Tuesday, Oct 31, 2017, Sheila and I took a day off and went on a little adventure. Sheila had always wanted to eat at Lambert's Restaurant near Springfield, Missouri. We decided to drive up, have a late lunch and then spend the evening in a B&B in Carthage. Here are some of our snapshots.
The first picture is of Sheila doing a little happy dance that she had FINALLY gotten me to take her to Lamberts.
I am obviously not as thrilled at the notion
of having a college kid throw bread at me.
This is the B&B where we stayed in Carthage. Beautiful old place. A lot of period furniture.
We drove back on historic Route 66. Sheila and I have driven the entire length of it in Oklahoma in pieces, just never in one trip. I drove the entire length of it in the 1960's. From Tulsa to Chicago in one stint and then from California to Tulsa in another.
Every railroad town had one of these places, the infamous railroad kitty palace. They were always across the tracks from the polite part of town. This one happened to be right square on old Route 66. An amazing number of them have survived as restaurants and museums.
This is a preserved section of the old road in Southeastern Kansas. It looked about like this in the early and mid 1950's.
Another Thanksgiving has come and gone and like so many before it, Sheila and I celebrated at Jincy's Kitchen in Keys, Oklahoma, Cherokee Nation, USA. We had a pleasant drive over and an equally pleasant twenty minutes or sitting on Jincy's front porch enjoying the bright sunshine and the clean, crisp air of the hills.
It is hard to explain to an outsider why Sheila and I keep coming back year after year, driving an hour and half into the Cookson Hills to celebrate the holiday in a tribal era general store turned movie set turned restaurant.
The food has something to do with it. Debbie cooks in the old fashioned Okie style. Her food tastes exactly like my mothers, my grandmothers and my other long passed family members. Debbie does a fabulous job of preserving our Okie food heritage.
But there is more involved as well. We say grace over the meal. I am often called upon to do the prayer. At Jincy's you can pray in the spirit of traditional Thanksgiving without fear of offending anyone. Here in the hills, Okies still respect our common faith even if some don't share it. Again, another preservation of our common heritage.
The people are polite. Traditionally, Okies are polite. It is a custom born out of mutual respect between people who can be very tough indeed when the situation calls for it. In the culture I grew up in, respect was a big deal. Everyone deserved it unless they had forfeited that right and failure to give proper respect reflected poorly on the disrespectful person.
The language spoken here is Okie. It is a quiet southern drawl touched with a bit of Appalachia. It is soothing to the ear and sweet on the tongue. I find myself falling back into it when I return to the hills. You may also hear Cherokee. At least Cherokee words and phrases. It is not like the old days when the old timers would sit around conversing in it but the words and phrases are still floating around.
For the holiday meal at least, Jincy's is quiet. On Saturday nights the place is filled with traditional home made music. But, on Thanksgiving day, there are kitchen sounds and conversations but no out of control children, snarky millenials or caustic, overbearing matriarchs to keep you in a constant state of counting to ten and minding your tongue. There are no blaring television sets or even annoying cell phones. Jincy's is so deep in the hills that many cellphones don't even work.
Holiday meals eaten in a restaurant can be incredibly depressing but Jincy's is different. Debbie the proprietor makes every guest feel welcome, feeds them an absolutely fabulous old fashioned meal and in the process gives them a precious, short trip back to a time and place where, while we were poor in many things, we were far, far richer in the things that mattered most.
Sometimes you need to get away if only for a couple of hours.
Sometimes you need to step back to another place in space and time if
only for a while. I did yesterday.
Sheila and I left
the house around 11:30. On the way, we listened to recordings of 1960's
radio programs. We heard an episode of "A Date With Chris," the sexy
little girl voiced DJ darling of the airways on the Armed Forces Radio
and Television Service in the mid-60's and then a recording of Pat
Sajak's "Dawn Buster" program broadcast from Viet Nam in the later 60's.
We got to Cushing around 1:00 PM. The church rush was just passing at the Homestead Restaurant located at 1001
E Main St. They advertise "down home cooking from scratch" and deliver
on their claim. The Homestead, like Jincy's in Qualls, is one of those
places where the traditional Okie/Southern cooking heritage is being
kept alive and passed on to future generations.
Sheila
and I both had the Sunday Special. Three huge pieces of very good
fried chicken, a dinner salad, two sides, iced tea and bread pudding.
You will not go away hungry.
If
you break down each individual dish, while they are all very good, you
can get just as good without driving for an hour. But, the whole of the
meal is better than the sum of its parts. The chicken should be ranked
among the top ten in Oklahoma. The mashed potatoes and pinto beans are
outstanding, the kind your mom used to feed you for supper. The rolls
were good. Not great like Jincy's or Shilo's but very good. The bread
pudding was a tad dry but very pleasant nevertheless, a good finish to
the meal. Only the tea was disappointing. Instant. But, it was also included with the meal so I can't complain too much. But again, it is the totality of the experience at
Homestead that makes it worth the drive for us. You are going to get a
darned good meal. That meal is going to be served by adults with real
smiles on their faces and real concern that you enjoy it. I really
appreciate a good waitress who knows what she is doing and does it.
Small
town waitresses are often the best in the world. That is their job.
In small town USA they are not looked down on for it. They are not
snarky and they don't have an attitude. They don't over serve you
slavishly trying to drive up their tip but at the same time your water
glass is never dry. I have come to truly despise twenty somethings in
chain restaurants who are all working on becoming a "manager" or earning
a degree and never learn how to just wait a table. Sometimes, I want
to get in their face and say, "Sweetie, I could care less about your
future career in whatever, you haven't got waiting table down yet and
your tip is getting smaller every time you open your mouth." The
crowd at the Homestead will be small town Okies talking about farming,
the oil patch, football, grandkids and local events. There is something
remarkably comforting about the sound of the Okie drawl talking about
the unchanging events of life at the table next to you. Sunday
afternoon you will see a mixture of older couples having dinner after
church and generations of families pulling together tables to share a
meal. It is reassuring to see that somewhere in the world life is going
on normally. There is also something remarkably comforting about
knowing that it is highly unlikely that somebody in the room is going to
stand up and start shooting over events in St. Louis, Dallas or New
York City.
Taken as a whole,
the meal at Homestead is worth the drive to Cushing. The food is good,
the service is good, the crowd is good, even the drive is pleasant.
There simply are no downsides.
I didn't celebrate the Fourth that much. Didn't feel well. Things
to do. Had dinner with the kids and grand kids Sunday. Cooked a nice
little dinner for Sheila and I on the grill last night. About the most
patriotic thing I did will sound strange to some .... I bought a vet a
pack of smokes.
Sunday afternoon, I was sitting in my car
watching the ghetto zoo that has become the Dollar General at 21st and
Sheridan. Pine and Apache has just moved south.
As I watched, I noticed
two older guys who were obviously street people. They had just bought
their lunch. One had a coke and some chips. The other had an energy
drink and some chips. Both probably paid for with a state EBT card. One
was also charging his Obama-phone on the outside outlet in front of the
store.
As I continued to
watch them, I noticed that one was watching the curb, picking up
cigarette butts and smoking them. When he got close enough to the car, I
saw that he was wearing a baseball cap from a Viet Nam era air cav unit
that had a reputation for sending 18 year old kids into the jungle and
sending them home either in body bags or as drug addicts and head cases.
I took a close
look at the guy. He looked clean and sober. The age was right and the
eyes were right. He might not have even been a vet but the eyes had the
mixture of crazy, wary and weariness that made it entirely possible.
Then, I remembered what it was like when I smoked. The intense
cravings. It embarrassed me to think that a former air cav trooper was
now sneaking snipes from a ghetto curb. I figured that if the worst
addiction he was dealing with now was tobacco ... well.
So, I bought him a pack of smokes and wished him a happy Fourth.
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.
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.
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.
