Turns Out, Candy Cures Everything.

After the last post, I'm sure you thought my posts would take on some consistency here in 2009. Well, guess again, bitches. My keyboard has been on the blink for several days and then, just now, my youngest ran a truck over the top of it and it started working once again. I guess he's magic.
As you all know, our dog Whiskey was killed by a semi-truck last Saturday. Immediately, Rowdy and I wondered how to tell Ridge. At just 2 1/2, Rolan is thankfully still too small to grasp it, so we didn't have to worry about him. Ridge, on the other hand, is right at the cusp of understanding. He has seen death on Barnyard and in those ridicules Westerns Rowdy is constantly watching with him. But, then again, he's 4. There's no way he can totally come to terms with the finality of death.
So, in keeping with my standard "Let's Brush It Under The Rug" life philosophy, we just said nothing until he brought it up. After two days without seeing Whiskey, he realized his friend was absent.
Ridge walked in the house, his face drawn with worry. "Where's Whiskey," he asked his father and me.
We exchanged glances, both wondering what the other was thinking. We'd received advice from several people on how we should approach this. I mean, clearly the whole "He went to live on a farm" classic wouldn't work for us. I've always believed honesty is probably the best route to take, unless of course we are referring to the weight listed on driver's licenses and then I say, "Deny Until You Die."
Anyways, I sat on the couch and Rowdy sat caddy cornered from me in his chair. He looked at Ridge and softly explained that Whiskey had been hit by a truck.
Ridge's eyes grew as large as half dollars as he innocently inquired, "Did he die?"
I shook my head and whispered yes. And just as I was hugging my boy, Rowdy pulled a Starburst candy from his pocket and began unwrapping it. Instantly Ridge spotted that shit.

Oh, and Happy Birthday, Elvis!
"Oh....candy!" he belted as he scurried to his dad.
And that's how Ridge learned that Whiskey had died.

There's No Title Because This is Basically Rambling Bullshit. That's it, Rambling Bullshit.

Well, I'm sure you've all been missing me the past few days. With that last of our many Christmas celebrations finally over the last Saturday, we've been strung out on holiday cheer and I just haven't known what to and what not to blog about. So, rather than post a long, never-ending narrative about one of them, I thought I'd just hit the high and low points, which will no doubt lead to a long, never-ending post, but at least you'll get to switch subjects to avoid spontaneous sleep.

1.) Our dog Whiskey died this Saturday. Apparently in the midnight hours, he snuck into town to visit some randy lass we were unaware of. On his way back home, he was struck by a semi and my husband and mother-in-law found him the following morning.
Named after the Willie Nelson classic Whiskey River, Rowdy and I got the border collie pup when our relationship was just as new and fresh as his baby's breath. I was amazed to watch him grow, the way the herding instinct just seemed to rise out of his DNA and, over the past few years, his work had become as important as an extra cowboy's. Sure, it was rough at first. He'd push cattle when he wasn't suppose to and then turn right around and not push when the time was right. But, in just a few short years, that thing inside him took over.
Whiskey had a meek and sweet spirit. He would let me pet him as long as I liked, unless of course Rowdy fired up a four wheeler and then he was off to work. He never called in sick or missed a day. He was a great hand.
Although I always loved Whiskey, I think my real bond with him came after our children were born. They'd tug his ears or yank his tail and, in return, he would drown them with slobbering kisses from his wet tongue. As my boys got older and would periodically be around cattle, we noticed this was perhaps the only time Whiskey didn't dart after his herd. Instead, he kept a steady eye on the livestock and the boys, careful to always be directly in between them and each calf. He was a good dog.
This morning was bittersweet. As Rowdy got dressed to go out and start his day, our youngest yelled out the door for his faithful old friend, "Whick-key, Whick-key, where you?"
Tears were in both our eyes, as we knew his calls wouldn't be answered.

Okay, now onto more sunshiny tales, the ones you come here for.

2.) In spite of our loud and steady pleas each year for each set of grandparents to limit the toys under their trees and candy in stockings, all four pairs (both our parents are divorced) steamed full force ahead with the stockpiles of trains and trucks and enough sugar to keep a bakery in supply for a full year. Rowdy and I dumped each stocking into a big, black bag, hoping to smuggle that shit out of the house before the boys had it strung from top to bottom.
The plan, my friends, was unsuccessful. After I tucked everyone into bed last night, I put the bag up high on the kitchen counter and went off to bed myself.
Then, at 3:30 in the morning, a small boy shook me out of my warm bed and he commanded me to, "Wake Up! Hurry!" I wasn't sure what Rolan was waking me for, but I knew it couldn't be good. He grabbed my hand and pulled me to his room, where his big brother was fast asleep with the giant bag o' goodies resting next to him. Apparently Rolan was just so proud that he realized in the middle of the damn night that the candy, totally unguarded, was there that he had to wake me to show his spoils. I tried to explain to him that this would be like calling the bank BEFORE you robbed it, took the candy and left him whining in his bed.
And, just to make all the awakening better, my mother-in-law was at the front of our room at 5 am, asking Rowdy questions about the business. Overall, AWESOME! **Que Dry Sarcasm** I'm not at all bitchy today.

3.) As Ridge crawled into my lap this afternoon, he pointed to my groin and quizzed, "Is that where your balls are, Momma?"
I began explaining the whole boy-girl thing and, interrupting me with a choir of giggles, he wisely said, "Oh, you have girl parts. I don't like girl parts. They have poop and oil."
I sort of understood the poop since it is in the same general area and he is, after all, 4 and, when you are 4, poop is a pretty big part of your life. But, the oil I didn't get. It's not like I'm frying chicken in my "girl parts."
Also, I have trained him to chant on demand that his momma is his NUMBER ONE girl and I plan on soon having him brain washed into declaring that no woman will care for him like me. Just kidding. Kinda. I realize this might be pretty costly in therapy charges down the road, so I am trying to reign it in. Trying is the key word.

4.) Can you say Senator Franken? Now, if you've been reading this blog long or if you've gone through my archives, you know I bleed blue (although I can't say I'm super stoked about Obama's stacking conservatives in his Cabinet. But, at least they are really, really smart conservatives, right?).
All the Bleeding Heart Liberal characteristics (**Que More Sarcarsm** which is really popular here in Oklahoma) aside, I didn't even think my friend Al could pull this shit off and I donated to his campaign and have bought every book he's ever written. Hell, I even highlighted through those bastards.
Even though a Minnesota board certified Al the winner over Norm Coleman today, the incumbent Coleman will no doubt take further legal steps to prevent it and, in spite of little room for change, I hope he does. We Americans are impatient. We want to know the winners of our elections as though they are football games. This may have been a pains taken, almost parody of a recount as though it were actually a brilliant Saturday Night Live skit written in Al's past life on the show, but we will have no doubt in the winner. 2.9 million people voted and this baby was decided by 225 votes. Remember that the next time you want to stay home from the polls, thinking your vote doesn't matter.

5.)Mollie's daughter Hannah, who is homeschooled not for religious reasons but because her mother wholly and fully believes she is almost as genius as Stephen Hawking (and she is), somehow stumbled upon those videos from that mascara-drinched Britney fan, yelling at US, all of US, to leave Britney alone. Now, this is particularly hilarious since Hannah didn't know who the hell he was talking about when she found it.
She said, "I don't know who this Britney person is, but I hope they leave her alone so that guy will shut up."
Now Mollie and I want to force Hannah into making our own mascara-drenched video. And the therapy bill just keeps going up.

Auld Land Syne in 2009

I know 8 years, 8 wild years have passed, since Kenny G's Millennium Mix of Auld Lang Dyne was released. In case you've never heard it or have somehow forgotten this little piece of historical awesome, as the brilliant musician flawlessly plays, audio bits from the last century lays out over it. From the first recorded sound to Ellen, from both World Wars to Columbine, the Beatles and Woodstock, the embarrassing gutters some of our politicians like Nixon found themselves in to unpredicted strides for the betterment of all mankind such as the civil rights movement, this sound and this video will put a tear in any history buff's eyes.
Listening to it, I wonder just what will be remembered the most from the past 8 years. Will our great-great grandchildren understand the chaos of the 2000 election? Will they know how we rallied around each other and the American flag after 9/11? Will the last season of Friends be in their time capsules? Will Barack Obama's inaugration speech mark them as John Kennedy's does in this song? It's hard to say, we won't be around anyways.
So, I guess in the here and the now, I should say Happy New Year!
Let's Shine in 2009!

As Good As It Gets

I don't really remember meeting Audrey Suzanne Trevino. Likewise, I don't remember not knowing her. She was just always there, down the hallway or down the road, playing the softball game scheduled right after mine or throwing me the last beer from the ice chest. I was born three years before she was, so logic lets me know that there must have been a time in my life that I didn't know she existed, yet still, I can't recall it. That's both the beauty and the beast of growing up in a small town. Our lives are interconnected and interchanging, weaving in and out of one another like the ebbs and tides of the unpredictable ocean. It's a loop that never ends.
With probably a thousand different sporting events drawing our lives together, be it softball or football or our parents' bowling, Audrey was always on my radar. And, truthfully, she was the shits from top to bottom, from the beginning to the end. That I've always known. I could ramble into a few stories from the bowling ally or fitness center of shenanigans pulled by Audrey or my sister or my cousin Stephanie or Britne, but that post in itself could go on forever.
But somewhere along the time I turned 21 or 22 and Audrey turned 19 or 20, she grew from the brat pack of my little sister into my peer. I worked at the Pizza Hut and she worked at the Subway, which just happened to do be directly across with the street from one another. With the bulk of our friends off chasing grandeur at some distant university or running down the aisle and into the birthing rooms, Audrey and I found the common bond of being the rare and illusive breed of small town young girls that happened to be single and, well, out of high school. For somewhere near 9 months, she spent several nights a week at my house, the both of use swaddled in the magic fabric of sweat pants, watching movies and drinking beer out of straws that, by the way, had tiny penises on the the end. We laughed over tacky jokes, the kind that would make sailors blush, and cried over the uncertainties we both felt about our childhoods. Somehow or another, she got me.
But, just as life always seemed to do, we both moved toward different phases in our lives. For one thing, I met Rowdy, my cowboy romeo, and he swept me off my feet and onto the vast prairies of Roger Mills County. For you non-Okies, that's only, like, 25 miles away from my hometown, but sometimes it feels a world away. Marriage and babies fell upon me like a swift snowfall and my days were quickly consumed with the ins and outs of daily life. Like most of the people of my childhood and early adulthood, I didn't get to see Audrey nearly as often as I would've liked. But, when I did, she always had an uncanny knack for making me feel like she'd been there all along, like we'd never missed a beat.
And as time went along, I heard Audrey's name mentioned by my other friends, from people who she might not have known while we drank beer into the twilight on a frequent basis. It became clear to me that, in my absence, so many others had discovered the treasure I myself had found in Audrey. She had this uncanny ability to make you feel special, no matter who you happened to be. And that was no facade, my friends, she was a lover of people. She just put herself out there, she was totally fearless in that way. She was as good as they make 'em. She had a heart of gold and a tongue of steel, if you know what I mean. She both loved and fought wholeheartedly.
When Audrey died this Tuesday, December 9, I really knew it wouldn't be a right if the only thoughts posted here were mine. As I said, Audrey never met a stranger. And if you ever felt like she loved you, trust me, she did. Her heart was just that big. So, I posted a bulletin on myspace asking for others, folks from all walks of life, to send me thoughts or memories on our beloved girl.
As the threads of a great quilt laced between one another, members of different families mold together in a small town, from birth to death. This is reflective in what Britne (formerly Rainey) wrote:

My mom and Anne (Audrey's Mom) have been good friends for years, so Audrey and I kinda grew up together. I remember she always fixing my hair (bangs especially). Oh, by the "wings" you know the feathered back style and then apply tons of hair spray!! I remember one time our parents had gone out for New Years and Audrey and I got bored so we decided to make a cake. It was a chocolate cake, but we only a few half eaten cans of icing. So, needless to say, the cake had 3 or 4 different types of icing but, you know, it was pretty darn good !! I have a lot of other memories of her that were wonderful and I will always remember her and the awesome person that she was!!! My heart really hurts right now, not just for her family, but for her as well. She was so young and never had a chance to really experience the great things in life !! God Bless her and her family !

Naturally Britne's post warmed my heart and my tear ducts, particularly the last part. Now I know Audrey and she had a zest for living. She tasted life's sweetness often. But, I think what Britne was referring to directly was the fruits of longevity. Just this afternoon, I sat with Audrey's mother and grandmother. The pride they so clearly feel for her is as recognizable as the sun in June's heat. I think Britne knows, just as I know, that Audrey would've been the ultimate momma bear.

The next post from little Katie Farrel. Now I call her little because she's even younger than my little sister, who is, by the way, very grown. You know how some people stand still in time. Well, my sister and all her friends do to me. I don't care how grown up you guys get. The reason I mention just how long I've know Miss Katie is because I have known her through different means than how I knew Audrey, though they knew each other just as long. Do you see the theme of the intertwining lives of small town folks? I think Katie's small passage really speaks volumes for the many dimensions lifelong friendships can have. She wrote:

Audrey was the first person to hit me with a softball and the first person to serve me a beer on my 21st birthday. She was the reasoning in me going to The Long Horn, where she bartended and was a better bouncer than any big man. But most of all. I am gonna miss that laugh that she had and how she was always herself, no matter what. And the penis water gun she gave me on my 22nd birthday. Oh we had a blast with it! I am gonna miss that girl.

But, lastly, I think I will end with a little blurb from my darling friend Josh Bailey. He and I worked together for many years, through many sweat soaked nights at a pizza parlor. Honestly, I had never thought of him and Audrey being friends. For a passage in my life, he and I were around each other more than we were around much of anyone else. But, time moves like sand in the wind and our lives take a different form. However, knowing both him and Audrey, it was no surprise to me that these two great souls had also struck up a friendship. I'm better for knowing them both and I really think Josh's words sum up the whole of Audrey's spirit, the way she seized all moments and loved all people. Her smile lit up a room and she felt just a comfortable around bankers as she did around beggars. She was as good as it gets. Don't take my words for it, take Josh's:

I can't really think of one time with Audrey that stood out above the rest, because every time was a blast. She always went out of her way to make sure everybody was having a good time.There was never a dull moment and never a frown on her face. The short, few years I knew her was certainly not enough and that breaks my heart. You will seriously be missed, Audrey, by so many people. God bless you. - Josh

I want to write this post forever, to let my mumbling words drag on and prevent my sleep. I want to push tomorrow back into the midnight because, with the dawn of day, this nightmare is really real. Tomorrow we lay her to rest. As I close this post, I am leaving you with a Jackson Browne song, For A Dancer, performed by James Dupre. Whether you knew Audrey or not, I want you to listen to the words. However, if you did hit the awesome lottery of actually meeting this beautiful spirit, the words will really resonate with you. To me, the words give explanation to the way I feel not only about Audrey, but all my darling friends I rarely see because of all these adult responsibilities. Even if I don't see you often enough, you are with me and me with you. Here's just a excerpt of the song, I hope it entices you to click on the video and listen to the whole song. I put the sentence in bold that SCREAMS Audrey to me. Enjoy:

I don't remember losing track of you
You were always dancing in and out of view
I must have thought you'd always be around
Always keeping things real by playing the clown
Now you're nowhere to be found

I don't know what happens when people die
Can't seem to grasp it as hard as I try
Its like a song I can hear playing right in my ear
That I can't sing
I can't help listening
And I can't help feeling stupid standing round
Crying as they ease you down
cause I know that you'd rather we were dancing
Dancing our sorrow away
Right on dancing
There's nothing you can do about it anyway

Just do the steps that you've been shown
By everyone you've ever known
Until the dance becomes your very own
No matter how close to yours
Another's steps have grown
In the end there is one dance you'll do alone

Here's one more for the road from Jacy:

Audry was a bubbly person! We had this thing going between us with, "Your hair looks nice!" One day i had went into the bar and had a bad day and Audry said, "Your hair looks nice!"
I was like, "Are you kidding?!?"
After the day I had, I just knew it looked like shit 'cause I had felt like I had been pulling my hair out. So the next time I went in, her hair looked awesome! So I said, "Audry, your hair looks nice!"
She just gave me this evil eye, but it made her laugh!! You know the laugh, that sounds evil, but you know is innocent. That laugh of Audrey's made me always wanna laugh!!! It was a laugh no one else has!!
I saw her last Thursday night and she had her hair slicked back. I said, "Are you trying to pull off some Chinese bun or what?"
Her famous words came out with, "Shut the f*@ck up!!! I was running late for work!!!"
I am going to miss her serving the drinks. She knew what to say and how to make you laugh. I don't think I have ever heard of anyone not really liking her! She will be truly missed by me!

And in keeping with their inside joke greeting ritual, my friend Aaron wants to send Audrey off in style with two simple words, "Fuck Yea!"

Five Years

The date on the calender was December 4, 2003. Rowdy and I had spent the previous afternoon in Oklahoma City selling cattle and shopping for wedding bands. I know what you're thinking, well those two freakin' things go hand-and-hand. The cattle sold, but we found no luck in finding the ring that tickled my fancy. As we drove west, back toward the open prairies of our Western Oklahoma home, we made the impromptu decision to pull into Weatherford, a cozy town halfway between the big city and the vast openness that was ours. Lyndi lived there and her spare bedroom had hosted us more than one night. My in laws had bought their wedding set at a jewelry store there, so we wanted to give it a gander. I woke up early the following morning and did something I rarely did -- I called in sick. My boss, who doubles as my mother's big sister, didn't question the validity of my ailments. I think she knew I was trying to snap that ole' ball-and-chain on poor Rowdy's ankle. And since she'd be convinced for the better part of my life that I was a lesbian or would morph into some old spinster, I think she was honestly relieved that he was gonna make an honest woman of me at the ripe old age of 22.
We weren't in the jewelry store long before THE one jumped out at me, there from the corner. She was a three-stoned princess-cut beauty atop a platinum band. The never-ending quest had somehow ended. We returned to Lyndi's empty house while the Paige Jewelers sized the rings and celebrated in way only appropriate to do in your friend's house if you just officially became engaged.
As we picked up the treasure and pulled back onto the interstate, I knew in my heart this would be a day I would never forget. I just didn't know why. No more than three minutes into our drive, my cell phone rang. It was my mother and she was frantic. Just 2 short months prior to this, her father had suffered a stroke. His condition had improved and we had reasons to be optimistic, but he had yet to return to vibrant, order-obsessed, loving Mr.Fix-It he had been my entire life. With a blink of an eye, it seemed, he had grown old and frail.
When I answered my mother's call, her voice was soft, but her words were quick. Her father, my Grandpa Don, had died at a hospital in Clinton, a town we had happened to be driving towards, a town only 5 minutes from where we were. An aneurysm in his heart had taken his life in a brief and savage instant. He was gone.
As I walked into the room, a collection of my closest relatives, my mother and her siblings and a few of their children, were gathered around him and his wife, my widowed grandmother. I touched his warm body as my shivering tears landed, drop by drop, upon his lifeless chest. It was absolutely the most unreal thing I have ever lived through, as though I was living in some parallel universe and everything around me was merely a dream.
My Uncle Kent, the oldest of my mother's two brothers, lives an hour away, but somehow had beat us there. I suppose time can be cosmic in that way. On several occasions, I have tried to think of a time before that day that I saw him weep. And I don't mean eyes watering a bit, I mean struggling for air sobs. But, on that day, five years ago today, I did. Overcome with emotion, he sat in the adjoining bathroom while his mournful wails bounced off the hospital walls.
Sometimes it seems almost foreign to me that he's been gone five years, that in his absence I have become a wife and a mother. My cousins and my sister have as well. And then at other times, it feels like a dream, that he's been there all along. Sometimes I wonder if he was ever real at all. His life ended before either of my sons' lives started and that in itself constricts my heart.
But mostly, when I think of his passing, I mourn for my mother and my aunt and my uncles. While I don't see my mom's brothers too often, I do see her and her sister frequently. As time as passed, I've witnessed their pain evolve from a sharp hurt that seemed to almost stop many of their days into a dull and constant acceptances. And in many ways, I think the latter may even be worse. At least when his death still took their breath away, he seemed within their reach. Now he is just gone.
He was my mother's confidant, her greatest adviser. I can see that, when she faces a great obstacle, she longs for his opinion. As I've watched my mother struggle to accept his death, I have learned that she never will accept it, at least not in the way we typically view the word "accept." It is there, it is real and that is all it ever can be for her. Alas, she has stopped trying to make sense of it and I think she healthier for that. No matter how many years pass between her and the last time she touched his skin, she will never stop missing him. He is always there, in the low hum of radiators he worked on all his life or in the gentle breeze that blows over the wheat fields of his youth.

The Song Remembers When.......Youtube trip to the past

At the risk of sounding geekier than you probably already think I am, I have a little confession: I love youtube. I mean, really, really love it. With a few strokes of the keyboard, I can find every ridicules thing said by any given celebrity or politician in front of a camera or microphone. And, on top of all that, I can pretty well hunt down any song my ears may be craving. In the very rare occasion that I uproot my rather large rear and attempt to purge my home of filth, I like to use the genius of youtube to listen to my favorite tunes of days gone by.
And it was in this ritual that I found James Dupre. I was in an old, twangy country mood that afternoon and, after listening to several George Strait songs, I searched for a Garth Brooks classic. Normally, I am a bit hesitant to listen to covers on youtube, as it truly is like a box of chocolates. However, I'm quite pleased that I decided to listen to James.
As soon as music flowed over his lips, I must admit I developed a bit of a crush. He just has one of those voices that leaves young girls and old women weeping into the midnight. What She's Doing Now has always been a love song that's pulled on my heart strings, raw and poetic. It may have made Garth millions, but it was clearly written for James.

After I played this first ballad, I was drawn in. I had to listen to more. Looking at the lengthy list of songs James has covered on youtube, it appears that he and I have very similar tastes in music. With each tune, I was brought back to a different point in my life. He sang The Joker by The Steve Miller Band and I was back, a decade ago, drinking beer on the grassy stage of the Zoo Ampitheater, ending the summer with the annual Steve Miller Band concert. This was how we rung in each new school year throughout high school. The song ended and I played on.

Although I was cleaning my kitchen in Cheyenne, Oklahoma, as I took in Let Her Cry, in my mind I was driving through South Carolina in 1995 with my old friend Melissa and my cousin Trisha by my side. That was the summer I discovered Hootie and the Blowfish.
By the time I stumbled onto James's rendition of My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys, I was cracking open a beer myself. His steel, rustic voice bellowed through my home and I thought of fishing in prairie farm ponds 20 years ago with my grandfather and a handful of my cousins. Grandpa will be gone five years this December and my heart aches each time I realize he never saw either of my sons. James really hits this one out of the park, so I played it multiple times. Somewhere around time three or four, I remembered the day I first knew I really loved my husband. Just a few months into our relationship, we went to rope wild, roaming cattle on the north end of the county. When Rowdy, cowboy extraordinaire, completed his extra cowboyish task, he stretched his long legs out on his flat bed while he sucked down a beer. I watched his profile in the sunset and absorbed the quite romantic moments of witnessing first hand one of the lasts of a dying breed. From that moment on, Rowdy took on a new definition to me and this particular song has always seemed to describe it far better than I could.

And then I came across Mr. Bojangles. There I was, sitting in the floor with my legs crossed in the living room of David and Patty Cummings as a circled group of musicians picked through the midnights of my wildly misspent youth. It's funny how things that seemed to define or anchor your life for a season somehow become a memory that pops into your head just a few short years later through the helpful hand of a melody. The people who were important to me during that time of my life are still among the most important to me now, all this time later, although each of our lives have taken a much different form than the carefree, beer-soaked dance it was back then. Some songs and some friends and some memories just mold your destiny, I suppose.

As misty-eyed and nostalgic as James Dupre's powerful voice had already made me, I avoided one song he had posted for a few hours before I broke down and played it. I knew once I started it, there would be no turning back. Tears would fall and my heart would break. It was the late Spring of 1999 and I was driving my awesome Plymouth Laser as James Ashworth rode shotgun. We sang the song louder than the radio, so loud the breath-taking Oklahoma outdoors had to pause just to hear us. James's birthday is next Tuesday, he would've been 28. As hard as it is to believe that we are now just 2 years from 30, it's even harder to believe that James will be gone 4 years this April. Because Name was popular when I graduated and because the Goo Goo Dolls were one of the first bands I saw in concert, their music has been a long-time favorite of mine. But, this afternoon as James Dupre belted out the lyrics, "We grew up way too fast and there's nothing to believe," I shook my head as I sang along. Somehow that means so much more to me now than it did back then. Every time I think of James's untimely death, I lose my breath as though I've just taken a swift punch to the gut. It makes less sense to me today than it did when it happened and I know even if I live to be 100, I will never be able to wrap my mind around brutal injustice of his premature passing. But, here in this lifetime, I know I am a better friend and, moreover, a better mother for having known him and, for that, I am eternally grateful for the blessing of having known James Dalton Ashworth.

There's a reason art is often referred to as the humanities. It's suppose to make you feel, it's suppose to take you back. I'm so glad I found James Dupre on youtube. Most assuredly, I will be back to his profile. He's posted so many songs that I haven't even come close to hearing them all. From Jackson Browne to George Strait, he gives a new meaning to some of my favorite classics. I hope you all enjoy this as much as I have. Maybe it will be the time machine for you as it was for me, transcending all the moments that have passed between you and some long, lost place.

Benefit for Jamie Munford

Benefit Dinner For Jamie Munford
October 26, 2008 will be held at
The Gathering Place (next door to El Charro)
From 4-6.




There will also be an auction to help raise money.




James Munford was diagnosed with hereditary diffused gastric cancer in Feb. 2008. This specific type of cancer primarily affects the liver, gall bladder, lymph nodes, and stomach. James recently had gall bladder surgery in Jan. 2008 where a cancerous mass was discovered, leading to his current diagnoses. He has been undergoing chemotherapy since March, 2008 in Dallas TX. Due to the excessive medical bills, and his constant recurrent trips to Dallas for chemotherapy, a fundraiser is being held on Oct, 26 2008 to help he and his family alleviate some of the financial burdens they are enduring.






If you have any questions feel free to contact Trisha @ 243-9325 or
Derek @ 405-476-1785.

Old Friends Are Gold

I first came to know Jimmie Jackson when I was at the end of my high school career. I know I am using "career" a little foot loose and fancy free, as the bulk of my time was spent acing six-packs as opposed to sixth hour. But, that's neither here or nor there now, although my crafty beer drinking skills definitely served as a firm foundation for my friendship with Jimmie.
He went to work for my mother and her business partner Sherisse at their former hair saloon, The Creme of the Crop. Stop laughing, it was the 90s. Jimmie was unlike anyone I had ever met before. He was a large man, both in his size and in his vibrant personality. He was silly in ways that I still struggle to explain. His smile was that of a child, devious and ornery and, in so many ways, quite innocent. He was tender, he let his heart by seen by anyone who cared to see it and I loved him for that. And, he was gay, which put a human face on homosexuality for me. Although a few of my childhood friends have since come out of the closet, Jimmie was the first gay person to openly share his struggles and his triumphs with me.
Now, to understand Jimmie you need to know that he was a queen with a flair for drama that ran deep in his . spirit. And that, by the way, is just how he talked me into allowing him to color my hair a week before prom. The outcome was suppose to be deep red highlights. It was not. Instead, my hair was streaked with thick bands of a dark shade of purple that was almost magenta. Naturally, I cussed for a few moments while Jimmie poured me drinks, but it eventually faded and even grew on me a bit. That's the story of how I went to prom my senior year with purple hair. Mind you, this was before the funky-colored hair craze kicked off, so I now inadvertently look kinda like a fashion trailblazer, a farce I am willing to continue.
In keeping with Jimmie's love for the dramatic, he aspired to someday star as a Cher impersonator at a drag show. He loved Cher almost as much as he loved his mother, which was a lot. Seeking out research for his future show, sometime during that same time period, Jimmie and Sherisse talked my square peg mother not only into driving to the city to rock out at a gay bar, but even managed to talk her into letting me come along as well. Jimmie found an ID for me to use, so off we went. For about the first minute in the gay bar, I suffered a bit of culture shock. But then Jimmie introduced me to the owners and a few of his drag queen friends and I was in total heaven. These girls showed me their fabulous collection of evening gowns and metallic lipstick while I slammed keg beer in their dressing rooms. For an 18-year-old girl from Western Oklahoma, this was an epic adventure. We danced late into the night, hopping from gay bar to gay bar. Even as I type this now, a decade later, ABBA plays in my head as I recall shaking my booty with a multi-colored feather boa streaming behind me.
Although Jimmie was a solid 15 years older than I was, we became fast and furious girlfriends. We would stay up late into the twilight, sobbing over my latest teenage crisis while Jimmie consoled me and guided me toward much-needed giggles. He was full of love, ready on demand to dispense affection to those in need. I always marveled at how he freely put himself out there for new friendships, even though he had been burned in the past. He was a sweet spirit and, in so many ways, an innocent soul.
Then I grew up and our adventures took Jimmie and I in separate directions. After a few years, I had almost lost track of my friend. But then, through their miracles of myspace, he found me. Right off the bat, he told me of the death of his mother. Through our emails, his pain in that loss was profoundly seen. As I said before, Jimmie was incapable of loving only a little and his relationship with his parents was paramount in that. After a few emails, he just asked for my number. I sent it to him and within minutes my phone rang. We talked and reminisced for hours. I told him of the love of my life, Rowdy, and our two children and he told me of his, Ken. Jimmie laughed out loud at the prospect of me living on a ranch, running around in the mud chasing cattle. I laughed with him, knowing that image is that of fine comedy.
Our communication continued for months and I had planned to photograph his wedding to Ken. But then, out of the blue, it just stopped. I emailed him a few times, but got no response. After awhile, I was lost once again in my daily existence and forgot to keep trying. Little did I know, my friend had gotten ill.
So, you can imagine my surprise and my guilt when my mother called me on October 8 to tell me Jimmie had died. Truthfully, I still don't fully know what killed him. I just know that he had been sick for most of this year. I also know that he was one of the finest people I've ever had the good fortune to call my friend. I am comforted in knowing that in the last few years he found the love of his life. He was true to himself in ways few people have the courage to be. He was full of love and full of life and he ushered in acceptance for all people. Above all, he was a friend.
Jimmie's memorial is in Enid tomorrow. Sadly, I won't be able to attend. I've been meaning to write this ever since I learned of his tragic passing, but each time I sat down to it, the pain choked my words. It's hard even still.
Jimmie,
We loved you for all that you are. I hope we meet again somehow in the great scheme of things. You were the best example I know of honesty in the face of great scrutiny. May peace find you, old friend.
I love you,
Shonda

The Rewards of Sacrifice

Losing yourself in a sea of motherhood seems almost inevitable. As it, almost my entire friend roster is comprised of mommas and, to one degree or another, they've all reported near-drowning in sippee cups and balanced breakfasts and, sweet bejesus, diaper cream. And as much as we love, love, love our darling spawn, we sometimes find ourselves staring with envy at our single, free friends. Our minds drift back to brisk summer evenings, of drinking cold beers on a quilt as Bobby Dylan belted "Don't Think Twice, It's Alright" into dark night, of staying up way too late and then sleeping in even later. With a sigh you push the memories of that totally uninhibited ghost of yourself back into the recesses of your mind and then spoon another helping of macaroni and cheese out for the kids.
But then, when least expect it and need it the most, some small detail reminds you that all things great in this life come with the cost of great sacrifice. Through all your bitching and bellyaching, you are caught completely off guard. That, by the way, is the design of it. If you happened to be expecting some breath-taking moment then it wouldn't be some breath-taking. It would just be, well, a moment.
Now, I don't want this to sound like I am second-guessing my path into motherhood. That's not the case at all. My children are the two greatest people I know and I'm not just saying that because they were housed in my uterus for damn near a year. They are witty and compassionate, quirky and kind. But, in order for them to bloom, they must be the object of my attention. It's easy to get absorbed in such an awesome responsibility.
So, this weekend when I was mentally and emotionally beat down, one of those simple moments crept up on me out of nowhere.
My littlest guy Rolan has always been a lover. While his brother is certainly sweet and full of love, he was never the snuggler that Rolan is. Rolan is just, well, affectionate.
Because both my children are early risers, clearly a trait they inherited from their dad and, subsequently, requires me to drag my wide ass out of bed far early than I would like, I was out of bed Saturday morning with the cravings for more rest luring me back to sleep. I sat in the recliner sipping coffee as Ridge and Rolan watched The Bee Movie. (By the way, if you haven't seen this yet, do. Unfortunately, I watch more cartoons these days than I would like, but this gets high marks from me.)
Just as I was cursing the universe for unfairly crashing into my peaceful slumber, my Rolan made me realize how blessed I am to have him and his brother to be up early with.
He shimmied up my leg and into my lap. First he touched his nose to mine and then buried his head into the nook of my neck. And just when I thought this moment was as sweet as it gets, he grabbed one of my arms, wrapping it around his body, and then reached down to grab the other, throwing it over him as well. He wanted to be near me, to be embraced by his mother. At the risk of sounding pitifully corny, I kind of got a tear in my eye. We know our children love us, we do. But, in these tender instances when you can feel the outpouring of their adoration, you realize that all the personal identity you have had to forfeit for their well-being is worth the investment.
After a few minutes, I broke my embrace and put my arms back at my side. Rolan reached down just as he had before, grabbing one of my arms and then the other, wrapping them around him.
It was a perfect moment, a moment I have been needing.

Nothing Says "I Love America" like Day Drinking

I woke up this morning all groggy from 6 hours of semi-sleep, the result of a 3-year-old jabbing me in the ribs with his knee all night. Oh motherhood! As soon as I sprung from bed, blurted out my day's first "shit" as a toy tractor pierced through the skin of my left foot, I remembered that this is a holiday. Well, it's not an official holiday yet, Mayor Rudy didn't win the GOP nod.
I dropped my darling boy Ridge off at Rainbow Lane and then went straight to the Hog Trough for a day of barbecuing. My man Dan stopped by and I had to scare him with all my liberal ramblings. He is currently running on the GOP ticket for the Oklahoma legislature, so you know I'm a tall order for him to swallow. But he takes all my hethen jargan like a real trooper. My husband probably told him that disagreeing with me only makes me talk longer. He's a pretty good guy, as far as Republicans go. They win my heart every now and again. I married one, remember!
Just as I was finishing up all my greasy work, a table of true patriots came in. Foul-mouthed day drinkers. For my dime, there is nothing more American than eating meat by the saucy pound and downing it with cold beer in the middle of the afternoon. When they ordered their second round of brew, I was like, "Man, these dudes freakin' love America."
Now, I'm not being a wise ass. If everybody didn't get all Judgey McHolier-than-Thou, I would crack open a Bud Light and blast "God Bless the USA" as Ridge and I drove home. I think that is the most appropriate way to commemorate those lost. Way back in 2001 when the planes flew into the buildings, the entire world, myself included, watched awe-struck and sorrowful as we knew thousands of good people lost loved ones. After several hours of spellbound television watching, I decided to answer the call of patriotism. I went down the street to the Geritol Bar (also known as The New Oasis), frequented by the local senior citizens, and drank beer with a handful of lit-up World War II veterans. Of course, Bud Light is now made by some Belgium company, so it's only half as patriotic now as it was then. Either way, we shook our heads together, knowing the world was forever changed and that more blood would be shed. We prayed for those who died and those who had lost loved ones.
There are two ways I deal with tragedy: inappropriate humor and day drinking. Since I started having kids left and freakin' right, I can't booze it up at noon. And I can't do it at night because I will stay up too late. You know I turn into a bitchy pumpkin at 10. Screw that midnight bullshit. So, I need a volunteer to take my duty. After all, I am all about this Country First stuff. I know this is asking a lot, but I basically need one of you to enlist to the call of liberty and drink my share of beer. Several of the ornery gentleman I hung out with on 9/11 have also passed away, so you'll need to pick up at least part of their share, too. I know this is asking a lot, I do, but Momma Little and Uncle Sam WANT YOU!


On a serious note, I want to send my condolences to those who lost loved ones on that fateful day. Regardless of our differing politics in this great country, I think we can agree that we all felt a little more American on that day. I would also like to thank those who have been sent to war as a result of the events of 9/11. Just like our mourning for those lost, our various political beliefs still come together for our pride in our military members. You have a tough job and I commend you for it.

The Brother Battle Wages On

Sweet B'Jesus, Mother of God, I don't know how much more I can take. Now, don't get me wrong, I love my children. I love them to the moon and back. I love them so much I am thinking of puncturing my own ear drums to keep from freakin' killing them.
Rolan, the baby, turned 2 in July and it was as though some magic ass kicking switch turned on when he did. Don't get me wrong, Rolan has been taking up for himself for a while. But, ever since that birthday, he is now on the shit starting end as well.
Most mornings the boys play well until at least 10. At that point, one of them starts playing with a useless cardboard box that the other must have and then they lock both arms at the elbows and scream at one another in a pitch shrill enough to deafen a dog. I discipline them, but they don't care. The fight is on and each boy would rather lay limp and bleeding on the carpet than concede whatever toy they are bickering over. Never mind that we have, like, $1000 worth of mind numbing horseshit from them to tinker with. Toys are only desirable when they are in brother's hands.
The battle cries started particularly early this morning at 9 am. By 10, I was thinking of drinking a half a bottle of vanilla extract to take the parental edge off, but then I remembered that I had to be the role model. Frankly, that's probably what's wrong with this situation to start with. What the hell was God thinking? I'm sure He's scratching His head right now, muling over the desperation he must've faced when he put me of all people in charge of the future. (Yes, children are the future. I know because Whitney Houston sung about it. Also, crack is whack, just another pearl of wisdom from Whit.
As I stare totally dumbfounded at my UFC fighter sons, I remember all the bullshit arguments Katie and I threw down in front of Mom. I remember her pleading for us to knock this nonsense off. I just wanted her to recognize that Katie was a pain in the ass little sister who needed to be stopped at all cost. Those were, after all, my toys she was putting her greasy little hands on. Now I just wish I could buy a time machine, travel back to the early 90s, pimp my MC Hammer pants and give my little sister a hug.

The Portrait of a Marriage

With the Democratic Convention and then John McCain's vice presidential pick announced this week, I didn't pay much attention to other news. So, this morning as I sipped French Vanilla coffee and watched This Week with George Stephanopolous (I would totally leave Rowdy for 15 minutes alone with that hot Greek in a closet....shishhhh), my heart broke when they reported that Del Martin had died.
Del was 87 and had certainly lived a full life as one of our nation's greatest civil rights leaders. Just three short months ago, she and her partner of 55 years, Phyllis Lyon, become the first same-sex couple married in California....again. The pair had wed once before, but their marriage was annulled by a bunch of judges, most of whom have failed in sustaining a relationship a quarter of the time Phyllis and Del have.
I don't really recall how these two women first came on my radar. In between their work as founders of the nation's first gay and lesbian magazine, The Ladder, and organizing multiple civil rights groups, they are really hard to miss.
I've always held an admiration for trail blazers, for those who go against the grain even at the risk of persecution. While I believe Phyllis and Del have been heroes of the highest proportion for consistently putting the good of the whole before themselves time and time again, my true regard comes from their dedication to each other.
In each book and article I read about the two of them, in each show or documentary telling their love story, they had the same statement: that from the time they first met each other in Seattle in 1953, they both knew the other would always be their partner. It wasn't a conscious decision, just like you don't make a conscious decision for your left arm to be your left arm. They were part of each other in a way that couldn't be severed.
So, since I embarked upon my own adventures in marriage nearly five years ago, I have channeled the commitment of Phyllis and Del on many occasions. To me, it's not an issue of sexuality. There are heterosexual couples like us that I could seek advice from and there have been many times that I have. But, with Phyllis and Del, they've never seen their love as a choice. It just was. And, that's what I want for my own marriage.
In one of the documentaries I watched on the two ladies, they both acknowledged that the other had, on many occasions, frankly pissed the other off. They lived together, they worked together. It would be impossible through 55 years of living so closely to another human being, sharing the same air and the same money, not to get peeved at times. But, the idea of separating, of existing apart, was never even thought of. Through too many arguments to count, times when I thought I might kill Rowdy if I didn't get away from him, I've drawn on the wisdom of Phyllis and Del. At a time when most marriages have little shot of making it past the first few years, largely because of our wildly unrealistic notions of matrimony, Phyllis and Del have taught us that true romance isn't glitzy and exciting. Rather, it is dependability, curled up on the couch watching re-runs on a Sunday afternoon dependable, sitting for hours in a hospital room dependable. Any first kiss under the stars is going to take our breath away, or at least many of them will. It's what comes after that, when you've climbed every new and exciting milestone and it's just the two of you that molds into what Phyllis and Del shared for 55 years.
I'm still new to marriage. As the road of life goes, we've just pulled out of the driveway. And, truthfully, I don't know if we will have the same success as my two marital heroes. Really, who does? But, when the times are hard, and I know some will be, I'll be thankful that I stumbled upon the story of Phyllis and Del, two of the great lovers of our time. From the openness in the relationship, especially at a time when so many fail, I thank them. And, for Phyllis, who at the age of 83 is living for the first time in 55 years without her spouse, my heart and prayers are with you.

Ever since I met Del 55 years ago, I could never imagine a day would come when she wouldn't be by my side. I also never imagined there would be a day that we would actually be able to get married. I am devastated, but I take some solace in knowing we were able to enjoy the ultimate rite of love and commitment before she passed. --Phyllis Lyon

The Spirit of the American Farmer

The alarm clock buzzed at 5 am. As though I was still dreaming, I sprung from bed, turning the damn thing off. Crawling back into bed, I remembered that Rowdy told me he had to be up that early.
"Baby, if you are still wanting to get out of bed at 5, then it's time to wake up," I said, softly shaking his shoulders.
I stumbled to the kitchen for a drink of water. When I returned, he was still half-asleep. I didn't want to go back to bed myself until I knew he was awake. After all, I turned off his alarm without thinking. Rowdy's unfettered will to work even in the most undesirable circumstances has always amazed me, so I knew he would be up in just a second.
Since I hitched my wagon to his star five years ago, my knowledge of agriculture families has taken on a new definition. Most of what I thought to be true before has gone to the wayside, things I didn't even know was done has turned out to be the foundation of farming and ranching.
With our operation, Rowdy has to be a jack of all trades. Before he goes out each morning and when he comes in late at night, he scours the internet for market data. And not just the Chicago Merchantile Exchange either, all of them. He scouts weather patterns and veterinary trends. He mechanics on everything from bulldozers and large tractors to pick-up trucks and plows. His days are long, longer than anyone else I know and I've never heard him even mutter a small complaint.
The rain fell early this year, so he's started sowing wheat. Although no time of our year is technically slow, this is hands down the busiest. The success of the crop is so dependent on Mother Nature, circumstances completely beyond our control. It must be done when it can be done.
I don't know anyone else who saves their vacation time to farm, but Rowdy's little brother Chad (please click on Chad's name for the GREATEST story ever) comes out every year to drive tractors and labor in the unforgiving Oklahoma sun. He lives in Edmond, a suburb of Oklahoma City, with his wife and children. Although he isn't technically involved in agribusiness, he is still married to our farming and ranching success. I'm sure many others are committed to their family's businesses as well, but I think his is particularly true of farm and ranch families. It's not just the notion of livlihood, although that's an issue at hand, but also being a part of the whole, belonging to something larger than yourself. Chad knows the prosperity of our year, or lack thereof, is tied to this expensive slither. Plus, he and Rowdy are closer than perhaps any other two siblings on the globe. I mean, they are like Fidel and Raul Castro, dominating a country, close. Although we do pay Chad for his hard work during this time, there are some things money cannot compensate for. He and his wife could use this vacation time to be off on some lover's retreat together. Hell, he could spend it swaying in the hammock in his backyard. Instead he's caked in sweat and dirt, tending to cattle and plows for us. In fact, Chad's childhood on the farm continues to play such a large role in who he is today, he wrote a song about it.
So, when Rowdy and I were in John Deere, the same dealership my grandfather ran the parts department and worked on many a tractor for nearly 40 years until his death four years ago, I spotted this bumper sticker on one of the office windows. It spoke to me, not in a tripping on acid way, but in a waxing nostalgic way.
Of course, our greatest motivation in this line of work is to provide for our family. But, even though we produces only a small little dent in the country's food chain, it is there, on the kitchen table's of strangers. We know that China already produces 1 out of every 2 vegetables grown each year. We might not be able to match that ever again, but we can at least do our little part.


PS--For all your readers who visit my page for my foul-mouthed antics and mishaps, I will be posting one you'll love later on this evening. I promise to dry up my recent sappy behavior.

The Intersection of Lives

Ridge attended his first day of Rainbow Lane on Tuesday. As I posed him front of the school's sign, the image in my mind was bittersweet. A little over 20 years ago, my mother propped me up next to the same sign and hugged me as I set off toward my education. As I stared at him, trying hard to burn every little detail in my memory, I was struck by the fact that he was like a baby AND a big boy, somewhere in between total dependence on my care and total liberation from his momma's watchful eye.
Because we didn't get the call for his acceptance into the preschool until Sunday evening, I got to follow him into Rainbow Lane. Mrs. Fryman had asked me to come early, not just to fill out the necessary paper work, but also to help Ridge get a feel for the place. He has, after all, never been without me or his father.
The other students started filing into the building, some with eager smiles pulled from one side of their faces to the other, some crying anxious pleas for their parents. Ridge just sat on the bench, watching his new classmates stream by him. I snuck into the front and finished his paper work. With a concert of childhood noises in my ear, I walked out of the building, away from my son, the student.
I've spent the last week trying to muster up enough gumption to write about Shelby Ford, his life and his death and his family that the great bulk of Western Oklahoma, myself included, have grown to adore. For those of you reading this who aren't from this neck of the woods, Shelby was a 33-year-old family man whose life was cut tragically short in a violent crash in Major County. Another Elk City man, Denton Wood, 22, the son of two well-known educators, was also in the vehicle with Shelby and continues to fight his critical injuries in the hospital.
As I drove away from Rainbow Lane Tuesday morning, Shelby's parents, Gary and Lou Ford, consumed my thoughts. When you grow up in a small town, often the same small town your parents and your grandparents were also raised in, you form rich, intertwining relationships with those who live and work around you.
Our lives are always at an intersection, crossing each other over and over again. On this day, I was sending my oldest son to school for the very first time as Lou Ford was preparing to lay her oldest son to rest. I tried to push that thought out, but I couldn't.
Gary Ford and his business partner John Edwards have been my eye doctors my entire life. One time in the 6th grade, Charlie Atteberry wrote on my eyeball with a dry erase marker (I swear). Gary shook his head and told us both that this was, in fact, a first for him. Their office is right behind the Pizza Hut I slung pizzas at for about a decade. Although there were many customers I truly loved, Gary and Lou Ford were at the top of that list.
When they would walk through the door with their family, each waitress would storm the door, tripping each other for the chance to wait on them. I'm sure their dependable good tips helped that, but their friendly demeanor is really what made us love them so.
Of course, I was also motivated by my teenage crush on Shelby. He was a cute, older boy who always smiled when I asked for his drink order. I haven't told many people about that, so let's keep that between us.
The Ford's oldest child, Toye, is the mother of two of the most well-behaved children we ever had in the restaurant. I could see she mothered her children the same way Lou had mothered her. The family baby, Ty, was only a year younger than me in school. Given our shared flare for the ornery, Ty and I have always been a bit like birds of a feather. Although my sister can aggravate me more than perhaps any other person on the globe, she also understands me more than just about anyone else. She knows where I came from, for she comes from the same place. I cannot imagine losing her and, for that, my heart is broken for Toye and Ty.
When I moved to Cheyenne to be with Rowdy, Shelby was living somewhere else. When he returned home, I was out here. It's not that far from Elk City, but I can still go months or even years without running into someone I've known forever. So, I guess for that reason I've never met his wife Patty. But, I know that she picked Shelby and he picked her. That in itself tells me that she is great. They shared two very small children, Avery and Cooper. I cannot begin to put a name on the emotions Patty must be feeling right now. While she is managing her own grief, she will have to find a way to explain to her babies how much their father loves them, even though he's not physically there. Just the thought of those conversations makes my heart tremble.
I dropped off food at the Ford's last Saturday. At least a block before I got to their house, vehicles lined both sides of their road. Their yard was littered with other townsfolk, flocking together in grief. I didn't stay long. I didn't want to be in the way.
As I told Gary and Lou to call upon us if they needed anything, Gary wrapped a firm embrace around me for several minutes. Lou grabbed my hands and said, "Shonda, there isn't anywhere else I would rather go through this than in Elk City, Oklahoma."
Gary shook his head. So did I. Their pain is for the loss of their son, for the loss of the father to their grandchildren and my pain for them. When you grow up in a small community, you have this very acute sense that we are all in this together. When you read about a fatal car accident in the newspaper, you can't just put it down and walk away. Whether they are a close friend or the familiar face from a business you frequent, you know them or you know someone who knows them. We are all interconnected and our lives intersect.
Or, as my friend Derek wrote in his newspaper, the one I contribute to:

This is about our community. Any community, really. The people you live with and laugh with and argue with and cry with....
In a town this size, our communities may not all be the same. Whether because of different churches, different friends, different-aged kids, different jobs -- we all move in different circles within this big circle that is our town.
But those circles all touch and bump together and overlap. We are all connected. We all need someone to be happy with when we are happy and to be sad with when we are sad. We all need someone to fill our pain.

I decided not to attend Shelby's funeral. I was helping my aunt at her cafe, as I will be doing each Tuesday and Thursday. Her daughter Cookie also works for her. Cookie and Shelby graduated together, so it seemed more fitting that I stay at the restaurant while they attended. Plus, to be honest, I just couldn't bring myself to see Gary and Lou hurt like that. I still can't stand the thought of it.
I picked Ridge up a few hours after I dropped him off. He bounced in the pick-up, excited artifacts tumbling from his lips before I could even say hello. In his hands were papers he had created on his first day. To you, it might seem like random scribbles, but to me, his momma, they were nothing short of DiVinci masterpieces.
Then I dropped him off at Mollie's and went back to the Hog Trough for a few more hours. Throughout the day, the Ford family would pop back up in my mind, especially Lou. I know her pain is no more or no less than any other member of that family, but as a mother, I was overwhelmed by the reality she faces. I thought of Ridge's first day of school, the way he jumped in the pick-up invigorated by his new friends, and I know that those same memories from Shelby's childhood will periodically flash into her mind.
I think time is a funny thing. Huge, rolling blocks of it will pass with few changes and then, out of nowhere, in a split second, in the bat of an eye, your entire existence is changed. The conception of a child is that way, so is the loss of one.
As I put my boys to bed Tuesday night, I ran my fingers through their hair, realizing the blessing I have in being their mother. Not just a mother, their mother. They are the same and different all at once. I read to them a little longer than I normally do that night and I have each night since. I'm sure with the busy hustling of life that will soon fade. I hope it doesn't, but I'm sure it will. Even in this tragedy, the Fords have continued giving to our community. And, that's Shelby's and Lou's gift to me.

The Death of a Patriot

As I groggily crawled from bed, springing Rolan from his crib, and took up camp in the living room, I noticed Bobby was the television. I've been meaning to watch the 2006 historical film about the last day of Bobby Kennedy's life and those who were there at the Ambassador Hotel at that terrible intersection of American history. Just before the movie was released two years ago, I caught an interview with Emilio Estevez, who wrote, directed and played in it. As he spoke not just of his passion for this project, but also the place deep within him that it rooted from, I was seeded with more desire than I already would've been to see it. Bobby Kennedy was murdered 12 years before I was born, but for reasons I may never understand, I've always felt drawn to him and his brother.
So when I saw the movie had just started and then I realized that this is the Fourth of July, I thought it would be a great way to celebrate the freedom of our nation.
Bobby was the truest of patriots and, in one of the most tumultuous times in our country's span, labored to unite a people deeply divided. Even though his big brother Jack's life had violently been snuffed out prematurely in a motorcade, Bobby resisted the constant concerns of his advisers because he longed to be close to the people. Those close to him remember that Bobby often worried out loud that there would be a day that when someone referenced the Kennedy assassination, they would have to specify which one. But, in spite of that knowledge that he was exposing himself to a generous lot of danger, he fought forward for the welfare of our nation. Sadly, that grim prediction came true, not five years after his brother's death.
If Bobby hadn't been murdered, whether or not he would have won in the White House in 1968, our country's history would have been different. As I watched Bobby this morning, that thought really resonated with me. With a famous RFK speech about unity and love and resisting violence played over still images of the moments after his shooting, the solid fact that this ended not just his life, but his movement waved over me. And then I realized that six months after Bobby died, Richard Nixon was elected to the United States Presidency.
Nixon, as it is, was a total disaster. The only reason we have a FISA court in the first place was because Nixon had to be put in check. He illegally used his influenced AND the long arm of the US government to destroy those unlucky people on his enemies list. Now, you might think those he scribbled down on old paper and then carried around in his lapel pocket were some liberal political masterminds or adversaries in the Congress who blocked his legislation. Well, you would be wrong? Who was on Nixon's enemies list, you ask? Let me tell you, Tricky Dick wasn't scared to hold ridicules grudges. He put folks like the actor Paul Newman. Paul, you see, had been in one of George McGovern's political ads and, when asked during polling, voters sited it as effective. Nixon knew Paul would definitely campaign for Ed Muskie in 1972, so he sicked the IRS and other government agencies on him. He did this with the others on the list as well. He hoped that, even with unfounded charges and claims, they would have to pay frivolous attorney's fees to defend themselves, thus tying up extra funds for political donations, and their reputations would be so damaged by the fraudulent allegations that the American public would see them as a eyesore on their perfect American dream.
Now, Nixon was a crazy asshole, as crazy as they make 'em, but I'm sure he got some help cooking up this insane theories and notions. I mean, it's not like he presided over a calm time. Not only was Vietnam still in full swing, but our relations with Russia were souring, the oil fallout from OPEC's reaction to the Yom Kippur War was sending our economy into a oil-starved tailspin (sound familiar?) and omens of our future conflicts within the Middle East were appearing. He helped in overthrowing the government of Chile. He had plenty of shit to do, but he was sitting around comprising an enemies list of entertainers and reporters. His vice president Spiro Agnew had to resign because of allegations of bribery, tax evasion and money laundering. And who could forget Watergate? I mean, Lynyrd Sknyrd did sing in that song that it didn't bother them, but it certainly seemed to rile up a whole lot of folks aside from them.
The reason I bring this up is because so few people realize how Nixon's administration, more than any other including Reagan or Bush I, influenced the current one. After all, Dick Cheney and Don Rumsfield both served as Nixon's Chief-of-Staff. They already knew how to stonewall Congress on wide-spread wiretapping because they'd help Dick do it when he was all paranoid about pot-smoking hippies.
There's no way of knowing if Bobby hadn't been shot by Sirhan Sirhan, if he would have won the election in 1968. His big brother Jack had already kicked Nixon's ass when they went toe to toe in the presidential election of 1960 and I fully believe it would have been a repeat had Bobby been able to get his hands on him. We wouldn't have spent 7 more years in Vietnam. I know we quit actually drafting troops in 1972, but we didn't pull out until 1975. Because of Bobby's positive influence with minorities, I think we would have had a more productive healing period in the 1970s. The country wouldn't have to endure the global embarrassment that was Watergate.
And, there is a good chance that two future politicians, Dick Cheney and Don Rumsfield wouldn't have been stream-lined to the top. They are both dangerously ambitious men, so most assuredly they would've mucked up plenty without Nixon's pump to the top, but I don't think they would have been as powerful.
Many tragedies spawned from Bobby's untimely death, but I think most thought they were buried along with him back in the 60s. That's just not the case. We would live in a different country and a different world had Bobby not died when he did. Just look to Iraq to see the greater fallout. Rumsfield, a draft dodger, and Cheney, or "Five Deferment Dick," as I like to call him, didn't have to go to Vietnam, but they certainly didn't mind sending young kids into Iraq. Even though several Pentagon officials advised against it, they sent them without a plan. They sent them without enough money because they thought the public's support would be soured if they knew they gave the estimate defense experts expected. And now no one knows what to do because all the answers seem bad.
I hope you are all having a great Fourth of July. If you see a veteran, thank him or her for their service. After all, they and the Constitution they swear to defend is what gives me the freedom to pen my thoughts on Robert Francis Kennedy. On this holiday of our independence, I want to leave you with one of his quotes. It is one of my favorites.

“Each time a man stands for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring, those ripples build a current which can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance.”

Oh, and for God's sake, don't pop the Black Cats.

Live to Blog Another Day

Until last night, I had thought I'd had a near-death experience. There were a few times during my teen years that I realized with the light of a new day that perhaps the poor decisions of the night before could have produced a calamity. On a drive back from Oklahoma City one afternoon, a large propane grill tumbled out of a pick-up and onto I-40 as my friend Casey and I traveled back to Elk City. A skilled driver the likes of Richard Petty, Case swerved around it like stoic ice skater. For the remaining trip, he and I discussed just how bad that could have been had we been any closer to that pick-up. In my mind, that was truly a close call, that is, until last night.
It's not always easy for those of us who live west of El Reno to know what to do in the event of summer storms, as any Western Oklahoman will testify. Growing up here, we fully comprehend the realized potential of a tornado. And, you normally don't end up living in Oklahoma by chance. Most of us are multi-generational Okies. We cut our teeth on May's fury. So, we definitely take the threat of a twister seriously. With that said, the unbalanced weather coverage we receive from the television stations makes it difficult to predict just what action, if any, we should take. First of all, there have been many times that we do get over showered with walled off coverage . Sometimes this happens when there isn't much threat, although this is certainly the exception. And sometimes a cyclone of dooming is leering at us. Both happen. Of course, this leads us to believe that, in the event of a serious cloud, the stations will wallpaper us with reports. As much as I do appreciate it at the time, the occasional broadcasting of Western Oklahoma misleads us into thinking that they will inform us of all our threats. Even further perplexing, if any sort of increment weather approaches the Oklahoma City metro area, holy shit, all three news stations thrust into full on hysteria. These clouds are stalked by caffeine-fueled storm chasers like Britney or Lindsay stumbling out of the club. Don't get me wrong, if OKC is experiencing grave danger, I want it to be covered. We have family who live there. Two of my favorite little people in the world, Paden and Josie, are residents of the metro. So, by all means, I want my tv programming interrupted if they or any of their fellow city dwellers face even a little threat. It's always better to have and not need than need and not have, right? They do, however, get a little hysterical when the city faces any thunderstorm at all, which makes it difficult for us to know just what option to go with when are facing our own storms and the channels aren't broadcasting much on them.
And, so was the case Sunday evening. Oddly, Rowdy had spent the entire day at the house with the boys and me. A crazed workaholic, this almost never happens. We just....hung out. It was nice. I am coaching the Cheyenne tan t-ball team this year, so I had scheduled a practice for 7 pm. At about 5:15, Rowdy and I pulled up the local radar on the DTN, knowing a thunderstorm of unknown strength was likely on its way. Just as we confirmed this, my friend Angel, whose daughter Zaylee is on our team, called. Her job at the Roger Mills County Sheriff's Office affords her privy to the National Weather Service. A clustered string of cloud formations in the Texas Panhandle were streaming toward us like a pack of gnarly Hell's Angels, circa 1966, descending upon a paralyzed Norman Rockwell community. We decided to reschedule the practice.
Sometime between 6:30 and 7, Rowdy told me he thought we should go to his mother's house, which is about 1000 feet from our house, because she has a storm shelter. A family member in Sweetwater, a small town southwest of Cheyenne, had reported winds of 100 miles per hour. I didn't know if this was true or not because I didn't know how this force was measured. We turned on the television, switching back and forth between the three Oklahoma stations. Each had the miniature map of Oklahoma with our county highlighted for tornadoes in the top corner, but all were airing their regular programming. This is puzzling not just because an ominous vortex was obviously entering into the state, but also because all three stations gave non-stop storm analysis on Thursday night to a storm in Oklahoma City that clearly had no potential for anything outside of rain and small hail. I even remember Gary England saying as much while I was watching the endless parade of moving radar on my tv screen. Needless to say, that sort of annoyed me Thursday night because of past incidences like the storm just before our cruise, but the memory really aggravated me Sunday evening as we walked out the door. So, when we left for Glenda's, the lack of coverage lead me to think that approaching clouds would hold the danger I later discovered they did.
Not long after we got to Glenda's, the rain and hail began. An army of deep denim clouds amassed in the southwestern sky and the horizon stewed into a charcoal broth of thunder and lightening, a glazed sunset barely breaking through the bottom.
After 15 or 20 minutes of heaving rain and small hail, I realized that I didn't turn of my computer when I was leaving for Glenda's. This, no doubt, was a product of my uncertainty in this storm's might. I'm an Oklahoma native, so I know all the possibilities. But, as I said before, it is a bit disorienting when the weather reporting is unreflective of each storm's wrath. They either overdo it or underdo it, there is no in between. From the radar on the television screen's corner, we could see that more was to come. However, since the graphic was micro made as though mice or some other tiny animal were their desired audience, we couldn't really make out just when and where this would be hitting. Fortunately, Angel was still at the sheriff's office, so she told us another monster was rolling from Reydon toward us. With the rain and hail in a temporary loll, I asked Rowdy if he thought I had time to come to our house, just down the hill a little ways, to turn off the computer. After all, I had just downloaded 1,500 pictures from Kassie Jackson's and Mike Lee's wedding and I hadn't burned a cd yet. Although I have a surge protector, I didn't want to risk a total loss in their irreplaceable wedding photos through a fried computer if electricity just happened to strike our house. I mean, weirder things have happened. It was calm enough for the time being, so Rowdy said he thought it would be fine for me to come right down to the house and right back. I jumped in our Explorer and headed down the hill. The rain was definitely falling, but it was manageable shower.
I shuffled quickly in the house, turned off the computer and directly went back to the car. Awww.....gorgeous wedding pictures safe and secure. A wedding day cannot be relived and I take that responsibility seriously. Just as I opened my car door, I remembered that I hadn't deleted the photos from my memory card when I downloaded them. The card was new and I wanted to make sure they were fully on my computer before they were evaporated into cyber air. Perfect, I thought. If for some reason the computer still faced any damage, like in the event of a ravishing twister, I would have back up. I ran back in the house, grabbed the memory card and went to the car for the second time. Now our border collie, Whiskey, tried to scuttle in. At first my instincts hastily shut the door, leaving him in the storm. But then I realized what I had done. I love Whiskey, the pooch not the hooch. I don't think he has ever actually been inside the cab of the vehicle, so it took a little coaxing on my part to lure him inside. Not long, just a few seconds. However, this and my speedy return for the memory card saved my life, at least in my mind.
Backing out of my carport, I realized the rain had almost instantly flowed into a downpour. Hail beat unforgiving against my car's exterior. The repeating thumps sounded like mortar fire. Together they were overwhelming to my sight. It was literally raining and hailing so hard that I could not see. Outside my windshield, a vast, wet blanket of gray blocked my vision. Of course I've traveled up and down this graveled driveway thousands of times, so I relatively knew where I was. But, I inched slowly up the hill because, frankly, I could see nothing...
As I crept up the driveway, all my energy was consumed with simply trying to see where I was. I knew it was wet and I knew I could easily get stuck. Also, my mother-in-law has worked hard to establish her yard. I don't really know how fast I was driving or how long my trek back up the hill too, but was slow. I do know that.
Still straining my eyes for a path, I realized that I was driving over bigger gravel and I knew where I was. The turn from the big driveway, which runs north and south to both our house and Glenda's, into hers has the larger pebbles in the corner. Relief waved over my body. I both knew where I was and I knew I was close to my mother-in-law's house.
Within a few seconds of realizing this, I also finally saw something. Although it was still too hazy to fully distinguish, I thought the big block of white something was probably my in-law's travel trailer. Just as had this thought, it appeared to be getting rapidly closer to me, although I was barely moving. And, just as had this thought, I unwittingly realized this was correct.
According to Rowdy's keen depth perception, the larger gravel and the spot the trailer was formerly parked at are about 75 feet from each other. When the travel trailer caught my attention, thank God, I immediately honed in on it. Clinching the steering wheel until my knuckles were white, or so I suspect, my neck dipped well into my shoulders as I strained to see the world outside my car. In the most frightening moment of my life, I saw the trailer dp one full tumble, bounce when it's top hit the soaked Earth, spin in midair and then continue rolling rapidly toward me. I was driving into an avalanche of metal, fiberglass and wood. It was nearly upon me and, if I didn't move, it would be in a matter of seconds.
Now before I go in further, it needs to be explained that each thought was fragmented and each action purely instinct. Immediately, I threw the Explorer in reverse and flew down the hill. I don't remember clearly thinking which path I suspected this mammoth rolling stone to violently take, I just knew I would be in it if I didn't move. When I first realized what was actually going down, that I was outside in this, I knew I was in imminent and serious danger. It wasn't the thought that I could die, but rather, the stern knowledge that I could die. A lifelong Okie, I had broken the cardinal law. I was out in this mother cloud. Now, as all this madness was unfolding around me, I do recall believing that a tornado must've popped out of the sky. That happens all the time. They can come out of nothing and then go right back into it. I figured my family was inside the safe room, aware that the storm had elevated even if they didn't know about the trailer's demise. In that moment, as spectacular and sensational as special effects from Twister, my existence was poignantly simple: outside equals death and inside equals life.
As I reversed until I felt I was out of the trailer's direction at least temporarily, I could hear my father telling me to always drive forward if I had the option. The unrelenting flood was still pouring so heavily that I could see nothing. Therefore, I knew I couldn't drive much of anywhere because I couldn't see much of anything. Just as I pulled forward, I realized that I was on the small level plateau in the middle of big hill between my house and Glenda's. The soaked ground would've been a sponge for my SUV, which was now turned almost as though it was driving back down the hill. Between that and the thick, blinding rain, I knew I would make it faster on foot. And, I knew where I was. I parked my car. I had to make a run for it.
I flung the car door open, commanded Whiskey outside and forged into the drenching abyss. As out of shape as I am, which is pretty damn out of shape, I never felt an ounce of physical restraint. Every cell in my body was united in our dash into the house. Thank God for that because the fierce trinity of wind, rain and hail provided plenty obstacle. When one hail stone connected with my lip, the taste the blood was on my tongue, but the fat lip didn't register until after I made it inside. Twice I fell in my siege, but I didn't even stop to realize I had. I just pushed forward, frantically aware that the outside equaled death and the inside equaled life. Truthfully, I don't think the run took very long and I don't recollect really having any concept of how much it was taking. My mind seemed to be able to have only one thought.
Just as shocked as I was when I witnessed this travel trailer pushed over by the gusting wind and tumble toward me as though it were cardboard, I was awestruck to make it to the house. After avoiding the trailer, reversing my car and then turning it around, my run to the house seemed pretty simple. Drenched and muddy and heaving from my panic sprint, I tried to retell this story to my family. Until this moment, I have never fully understood the meaning of the word terror. It's a little different than the other fear-related words. In the purest definition, it is the realization that this moment really could be your last. Rowdy and the boys were sitting in the storm shelter and Glenda was fending off a flood of water rushing into her house and onto her hardwood floors from the crack beneath her back door. No one even knew this was happening outside.
I started telling them the events of the last few moments, although my panicked recount had to be hard to follow. I was still trying to process everything that happened. Gasping for the breath of sweet survival, I told Glenda and Wallice that I was pretty positive that their trailer was gone. Honestly, I don't know for sure at that time if they understood that it hadn't just tipped over and rolled maybe once or twice. It flipped and twisted and turned like pebble plummeting down a boulder. I still didn't know for certain where it finally rested, but I knew wherever that was, that it was gone.
As I said before, I don't remember fully realizing the extent of my miracle. My mind was still in survivor mode. After a few minutes, it started sinking in. Images of that rolling trailer flashed through my mind over and over again.
I've had some friends die in freak accidents and many times I have wondered if, even for a brief nanosecond, they knew they were in a pickle. Did James Banks see that pipe has it plunged toward him? Did James Ashworth realize his pick-up was turning? I don't really know why my mind as wondered to that place, but it has from time to time. Normally while my brain is picking through the sordid details of these two dreadful days, I also know that a few seconds difference in their actions right before their accidents could have made them just something they talked about over beers. Had either one of them talked for five less seconds or five more seconds, they simply would've witnessed that pipe and that turkey. And, with full certainty, I believe that coming back inside to grab that memory card and taking the time to load up a stressed border collie saved my life. Had I not done those things, I would've been on the hill's small summit just as the trailer started flying and I wouldn't have time to reverse from it's path. A ferocious collision with my Explorer would've erupted before I even realized what was happening. It's funny how life works like that. Life is fragile and life is resilient, all at the same time. At the risk of sounding melodramatic, I feel like a narrowly avoided death or serious injury. And yet aside from the lip busted by a blunt hail stone, I escaped the danger without a scratch.
As soon as I realized I was in the haven of safety, I hugged my two boys. My wet clothes soaked through to theirs as I kissed them over and over again. They thought I was playing with them. What if my time with them had been snuffed out so prematurely? It's funny how your life's value escalates with the thought of its loss.
I left my Explorer parked in the small, flat pass between our houses. After the second round of fierce rain and hail subsided, Glenda suggested that I go move it into a shelter of some sort. Don't get me wrong, I didn't want to lose my car. But, I also couldn't make myself risk another bout with Mother Nature. I was overwhelmed with gratitude for my life and the loss of a vehicle seemed kinda trivial. At this point, we had been without electricity for awhile. So, tuning into the news channels for answers wasn't an option. However, had we had electricity, television still wouldn't have yielded any new solutions. Hundreds of miles away in Stillwater, my dear friend Natalie did have electricity and access to the weather broadcasts. With each random update from the meteorologists, Natalie would text message me their analysis. It was no surprise to me or her, also a Western Oklahoma native, that they were providing scant coverage during commercial breaks. After all, this wasn't nearly as pressing as last Thursday rain when it moved through the city. Commercial break-ins are just more than sufficient when the storm was in Western Oklahoma. Last Thursday is the perfect evidence of this fact. Even though it weakened as it moved east, once the storm hit the metro's city limits, the weather men were as frazzled as The Day After Tomorrow. I don't mean to sound bitter, I really don't, and I want those who live in Oklahoma City to be safe. I'm just hammering on this over and over again to both vent my frustration with this unpredictable coverage and to fully describe how this random broadcasting makes it difficult for us to interpret any storm's true severity or weakness. If there was some sort of formula outside of a storm's location to let us know why two similar storm systems receive such varying coverage, maybe we could instinctively know how to react. However, there just isn't. We are truly and wholly thankful for any broadcasting and instruction that we receive, but the decision to do so doesn't seem to be based on severity as much as programming.
Either way, I was blessed to live, to die another day, hopefully in the far distant future. I still have so much left to do. For whatever reason, God blessed me to continue on my earthly journey and, for that, I am humbled and grateful. Because I was alone in the Explorer, staring down a possibly fatal bullet, no one will ever be able to fully understand the soul-shaking terror that was the tumbling travel trailer. Writers are known for our flare for the dramatic, but trust me, this is the closest I've ever knowingly came to death. As those frightening images periodically flash through my mind, I am just so glad for this opportunity to continue to be with those I love. When I look at where the trailer was originally parked, directly east of the Kirk party barn, and I see the path it's havoc-raged journey to its resting place and I know exactly where I was when this all unfolded, I know this is as close to a near miss as one can experience. I mean that figuratively and literally. I get to continue loving all the great people in my life, my husband and sons, my parents, my sister and other important relatives and, of course, a vibrant team of the world's greatest friends. I get to live to blog another day.


Note: When the travel trailer started flipping, it was directly north of me in my Explorer. I was driving north and it was rushing south. I threw it in reverse and drove several hundred feet backwards and south. When I decided I might be out of the trailer's path, I put the Explorer in drive, turned almost fully around and then realized I was in a great parking spot. So, my car was actually pointing the other direction when the trailer was tumbling toward me. However, even with it moving southeast and landing close the fence line and me driving southwest, you can see how close we ended up from one another. When I made my dash to the house, I didn't even think of being hit by possible debris, which was scattered about the yard.

Also, if you are a bride and groom thinking of hiring me to photograph your wedding, I will risk my life to secure your priceless pictures as well. Now, do you think Blunks would do that? ;) ;)