leaving the cemetery was leave a penny on the grave of a soldier who was killed in action in Viet Nam.  I do this every year.  I walk by this fallen Viet Nam vets grave on the way to my fathers.  Leaving a coin is a silent veteran to veteran mark of respect with its own set of private rules.  It is an ancient practice that began with the Roman Legions.


I am tempted to rant and rave about self indulgent millenials, Resistance thugs and Anti-Fa terrorists destroying the nation.  I am tempted to scold a generation that neither knows nor cares what Memorial Day means and price that was paid.  But, that would do no good.  They have lost the vision of America and replaced it with hate and self loathing.  Trying to talk to them is like trying to teach a pig calculus.  You will not succeed and you will only annoy yourself and the pig in the process.  So, the only thing left to say is that this generation does not deserve the sacrifice previous generations have made for it but does indeed deserve every measure of the coming horror that they have created.

A Sad But Interesting Adventure ....

Last night, Sheila and I attended a Creek Indian Funeral Wake. One of Sheila's coworkers had passed, a gentleman of Creek and Seminole extraction. It was a truly remarkable experience.

The ceremony was scheduled in the evening in keeping with the Creek tradition of holding a wake the night before the funeral. The funeral home had warned that they could only stay two hours. Under Creek tradition the wake can go on all night with family members and friends sitting up with the body. The service began a few minutes late. Jokes about "Indian Time" aside, over the years I have learned that in Indian culture things happen when they are going to happen .... when the time is right and the right time is not dictated by the hands on a clock.

Before the service began, the obvious leader or master of ceremonies pulled several chairs out to one side at the front of the room. As they arrived, men who were obviously preachers or elders began taking those chairs. When more arrived more chairs were pulled and the master of ceremonies pointed the new man to the chair. There were six or seven elders seated in this way. This is in keeping with the Creek tradition that multiple elders attend and speak at a community member's wake.

The elders were modestly dressed, mostly bluejeans or wash pants and cotton shirts. There were no jackets and ties. One of the men, a thin, serious older gentleman in jeans, with short cropped hair, a muted cotton shirt and well cared for work oxfords reminded me a great deal of my father.  My father had only a small degree of Cherokee blood but he was raised by a half blood aunt and her full blood husband.  While this elder shared some physical resemblance to my father it was the mannerisms that made them so much alike.  It was the old Indian manner of my father's generation.  Quiet and subdued but at the same time very dignified and in a way outsiders would not completely understand quite powerful. 

The service began by the singing of hymns in the Creek language. The melodies were in a minor key with a slow heavy beat. The men sang in a strong harmony that sent chills down my spine and brought tears to my eyes. Even though the harmonies were the same, this was not the music of the stomp dance. While I couldn't understand a word of what was being sung my spirit told me that these were Christian hymns and these men were helping the family and friends pour out their grief and hope by their singing.

After several hymns were sung, the service took on a rhythm. A preacher would sing or lead another hymn, introduce himself and preach for a while. Most of the preachers/elders were Indian Baptists from the Creek Nation. As one completed his turn they would all shift up one seat toward the front of the line and when finished the one who had just spoke would take his seat at the end.

The sermons were plain. There was no complex theology here. The messages delivered were as plainspoken and honest as the modestly dressed men delivering them. Sin was denounced and salvation proclaimed. Sorrow for past sin was pronounced. Grief was acknowledged and hope offered. Love between family members and friends was encouraged. I wondered for a moment if we city folks don't need to send our preachers down into the 'Nations on internships to recover the simplicity of the gospel.

During the middle of one sermon, one of the deceased's brothers, the eldest, dressed in a traditional Indian "ribbon shirt," got up, walked to the coffin, lovingly placed his brother's glasses and spent some time there with him as the service continued around him. This is in keeping with the Creek tradition of burying the deceased with some of his personal items. Later, after the service had wound down, this same brother invited all to come and share refreshments. This was in keeping with the Creek tradition of serving a midnight supper on the night the wake.

During the service, people walked in and out. Some left after an hour or so and some arrived in the middle of the service. No disrespect was shown. It's just their way.

The gentleman who passed was a nice guy. He was about my age. He was quiet, friendly and helpful in his way. He will be missed and I thank him, not only for the times he helped me while I officed in the building where he worked, but also for the opportunity to share his wake with his family and friends and take a peek into a fascinating culture.

Christmas, 2016

This is my annual Christmas letter to my grandson:

Ben,

This year you are with your father's family in Wyoming.  I hope that you have had a wonderful time meeting your other grandparents, aunts, uncle and cousins.  I hope that you played in the snow, bonded with your father's family and had a great adventure.  You will spend most of the day today on an airplane flying home.  I pray for your safety.

You are old enough now to enjoy a story.  When I was your age, my mother would occasionally read me a story.  But, every year, no matter what was happening, either mom or dad one would read me one particular story.  I will never forget my father sitting in his chair, holding his battered old Bible, the light of the gas stove casting a glow over one side of his face, reading the Christmas story to Mom and I.  I wish that I could read those beautiful old words to you this morning:

1And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed. 2(And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.) 3And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city. 4And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:) 5To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child. 6And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered. 7And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.

8And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. 9And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. 10And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. 11For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. 12And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. 13And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,14Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

15And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us. 16And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger. 17And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child. 18And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds. 19But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart. 20And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen, as it was told unto them.

It is a beautiful story Ben.  I hope that somehow today, in the mix of airline terminals, television screens and sights and sounds of the season, you will see a nativity scene and become curious about why we celebrate on this day.

May God bless you and keep you.


Grandpa Kumpe

Thanksgiving at Jincy's - Another Year

In what is becoming a yearly tradition, Sheila and I once again had Thanksgiving dinner at Jincy's Kitchen in Qualls, Oklahoma.  We have done so now for several years and it appears that the pattern is in place.

The drive over was nice.  Sheila and I always enjoy a road trip.  About ten minutes into it, I decided to spend an hour or two without my usual news, murder mysteries, true crime and easy listening/light classical music.  The DJ on the 60's channel had a good mix going and we enjoyed listening to it, singing along when we felt like it and poking the "info" button on the receiver to refresh our memories as to who sang what, when.

The season cooperated as well.  Due to the late fall, the foliage was as good as I have ever seen it.  In
years past, I have waxed poetic about reconnecting with my roots for the holiday by driving deep into my native Cookson Hills and eating a meal that tastes exactly like my Mother's cooking at its best.  And, I have already pretty well exhausted discussion about my complicated love hate relationship with the Cookson Hills and Eastern Oklahoma in general.

Debbie is on the left.  Diana her assistant is on the right.

We were about twenty minutes early but still not the first to arrive.  Chief of the Cherokee Nation Bill John Baker, another Jincy's regular, had already arrived.  Within moments, cars began streaming in and soon the place was full.  Debby, our host, greeted us graciously and immediately made us feel at home.  She has a knack for that.  Hospitality is an Oklahoma tradition that she practices with every guest.

Our table companions were a couple about our age from Ft. Smith who had decided to spend the holiday on nearby Lake Tenkiller and surprisingly enough, a Tulsa couple of about the same age from our neighborhood.  Within the usual five sentences with the Tulsa couple we had identified common acquaintances, shopping hangouts, etc.

After everyone had a good chance to visit, Debby announced the buffet line was ready.  Chief Baker was called upon to say grace over the meal, another institution at Jincy's.  At Jincy's you say grace.  During the prayer, the Chief jokingly called those of us gathered together for the meal, "the chosen few," a reference to the fact that a holiday meal at Jincy's is by reservation only and this year Debby decided to do only one sitting as opposed to the multiple sittings offered in years past.

The food was, as always, superb.  Debbie has managed to master the old fashioned Oklahoma recipes that we all remember fondly from our youth. Sheila and I decided to sit for a while and let the line go down. As we approached the serving table, I noticed Debbie gently taking the plate of a disabled gentleman and serving him personally so that he didn't have to worry about manipulating his cane and a plate.  I remembered fondly how just a couple of years ago, she did the same thing for me when I could barely walk.

We had a quiet drive back.  We slipped back into our old habits on the way and listened to two lurid true crime tales of first degree murder (by church people btw) on the satellite radio.  My eyelids were getting pretty heavy by the time we reached the midway McD's on the Muskogee Turnpike.  Sheila was kind enough to go in and get me a cup of coffee.  When we arrived at home, we were in bed within fifteen minutes enjoying a much needed nap.

It is easy to become depressed during the holiday season.  If you let them, the problems and disappointments that are always just under the surface become more apparent in our heightened expectations for the season.  Looking back, I remembered the years when I was in so much pain despite hip to calf braces, strong meds and two canes that I could barely walk to the table much less enjoy the meal.  I remembered the years when Sheila was struggling with breast cancer and we ate the meal silently wondering if this would be our last together.  I remembered the years when we were middle aged, broke, under employed and virtually unemployable at our former level, struggling to get each other through college.  Looking back over those times, I can truly say that we were abundantly blessed this year and I am truly thankful to God for it.  

Knotty Pine Is Baaaaack!!!!!!

It was after 1:00 PM, Sheila had just finished cleaning the house, she had another engagement to make in a couple of hours and we were both hungry.  So, we decided to drive down the street to the new neighborhood barbecue place, The Knotty Pig.

When you talk about barbecue in Tulsa one name always comes up, the legendary Knotty Pine on Charles Page Boulevard on the West Side.  For the many decades it operated before a tragic fire, it was the standard by which all other barbecue places were measured.  After the fire, they reopened in Broken Arrow which seemed to me like a bad match.  The Broken Arrow culinary market is better suited to franchise, family friendly, generic anywhere in the U.S. suburbs kind of venues since Broken Arrow is pretty well the epitome of a faceless American suburb.

But, like a Phoenix rising from the ashes, the Knotty Pine is back, now called the Knotty Pig, at 6835 E. 15th Street, in Tulsa, a much more appropriately gritty neighborhood for a barbecue place.  We were greeted at the door by a sign that was most appropriate to the neighborhood and sure to earn the respect of the vast majority of the hard core Okie food fans who will seek the place out.


6835 E 15th Street has a checkered history.  I think it used to be a Dairy Queen long ago.  Lately, it has been a Harden's Hamburgers, a Billy Ray's Barbecue and last a Zayn's Diner.  In each case, something didn't click.  We used to frequent it when it was Billy Ray's because they had a really nice dinner for two special.  I ate at Zayn's once and crossed it off my list.

We arrived sometime after 1:30.  The parking lot was full and there was one table left.  That table is infamous because even in the middle of the hottest Oklahoma summer, due to some freak accident in the design of the HVAC, it is as cold as a meat locker.  Sheila and I stood it as long as we could but moved as soon as another table opened up.  The dining room is decorated with a mixture of items from the last Knotty Pine and what looked like some items salvaged from the original location.  But, the best decoration was the smell.  The old, original Knotty Pine had a heavenly smoky, greasy in a good way smell about it.  The Knotty Pig shares that same wonderful aroma.
  
Sheila ordered the chopped beef sandwich.  I ordered the jalapeno chicken chunks.  Table service was quick but the food delivery was slow.  We later learned that they were short staffed in the kitchen to start with and at any rate had not expected the "lunch rush" crowd to carry through right into mid afternoon.Sheila's beef was done perfectly, mild and smokey.  The bun was grilled perfectly as well.  Her coleslaw was quite good, not quite up the gold standard of Goldies, but a solid A- at least.  

My chicken platter was a work of art.  Somebody back there knows how to cook Okie.  The chicken bits were deep fried with breaded jalapeno slices, pickle slices and onion bits.  The total effect was amazing.  Sheila kept reaching across the table with her fork to sneak bites as I chewed.  The fries were old fashioned and hand cut.  Hand cut fries can be a disaster but these were perfect.  The cowboy beans were sweet and smoky with bits of beef scattered throughout.  Even the grilled toast was good.  

The chicken was served with a side of the house barbecue sauce which deserves its own paragraph.  Barbecue sauce is very much a regional and often a highly subjective taste.  A good Okie sauce is, like the local geography, somewhere between KC, Memphis and Texas.  The Knotty Pig sauce was sweet, smoky and complex.  It is the flavor I go for when I spend hours in the kitchen mixing my own. 

As we were leaving, we polled the tables around us.  Everyone was raving about the food.  As we pulled out of our parking space another car was waiting to pull in and it was nearly 3:00 PM.  

The Knotty Pig's menu shows it to be much more than just another barbecue joint, although the barbecue itself was quite good.  The burger and other sandwich choices were fascinating and sounded delicious as did the chili based dishes.  I think the owners have a winner here.  The Knotty Pig is setting a high standard for other Okie style joints to match.

Sheila's Birthday 2016 - Krebs Is Off My List

We decided to drive down to Krebs for an Italian dinner to celebrate Sheila's birthday. It was also decided that I would be the designated driver and we would drive Pam and Wayne's big old Honda Pilot.  When you get to be our age, being the designated driver has a lot less to do with alcohol consumption than it does with who gets to nap during lulls in the conversation.  I have to say the Pilot looked pretty formidable sitting there at the curb and it had more controls and computer equipment than some small airplanes.  But, it was easy to drive so long as you stayed within its envelope and very comfortable.

When we got to Krebs, we stopped at Lovera's Italian Grocery first.  Lovera's is something of a legend in that part of the country.  For decades, it was a classic little old style Italian grocery sitting there in the middle of a small, sleepy Oklahoma town.  It was charming and sweet.  But, all of that has changed now.  The cheeses and sausages hanging from the ceiling are gone replaced with modern, high tech looking, floor to over your head, stainless steel shelves stocked with stuff that you can buy in any gourmet food store.  The charming old meat counter has gone vertical too so that you have to stand on tip toes to talk to the butcher.  I was sadly disappointed with the experience.  I didn't have drive to Krebs to shop in a high vertically stocked everything processed for shipment gourmet food store.  We have plenty of those in Tulsa.  As a matter of fact, I could have gotten everything we purchased in our local Reasors.

Roseanna's Italian Food in Krebs is arguably the best of its genre.  Krebs has been known for its "in an old house" Italian restaurants for over a century.  At one time, Pete's Place was the best known of them.  I gave up on Pete's after a couple of incidents of paying an outrageous check for what tasted like Chef Boyardee canned spaghetti.  And, I'm sorry to say the same thing has now happened at Roseanna's.  It began with the fact that our server was pushy and tried to hurry us through ordering.  We had to gently tell her to back off.   Pam had to tell her to bring that menu back, I was still reading it.

The salad was Iceberg lettuce straight out of the bag and doused in vegetable oil.  Mine looked like it came out of the bottom of the bag at that.

I ordered the grilled chicken with spaghetti on the side.  When it arrived, the chicken was cold and the spaghetti had that same, straight out of the can taste that made me swear off of Pete's.  Aside from being cold, the chicken had no flavor.  No herbs, no spices, it didn't even taste like the grill.  I wonder if it was microwaved and then thrown on the grill for a few seconds.  Even the bread was a loser.  It wasn't the nice, crusty, light Italian bread that you would expect. Instead, it was just a loaf of generic French bread and it wasn't good French bread at that.  It tasted like it came off the Holsum Bread truck.  No olive oil and herb dipping sauce was offered.

The other folks in our party fared far better.  The lamb fries were good, the lasagna was good, etc.  The cheese cake, which is made for the restaurant by a local woman was superb.  But, the basics of my simple meal, the meat, the pasta, the salad and the bread were all losers.  Olive Garden or even Spaghetti Warehouse will manage to serve your grilled chicken hot with a few herbs and spices on it.  The Italian bread we buy from WalMart and Reasors is far better than what Roseanna's put on the table.  And for that matter, WalMart generic chunky pasta sauce would be a major step up from what I was served.

Bottom line here, Roseanna's is off my list of "destination" restaurants.  We could have gotten a far better meal at Johnny Carino's or Carraba's and not had to drive an hour and half to get it.

Valentine's Day 2016

It's been a strange twenty four hours. Not bad, just strange.

It started last night as Sheila and I were rushing out of the house to babysit Little Ben.  We just had time to grab a sandwich at Oscar and Veronica's, the little Mex place up the street.  We were the only people in the restaurant except for Oscar and Veronica and one of their daughters.

We were sitting there about halfway through our food when a wiseguy came in.  An honest to goodness, east coast style, street tough, "I'm gonna shake you down" type wiseguy.  The guy used all of the tricks to impose fear without actually menacing.  The accent was KC or maybe St. Louis.  He was obnoxious and at the same time threatening without voicing a threat.  It was obvious that Veronica was rattled.  The next time I am in, I am going to ask her if he came back and tried to extort money from them.

We spent the evening babysitting Little Ben while our daughter Michelle and her husband Robert went out to celebrate Valentine's Day.  Ben was actually quite well behaved.  He wanted to watch some cartoon crap movie that was full of new age mystical mumbo jumbo.  I vetoed that in favor of Victorian myth in the form of Kipling.  I was amazed that a three year old kid would sit quietly through half of Jungle Book.  It was the British version with real actors and animals.  He has quite an attention span for a toddler.  And when Sheila began to write his name on something, he said "That's my name."  We splurged and had a Dairy Queen ice cream cone on the way home. 
 
We had agreed that instead of buying each other a present and a card we would simply make up an e-card to send to each other and buy something together.  We always jump through hoops over that kind of stuff but never really saying anything to each other.  When Sheila opened my card this  morning it made her cry .... but it was a good cry.  

I cooked breakfast for us and then we were off to church.  After church, we had lunch at Oklahoma Joe's near Bass Pro.  Sheila's rib ends were fabulous.  My Carolina style turkey sandwich was nothing to write home about.  And the fries were both over-salted and overcooked.

After that, we decided to buy each other a Valentine's present in the form of a new set of everyday dishes to replace the mish-mash we have been using for decades.  We have at least two sets of china packed away that are too good for everday but were eating from the every day survivors of over forty

years of marriage.  We kept what was left of the set that Sheila's sister gave us at her wedding shower and took the rest to Goodwill.

We both cooked dinner.  I was chef and Sheila was helper.  We had Chicken Piccatta served over angel hair pasta and a Ceaser Salad.  Sheila baked an strawberry rhubard pie.  It was a nice little meal in our newly done kitchen served on our new every day dishware.  We will settle in shortly to watch Downton Abbey and call it an evening.  Not much of an adventure for some I suppose but we had a good time today and that's all that matters.