Reaching Back and Falling Forward

2026-04-18T17:46:00.000-05:00

Northwoods UU

Dead Table Meeting

April 19, 2026

As a disabled veteran and a diabetic, I have been required to have the annual diabetic eye exam since 2014, when I was initially established in the Agent Orange Registry. Each year, the optometry technician at the Tomball VA Clinic would tell me that the lens of my eyes were showing signs of damage from age and direct sunlight, but no action was needed at those times.

In the late summer of 2022, after our visiting grandchildren and other close family members had returned to Kansas, I realized that my visual acuity had declined, and at age 75, I was finally going to need cataract surgery, as many senior citizens do. I realized this during the grandkids’ visit, as we drove all over the Houston area, especially at night, that I had to keep asking them to read the traffic signs for me.

I visited Dr. Sachs, the local optometrist at Woodlands Vision Center on Sawdust Road, where Judy and I had gone for all our vision needs over the past 30 years. He confirmed that my vision had reached the low threshold of visual acuity that qualified me for cataract surgery according to the Medicare guidelines. He referred me to what he called the best eye clinic in the area and encouraged me to schedule with them. Upon contacting them, I found it would be several months before I could get in to see them, so I contacted Houston Eye Associates on Research Forest in The Woodlands and made an appointment within a reasonable time. They gave me several exams using various specialized equipment.

Finally, the doctor told me that I definitely needed cataract surgery, but my vision after cataract surgery would not be satisfactory because an eye disease, known as Fuchs Dystrophy, had caused the corneas of my eyes to retain excess fluid, making them too thick and impairing my vision.

Here is a link to an article by the American Academy of Ophthalmology about Fuchs Dystrophy:

What Is Fuchs' Dystrophy? - American Academy of Ophthalmology

The Ophthalmologist indicated that the condition might ultimately require corneal transplant surgery. However, I was advised to start a six-month course of specialized ophthalmic drops, which could potentially decrease the fluid-related thickening of the corneas. After six months we could check to see if the less invasive approach had worked. It didn’t work. Another, more senior surgeon repeated the same eye exams and confirmed the earlier findings. His advice was that I shouldn’t feel rushed to make a decision about surgery; that I could wait until I felt certain about it.

Meanwhile, my annual diabetic eye exam was scheduled at the Tomball VA Clinic. As luck would have it, the technician position there had been upgraded to a Doctor of Optometry. I related to her my diagnosis of Fuchs Dystrophy and was surprised by her response. She asked why I would go to a private eye clinic when the eye clinic at the Michael E. DeBakey Veteran’s Hospital in The Texas Medical Center was one of the best in the country because of their close relationship with the Baylor College of Medicine. She told me the DeBakey Eye Clinic in the Texas Medical Center exclusively partnered with the Baylor College of Medicine, allowing graduate eye surgeons to do their internships at the DeBakey Eye Clinic. So, I never went back to Houston Eye Associates.

I am grateful to the optometrist at the Tomball VA Clinic for sharing with me about the excellent eye clinic available to me through the Veteran’s Administration. I did contact them and scheduled an initial appointment on February 15, 2024.

During the initial visit, two young male interns processed me through a very thorough series of exams just as the Houston Eye Associates had done and came to the same conclusion. It was at this moment that a woman came into the room where I sat with the two interns. The interns had apparently already reviewed my case with that woman and had recommended corneal transplant surgery. As she began to address me in a most kind and professional voice, I could tell that she held a leadership position in the Michael E. Debakey Eye Clinic. Not to be racist or inappropriate about cultures of the world, but I assumed by her appearance and her voice that her heritage or family background was of the Middle East, perhaps Iran, Pakistan, or such a country in that region. She spoke directly to me in a voice of confidence and authority, saying that they would schedule me for surgery the following month and that I should be confident that I will be in the excellent care of their highly trained staff.

On March 15, 2024, I met with the intern surgeon, who was going to perform the surgery, to cover all the preparatory steps to be taken prior to reporting for surgery on Thursday, March 21, 2024. This intern was a very personable young man perhaps of Asia-Pacific heritage. His professional manner gave me a feeling of confidence about the coming eye surgery. I do have to admit that thoughts of someone cutting on my eyes was a very unpleasant thing to consider. Yet, based on my brief experiences with the clinic staff, I did believe that choosing surgery through the VA was a safe and smart decision

On March 21, 2024, Judy and I arrived by Uber from a nearby hotel on a dark rainy morning before dawn. I reported to the wheelchair room just off the main lobby of the huge Houston VA Hospital. They got me into a wheelchair and guided Judy and me up to the surgical floor which was already filling up the 40 or more curtained cubicle beds and began the customary connections and procedures to prepare me for the procedure which was to be done on my right eye. While all that was happening, that woman, the authoritative doctor who had so warmly assured me that they would take good care of me popped through the curtain. And asked how I was doing. Then she took out a marker and made a mark above the eye to be operated on. After a warm pat on my arm and calming words she moved on.

Then it was time for the surgery. They wheeled me through some corridors to an operating room. The nurses and attendants were each very upbeat and talkative in response to my attempts at humor.

The medications were effective and had me feeling rather calm. However, I was surprised when two masked doctors approached and immediately began to work on me. I thought, “Wait a minute. Aren’t I supposed to be asleep, unconscious, and totally unaware of what was taking place?” It soon became apparent that I was going to lie there awake hearing the ongoing conversations between the two doctors as they proceeded with the surgery while describing each step they were taking.

As the two surgeons began working, I immediately recognized the confident voice of that woman, the one who was the leader at the DeBakey Eye Clinic. From the nature and tone of their technical conversation, it was clear she was the teacher and the young intern the student.

First, and very quickly, they replaced the lens. Then they stripped away defective tissue from the inner wall of the cornea. Next, I heard them discuss retrieving the donor tissue from the refrigerator. After inserting the tissue into the eye, she instructed the intern to unroll it and center it over the Iris. After smoothing it out against the freshly exposed back surface of the cornea, they injected a gas bubble into the eye to hold the graft firmly in place. It was done and they wheeled me back to a spot in that very large room of beds where I would begin the recovery.

Soon Judy was there and before long we were dismissed with strict instructions for the next 24 hours during which time I was to lay flat on my back until returning for follow-up the next day.

A blue plastic eye shield had been taped over the eye. That device would become the focus of a nightly bedtime ritual to manage the strips of tape that held it in place. Another important part of my recovery was putting various eye drops into the surgery eye.

Each day, I wondered when I would begin to regain vision in that eye. I never saw that intern surgeon again, the one who performed the surgery. Instead, I was seen by a very fit, athletic looking young woman named Doctor Martin. I tried but failed to stop myself from calling her Doc Martin, remembering the boots our daughter wore as a teen. She was obviously not amused as she’d heard it all before. But she was very pleasant and expressed concern about the condition of the grafted tissue.

So, she had the technicians use a special camera to view the graft. This examination revealed that the graft had not fully adhered to the surface. At that moment Doc Martin said, “We need to insert an air bubble into the eye to press the graft more firmly against the corneal wall”. I wondered how that could be done.

I followed Doc Martin back to the exam room which looks like any other optometrist room. Then she called a more senior doctor to assist her. She told me they could insert an air bubble right there in the exam chair. Judy was sitting in an office chair beside me. We looked at each other nervously, wondering how this was going to go.

After what seemed like a long wait, the other doctor arrived. She looked to be in her 50s and brought an air of confidence into the situation. They told me to place my chin into that plastic cup that is a standard feature of optometry equipment. They asked me to remain very still as they came at me with a needle. But they paused for a minute to discuss the appropriate size or type of needle to use. I tried my best not to move but they continued to request that I keep my chin in the cup and not move as they manipulated the needle in my eye. Finally, Doc Martin said “There it is, good job” as she withdrew the needle and I felt some fluid splash onto my cheek. There was no pain, just a very weird feeling to have a needle in my eye.

At this time my recovery was, in some ways, starting over. The coming weeks were a time of worry and concern about how this process would play out. Vision slowly began to return but was dim and blurred. Each follow-up appointment showed that my vision was improving but was still not real good. Then one day, about two months after surgery, I began to see some bright colorful patches of vision that felt like a breakthrough. From that point the vision in my right eye became better each day. I was amazed at how bright, colorful, and clear everything seemed. I began to ask the doctors when I would be scheduled to have the other eye done. They told me to be patient.

In July, a different intern began to see me for follow-ups. I was very impressed with this bright young woman. Based on her charming yet professional manner I got the impression that she must have always been the smartest kid in her classes. She looked very young, not flashy, but exuded the image of an attractive, confident professional.

She scheduled the surgery on my left eye for August 15, 2024. The preparation routine this time was like the first surgery. When the surgery started, again, two masked surgeons initiated the procedure by forcefully taping my head down to the table. Right away, I detected a difference in the interactions between the new Baylor intern surgeon and the older leading surgeon. This intern needed little direction and seemed more skillful and forceful than the first. One of the first steps, after taping my head down, was to insert a plastic device under the upper and lower eyelids. That sweet delicate intern wasn’t tentative. I felt the strength of her hands as she quickly pushed the device in place. On the previous occasion, the male intern had seemed to struggle a little inserting that plastic device used to keep the eyelids away from the eyeball.

During the procedure the intern needed very little input from the lead VA surgeon. The recovery and follow-up process went very smoothly. I think having had the first surgery already made this second one easier and less mysterious. Over the next couple of months, the vision in the left came back very well.

As my eyes fully healed, subsequent visual exams showed that I have 20/20 vision except for an astigmatism in my left eye that has always been there and not associated with the cornea. Now I only need glasses for reading after having worn thick glasses for years. Every day, I am reminded of just how fortunate I am to have had those cornea surgeries. Making this success even more meaningful is the fact that my father lost his right eye in a freak accident when he was 25 years old. That loss had a negative impact on his career and life. But he adapted well and developed a new career path.

Disclaimer: This is a true story of my personal experience with Fuchs Dystrophy eye disease and the cornea transplant surgeries that corrected my vision. I have no medical training. My recollection of these events may be inaccurate due to the passage of time and the fact that I was under sedation during the procedures.

Tragedy In Heber Springs

2021-05-02T23:59:00.003-05:00

It began as a lovely Friday in April, 1946 at Heber Springs, Arkansas. Twenty six year old Viola Martin had baked a chocolate cake and two dozen oatmeal cookies earlier in the day. When husband Rufo returned to work on the Vincent Farm after a lunch of cornbread and beans with wild onions, she quickly washed up the dishes and took her two daughters on a walk to Spring Park, a short distance west from their small shotgun frame house on a sharecropper lot at Vincent Farms where Rufo had been employed since they moved down to Heber from Berryville a year earlier. It was as sunny afternoon but Viola had the girls wear the sweaters that Grandma Walls had sent down from Green Forrest for Christmas. There was a soft cool breeze from the south. A mother never knew what to expect on a day in early April.

There were plans for a Saturday picnic at the park and fishing along the Little Red River. Sunday dinner would be with local relatives after church. Viola had caught, plucked and cleaned a chicken in the back yard, gathered some potatoes and onions from the cellar and taken a jar of green beans from the shelf that she had canned last summer. Viola was well prepared for the weekend ahead. But this Friday afternoon had been too nice to be spent indoors with those energetic young girls. Dolias was six and kid sister, Angelean, not quite three years old.

After an hour of fun in Spring Park, dark clouds gathered and a chill wind whipped up out of the northwest. Viola called to the girls and coaxed them away from the teeter-totter where they were playing with some neighbor kids.

Walking out of the park along the dirt road on the east end of town where Main Street bent northeast and became Wilburn Road, Viola saw a neighbor lady and stopped by the road to visit. Suddenly a gust of wind blew Angelean’s red scarf off her head onto the road. Angelean dashed onto the roadway after the scarf. To Viola’s horror, a logging truck was baring down on Angelean. Instinctively, Viola leapt out onto the road and threw Angelean back. In doing so, Viola slipped and fell under the truck as it veered to avoid hitting her. It was too late. Viola lay crumpled in the road bleeding and covered in dirt. The girls shrieked and cried. The horrified neighbor called for her teenage son to run up to the Vincent Farm and find Rufo as she ran into her house to call an ambulance.

The ambulance from Estelle Hospital arrived 10 minutes later. Dolais lay in the dirt beside the lifeless body of her mother,weeping inconsolably. The neighbor lady held a trembling Angelean as others had gathered around aghast at the tragedy before them, some praying loudly, others screaming and weeping. The truck driver was upset, pacing about and looking for solace himself. The ambulance driver and his medic were not sure what to do. Viola’s body was in such a twisted state that they were afraid to move her. Red faced and bewildered, Rufo came running onto the scene. He immediately gathered Viola up in his arms, crawled up into the ambulance with her, and commanded the driver to get them to the hospital.

At the hospital, nurses and a doctor worked to assess Viola’s condition. Viola had suffered multiple fractures, lacerations, and head trauma. Although the medical team did what they could, she never regained consciousness. By the fourth day, infections and swelling of her brain had taken their toll. On Tuesday morning, April 10, 1946, Viola Martin, a loving wife and mother, was pronounced dead at Estelle Hospital.

Word was sent to Green Forest bearing the sad news to Viola’s family there as plans were being made with a Heber Springs funeral home and the family’s local Baptist pastor for her funeral and burial the following Friday afternoon. After the services, a grief stricken Rufo was consoled by local friends and family as the Walls relatives offered to take the girls up to Green Forest in northwest Arkansas. They felt this might help Viola’s grieving family to heal and would offer comfort to Dolias and Angelean while their father dealt with his personal loss and his own future.

The summer and fall of 1946 was a sad period of time for the two girls but Grandma Walls did her best to make them feel welcome in their mother’s home community and close knit family. In time, Rufo met a somewhat younger woman, Helen Crawford. She was attractive with black hair, brown eyes, and an enticing figure. They were married in December, 1946 at White, Arkansas. In Heber Springs, they rented an upstairs apartment in an old house across the street General Baptist Church. Rufo and Helen enjoyed some time there as newlyweds. Soon, Rufo longed to have Dolias and Angelean with him again in Heber Springs. In April, 1947, just over a year after their mother’s death, Rufo drove 140 miles up to Green Forrest and brought the girls back home to Heber Springs. Heading down Highway 65, the girls were very happy and looking forward to starting a new life with their father and his new wife.

It wasn’t long before that happy dream proved to be elusive. The beauty and excitement Rufo had seen in Helen began to fade as Helen assumed the routine day to day role of housewife and step-mother of the two young girls.

Dolias, about age 7, needed special attention due to physical and emotional conditions that had affected her for some time. It is not certain if some of this was present at birth or if the severe fever she suffered around age two was the primary cause. Dolias had beautiful dark eyes, natural curly hair, an olive complexion, and lovely full lips. However, a spinal condition caused a slight hump high on her back. This was often a source of teasing and insecurity for her and may have contributed to her frequent flashes of anger.

However, nearly 4 year old Angelean was a different story. She was strong and energetic yet somewhat withdrawn, often playing quietly with a doll or a neighborhood kitten. Local friends and relatives often commented about how much she had grown the past year and how she resembled her beautiful mother. A child her age required a lot of supervision. Helen may have found it distracting to answer frequent questions of why to satisfy the rich curiosity of Angelean’s growing intellect.

This disruption to their brief honeymoon life soon revealed the truly darker side of Helen’s personality. She was no longer the center of attention in Rufo’s life. In reaction to this change in status, Helen resorted instinctively by striking out against the one she felt most threatened by, the one with whom she fought for Rufo’s attention; Angelean. Her resentment grew toward the child who reminded Rufo and others of the beloved mother and former wife to Rufo. As her resentment grew, Helen began to dole out harsh punishments to Angelean for typical childhood behaviors.

At first the harshness was known only within the apartment while Rufo was at work. Before long, Rufo began to feel the effects of Helen’s resentment when he was at home with the family. He observed the insincere ritual that Helen demanded each night in which the girls were required to kiss her goodnight before going to bed. He noted that on one occasion Helen was angry and refused to allow the goodnight kisses, sending them off to bed without a goodnight kiss. To his dismay, Rufo soon heard Helen go to the girls’ bedroom to angrily spank and chastise them for not kissing her goodnight. Rufo also became the target of Helen’s angry outburstsand grew increasingly concerned at the mean spirited way she disciplined the girls for the slightest perceived misbehavior.

Soon the harsh discipline escalated into outright physical abuse. Helen had lost control of her own emotions; leading her to beat the girls physically to such an extent that neighbors could hear what was going on. The neighbors began to talk among themselves about the horrible things they were hearing from the Martin’s apartment. One day a neighbor, by the name of Wincel Lacy, saw Angelean sitting in the yard under a tree. Mrs. Lacy went outside to check on Angelean and asked her to come inside out of the heat. But Angelean told her no, that she had to sit right there and not get up. Mrs. Lacy told Angelean it was okay and that she would see to it. As they walked up onto the porch, Mrs. Lacy was shocked to see black and blue marks on Angelean’s legs. This prompted what was likely the first time the abuse was reported to Rufo and to local authorities. But it would not be the last.

Mrs. Hazel Jones, a neighbor and recent acquaintance of Helen, heard the angry voice of their step-mother chastising the girls almost daily. The outbursts were often followed by the sounds of the girls being whipped. The beatings were so loud at times that Mrs. Jones could hear them from her home, the second house away.

The abuse reached a critical point when Rufo arrived home from work one Saturday evening and found Angelean lying in bed with ablood stained bandage wrapped around her head. Helen had boiled water and prepared a bath for Angelean. But the water was steaming and Angelean, afraid of being burned, refused to get into the galvanized tub that sat on the kitchen floor. Helen, who had been fixing supper, held the big hog knife in her hand. In a fit of rage Helen swung the knife at little Angelean. The sharp edge of the knife struck a glancing blow along the hairline separating a 3 inch portion of Angelean’s scalp from her skull. Horrified and disgusted at this act of violence, Rufo demanded that Helen get out of the apartment and not return. The permanent separation beganthe next day on Sunday, September 21, 1947.

On October 6, 1947, Rufo filed for divorce from Helen in the Cleburne County Chaucery Court. On the same date, Helen filed an Entry of Appearance and Waivers, determined not to submit to a deposition and requested she be restored to her former and maiden name of Helen Louise Crawford when the final decree would be entered. The final divorce actions were completed on October 23, 1947.

With the help of his family and neighbors in Heber Springs, Rufo, Dolias, and Angelean experienced a brief holiday season as a small family unit that Christmas of 1947. Finally there was peace on earth and peace at home. Another special woman appeared on their father’s arm soon after. Rufo married Modean Jernigan on 1/22/1948. This would be the beginning of a lasting and stable family. Two years later, the family would add another daughter, Patsy. The age difference between the two older girls and Patsy along with other family dynamics would see the girls’ lives move on in different directions. But this new family unit was loving and strong, enduring through the many changes on the horizon.

Rufo transitioned from sharecropping to retail operations when he went to work at Young’s Department Store in Heber Springs. His military and C.C. Camp experience with store and supply management provided a solid foundation for the retail business he would pursue the rest of his life. At last there was stability at home and the community was growing. The scenic landscapes of historic Sugar Loaf would soon be transformed into one of Arkansas’ most popular recreation and tourist locations. The beautiful Little Red River would be forever changed from the quiet fishing and boating stream long enjoyed by locals when construction of the Greer’s Ferry Dam began in 1959. That project and the ensuing population growth would bring prosperity to Heber Springs and especially to the long suffering family of Rufo Martin. In 1960, Rufo attained an important goal when he opened his own furniture store in town.
This new status coupled with his natural leadership skills and supportive wife, provided a springboard that launched Rufo and Modean on the path to prominent community leadership roles.

The new prosperity provided a much different school and life experience for Patsy. She loved horses and was allowed to have one of her own. She was very active, always on the go and popular at school, in church programs, and other social activities.

For Angelean, the transition of Rufo’s career was mainly a source of work and labor as she was expected to help him by working part-time. When he started the furniture store, Angelean’s workload there became even more significant. When she graduated from Heber Springs High School in 1961, she promptly went to Memphis and enrolled in Beauty College. This would be her primary career work for many years before she parlayed her retail experience into a more rewarding career and her own business in the Pawn Shop industry.

Very soon after arriving in Memphis in 1961, Angelean fell in love and married. To this brief marriage a daughter, Kim was born. Her first marriage ended due to the husband’s mental illness. Her second marriage was to a man who liked to move frequently and often leave unsettled debts behind. They moved often during the early years but started a family. There were two sons, Lance and Tommy. Eventually the failure of her husband to consistently meet the financial and emotional needs of the family resulted in this marriage ending in divorce. But Angelean’s strength of character, built through hard times of grief and abuse made her determined to make it on her own. And she did just that. In time, she married a strong reliable man, Gene Fisher, who remained steady and loyal.

In Heber Springs, Dolias was well known by prominent professional families who relied on her kind steady nature and practical skills to provide child care and other household work. Because of her sincere efforts in school, Dolias was allowed to walk with her graduating classmates and receive a complimentary certificate. She later completed the GED certification. Because she was ever dependent on the support of her parents, they too came to rely on her services at their home. She cooked, cleaned and provided other important services for them in exchange for the shelter of their home and family support.

Sadly, in her late 30s, Dolias developed a form of cancer which would appear under the skin over various parts of her body and become horrible looking areas like dark moles. Soon the cancer spread rapidly and took her life on 6/17/1978 at the age of 38.

As related to me by Angie Martin in 2021

James Middleton

5/2/2021

Sophia - The Artist

2020-01-10T00:33:00.001-06:00

Following are four photos to introduce artist, Sophia:

1.) Sophia and Daira outside The Color Factory in Houston
2.) Sophia in The Color Factory
3.) Portrait of James Middleton with grandsons Karter Middleton and Dylan Bell
4.) Portrait of Daira Moreno-Lopez dressed in cultural costume of her mother's village

About the Artist:

Sophia Chung (AKA: Chung Yen Jung)

Born March 20, 1996 in New Taipei City, Taiwan

Sophia attended private schools, graduating from high school in 2014. She then attended university where she earned a degree in Russian Language. As a part of this degree she did an internship in Moscow one summer. During that time she traveled to St. Petersburg and other places in Russia. On a couple of occasions, she hitchhiked on highways in the Moscow area, finding the people there kind and receptive to that form of transportation.

At age 14, she traveled to New York City to attend a Summer session through the EF Language Education program and visited Disney World in Florida. At the age of 16, she traveled to San Diego, California for another summer session with the EF Language Education program. During that Summer she visited Disneyland. On other occasions she visited London, England and Barcelona, Spain.

In September, 2019, Sophia enrolled in the study of Illustration at SCAD, the Savannah College of Art and Design in Savannah, Georgia, U.S.A. At SCAD, Sophia met fellow student Daira Moreno-Lopez of Huatulco, Oaxaco, Mexico and also of The Woodlands, Texas. During the long winter break at SCAD, Daira invited Sophia to visit her home in The Woodlands.

It was during this visit that Sophia became acquainted with the Middleton family, long time residents of The Woodlands and family friends of the Moreno-Lopez family. When she learned of Sophia’s talent as an artist and her interest in painting during her time in Texas, Judy Middleton selected a recent photo that Sophia could use as the subject of her first painting. As it happens, Judy had created a studio in the former bedroom of her son, Jon. The studio was already outfitted with a good easel which Sophia found to be perfect for the job.

Daira’s mother, Nora Toledo-Lopez, shopped for paints, brushes, canvases, and other supplies with Sophia to make the studio ready for use. Although the room was cramped due to hundreds of old family photos stored there, Sophia created a beautiful portrait of James Middleton holding grandsons Karter Middleton and Dylan Bell on his lap. The photo was taken by Judy at the Guadalajara Mexican Grill in The Woodlands in November, 2019 when the family gathered there to celebrate Judy’s 70^th birthday.

Sophia’s time in The Woodlands spanned the period of 11/15/2019 to 01/03/2020.

By: James Middleton 1/9/2020

Beer, Bikes, Hot Rods, & Beer

2018-05-16T02:03:00.001-05:00

Were you ever out on a road trip with friends at night;

A cold winter night when frost was on the grass,

And you needed to pee real bad from the beers you’d drank,

So you parked on a deserted shoulder and stood behind the car,

Happy no headlights were in sight as you unzip and sigh with relief,

Taking a deep breath of the cold night air mingled with exhaust;

Sounds of the engine, loud music, and that splashing sound?

Remember the exhilarating feeling of cold air in your nostrils,

Sucked in through a numb feeling nose with a hint of beer breath?

Do you remember?

Ernie Perkins and some of our high school friends remember.

I still remember and sometimes long for that feeling.

Though rare now in older years and a warmer climate,

There are occasions, few and far between, when it happens;

Perhaps in Oklahoma or Kansas, out on a lonely road on a chilly night

I’ll stand there, checking for headlights, shivering in the cold wind

And breathe in that mixture of exhaust laden air through a numby nose

Listening to a deep toned exhaust and loud music from the radio

Drifting back to a time when Ernie and the boys were young

When the unknown road stretched out ahead

And our hearts were full of hope for hot rods, motorcycles and beer;

Always Beer!

Ernest Boyd Perkins 1948-2018

2018-04-11T15:00:00.000-05:00

Moving to Chelsea

Back in 1960 when I was thirteen years old, my family moved from Henryetta, Oklahoma to Chelsea, Oklahoma. It was an impressionable age for a kid to start over in a different town and a new school. Fortunately for me there was someone in Chelsea who helped make the transition a lot smoother than it might otherwise have been. This is the story of how I met Ernest Boyd Perkins, my original friend in Chelsea.

My Dad, Everett Middleton, was an auto mechanic. Business had been slow at Progressive Chevrolet in Henryetta where he worked. One cold winter day in January, 1960, Boyd Perkins, the Chevrolet dealer from Chelsea, stopped by Progressive to visit with mechanics in the shop. He was looking for a good mechanic and was willing to pay the standard mechanic’s commission rate but would guarantee a minimum of $75.00 a week to the right man. Not long after Boyd Perkins’ visit, Dad earned a paltry $45.00 pay and began to wonder what the future would hold for him there in Henryetta. After a couple weeks of mulling over the possibility of moving his family 100 miles away from the long time family center, Dad decided to drive up to Chelsea and find out whether that job was still available. He was only forty years old but had five children; two older girls, Joyce and Geraldine, off in college at Northeastern in Tahlequah, my fifteen year old sister, Sandra, eight year old Elaine, and me.

On a Saturday morning in late February, Dad, Mom (Berneice), Sandra, Elaine, and I traveled up U.S. Highway 75 to Tulsa and along Route 66 to Claremore in our dark green 1952 Chevrolet Deluxe sedan. Heading north out of Claremore past Sequoyah and Foyil, the landscape changed to a stark brown prairie bordered on the east and west by leafless gray trees covering craggy hills. The earlier anticipation and curiosity of visiting this place called Chelsea seemed to dampen as we drove further out into this unfamiliar countryside. At last we topped that now familiar grade where the two lane road opened up to a four lane highway with a wide center median of grass. So this was Chelsea! Not nearly as big as Henryetta (Henryetta was a town of 5,000 population ), Chelsea had a population of about 1,500. The main highway, Route 66, ran parallel to the Frisco railroad along the east side of the business district. At the town’s only stop light at 6th Street, we made the left turn onto the main drag heading west over the railroad tracks and two or three blocks to where the Perkins Chevrolet dealership was located on the north side of the street, on the northeast corner of 6^th and Vine.

Parking in an angle parking space near the front of the dealership, Dad left us in the car and walked into the front entrance of the place to try and find Boyd Perkins. He returned a short while later and we headed back down Route 66 toward Henryetta. Apparently there was not an immediate need for a mechanic at Perkins Chevrolet. That was a disappointment for Dad but somewhat of a relief for the hometown family.

Later that year, in early June, Mr. Perkins contacted Dad and asked to meet him in Tulsa in a parking lot at 51^st and Peoria. Naturally, Everett would not go there alone. So around 6:00 PM, “quitting time” at Progressive Chevrolet, Mom, Sandra, Elaine, and I were waiting outside along 3^rd Street near Trudgeon, when Dad got off work. He climbed in behind the wheel of that Chevrolet Deluxe, six cylinder sedan with a two speed powerglide transmission and drove us up the Beeline, U.S. Highway 75, to Tulsa. It was well past dinner time when we pulled into the parking lot and found Mr. Perkins there sitting alone in a beautiful red and white 1959 Chevrolet Impala four door hardtop sedan. In what I would come to know as his characteristically grand style, Boyd Perkins climbed out of his car and greeted all of us eloquently, repeating our names, shaking our hands and inviting us to join him in an adjacent cafeteria for dinner on him. This was indeed a special treat for us as we rarely ate outside our home at 701 West Jefferson Street in Henryetta. Needless to say, Mr. Perkins was impressed with Dad’s experience and the character of a man who was proud to bring his poorly dressed family along to a job interview. The job was offered and accepted then and there.

So, for the remainder of that summer, Dad worked in Chelsea, taking a room in the Chelsea Hotel, just south across 6^th street from Perkins Chevrolet. I don’t recall who it was who helped Dad haul his tools to Chelsea. It was likely my older cousin, Howard Joe Middleton. But Dad was left there in Chelsea without a car. Imagine our surprise the following Friday night when a big 1958 Chevrolet with duel headlights pulled into our driveway just after dark. It was Dad driving a nice used car from the Perkins Chevrolet used car lot. Again, Mr. Boyd Perkins showed his generosity by initiating this practice which allowed Dad to drive home each weekend to be with the family. We never knew what sort of cool car he might drive week to week.

The next morning after he had driven that 1958 Chevy home for the first time, I went out on the dirt driveway to take a closer look at the car parked in the shade of the big elm tree there. For the first time, I saw the impressive mascot of the Chelsea Green Dragons football team in the form of a sticker on the back window of the vehicle. A feeling of wonder and inspiration came over me as I looked at that novel logo and imagined what it might be like to be one of them.

In August, the last week before Labor Day Weekend, Dad invited me to return with him to Chelsea on Sunday night. What a great feeling it was to head north out of Henryetta with Dad. Two hours later, we arrived in Chelsea to find the streets quiet, practically empty. His room at the Chelsea Hotel was on the top floor in the southwest corner. He told me how much he liked that corner room because of the nice breezes that swept across the bed at night when all the windows were open. Of course the rooms at the Chelsea Hotel were not air conditioned and the bathroom was a shared one down the hall. Air conditioning was a luxury in those days and we had never had air conditioning at home. In fact we didn’t have a telephone in our home in Henryetta. If we needed to make a call we went next door to Aunt Mildred’s house. And the subject of a telephone would present itself later on in Chelsea as another example of Mr. Perkins’ relationship with my Dad.

That first Monday morning in Chelsea was another seminal moment in my introduction to the culture of the town. All summer long, Dad had come back to Henryetta with stories of life in Chelsea. One of his favorite stories to relate concerned having breakfast at Ed South’s Café. Dad would talk in great detail about watching Mr. South slice off generous portions of smoked ham and flop them onto the grill as he prepared Dad’s favorite ham and eggs with biscuits and gravy. These accounts had made us all envious of the breakfasts he enjoyed there each morning. He spoke of the exquisite quality and flavor of the ham, letting us know how much he had savored the meals in this unique cafe. So it was with a great sense of anticipation, I walked the block and a half along the sidewalk with Dad that morning in late August awaiting the sights and sounds of Ed South’s Café.

The café and bakery was located in a typical old business building next door to a pool hall. Inside, the aroma of meats cooking and freshly brewed coffee filled the drab room. Dad and I found a couple of spots at the counter on tall stools between other customers. At tables were other patrons, mostly men, some dressed in overalls appearing to be farmers. At another table was a big guy in boots and a western hat whom I imagined to be a rancher or rodeo cowboy. Behind the counter, wearing a white apron and a paper hat was the Ed South of Dad’s familiar stories, working at the sizzling grill, pressing sausage patties before flipping them over with a large metal spatula. Eventually Mr. South turned to us and with an unenthusiastic “Good morning, what’ll it be?”, asked for our breakfast order. Ham and eggs of course, with biscuits and gravy was our predictable response. Mom had served me coffee for breakfast with plenty of cream and sugar ever since I could remember so naturally I wanted coffee, too. The food that morning lived up to the billing Dad had promoted for weeks.

The place appeared to serve a multitude of purposes. Over on the west wall, near an alley side door, were a couple of pinball machines with which I would later become familiar. And at a counter at the north end of the cluttered room were offered a variety of items for sale, including snacks and cigars. The latter would also prove to be of some significance during my time in this town.

As was his custom, Dad embarrassed me by introducing me to Mr. South anyone with whom he may have made even the most casual acquaintance over the summer. It was many years later that I came to understand and appreciate how important it was for him to have a son and to share a close relationship with me. His father’s sudden death at an early age when Dad was only ten years old left a void that remained always present though never a source for pity or remorse in him.

Full of ham and a true believer in Ed South’s cuisine, I accompanied Dad back up the main street of town past Vandeveer Rexall Drug, Maupin’s Clothing, Lowery’s Furniture, Ben Franklins, Leroy’s Barber Shop, and Milam Petroluem to Perkins Chevrolet. We entered into a small area that seemed way too small to be a new car showroom. Instead, the room had the feel of a parts store. A contoured L-shaped parts counter dominated the room with active parts bins behind it giving the place that familiar and pleasing smell to which I had become accustomed while accompanying Dad on many a late night at the dealership in Henryetta. Colorful brochures and picture displays were situated around the showroom among casual seating. Of special interest to me were the water fountain, salted peanut and gumball machines.

Suddenly, a sharp voice pierced the silence. “Everett, is this that boy you’ve been telling us about?” Shaken from my trance of taking in this new place, I turned and came face to face with Mattie Perkins, an attractive middle aged lady with dark hair and make up to match her energetic voice. “James Everett, your daddy has told me all about you and your four sisters. Welcome to Chelsea, son.” I took her outstretched hand and felt the warmth and strength of a woman of true compassion and character. I could tell by the way she greeted me and Dad that morning that we were wanted here, that this could be a place to start again. “I’ll call Ernest Boyd”, she said, “I want you to meet our son. He’s about your age.”

From the back office area came Boyd Perkins with his gallant walk and prominent demeanor, “Well, it’s about time you boys showed up. We get started early around here young man.” He put his big hand on my shoulder and walked with Dad and me out to the shop. It was a classic auto service shop. New cars were inside being prepared for show as well as cars in stalls apparently being serviced or repaired. There were two big doors along the west wall of the building and a body repair shop at the back along the alley.

After a brief tour, Mr Perkins said, “James, I have to get back to my office, but I want you to know how happy we are to have Everett here with us. In the past two months I have seen what a good man your father is and he is the best mechanic we have had. Chelsea is a good town. I think you will like it here.”

I walked over to where Dad was talking to a couple of men. As always, he was eager to introduce me. First was Cletus Coffey. He was a big friendly guy, a mechanic from Coweta, Oklahoma who had only started work a couple weeks before. The cool thing about Cletus was that he had a 1938 Chevy that he was restoring and had installed a Chevy V-8 engine in it. Next up, Dad introduced me to Dewey Layton, the auto body repairman. Dewey was a very friendly guy, easy to talk to.

Finally, Dad introduced me to Sylvester Riley, a black man, who had worked at the dealership for many years. Mr. Riley, known to most as Syl, performed many functions including vehicle service, washing, and new car preparation. His was the only black family in town at that time. Dad had spoken highly of Sylvester and I could sense that it was very important to Dad that I meet him. During the next six years, I was fortunate to know Mr. Riley, his brother, his son Willard, and a rural community north of Chelsea, affording me the opportunity to appreciate the common truths of humanity and begin my personal journey toward better racial and cultural understanding.

No sooner had I shaken hands with Syl, when a short stocky kid came riding into the shop on a bicycle. Simultaneously, Mattie Perkins came into the shop and called me over to where she stood with the bicycle guy. “James”, she said, “I want you to meet Ernest Boyd. He is 12 years old and will be in the 7^th grade this year. Why don’t you go to the ball park with Ernest Boyd. He is going to meet some boys there.”

Ernie and I shook hands. He had a friendly smile that made me feel at ease with him right away. He told me that some guys were going to meet at the football field to play some touch football. School would be starting next week and football practice would start as well. Everyone was excited about that and wanted to get a head start. “Here, hop up on my handlebars and I’ll give you a ride to the football field. It’s not too far.” Before I could straddle the front wheel, put my feet on the ends of the axle and sit up on the handle bars, there was a loud blast of horn honking from the street beside the shop. I turned to see a large red 1959 Ford farm truck stopped in the street. Behind the wheel was a young kid who looked to be about our age. He was calling to Ernie. Dangling from his outstretched hand was a pair of football shoes. “Hey Ernie, I got some new cleats!” he said enthusiastically. “Oh hey Larry”, Ernie hollered back as he got off the bike and parked it on the kick stand.

I followed Ernie out into the street to where “Larry” sat in the idling truck. I was impressed by the size of that truck and wondered how this kid could be driving at such a young age.

“I’m on my way to the football field.” He shouted down from the cab. “Are you going Ernie?”

“Yes, we’ll meet you there.” Ernie replied. “Larry, I want you to meet James. He is moving to town. He will be in 8^th grade.” “James, this is Larry Delozier. His dad is a rancher. They live out on Highway 28 north of town”. Larry reached down from the cab and shook my outstretched hand. “It’s nice to meet you James. Are you going out for football?”

“Yeah, I think so” I replied.

“Ok”, Larry said, “See you guys down there”, as he drove away in the truck waving and looking like he had been driving for years.

Through the remaining years of my life, Ernie Perkins was an important character in memories of all things Chelsea; all things involving cars, motorcycles, beer, and our shared family and girlfriend experiences. All through junior high and high school, occasional visits as adults in Tulsa and his home place in Liberty Mounds we considered ourselves close and lasting friends. We didn’t see each often but when we did it was as if it had only been a week or so since the last meeting. Our last talk was by phone last year. We talked until the battery died on one phone then connected on another phone and ran that battery down. So much to talk about; so many memories of Chelsea in the 1960s.

And so it was with sadness that I read today that Ernie had passed away yesterday. He will live on in my memory.

James Middleton

April 11, 2018

Frank Recollections of Da Nang

2017-10-24T23:29:00.001-05:00

October 24, 2017

Frank,

Thought I would write some more of my recollections from Da Nang. But first please indulge me while I provide a little background about how I ended up there. I did enjoy reading your brief personal history.

I got married just the month before entering the USAF on the delayed enlistment program. Graduated in 1965 from high school in the small northeastern Oklahoma town of Chelsea. Attended college that fall with a student deferment but rarely studied. The second semester after first semester grades were released I lost the student deferment and was reclassified to 1-A. In Oklahoma after you were ordered to report for the military physical you could expect to be drafted the following month. I rode the bus to Oklahoma City in July, 1966 for the physical. In the mean time my parents and younger sister had moved to Lindsborg, Kansas, a small Swedish heritage town in the center of the state. So I quit my job in the parts department of a Tulsa Chevrolet dealer and moved to Lindsborg. Had been hearing commercials on the radio about the USAF, “Find your place on the aerospace team”, so I visited the Air Force recruiter in nearby Salina, a significant small city and the county seat of Saline County. The recruiter gave me a catalog listing all the possible careers available to an enlistee. Based on my aptitude test scores I was only eligible for Mechanical and Administrative positions and definitely not electronics or the other area which I can’t recall at this time.

I knew I didn’t want to be drafted and certainly didn’t want to go to Vietnam; grizzly reports of which were on TV and in the papers daily. So I studied the available careers for which I was qualified and imagining for each whether it would be needed in Vietnam. I chose Supply Services Specialist, a career that would have the individual working in one of three areas: Clothing Store, Base Laundry, or the Base Commissary (grocery store or warehouse). It worked! In August, 1966 I enlisted with a date to report at Kansas City, Missouri in mid-October. As a result, my home of record all during my time in the Air Force was Lindsborg, Kansas, even though I had only briefly lived there and didn’t want to be known as someone from Kansas. I was born and raised in Oklahoma and was a big OU Sooner football fan.

I married my girlfriend in Tulsa in September, 1966.

I was assigned directly from basic training to an OJT position in the commissary at Vandenberg AFB near Lompoc, CA. We arrived at Vandenberg in December, 1966 and found an apartment in Lompoc. Also took a part time job at the Union 76 service station at Vandenberg Village about halfway between Lompoc and the base. Some of the guys I worked with at Vandenberg had been there since basic training and were about to finish their four year enlistments. I expected to spend the remainder of my time at Vandenberg. In March, 1967, our son was born at the base hospital.

But in less than a year, the decision was made to eliminate the military positions and replace us with Civil Service employees. I had to choose a different career. That is how I ended up at the Fuel Systems School at Chanute AFB in Rantoul, Illinois during that very cold winter. We were there during the time of the infamous Dallas vs. Green Bay “Ice Bowl” game in Green Bay a couple hundred miles further north. We rented an apartment in the upstairs of an old house on the alley behind a fast food place a few blocks north of the base along the highway and main north-south drag a couple blocks south of the Rantoul business district. Was there from November, 1967 to February, 1968. From Chanute I was assigned to Kelly AFB in San Antonio, next door to Lackland AFB. We rented a small house just beyond the north perimeter of Kelly. I was part of a B-52 Worldwide Mobility Squadron but went to work each day with civilians at the huge hanger where the B-52s were dismantled and overhauled periodically. I had to get inoculations so that I could go to any place in the world on short notice. But after only a couple months there, I got my orders for Da Nang. The group I was supposed to be assigned to had been moved to Udorn, Thailand. It took six months for that error to be corrected and is why twelve of us were sent to Udorn in December, 1968.

Because of all these early changes, I was very slow to get promoted. My records from Kelly were slow to get to Da Nang and I was only able to take the Level 5 test shortly before I was moved to Thailand. Once in Thailand, again the records were slowed and I arrived at George AFB in June, 1969 still a two stripe airman. But I soon got the third stripe and a year later, a couple months before discharge made Staff Sergeant. Sounds familiar, huh?

While back in Oklahoma on leave before heading for Vietnam, I was hanging out with some high school buddies when we learned that our close friend, George Allison, had been killed in Vietnam. He had stubbornly refused opportunities join the Oklahoma National Guard or “dodge the draft” like I had done by joining the Air Force. He was drafted and sent to Vietnam as a medic. A truck in which he was riding encountered a mine.

I flew out of Tulsa to LAX on May 31, 1968. Along with some other airmen, caught a helicopter taxi to Norton AFB in San Bernardino. From there, after a security process reminiscent of a scene from the movie Stripes, I got on a Flying Tiger 707 converted to passenger service and packed with men from every branch of service. It was a miserable flight for me. Lots of guys smoking, playing cards, and talking loud and aggressively. We stopped in Honolulu for fuel just before sunset. Got a great view of the island and deplaned long enough to walk through the airport and view the street outside before heading on to Guam. Were delayed in Guam for two or three hours in middle of the night due to some maintenance issue. On to Da Nang we had crossed the International Date Line so that I got there on the morning of June 2, 1968. I was unaware at the time that the plane had parked just a short distance from the hanger where our fuel systems shop was located. I recall the heat, and the smells and sights of the local people at the airport terminal. Seemed to take forever to process through the office at the Da Nang AB center in that area where the indoor movie theater and midnight chow were located. I had never felt the sun so hot. It seemed to burn right through my shirt.

Finally, in the afternoon, I was dropped off at the barracks. Don’t recall exactly how I arrived there. But I do recall walking through the front door on the ground floor carrying my heavy duffle bag as I walked halfway down the length of the corridor bordered by small cubicles, each created between steel framed bunk beds and two metal lockers. Ceiling fans hung from the rafters above the corridor barely stirring the humid air. I recall the place seeming rather dark. Sand bags along the outside of the walls blocked some light and what little breeze may have seeped through the wire mesh and gaps between the slanted boards of the exterior walls.

And so it was at this point I was introduced to Frank Saure, a member of the Fuel Systems shop. I remember you telling me your name and making it easy to remember how to pronounce it; “Hi, my name is Saure, you know, just like it sounds, Sorry. And you can take the top bunk.” I remained in that cubicle for a month or so before moving across the corridor. Think I got the lower bunk over there after a small black guy from New York City moved on, perhaps back to the states. That city guy and I got acquainted and enjoyed an interesting afternoon one day when we were both off work and he shared a cold bottle of chardonnay with me. I had never drank wine before so it hit me pretty good. A nice memory of good conversation and cultural exchange. I had just turned 21 in May before coming to Vietnam.

I believe that Jay McDonald, Tommy Stacy, and Zumbrum all lived there on the same floor of that barracks. Also thinking about another guy from Mississippi who seemed to be close with Tommy Stacy. His last name may have been Coons. He was a smaller guy, about my size while Stacy was a taller and bigger guy. Sometime later, Stacy and Zumbrum, not sure who else moved to a different barracks across on the other side of our compound beyond the chow hall. Not sure why they moved but do remember the group of people in that barracks hosted a big cookout. Think there may have been more of our Fuel Systems group in that barracks. I have some video of that cookout. Also seems that a rocket hit either their barracks or the one next door. Maybe some injured but none of our Fuel Systems guys.

At some point I moved upstairs in our barracks. Not sure why. May have been due to my cubbie having the habit of eating sardines right out of the can in the cubicle. Later, I moved back downstairs to same cubicle. When our shop was moved to the new location we would walk along the perimeter road to the shop which was also along that road. Along the perimeter near our barracks were a communications tower and a shack where some telecomm people operated a radio over which military personnel could place a call back to the states. I never did but some of our group did. Think they had to sign up or wait in line. But, again, that scene offered us some great humor material. That is something I remember and appreciated about you. You had a great sense of humor. Anyway, in order to talk to someone back home you would have to say “over” after speaking in order to allow the other party to respond. For some reason we had a lot of laughs just saying “What the F**K? Over!”

At the new shop some of the guys built tables and benches for us. I remember we spent a lot of time playing cards at those tables. Seems the tables were picnic style tables and were covered in black vinyl fabric. Favorite card game was Hearts?

Also near that new shop was a truck trailer that functioned as a convenience store. Big wooden steps on each end of one side of the trailer provided access to the entrance and exit. Inside were several products. My favorite was the ice cream items.

During rocket attacks while we were at the first shop in the big hanger, I recall rushing out to the bunker, and how the smell of the dirt floor mingled with cigarette smoke. Also remember an older Sergeant who was balding and smoked a pipe. Mostly recall the aroma of his pipe and the time when we were working on the fuel tanks in the floors of some helicopters that were parked across the tarmac not far from the hanger. The mosquitoes seemed to be attracted to the fuel puddles in the open tanks and would swarm around them.

After a while in the barracks we would no longer run to the bunker during rocket attacks but just sit on the floor of the cubicle knowing we had protection on the sides and taking our chances on a direct hit. The experience of being exposed to those conditions helped to change my outlook on life in many ways.

I was very happy to fly out of Da Nang on a C-130 to Tan Son Nhut AB at Saigon where we spent the night before flying off to Bangkok the next evening. The sardine eating guy and I met up at a snack bar and caught a bus to downtown Saigon where we visited the USO and called home before catching a bus back to the base. We flew out of Tan Son Nhut after dark on a commercial 727 jet. It’s hard to describe the relief and happy feeling I experienced as the lights of Saigon faded into darkness. After a night in Bangkok, the 12 of us flew on a C-130 to Udorn AB in the north not far from Laos. Udorn was so different from Da Nang. Beer was 10 cents at the pool where we could sit at a table under a canopy and eat hotdogs. There was a nice airman’s club, a library, outdoor movie, and hobby shop. But I never found the kind of camaraderie and group identity there that had been my experience at Da Nang.

At Udorn there were a couple of guys who had been my instructors in Fuel Systems School at Chanute Think their names were Battles and Likes. Battles also showed up at George but was in a different squadron. Could they have been instructors when you and Jay were in tech school?

After less than a month in the desert near Victorville, my wife took our son and went back to Oklahoma. We were divorced in 1970 about six months before my discharge. After they went back to Oklahoma, I gave up the duplex apartment and moved into a barracks on base. That barracks was across the street north of the airman’s club snack bar and just east of the CQ office. When not working, most nights I would go to The Hanger Inn, a bar and pizza place in Adelanto. Had a couple of guys from my squadron that I hung out with at times. I spent time at the Branding Iron dance hall in Apple Valley and at several other places in the area. But San Bernardino and Riverside were better for weekend outings.

After discharge, I lived in Independence, Kansas. In 1972, I met my current wife, Judy, while living with my sister in Kansas and going back to college. Judy and I were married in 1973 and have two children. After college, we worked for the same pipeline company in Independence where both our families lived.

In 1991, we were transferred to Houston and bought a house in a northern suburb. We have been in same house ever since. I retired in 2013.

Thanks for reading. Your additional filling in the blanks and sharing Da Nang or other stories would be welcomed if you care to write them.

James Middleton

Julio’s

2017-10-14T01:07:00.001-05:00

Julio’s

Just a neighborhood bar and grill most days

A Mexican place at the end of a strip center.

The typical place you might find anywhere

Nestled across a parking lot from Home Depot.

With a dining area spacious and colorful

Windows there offering a view into the bar.

A small bar with an isle between stools and tables

Quite adequate on ordinary days of the week.

But Friday nights the little bar is packed with people

Karaoke folks wall to wall laughing and singing.

Dustin mans the KJ console taking singer requests

From the diverse crowd of karaoke enthusiasts.

Music, the universal language, acts to form bonds

Easily making friends of strangers amid the confines.

Familiar faces week to week exchange compliments

Singing along to deliver happy applause at the end.

Just another neighborhood bar transformed each time

Into a tiny forum where music and camaraderie reign.

Julio’s, the fun place to sing on Friday night

For those who enjoy some cozy mingling.

Deward and Pauline’s

2017-10-13T01:00:00.000-05:00

Sitting in a Denny’s late at night

Hash browns, eggs, biscuits and gravy.

Thinking back to the best and worst of times

Coffee hot and appetite strong.

Familiar scenes of Deward and Pauline’s.

As with everything from those days, they’re gone.

Too old to tango; not too old to sing

I’ll bring them back again

When the bars close and the music stops.

Singing back down that highway

Going home from Deward and Pauline’s.

James Middleton

10/13/2017

Hit and Run!

2017-06-22T03:05:00.001-05:00

Have you experienced a hit and run vehicle accident? I know many of you have. And like other crimes of theft and aggression, it left me dazed. Although I was not injured physically, I admit I was shook up. Fortunately, my son Jon was nearby and drove over to a Taco Bell parking lot where I had gone to collect my thoughts. His advice and expert sleuthing techniques provided the perfect antidote to the mental anguish and trauma I experienced by seeing my recently restored Acura sedan damaged by a troubled young man.

About an hour after I said goodbye to Jon at Taco Bell, he texted me the driver’s name, address, date of birth, and criminal history. The driver had recently been released from prison. Based on what we know today about sentencing for possession and other non-violent crimes, I hesitate to brand the driver as a horrible person, although he may be.

Following is the personal therapeutic technique I adopted into the late hours of Tuesday/Wednesday of this week. I initially started writing the following letter to the driver not knowing what I would demand or threaten. Ultimately I decided not to reveal my identity. Why open a can of worms or trouble? Perhaps better to say, as Judy stated during my late night tribulation, “I know who you are and I saw what you did”.

Here is an edited version of what I mailed for $1.19 postage to the owner/driver/who knows:

June 20, 2017

Dear Hit and Run Driver,

(actually addressed to the registered person/address)

This evening, as I was leaving The Pines at Woodcreek apartment complex about 6:47 PM, I drove across southbound lanes into the center turning area of Aldine Westfield Road preparing to go north on Aldine Westfield. Before crossing the southbound lanes, I had looked to my left at the oncoming traffic heading south toward me on Aldine Westfield and knew I had adequate time to cross to the middle of the road and wait there beyond the southbound lanes for a gap in the northbound traffic. Suddenly, I felt and heard a loud crash. I knew the white car I had seen traveling south in the inside lane had struck the rear end of my green 2002 Acura 3.2 TL Type-S vehicle.

I looked to the south and saw that white four door sedan slowing and hoped the driver would stop or circle back to exchange information. The driver then activated the car’s emergency flashers and sped off continuing south on Aldine Westfield. I sat and watched as the car disappeared in traffic to the south. I waited for a while wondering what to do. After a couple minutes, I drove directly across the road into the driveway of a large business facility there and parked not far from the road hoping the driver of the white sedan would return.

I got out and took some photos of the damage to my car. Soon a Hispanic male in a black Ford F-150 truck drove into the parking lot of the business and parked in a space about 100 feet away. He got out and walked toward me with a cell phone in his hand. He seemed friendly; not threatening. He showed me a picture on his phone of the white sedan that had struck the back end of my car. In his photo, damage to the left front fender of the white sedan could be seen and the Texas license plate number XXX-### was clearly visible. Also obvious in the photo was the Ford sedan driving recklessly through the intersection of Aldine Westfield and East Richey Road against traffic lights, weaving behind a left turning tanker truck and in front of an oncoming white pickup that was attempting a left turn. The unknown Hispanic male shared the photo with me and described how he had witnessed the incident. He had been following the white sedan and noted it was traveling aggressively, the driver not paying attention as he clipped the rear of my Acura. The Hispanic man followed the white Ford four door sedan to where it ran the lights of the intersection at Richey Road, nearly causing another accident. At that point he had captured the photo of the white sedan on his cell phone. The Hispanic male then said goodbye to me, returned to his truck and drove off.

A security guard for the company on whose driveway I was parked came to me on a golf cart and told me I would have to leave. So I went to the nearby Taco Bell parking lot and called 911. As a result, two Harris County Sheriff cars arrived at Taco Bell about 7:30 PM. They ran the license plate number and confirmed it was assigned to a white four door sedan registered to someone on the east side of Houston. No other details of that information were shared with me.

The deputies found I had only liability coverage on my vehicle and discussed the issues I might face in filing an accident report. I thanked them and went on my way.

My vehicle is important to me. I bought it about 16 years ago. After I and other family members had driven it 175,000 miles, it was in pretty bad shape. Over the past 18 months, I have worked on the vehicle, replacing many damaged parts, performing engine, transmission, and interior repairs, and sanding its surfaces by hand to prep it for paint. Finally I had it painted and have been very proud to own it. This car is my primary transportation.

I don’t know you but believe you were either the driver of the white Ford sedan or know who the driver was. As one person to another, I am sharing this information with you in a non-threatening spirit. I have no intention of suing or seeking any legal or other aggressive action.

I have not had a repair estimate yet but am very familiar with the components of my vehicle. At the very minimum it will need a bumper cover, license plate, tag light, wiring harness, straightening of the stainless Tanabe exhaust, adjustment of left rear panel, trunk lid, and right rear panel. Painting of those affected body components will be required.

I am not interested in hearing from you or getting anything from you. I do hope you will think about how your actions affect others. Further, I hope that for your sake and the happiness of your loved ones that you will seek help or get close to someone or something that will bring safety and stability to your life.

Sincerely,

The 70 Year Old Vietnam Veteran Driver of the Green Acura sedan.

Conclusion:

Wednesday, June 21, 2017, the first day of summer with a tropical storm brewing in the Gulf, I set out for a body shop in north Harris County where I had received some good work done in the past. Unfortunately the place was no longer in business. And the place in Conroe where the excellent painting of the Acura had been done last year was no longer in business. So I drove back up Kuykendall Road toward The Woodlands to Caliber Collision where I had previously had some insurance repairs done. There my long term contact, Ramone, took a look at my sad old Acura and offered some sage advice. Because I had done so much work on the car myself, he recommended a couple of independent shops that are privately owned and are not bound by the restrictions placed on shops like Caliber that deal with the major auto insurance companies.

Ramone’s first referral was a muffler shop. During restoration, I had installed an expensive exhaust system on the Acura. The right side muffler had been pushed to the side resulting in a bent pipe that needed to be straightened. Ramone said they always take their customer’s cars to Busy Bee Muffler on FM 2920 and charge a markup over what Busy Bee charges. I went there and made an appointment for next day to get that thing straightened.

Ramone also mentioned some good online places where I might purchase an after-market bumper cover. Online I found a place where I can get a pre-painted bumper cover to match the Noble Green Pearl paint of the Acura.

Wednesday evening, I removed the damaged bumper cover, and spliced the wiring for the license plate light. It works! Used some “balin” wire to attach the license plate to the ugly actual, and usually unseen, bumper to be legal until I receive and install the new bumper cover. After removal of the damaged bumper cover the alignment of the rear panels and the trunk lid seem to be pretty good. One remaining problem will be a crease on the back side of the trunk lid. After buffing it out, the crease became even more apparent. I had hoped it would not be significant but it is clearly visible.

Enough of my whining. Perhaps my therapy will soon be complete.

Summer of 1963

2017-04-17T01:47:00.001-05:00

Recently, I drove to Kansas to bring two of my grandkids here to The Woodlands for their 2017 Spring Break. After taking them home a week later, I enjoyed listening to some great old songs on SiriusXM Satellite Radio as I drove back to Texas alone in the Hyundai Sonata. A couple of the songs brought back meaningful memories of the summer of 1963. Those songs were Candy Girl by The Four Seasons and Surfer Girl by The Beach Boys.

Returning home, I fell back into my usual routine which includes frequent evenings out in front of my garage on the driveway listening to music from my iTunes playlists on the ION Bluetooth speaker. Those two songs kept coming back to mind and I found myself thinking about that summer and the artists who had produced the music. The only song in my collection from either group was Surfer Girl. So I went to iTunes and acquired albums by each group. While listening to the albums I surfed the internet, reading about the history of the people who created the music. I was mostly interested in The Beach Boys. Judy and I enjoyed the movie Love and Mercy, a couple years ago. That movie stirred my interest in Brian and the group. Since then I had been fascinated by his voice and tragically lost opportunities.

But getting back to 1963, in those days I only heard those two songs on AM radio stations in my 1953 Ford until a surprising opportunity came my way late in the summer of that year. The year was a very impactful year in my life. Turning sixteen years old in May, I got my driver’s license after taking the Rupert Cross Driver’s Ed class and completing the practical exam without alarming the OHP examiner too much. With the license in hand, I approached the local Chevy dealer about a part-time job. Of course nepotism played an important role in my getting the interview and the job. Mr. Boyd Perkins was the owner of the dealership and the employer of my dad, Everett Middleton, the number one mechanic in the shop at Perkin’s Chevrolet. And it didn’t hurt my chances that one of my best friends, Ernest Boyd Perkins, was the owner’s son. As a result of my being employed there, it wasn’t long before Ernie began working alongside me although he was only fifteen years old and couldn’t drive (legally).

As the school year ended, the Chelsea High School baseball team was making a run in the State baseball playoffs. At the dealership, a radio was tuned in to the broadcast of each playoff game. We listened intently while washing cars and doing oil changes and lube work. Ernie, along with a few other younger teenage boys were riding around town on the suddenly popular Honda 50cc motorcycles. In fact, I think it was Larry Morgan who actually had the much more powerful 90cc version. I had wanted a motor scooter or motorcycle since 1957 when some of my Roosevelt Grade School buddies began riding the Cushman Highlander and Cushman Eagle in my former home town of Henryetta, about 100 miles south of Chelsea. But those were things we could not afford nor which my dad would approve of.

Ernie and I worked on customer’s cars but it was washing the used cars that took up more of our time. The used car lot was several blocks away from the “downtown” location of the dealership. So Ernie and I would ferry the cars back and forth between the dealership and the lot. It was this practice that soon planted a seed of adventure in our minds. I would like to say that it was Ernie who hatched the plan but I can’t honestly say that for sure. Somehow we got the idea to leave certain interesting cars unlocked with the keys under the driver’s side floor mat. At night, we would let a couple of our friends in on the “secret” and they would join us on a classic joy ride. Chelsea was a quiet town with only one police officer on duty at night, so we enjoyed the pretentious thrill of danger and excitement by sneaking cars off the lot and spinning around the back streets of town. Soon, we were taking two cars and drag racing them through the quarter mile strip west of town. One station wagon and a pickup truck became our favorites. The station wagon was a 1958 Pontiac with a 370 cubic inch V-8 and a four barrel carburetor. The engine was rated around 285 horsepower, quite a lot at that time. But soon, the decision was made to move the car lot across Highway 66 to the east side of that four-lane road, the main highway through town. The assignment was given to Ernie and me to move the cars and the office furniture and equipment to the new site. That Pontiac station wagon was a good vehicle to use in moving the office files, car keys, etc. to the new location.

It was about this time, on a beautiful morning in June, that we were at the dealership washing the dust off the new cars lined up along the west side of the building facing Highway 28 (Vine Street). At the very south end of this lineup of new cars was a white 1963 Impala Super Sport, parked in the very prominent spot so that it could also be seen from the main street of town, Sixth Street. And soon came two cute girls walking along the sidewalk. We didn’t recognize them. But they were friendly and soon we were talking to them and learned they were from Redondo Beach, California, in town to visit relatives. There was something very different about these girls. Most noticeable was their California accent. Definitely different than what we were accustomed to in Oklahoma. And what a coincidence, they were cousins of our school friends, the Martin twins. After lingering a while to talk, they went on their way while Ernie and I turned our attention back to work.

Later that afternoon, Ernie’s mom, Mattie, who ran the office, came out to the shop and told us that somebody had a flat tire out on Highway 28 and needed us to go out there and put the spare tire on for them. What a coincidence, the people had the flat right in front of the Martin twin’s house. So Ernie and I jumped into the Pontiac station wagon and drove out north on the highway toward the location about five miles northwest of town. I was driving and the station wagon was still loaded with as much of the used car lot office stuff as we could get into it. When we arrived at the Martin’s place there was no car with a flat tire. But those two California girls were there. The girls claimed that the folks with the flat had changed it themselves and had already gone on their way. I have always wondered if there ever was anyone with a flat tire at all. But it was ok with Ernie and me. We took a little time to talk to the girls before heading back to town. As I was backing out of their driveway and onto the highway, I had to wait for a slow moving black 1950 Chevrolet sedan to pass by heading toward Chelsea. I waved to the girls as I threw the shifting lever down to drive and floored it. As usual, the nearly bald tires on the Pontiac squealed on the pavement as we sped off.

Very soon I was behind that black Chevy and looking for a chance to pass as soon as we got through the winding portion of the highway that took us over a couple of hills. Coming out of the last curve the way ahead was clear so I floored the Pontiac and laughed as we passed the elderly man at the wheel of the old sedan. A couple of miles further as we were approaching Larry Delozier’s place, there was a loud pop and suddenly the car swerved a little to the right. Blowout! Whatever training or good sense I may have had before evaporated and I instinctively applied the brakes. A very big mistake. The vehicle suddenly began to skid with the right rear of the station wagon coming around to my right. It was at this point that I experienced one of those rare moments that I had heard talked about before but never imagined I would face. It was the “life flashing before my eyes” experience. I could see the embankment on the northeast corner of the T intersection directly in front of our path. I yelled to Ernie to get down as I gripped the bottom half of the steering wheel from beneath and pulled myself as hard against the seat as I could. Seatbelts? No. Seatbelts had not yet become standard and were rare in those days.

So it was in those few seconds as we slid across the highway toward the embankment that, in my mind, I saw a series of scenes from my life. Time seemed to move in slow-motion. What a terrifying feeling of helplessness. And suddenly the Pontiac slammed into the embankment and flipped over onto its top. Ernie and I were upside down looking at each other and amazed that we were still alive. We scrambled out Ernie’s side through the window, finding ourselves in Gene Parks’ pasture. The station wagon was upside down on top of his barbed wire fence. We climbed over the fence and ran across the road, concerned the vehicle might catch fire. The wheels were still turning and fluids were leaking out of the engine compartment, gasoline pouring out of the gas tank. In the dirt and the grass along the embankment was strewn much of the content of the used car lot office; so many car keys. It was then that the old man in the black sedan pulled alongside us and asked, “You boys need a ride”?

We sheepishly got into the car and checked ourselves over as he drove the last mile or so to Perkins Chevrolet. I had a chipped thumbnail and minor scratches; Ernie, about the same. We couldn’t believe our good fortune but now came the time to face our dads. The old man let us out on the street and we walked across Highway 28 through the big open door of the shop. Ernie went through the showroom toward his dad’s office while I walked over to where my dad was working on a car. From that point things happened very quickly. Mr. Perkins came walking briskly into the shop with Ernie right behind him. Boyd told Everett to take the wrecker out to the accident location and bring that station wagon back to the dealership lot immediately. Then he told Ernie and me to come with him back to his office.

Boyd Perkins was a tall angular man with wavy gray hair. Although his career before acquiring the dealership a few years earlier had been that of a skilled machinist, he had a distinguished look about him and an impressive gift for speaking. I often thought of him resembling Jimmy Stewart or such a person as that.

On the walk from the shop past the parts counter and back to his office, I tried to prepare myself for the meanest, most humiliating chewing out of my life. The cost of the vehicle and all the office stuff weighed on my mind as we entered the office and Mr. Perkins closed the door behind us, motioning for us to take a seat as he made his way around behind his desk and sat down in a large brown leather chair. All I could do was stare at the bright red model of a Corvette setting on his desk as I awaited his words. “Boys”, he began, “The most important thing of all is that you were not hurt. That Pontiac station wagon means nothing compared to how important you both are to Everett and me and your mothers.” I’m sure he said a lot more than that but as far as he was concerned there was no punishment or financial obligations to be considered. That was it.

Ernie and his mom drove out to the site and searched the dirt around the area for car keys and any other items that could be recovered. Soon dad was back with the totaled out station wagon which he parked across the alley north of the shop where such vehicles were kept awaiting insurance claims or other disposition. As for me, there was a disabled car on the other side of town so my dad told me to take the wrecker over there and install a new battery in it for a customer. I was still shaking when I climbed into that 1950 something Chevrolet two ton wrecker and started it up. It was a reassuring feeling to drive along the city streets slow and careful in that big solid stable vehicle. I knew I was lucky to be alive and vowed to myself to never again touch the brakes when a tire blows out.

During the time that summer while the wrecked Pontiac sat across the alley, the police chief questioned Ernie unofficially about the accident and wondered why it was never reported to the Highway Patrol. He accused Ernie of being the driver. No official person ever asked me about the accident or who was driving. How do you spell “white privilege”?

The Pontiac ended up in a salvage yard in Tulsa on Pine Street. Occasionally Ernie and I would stop by the salvage and stare through the fence at the crumpled up remains of that hot rod station wagon and question how we survived it.

And so that summer the California girls, Becky and Bobbie, stayed at their grandmother’s house in Chelsea for what seemed like a few weeks. And during that time they became a part of my group of friends. Becky was a year older than me and Bobbie a year younger. Becky and I became constant companions during their time in Chelsea. That was a soothing time for me as my first real girlfriend had broken up with me the previous fall and I was having a hard time getting over it. When the girls returned to California with their family, several of us guys in town experienced some moments of anguish, missing these two girls who were just a little “different”. Becky and I became great pen pals and over the next couple of years wrote each other often. She wrote about days at the beach and about the popular songs and groups of the day. Through her letters, I was able to get a sense of what it might be like to be a part of the surfing beach scene on the West Coast. She called me a couple of times. Something rare and expensive in those days, at least in my world. She also returned to Chelsea a couple of times over the next year or two. A very nice and innocent memory.

Later in the summer, we were surprised to learn that someone had begun the process to purchase the Perkins Chevrolet dealership. I don’t remember the name of the man who wanted to acquire it but he was a wholesale car dealer from Tulsa. The man was a very outgoing, a free wheeler sort of guy accustomed to high volume trading in the wholesale business. The process of becoming an authorized Chevrolet Dealer was quite involved and required a period of time to submit all the documentation and eventually obtain approval. But that didn’t pose any concern for this guy. And as he surveyed the situation there at the dealership, he somehow decided I would be helpful in his Tulsa wholesale and personal asset disposition process.

The first assignment he had for me was to go with him to a house on east Admiral in Tulsa, almost to Catoosa. There he had a beautiful 1962 Impala Super Sport which he wanted me to drive to a dealer in Shawnee, Oklahoma. The house seemed to be one that he owned of had some sort of interest in. It was an older looking ranch type of property with a barn and some horses out back. So on that hot sunny afternoon in the summer of 1963, I drove off from Tulsa down the Turner Turnpike in that fine automobile, air conditioner cold, and the radio tuned in to every station I could find playing the popular songs of the day.

What a contrast to the wet, greasy, sweating conditions of the previous couple of months. I had never driven the Turner Turnpike and never been free behind the wheel of a car like this one I was driving. For me, music has held a very powerful role in my life. Music permeates the deepest recesses of who I am. So driving down the turnpike that day, one of the most played songs on the radio was Surfer Girl. For so many reasons Surfer Girl touched me and made that whole day a prominent memory that is as real today as it was in 1963. And Candy Girl, with its heartfelt tune and lyrics, really grabbed me that day. Who needs to work when I can just drive this incredible car with the radio playing and my romantic heart loving it all so much?

Taking the exit at Chandler, I made my way south down to Shawnee with its prominent grain elevators and signs touting Shawnee’s Best flour. I hated to think what kind of car I would be driving back to Chelsea. Nothing could match this Super Sport with its bucket seats, center console, and floor shift automatic. But to my happy surprise, the guy at the Shawnee lot had a 1961 Pontiac Ventura coupe ready for me to drive back. Not quite as impressive as the Super Sport but a truly cool car and way beyond anything I thought I would have been driving a couple months ago as crawled out of that Pontiac station wagon wreckage.

As it turned out, the man was never approved by General Motors to own the dealership. But my brief time as his courier and handy man helped to make my summer a time I often think about. He must have thought I was older than I was for he never hesitated to send me off by myself to retrieve vehicles at various locations. On one Saturday that summer he sent me to one of his ranch style locations on north Mingo or Garnett in Tulsa to get a large stake bed farm truck that I was familiar with from prior visits there. Driving that Chevy wrecker from the dealership, I hooked up to the truck and towed it to another ranch type property north of Chelsea. The truck I was towing was a little too heavy for the wrecker so that the front wheels of the wrecker barely touched the pavement at times. I remember the wrecker tires squealing on the hot pavement in Claremore as I tried to stop at a main intersection there. And so it happened that summer in 1963 before my dad left the Chevy dealership and began operating ByPass Texaco on Route 66 in Chelsea.

There is something transformative in music. Nowadays when I sit out in front of my garage and listen to the Beach Boys or Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons, I take a mental trip back in time and remember how I felt that day in the summer of 1963 driving the Turner Turnpike and feeling on top of the world for a few hours. A great escape.

James Middleton

April 17, 2017

Talk Talk

2015-11-03T06:35:00.001-06:00

Vietnam Veteran

2015-11-02T17:01:00.001-06:00

Remembering Roosevelt

2015-09-26T16:50:00.001-05:00

It’s 6:30 PM on a beautiful May evening in Henryetta, Oklahoma. May 12, 1959 and thirty one students have arrived early to get their group photo taken and prepare for an evening performance; their last at Roosevelt Grade School.

Prominently scrawled in a large arc of glittering characters on the wall behind them is “Class of 1959”. All are dressed and groomed for the talent show and graduation program. Almost half of the students are seated on white oak classroom chairs, arranged in an arc across the stage, while the remainder of the 31 students stand posed behind them. Some appear relaxed and smiling. Others seem solemn and possibly tense.

The floor of the multi-function stage, situated on the south end of the auditorium, is stained dark, its varnish freshly polished and shining in the photographer’s flash. Two wooden steps lead up from the auditorium floor to the front center stage where, momentarily, the program will begin. Long time janitor Opal Lynch stands proudly in a far corner of the hall remembering when most of them were first graders, not so long ago.

Parents, siblings, teachers, and neighbors begin arriving through the main entrance at the opposite end of the auditorium. The sounds of their voices and the clatter of shoes on the hardwood floor add to an air of excitement and anticipation as they greet one another and search for the best available seat. Mothers and fathers look proudly toward the stage in search of their own 6^th grader. How did those first six years pass so quickly?

Marie Schurch, 6^th Grade teacher and producer of the program, rushes into the classroom after conferring with the photographer and admonishing the students on posture, making last minute preparations to ensure that props and instruments are in place and nothing has been overlooked.

Helena Cameron, the petite silver haired principal, is busy greeting parents and thanking the PTA mothers who have provided cookies, punch, and coffee for the occasion. The aroma of the refreshments mingles with the perfumes and aftershaves of the crowd wafting on the gentle evening breeze carried from large open windows of adjoining classrooms. Tonight will be a special night.

Finally it is 7:00 PM. All thirty one students have taken their seats on stage. Miss Schurch crosses the floor from the sixth grade classroom, her heavy shoes giving an authoritative note to match her stern expression, and takes a seat on the front row with the audience. With an affirmative nod, she signals toward the stage. Let the program begin.

WELCOME:

Marilyn Bissett, the lively little leader of the class, rises from her seat among the students and steps forward confidently to present opening remarks, welcoming everyone to the program. She invites the audience to join in singing the invocational hymn, Fairest Lord Jesus, accompanied on the piano by Mrs. Mable Black, another Roosevelt teacher.

OUR POETS:

Next on the program, the following students present readings of their original poetry:

Jewel Kirby	Jane Bryan	Gail Hamilton	Beverly Bevan
David Black	Joyce Dudley	Barbara Kaler	Linda Johnson
Jimmie Shepherd	Linda Youngblood	Marilyn Bissett

FOUR GIRLS PERFORM PIANO SOLOS:

Linda Johnson………………….Drifting

Jane Bryan………………….…….Pioneer’s Band March

Gail Hamilton……………….…..Waltz

Bette Linda Davis………..…..Vaya Con Dios

CLASS HISTORY:

Helen Fisher presents a reading of the class history

SONGS BY CLASS MEMBERS ACCOMPANIED BY BAND INSTRUMENTS:

The Bagpipers

Go On, Train

OUR AUTHORS:

Gary Merryman highlights our class authors by reading excerpts from stories they have written:

Marilyn Bissett

Joyce Dudley

Linda Johnson

THE FRIENDLY FREAKS – PUPPET SHOW

Featuring the Chipmunk Song with Alvin’s Harmonica

By: Linda Johnson

Marilyn Bissett

Joyce Dudley

Darlene Childress

OUR DANCER:

Frances Crunk presents a lively tap dance routine

The Roosevelt Band:

- Our Boys Will Shine Tonight

- Faith of Our Fathers

- Down In The Valley

Band Members:

Cornet: Jimmie Alston

Gary Merryman

Trombone: Tommy Langwell

Drum: Robert Ruth

Flute: Darlene Childress

Clarinet: Jane Bryan

Marilyn Bissett

Joyce Dudley

Bette Linda Davis

A LOOK INTO THE FUTURE:

Presented By: Linda Youngblood

THE NINE OF US:

Skits with songs: Tea For Two

The Alphabet Song

Featuring: Catherine Rounsaville

Frances Crunk

Linda Youngblood

Joyce Dudley

Darlene Childress

Jane Bryan

Marilyn Bissett

Bette Linda Davis

Linda Johnson

FAREWELL:

Presented By: Linda Johnson

CLOSING SONG BY ENTIRE CLASS:

Oklahoma!

CLASS MEMBERS:
Jimmie	Alston
Beverly	Bevan
Marilyn	Bissett
David	Black
Jane	Bryan
Darlene	Childress
Frances	Crunk
Bette Linda	Davis
Joyce	Dudley
James	Duty
Helen	Fisher
Donald	Gaither
Gail	Hamilton
Kay	Harjo
Lenda	Johnson
Donald	Jones
Barbara	Kaler
Jewel	Kirby
Tommy	Langwell
Roy	Maghe
Gary	Merryman
James	Middleton
Alfred	Moore
Sandy	Odom
Kenny	Powders
Catherine	Rounsaville
Robert	Ruth
Jimmie	Shepherd
Jimmy	Tarwater
Jimmy	Wesson
Linda	Youngblood

“James, where are you? I thought we were going for a walk!”

Startled, I jerked abruptly hitting my head on a rafter. It was my wife, Judy, calling from downstairs. I had been in the attic looking for some old bank statements when I noticed the dusty faded box. I brought it back from Kansas several years before, not long after Dad passed away. The box contained papers and photos covering my childhood, mostly school related; things my mom had saved for me. There were report cards, awards, etc. And there among those things was a photo of my sixth grade class at Roosevelt School along with the accompanying program for the talent show and graduation event. For the past hour I had been there in the attic traveling back in time. For a short while I was in Henryetta revisiting the sights, sounds, and people that were once a very important part of my life.

The high quality black and white 10 x 10 glossy showed each of us thirty one students in clear detail. Gazing into each face, I could hear their voices, sense their unique personalities, and recall specific occasions and incidents when I had been directly engaged with or observing them during those formative years.

I brought the box down and put it in my office, intending to go through all the contents at a more convenient time. This was around April, 2005. It was several weeks before I once again opened the box and gave the contents a more careful going over. My reaction to looking through the stuff was mostly disappointment in my poor academic performance and the underlying behavioral issues presented in the report cards and notes to my parents. Not much has changed in the area of behavior. But I did find the opportunity to atone somewhat for my poor academic past during my time in the military and later when I returned to college thanks to the G.I. Bill.

Throughout my life, I have been fascinated with my past and the people who were a part of that history. Like the daydreamer at Roosevelt School, staring out the big classroom windows at the neatly landscaped houses along the south side of Clegern Street, much of my adult life has been spent thinking, reflecting, and remembering people, places, and things of the past.

Fortunately, I have found many opportunities to put my reflective nature to good use by expressing myself in writing, singing, and carousing/socializing. The gift of gab is enhanced by the use of memories and stories of events from the past. I am not unique in this way. Many people share a great interest in not only reflecting on important moments in their lives but in actually remaining connected with old friends or reconnecting through reunions and get-togethers with former classmates and co-workers. Surprisingly, there are also many folks who have little interest in such things.

Around the “turn of the century”, the early social media systems were coming into common use. Classmates.com and MySpace gave me the first opportunity to find that people I had known years before but whom I hadn’t heard from in years were now only a few keystrokes away from contact. The digital technology allowed me to bring back reunion videos and post them online and to share my musical interests with others. The rapid advancement of Google and Facebook eventually provided tools I could use to connect with most of the thirty one students from my sixth grade class at Roosevelt School.

I moved away from Henryetta in 1960 following seven years in the schools there. Eventually, I lost all contact with people from those days. There was little news from Henryetta other than letters exchanged between my mom and her sister and friends back home. My visits to Henryetta involved a few family reunions at Nichols Park and funerals for aunts, uncles, and parents.

And so it was, through social media, several years ago, that I made my first connection with someone from Henryetta. I think it was through Classmates.com that I communicated with D’Ann Marshall Simons. She was not one of those thirty one students from Roosevelt but had been one of my fellow students during 7^th Grade at Henryetta Junior High School. It was D’Ann who put me in touch with Lenda Johnson Peters by sharing Lenda’s email address.

Lenda and I go back a long way. We were born and grew up in the Roosevelt District along Jefferson Street. From a young age, we were in Sunday school together at the First Church of God on Barclay Street. Our families were acquainted. A photo taken on Lenda’s 5^th birthday shows me and three of my sisters with Lenda and other party goers posing in her front yard on West Jefferson Street.

Lenda shares my passion for singing and writing. We were soon exchanging memories of those younger days along Jefferson Street. She shared with me a very interesting series of stories she had written describing those days on the south side of town along the little creek that was a tributary of Coal Creek, and which played an important role in the lives of neighborhood kids of the 1950s. Lenda also related stories of her close friend and our classmate, Jane Bryan. Jane’s family lived a couple of miles east of Roosevelt School on the New Lake Road but Jane’s grandmother lived nearby on Jefferson Street allowing many fun times for the two of them to share when Jane visited her grandmother. And sadly, Lenda told me of Jane’s illness and death in the prime of life.

Through Lenda’s references and Facebook, I soon found myself in touch with another Roosevelt student, Roberta Benson, and several of the members of the Henryetta High School Class of 1965.

Roberta was two grades ahead of us at Roosevelt but several of us in the Class of 1959 were introduced to her when she moved to Henryetta from Indiana during our 3^rd grade school year. Because our 3^rd grade class size was large and the 5^th grade not so much, the decision was made to take some of us 3^rd graders into Miss Schurch’s 5^th grade class where she would teach both groups in one room. As fate would have it, Roberta and Marilyn eventually married a couple of Benton brothers, Eddie and Garland. Because of that family relationship, Roberta and Marilyn were very close and shared many Holiday seasons and happy moments of laughter and shopping while raising their children together. Roberta has been generous in sharing precious memories of Marilyn with me the past several years via email.

Although I was not part of the HHS Class of 1965, they welcomed my sharing in Facebook photos and stories of school days in Henryetta. Through those contacts, I became a member of the Facebook page “Class of 65” and by way of that connection, got in the loop and aware of plans for the 50^th Reunion of the HHS Class of 1965.

After deciding to attend the reunion, I, once again, turned my attention to that Roosevelt graduation photo. I had already learned about the untimely deaths of several. I had contact with some class members online, mainly via Facebook. But what about the others? My interest and curiosity led me to begin a search to contact as many as possible. My hope was to organize a mini Roosevelt reunion in conjunction with the HHS reunion.

Eventually, I was able to contact most of the Class of 1959 directly or indirectly. As of this writing, there remain four whom I have been unable to contact. Of these four, it is likely that three still reside in Oklahoma. However, they are all women and more difficult to locate because of name changes due to marriage. Here are the four individuals with whom I have no contact along with possible clues and information on attempts made to contact them:

No Successful Contact:

Helen	Fisher
Barbara	Kaler
Catherine	Rounsaville
*Linda	Youngblood

*(Months later I found Linda Youngblood Donahue online. Lives in Florida after career as international educator. Is champion chess player who enjoys cruises and is now a friend on FB with me and others from the Roosevelt class.)

Based on the obituary of a relative, Barbara may be Barbara Fogle and possibly living in Hanna, OK. Although I had no mailing address, I mailed a letter to Barbara Fogle at General Delivery, Hanna. No results yet.

I found a brother of Catherine in Okmulgee and mailed a letter to him asking for information. No reply at this time.

Helen Fisher lived on Louise Street a little east of 6^th. Her house sat up on a rise above the creek. I think she had a brother and perhaps her dad drove a big truck. On the Facebook page, Class of 65, I saw a reference of her last name being Baker. Both names, Helen and Baker are fairly common. I did find a Helen Baker about our age in Muskogee. I left a voice message at the listed number and mailed a letter. So far no success.

When I was born, my family lived on Louise Street between 6^th and 7^th. Behind our house on Wayne Street lived Walter and Myrtle Youngblood whose son was in the U.S. Air Force. The son was married and had a daughter born at about the same time that I was born. Being friends and neighbors, the two families shared the joy of the newborns together. Being a career military family, the younger Youngbloods moved often. However, there were assignments where the family could not join the father. During those two or so school years, Linda would be a part of the Roosevelt Class of 1959. Through the years, into the 1980s, my mom kept in touch with Myrtle through occasional letters and cards. One day in 1980 something, I stopped by the folk’s house in Independence, Kansas where we both lived. It was a day when mom had received a letter from Myrtle. In the letter, Myrtle wrote that Linda was living in California and had recently divorced. Unfortunately, it did not occur to me at the time to get some basic information about Linda’s last name and address. It would have been helpful this year.

Here is additional information on Roosevelt Class of 1959:

Deceased:

Marilyn	Bissett
Jane	Bryan
Bette Linda	Davis
Joyce	Dudley
Roy	Maghe
Alfred	Moore
Robert	Ruth

Jimmie Alston

Unfortunately, Marilyn’s death and the circumstances surrounding it were publicized and the subject of much discussion, even now among old friends. She was dearly loved by many. Her charm and infectious laughter were among the traits that touched the lives of all who knew her.

Marilyn’s close Roosevelt friendship with Joyce made the two of them inseparable at times along Jefferson Street. Some personal memories of those days are noted in an article available here: http://a-chelsea-guys-life.blogspot.com/2015/07/four-friends-and-elvis-in-oklahoma.html

Bette Linda also lived along Jefferson Street as did Darlene Childress, David Black, Jewel Kirby, Beverly Bevan, Lenda, and I. A special memory of Bette Linda is a birthday party she had at her house at the end of 7^th grade. From her house at Jefferson and Lake Road, a good sized group took a hayride on a wagon towed by a tractor out to Nichols Park. After a party at the park, the hayride traveled west to the Dustin Road then north to Corporation Street and on to her house again. It was a memorable occasion for me and others I am sure.

Roy was a strong, tough, athletic kid who had a great singing voice that was featured in school programs through the years. On the football field and at the annual track meet at Cameron Field, Roy was always a standout.

Alfred lived a block north of me on West Madison Street. His family kept a cow and other farm animals for a few years after the rest of our families in that area of town had abandoned the practice. He often joined me and others on our walks to and from school. The walks were a fun adventure through the woods and across the creek. Alfred was my long time neighborhood friend.

Robert Ruth was not with us at Roosevelt for all six years. But he obviously was with us in sixth grade. I don’t recall much about Robert or exactly where he lived. My search for him was helped greatly by information I received from Roberta Benson Clinton. Through local relatives she learned that Robert had passed away in Arkansas last year. With that bit of information, I was able to locate his obituary and learn that he had had a career as a carpenter.

Attended Our Mini Reunion on 9/5/2015:

Jimmie	Alston
James	Duty
Gail	Hamilton
Lenda	Johnson
Tommy	Langwell
Gary	Merryman
James	Middleton
Sandy	Odom
Kenny	Powders

Oklahoma Residents-Expressed Interest in Attending/Were Unable to Be There:

David	Black
Donald	Gaither
Kay	Harjo
Jewel	Kirby
Jimmie	Shepherd
Jimmy	Tarwater
Jimmy	Wesson

Live Out of State- Likely Reason For Not Attending:

Beverly	Bevan
Darlene	Childress
Frances	Crunk
Donald	Jones

My search for Roosevelt classmates yielded some happy surprises. Jimmy Tarwater and I were good friends at Roosevelt but I had not seen him or spoken with him since 1964. Finally, I was able to talk to him on the phone around the middle of August. He had returned my call telling me he was in an air-conditioned tractor moving hay bales around for his cattle operation near Eufaula. We enjoyed a good talk and he promised to attend our Roosevelt gathering. I am sure he had a good excuse for being a no-show!

Through Google, I found that Jimmie Alston was listed as living in Henryetta in the Turkey Pen Hollow area. Unable to find a phone number for him, I wrote a letter and mailed it to the address on Hedge Road. A few days later, I got a call from Jimmie. We talked for three hours until his phone died. Then he called me back on his wife’s phone and we talked for another hour. What a great feeling to be able to refer to and discuss all things associated with our days at Roosevelt. And he was a great resource for learning about other classmates. For example, his wife Pat is a relative of Sandy Odom’s husband. They gave me Sandy’s home phone number.

Johnny Klimek answered the phone when I called Sandy’s number. Soon I was talking to Sandy and sharing our memories of the neighborhood along south 7^th Street. Sandy had lived at 7^th and Dixie. My house was a couple blocks north of there. We talked about walking to school and about the path along Clegern and the foot bridge crossing the creek there. Sometimes there was flooding, forcing her to walk around to Madison Street in order to cross the creek. The most heartwarming part of my conversation with Sandy came when she related a story about getting lost in the neighborhood as a little girl. She had begun to cry, afraid she would not be able to find her way home. Soon a car stopped. It was my mom who comforted her and took her home. Mom knew where she lived.

As the Labor Day Weekend grew closer, I exchanged emails and Facebook messages with Gary Merryman, Tom Langwell, James Duty, Lenda Peters, and Jimmie Wesson. Also sent messages to Darlene Childress Delaney and Frances Crunk Lorz.

Gary was happy to hear about the idea for a Roosevelt reunion and took the lead in arranging for a place to meet and to encourage others to join us. Gary had hoped that David Black could be with us. However, David was recovering from knee surgery and was unable to attend.

Lenda Johnson Peters made several attempts to contact her old friend Kay Harjo, knowing that she is Kay Massey and lives in Okemah. Through a message to her husband, Lenda got the information to Kay about the gathering at Cowboy Corner. However, Kay was not able to attend.

Lenda told me she thought Gail Hamilton’s married name was Pilgram. Through Google searches, I found references to Gail and husband Mitch along with a phone number. A morning phone call the week of the reunion found me talking to a very surprised Gail who wondered how I was able to find her. The timing was good. Mitch and Gail would be passing through Henryetta September 5^th on their way to the OU football game in Norman. So she thought it would be great to stop by Cowboy Corner and visit with the group.

Through Facebook and the Class of 65 group, I saw a reference to Joyce Gaither and inquired if she was the wife of our Donald Gaither. She was and agreed to let him know about the reunion plan. He was happy to know we were thinking of him but was not able to attend.

Several years ago, I became Facebook friends with my old school buddy, Jimmie Shepherd. We exchanged emails and brief notes on Facebook. However, recent attempts to contact him were unsuccessful. On Facebook, I noted that he had a Facebook friend/relative living in the Houston area. I communicated with her about Jimmie. She agreed to get the message about our reunion plan to Jimmie who I believe lives in Oklahoma near Jay. Unfortunately, I have had no response from him.

Of special significance to many of us from the Roosevelt Class of 1959, were our thoughts of Jewel Kirby. Early on in my exchanges with Gary, Lenda, and Tommy, several years ago, Jewel’s name was quickly mentioned. Seems we each carry a sense of guilt and shame for how we treated Jewel. Through our eyes today, we know that we participated in acts of bullying which we deeply regret. Over several years, I used Google and Classmates to look for Jewel. Eventually, I learned she was a member of the Holdenville Class of 1965. Later, I located her on Classmates.com and sent her an email through that system. It was some time later that I received a reply. Was so good to learn that Jewel had a rewarding career and is now retired and living in the Tulsa area. We have exchanged a few emails, the last one in January, 2015. More recent emails informing her of the gathering at Cowboy Corner resulted in no reply. I will continue efforts to maintain contact.

Beverly Bevan had moved away after sixth grade. Through Google and a family obituary, I learned she lived in Florida and was able to find a business phone number. After speaking to her daughter, I got a home phone number. On the phone I enjoyed a nice talk with Beverly’s husband who told me Beverly was out to take her granddaughters to some kind of lesson. He gave me her cell phone number saying he was sure she would enjoy hearing from me. I left her a voice message. Although I didn’t get a return call, Beverly did reply to my Facebook message a couple of weeks later as follows:

Hello,

Sorry I missed getting to talk with you, sounds like you had a good time. I can't believe after all the years this would happen. I remember your name even. I lived next to Darlene Childress and Betty Davis. We were best friends all those years. Betty I know passed away several years ago and Darlene, I saw her last when her son was around 7. She lived in Tulsa. No contact since then. I had just come back from KC about the time you called. A family member had passed away. I married a guy and he joined Air Force 20 years and then moved to Florida and he worked at Lockheed Martin for 20 years. We got to travel and enjoyed the military life. We had 2 girls. They both married and live in Florida. We also have adopted 2 girls. We are foster parents and have done this for some time. I love children and we try to do the best we can for them. We've had over 200 children in our home. We only have 1 family member left in the Henryetta area. Others have passed away. Seems like we do have family still in Tulsa. We were in that area 4 years ago. Also family in Texas and we’ve been there a few times. I have a sister in Decatur, Il. Of course she was older. My brother, dad, and mom are all gone now. Now at our age we live on memories and they are so special. It was good to think about school that many years ago. Thank you for calling and enjoyed seeing the e-mail.

Beverly Seitz

While visiting with Kenny Powders at the Cowboy Corner gathering, I brought up the names of Roy Maghe and Donald Jones. Kenny was pretty sure that Roy was deceased. About Donald, Kenny told me that after 7^th grade Donald had moved to Carlsbad, NM. Upon returning home to Texas, I used Google to find a Donald Jones in Carlsbad. I phoned the listed number and left a message. Within a few minutes, I got a call back from THE Donald Jones of the Class of 1959. He described the shirt he is wearing in the class photo. We enjoyed a nice talk, sharing life stories and discovered we had both done some private pilot flying. In fact Don once owned his own plane and would fly back and forth between his Los Angles home and Carlsbad over the years.

On Friday, September 4, 2015, my wife Judy and I arrived in Henryetta and checked in at the Days Inn where the official HHS Class of 1965 reunion would be held. Soon I saw a note on Facebook posted by Kathie Moore Blackmon saying she was in the hotel bar. Kathie had been one of the most active members of the Class of 65 on Facebook and had been important in encouraging my participation. So Judy and I joined Kathie and had a great time visiting at Baby Ruth’s before heading back to our rooms. Along the way we encountered some guys from the Class of 1965 who invited us up to their room to visit. In a short time I felt like a true part of the reunion as Kathie, Richard, Charlie, George, and I shared stories of our lives during and after those days in Henryetta. When they learned about the Roosevelt reunion to be held at Cowboy Corner the next day, they were all determined to crash it. I thought that was a great idea and would add to the enjoyment of all involved.

Saturday nine of the Roosevelt Class of 1959 gathered at Cowboy Corner in Henryetta. Those attending were:

Jimmie Alston of Henryetta….Retired from U.S. Postal Service

James Duty, Mayor of Eufaula and all knowing historian of Roosevelt and HHS

Gail Hamilton Pilgram of Bixby….retired nurse and OU Sooner Football fan

Lenda Johnson Peters of Antlers….Owner of a jewelry business and MMA fan

Tommy Langwell of Broken Arrow….Tennis Tom, an active tennis team member

Gary Merryman of Broken Arrow….Retired AT&T, a godly dedicated volunteer

James Middleton of The Woodlands, TX….Retired pipeline office boy

Sandy Odom of Henryetta…..devoted wife, mother, and grandmother

Kenny Powders of Okmulgee…Retired pipeliner, union rep, and volunteer

In addition, the following guests/fans of the Roosevelt Class of 1959 were there:

Kathie Moore Blackmon

Bruce Jones (Henryettan)

Charlie Blackmon

George Lawrence

Michelle Broome

Judy DeMoss Middleton

Sky Thomas Merryman

Patricia Alston

Mitch Pilgram

Johnny Klimek and grandson Levy

The moment Bruce Jones entered our meeting room at Cowboy Corner was a unique experience in my life. Bruce started out first grade with our class at Roosevelt but was so much smarter than the rest of us that they promptly moved him up to second grade. And I had totally forgotten about Bruce. Yet, as soon as I saw his face at the door I felt an instant recognition. It was like, “Hey, I have no idea who this guy is but I know him. In fact I know him from a long time ago.” It was fascinating to learn about his education and career in journalism and to meet the person behind The Henryettan. Like many boys of Henryetta, Bruce got his start in the workforce at the Henryetta Daily Freelance. My cousin Robert delivered the Freelance as did my Roosevelt buddy, Jimmy Tarwater.

Some of us weren’t as fortunate, and so delivered the Tulsa World, Tulsa Tribune, or Okmulgee Daily Times. Jimmie Alston delivered the World in our Roosevelt district. Following the Class of 1959 graduation program, I took over a Tribune route from Kent Santee, who was moving to Oklahoma City. That afternoon route was in the northwest area of town around St. Michaels and out toward the future site of the “new” high school. Recalling Kent Santee brings to mind the day he rode on his bicycle up to me on the sidewalk near the southwest corner of 5^th and Main. Kent was very excited as he pulled up the pant leg of his jeans and exclaimed, “Look, I’ve got hair on my legs!”

Those Tulsa papers were heavy and had to be rolled rather than folded in the old tradition of small town papers. Before long, I got an Okmulgee Daily Times route. But it was a morning route. Mom would wake me up each morning around 4:00 AM. She would have a snack ready for me before I rode off on my bicycle toward town in the darkness. My Times route covered most of the east side of town. It started around the former John Taylor Hospital, where many of us were born under the watchful eye of Doctor Kilpatrick, and north past the high school then west to about 5^th Street. By that time the hospital had been converted into a nursing home. I delivered a paper there. The route included Main Street from 4^th Street down to the tracks where there were old hotels and boarding houses in the vicinity. Downtown on Main, one of my customers was a bar. I think it might have been the Olympic or Olympia Bar. It was on the north side of Main between 4^th and 3^rd, a little west of the former Morgan Theater. What an experience as a twelve year-old to be authorized, for business purposes, to go into a smoky old bar. I recall some interesting pin-up photos hanging above the bar but most of all I remember the dank smell and darkness of the place. From the lower end of Main along the tracks to Broadway and to the area in the neighborhood around the present location of the Territorial Museum, my Okmulgee Daily Times route continued over to 6th Street.

Over Labor Day Weekend I drove my old paper route in a rental car and observed with sadness how the homes of my former customers, which once were nicely kept, have deteriorated. But similar conditions are found in older communities around the country. Still it is nice to recall the nice homes and landscaping that once prevailed. The sight of Cushman Eagle motor scooters parked on front lawns, the songs of the Everly Brothers and Elvis running through my mind as I rode along the sidewalks and across the lawns throwing papers in the early dawn, remain as pleasant and wholly nostalgic memories for me.

Sammy Wren was a year older than me. Our dads worked together as auto mechanics at Progressive Chevrolet. Sammy had the Okmulgee Daily Times route next to mine to the west. Sometimes, after we finished delivering the papers, we would meet at the Henryetta Bakery just west of the Patty Ann restaurant to enjoy hot fresh donuts, the sugar still dripping from them, before going home to get ready for a day at the junior high school.

Another wonderful surprise from Cowboy Corner was the opportunity to meet Gary’s wife Sky. A big surprise because she grew up in my neighborhood at 7^th and Clegern, about half way between mine and Sandy’s houses. But because of a slight age difference, I was not aware of Sky during my Roosevelt days. However, she knew my younger cousin, Paula Middleton. Sky told me that my cousin Robert used to drive her and Paula to school during junior high. That was after I had moved away.

For a couple of fun hours the group at Cowboy Corner chatted it up, sharing common memories and photos. Miss Schurch had been our teacher for three of the six years most of us spent at Roosevelt. Although she was a stern and demanding teacher, we remember her fondly and with the deepest respect. So I was proud to share with the group, something about Marie Schurch that my sister Geraldine Middleton Williams, HHS Class of 1959, had shared with me several years ago. It was part of an account written by Marie’s niece, Karen Strom. Here is a link to that story:

http://www.hanksville.org/voyage/women.html

The story of Marie’s life is a stark account of how some have sacrificed and endured much for the benefit of family and the greater good. We were right to hold Miss Schurch in such high regard.

For some of us the memory of Miss Schurch’s story time after recess is among the best. In particular, a book by the title “The Little Grey Men” was a favorite for many, not only in our grade but for others who came before and after us. The book is a fantasy adventure story of gnomes who lived in the forest unseen by the giant human inhabitants of the land. Here is a link to the book on Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/The-Little-Grey-Men-B-B/dp/0192793500

A summary of the book on Amazon goes like this:

The last four gnomes in Britain live on the banks of the bubbling Folly brook. They are perfectly happy with their quiet life, except, that is, for one ...Cloudberry. Restless and longing for adventure, Cloudberry sets off to follow his dream. But when he doesn't return, the remaining gnomes must set off on their own adventure to find him. This is the story of the brothers' epic journey in search of Cloudberry and is set against the background of the English countryside, beginning in spring, continuing through summer, and concluding in autumn, when the first frosts start to arrive. This enchanting tale was the winner of the prestigious Carnegie Medal and features the author's own beautiful illustrations throughout.

As Miss Schurch read the story aloud, I visualized every scene in my mind. For me, the whole thing took place along that creek in the woods between Clegern and Jefferson Streets, right there between mine and Lenda’s homes. The book was among the first topics Lenda and I discussed when we began corresponding in 2009. Both Lenda and Roberta ordered copies of the beloved book as a result of our common enthusiasm. Lenda brought her copy to the reunion but had little time to share it. But I certainly appreciated seeing it.

For our 4^th grade year at Roosevelt, we were fortunate to have a very lovely young woman as our teacher. In every conversation I’ve had with my fellow Roosevelt classmates, the name of Mrs. Rampey is soon mentioned along with comments about how pretty she was and how much she was liked as a teacher. A Google search revealed that Laura Jane Rampey passed away in Lawton earlier this year. Here is a link to her obituary:

http://www.beckerfuneral.com/memsol.cgi?user_id=1520422

Our memories of Roosevelt would not be complete without mentioning some friends who shared those days at Roosevelt but for whatever reasons were not there at our graduation program.

Richard Elias was my classmate in 3^rd grade but soon moved away. Our friendship was happy and easy. I hated when he had to move. He was a very well behaved kid who lived up 2^rd Street near the south side of Coal Creek in a fairly nice house just north of where the big concrete drainage ditch cuts across from Scott Street to the large culvert under 2^nd Street. And though he was well behaved, one day my silliness got the both of us in trouble. We were gathered in a small group around Miss Schurch taking turns reading from our reader books. The story was about a cobbler in a European village. His name was Pierre. In our Oklahoma way of pronunciation, the name to Richard and me was Pee Air. Of course it didn’t take much to make me laugh and before long Richard caught the giggles from me. Soon, we found ourselves in the cloak room at the end of Miss Schurch’s paddle.

Phil Hayes joined us at Roosevelt for a year of two and was a very smart and well liked kid. He was the first person I recall wearing sport safe glasses for football. He was a great kid. I was unable to track him down recently. Someone said he came from Mississippi or Louisiana and the family later returned there.

Bobby Louchery lived on the corner of 2^nd and Dixie Streets and attended school with us at Roosevelt a couple of years. Apparently both he and Phil Hayes moved away during our 6^th grade school year since both of them appear in our Roosevelt Rockets football photo from the fall of 1958 but are not included in our graduation photo. Until recently, I was not aware that Bobby had returned to Henryetta to live after I moved away. I was sad to learn that he passed away a few years ago.

Kamora Martin Sains joined us at Roosevelt for the 4^th grade year. We sat next to each other in class in alphabetical order. It was interesting to see her on Facebook a few years ago and know that she had remained in the area. At the reunion, I got the opportunity to visit with Kamora. She told me of the circumstances that brought her to Roosevelt that year. I had forgotten that during 4^th grade she lived on Wayne Street sort of behind Helen Fisher’s house and the block east of the Youngblood place.

Earl Gordon is another who was part of our Roosevelt class until his family moved up in the Washington School district. Not sure what grades Earl attended with us but was likely through 3^rd or 4^th grade.

Following our small but happy Roosevelt reunion at Cowboy Corner, it was nice to be a guest at the official Class of 65 reunion on Saturday and Sunday. It was good to be remembered by many and to meet folks who had been such good Facebook friends for a few years.

On Saturday night, I was happy to visit with an old friend, Kathy Farrill Lingenfelter. Kathy moved from Henryetta to Claremore in 1964 before her senior year. She met my friend Larry Delozier on Labor Day Weekend 1964 when he and I drove from Chelsea to Henryetta to enjoy the festivities. During that visit I got together with several old Roosevelt and other future HHS Class of 1965 people at the new roller rink that was built in the former Morgan Theater building. Kathy, Larry, and I became good friends. Claremore is not far from Chelsea where Larry and I were part of the Chelsea Class of 1965. After graduation, Larry, Kathy, and I attended Northeastern State College in Tahlequah along with friends from Henryetta, Claremore, and Chelsea. It was a fun day in September, 1965 when Kathy, Larry, and I ran into Gary Merryman, Alfred Moore, Marilyn Bissett and likely others from Henryetta on the campus at Northeastern. We all piled into a car and happily cruised down the main drag of Tahlequah. That was the last social time I recall with those folks from Henryetta.

The Saturday night reunion program was a good one. Rev. Tom Shaw made a very inspirational talk remembering those class members who have passed on. Afterward, Charlie Blackmon honored Clifford Pinkston’s outstanding military service and heroism in Vietnam and had all the Vietnam Veterans in attendance to stand and be recognized. This set up the perfect opportunity for Spike Board to embellish the time in 1968 when we saw each other at DaNang Airbase.

For me it was an awesome experience to see someone in Vietnam that I had gone to school with in junior high. And I am sure it was the same for Spike. But although Spike remembered having met a Henryetta boy in Vietnam, he could never recall, during the intervening years, just who it was he had seen there. And so it was on Saturday night just moments before Rev. Tom gave his inspiring talk, that I visited with Spike and told him how great it had been to see him in Vietnam. He was floored, and recounted to me how all through the years he had wanted to remember who that guy was he had seen in Vietnam.

And Spike really laid it on thick as he stood up to address the crowd, telling a fantastic story of enemy sniper fire and rockets landing as he and I met for a few moments in the chow hall. He did a great job of tying it all in with the story of Julius Lavendusky making his way through DaNang on his way to an R&R in Australia. I really appreciate Spike’s gift for storytelling. And it truly was great to have seen him at DaNang even though my actual time there was not quite as harrowing as Spike’s.

And speaking of Julius Lavendusky, although I did not run into him in Vietnam, I did happen to see him at Vandenberg Air Force Base in California on March 30, 1967. I know it was that date because it was the day my first son was born in the base hospital at Vandenberg. I had gone to a base exchange store to get something related to the birth of my son when someone called out my name. It was Julius. It is hard to match the warm feeling of seeing an old friend when sojourning far from home. And sad to know that Julius passed away at a young age.

Another highlight of my participation in the reunion was the opportunity to visit with Linda Radebaugh Atkins, my 7^th grade prom date. Attending that prom was my one and only time at Teen Town.

Thanks for running through the years with me. These brief references barely scratch the surface of all that we recall from those days at Roosevelt and life in my original hometown, Henryetta. Proud to have been part of the party.

CLASS PHOTO:

Row	L-R	Last	First
1	1	Kirby	Jewel
1	2	Crunk	Frances
1	3	Powders	Kenny
1	4	Shepperd	Jimmie
1	5	Tarwater	Jimmy
1	6	Hamilton	Gail
1	7	Youngblood	Linda
1	8	Fisher	Helen
1	9	Bryan	Jane
1	10	Bissett	Marilyn
1	11	Merryman	Gary
1	12	Moore	Alfred
1	13	Duty	James
1	14	Jones	Donald
2	1	Alston	Jimmie
2	2	Ruth	Robert
2	3	Odom	Sandy
2	4	Gaither	Donald
2	5	Black	David
2	6	Maghe	Roy
2	7	Wesson	Jimmy
2	8	Childress	Darlene
2	9	Johnson	Lenda
2	10	Davis	Bette Linda
2	11	Harjo	Kay
2	12	Kaler	Barbara
2	13	Bevan	Beverly
2	14	Langwell	Tommy
2	15	Dudley	Joyce
2	16	Middleton	James
2	17	Rounsaville	Catherine

Four Friends and Elvis in Oklahoma

2015-07-09T19:10:00.000-05:00

We grew up on the south side of Henryetta. Natural and manmade boundaries created a separate sort of neighborhood there during our formative years of the 1950’s. Coal Creek formed the western and northern borders, providing places of adventure and danger. The Old Lake Road established the eastern border and put us in a convenient position for access to Nichols Park and the lake there with its popular swimming beach less than a mile south. Louise Street ran through the southern area of the neighborhood, connecting the refined residential area of the east with the more rugged portion to the west. Streets on the western side where I lived were either gravel or dirt. But on the east side the streets were paved.

It was in this modest neighborhood (approximately 9 blocks square) where the students of Roosevelt Grade School, the Class of 1959, met and formed lasting bonds of friendship and memories. Each member of that group of 31 students knew Joyce Dudley and I’m sure appreciated her sweet friendly manner in the classroom and on the playground. And many could share stories of their own personal moments shared with Joyce outside school hours along Jefferson Street.

For me, there are special memories of Joyce in addition to all the school time experiences and the good feelings that grew out of spending six years in that small but special school on the south side of town.

I suppose it must have been our outgoing natures and neighborhood mobility that brought four of us together outside the classroom. My good friend Jimmy Tarwater and I were connected through our families and a small church on Barclay Street. So it was natural for the two of us to connect and spend time together roaming not only our neighborhood but the entire town and surrounding area. Jimmy had motor scooters from an early age and was generous in having me ride along on many an adventure.

Marilyn Bissett and Joyce lived within a block of each other on Jefferson Street and just a block from the school. Rather than spending most of their time indoors, the two girls could often be found in their yards or garages. This made it easy for Jimmy and me to stop by and discover what they might be up to on any given day.

It is one of those occasions that I will forever associate with the music of Elvis Presley and how it felt one hot summer afternoon to spend time with Joyce, Marilyn, and Jimmy in the garage of Joyce’s family home in the 300 block of West Jefferson Street. When I arrived, the three of them were there in the garage, the door open, listening to Elvis records. Marilyn was a huge Elvis fan and by that time, probably 1957, already had a good collection of his records. It is likely these records belonged to her older brother, Phillip, and perhaps the portable record player as well. But whatever the source, the music that day made a deep and special impression on me. The song I most associate with that experience is “All Shook Up”.

Because Marilyn’s brother was involved in Teen Town, Marilyn had learned the latest dance that was popular among the teenagers of the day. Although we were only ten years old, Marilyn and Joyce got Jimmy and me out on the garage floor and commenced to teach us to dance with them to the loud, exciting songs of Elvis Presley. Other sessions followed in Joyce’s garage and in Marilyn’s living room.

On another occasion, Joyce and Marilyn set up a makeshift stage in Marilyn’s garage and invited Jimmy and me to be the audience for a play they had written or co-opted. It was a classic scene of kids in the 1950s; kids who were creative and knew how to have fun and entertain themselves.

Another memory of the four of us involves a chilly Fall afternoon, playing touch football, barefoot, in Marilyn’s yard. I injured my big toe when I slipped in the wet grass slamming into Joyce’s foot. She was unhurt but I limped the four blocks home, across the small creek at Gilliam’s Spring, to my house on West Jefferson Street.

Our camaraderie ended after sixth grade when we joined students from five other elementary schools of Henryetta in what would become the high school class of 1965. Although I moved away after 7th grade and never maintained a close relationship with the other three, the significance of the times we shared will always remain with me. The innocence with which we shared music and laughter holds a special place in my heart.

In the 1980’s, I was saddened by the tragic and untimely death of our friend Marilyn. Then, last year, through the Facebook page, “Class of 65”, I learned that Joyce had become ill with a life threatening disease. Someone posted a cell phone number through which she might appreciate text messages. The text messages allowed me to communicate with Joyce a few times and to share some of the memories noted here. The last successful exchange was on March 26, 2015. Text messages on June 17th and 20th went unanswered.

Memories live on.

Joyce and Me, May 1959

by: James Middleton

Lemon Blossoms

2015-03-30T20:10:00.001-05:00

The fragrance of the lemon tree returned once more

A gentle breeze swept its aroma through the open door

To the dingy brown chair in the garage where I sat

Savoring the end of day with Rhoda the cat

The beauty of an evening breeze made oh so sweet

As once again I embrace this seasonal repeat

A finer smell there never could be

Than this fragrance in Spring from the lemon tree.

James Middleton

March 30, 2015

Songs of the Heart

2014-11-18T03:04:00.001-06:00

Some people listen to music with an analytical ear

And comment from a technical perspective.

Others know all the artists and details of each career,

Recalling personal challenges and awards they received.

I, myself, don’t give much thought to such minutia.

For me the pleasure is in the feeling and the thrill.

I have little interest in arrangement or other details;

The pure exhilaration of the moment is all that counts.

When I hear the sound and feel the beat it starts,

And suddenly I get carried away in emotion.

To hell with analysis or other details!

Just let me go with the flow of the rhythm and sound.

The feelings run through my veins into my heart.

I leap to the beat and sing from the depths of my soul.

James Middleton

November 18, 2014

She Called Me James Evert

2014-06-11T02:04:00.001-05:00

In those days kids were often called by double names.

In Aunt Velva's family there was Jerry Ray, Linda Kay, and Floyd Cecil.

She called me James Evert.

Not James

Not James Ev..er..ett

But James Evert

The sound of her voice speaking my name is oh so clear in my memory.

The sound of her voice was itself a direct connection to our collective heritage.

It was pure Middleton/Morgan, direct from north Alabama, the mountains of Arkansas, and the river bottoms of Indian Territory.

Her voice was as clear and pure as her heart.

I recall many visits to her homes in Bryant and Weleetka. And sleep over's with cousin Cecil. She made the most delicious fudge and divinity; perfect for a sweet tooth like mine.

Once on a vacation trip to Branson, Missouri in the early 1990's, I met a young newlywed couple in an ice cream parlor. From our conversation, I learned they were from Weleetka, Oklahoma. When I told them my aunt Velva Bowen lived there, their eyes lit up as they enthusiastically shared their words of respect and adoration for her. In their eyes Velva Bowen played an important role in the daily lives of students of the Weleetka schools through her work in managing the cafeterias. What a proud moment that was for me!

Later in life, after my father Everett, Aunt Velva's younger brother, had passed away, I took mom on a road trip to Weleetka from Bartlesville to visit Aunt Velva and Cecil. She suggested we go to the one and only local cafe for dinner. The small cafe, in the heart of town along main street, was packed with locals. This was another eye opening experience for me. It was humbling, yet fun, to see that everyone knew her, welcomed mom and me as her guests, and exhibited such warmth for her.

Yes, she called me James Evert and her voice will always ring true in my memory. Her life was an inspiration to me.

James Everett Middleton
June 10, 2014

The Church Bus

2014-02-25T01:58:00.001-06:00

Many years ago, in a Kansas town, the minister of a friendly local church wanted to make it easier for certain people to attend church on Sunday mornings. Reverend Smith thought it would be a great idea for the church to buy a used school bus that could be driven around the community to pick up those who did not have a way of getting to church on Sunday morning. Some senior citizens did not own a car and some parents could not drive their children to Sunday school.

So Reverend Smith visited with members of the congregation to share his exciting idea with them. He hoped that others would agree that having a church bus was a great idea. And, sure enough, many people of the church thought it would be a good thing for the Sunday school program and for the community. The Board of Trustees agreed and approved enough money to purchase a bus.

Very soon after, unbeknownst to him, Reverend Smith would find the perfect bus. There had been a school bus in a tiny community not far away that had carried students to and from school for a long time. Eventually, the poor community saved enough money to buy a brand new bus. The old bus was parked way back in the corner of a gravel parking lot under a big elm tree where it sat alone for over a year. Dust and leaves covered the roof and hood of the bus and one of its front tires had gone flat, leaving it looking very sad indeed.

One day, in a coffee shop, Reverend Smith met an old fellow named Mr. Gibbs who was a retired bus driver from that nearby community. As they talked, Mr. Gibbs spoke with pride about his days as a school bus driver. Tears came to the old man’s eyes as he told how his favorite bus had been abandoned in the corner of a parking lot. He had driven it when it was new and had taken good care of it all through the years. When the old bus needed to be replaced with a new one, it was also time for Mr. Gibbs to retire.

Through the first summer, fall, winter, and spring days of retirement, Mr. Gibbs had taken his dog, Buster, for long walks in both morning and afternoon. Buster was a black and white Boston Terrier. He was a small, happy dog. Their walks always took them around by the school and past the dusty parking lot out back where the old bus was parked. And as they passed by, Mr. Gibbs would often talk to Buster, telling him about the bus and many of the students who once rode with him.

Reverend Smith listened intently as the old man talked. Could the bus of which the old driver spoke be a good bus for the church? He thanked Mr. Gibbs for his time and said he would drive out there to the nearby community to take a look at the bus. Mr. Gibbs smiled and said he thought that was a very good idea.

Arriving at the school, Reverend Smith saw how pitiful the old bus looked and wondered if such a bus would be a good choice for the church. The paint was faded and the windshield was cracked. But he recalled Mr. Gibbs’ words and knew the bus had always been driven carefully by him. And Reverend Smith knew a good bargain when he saw one. So he wrote a letter to the school administrator of the tiny community requesting permission to purchase the bus for a very small price. His request was granted.

Soon, on a Saturday morning in early September, three men from Reverend Smith’s church drove out to check on the bus and prepare it to be driven back to town. They invited Mr. Gibbs to join them. After the men replaced the battery and aired up the flat tire, Mr. Gibbs climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition key. The engine started up with a roar! Mr. Gibbs beamed with pride as he drove the dusty old bus out of the parking lot and onto the highway toward town.

One of the men of the church was an auto mechanic and agreed to service the truck and give it a good going over. He replaced the brake shoes and the muffler, and performed a thorough tune-up on the engine. Another member of the congregation owned a trucking business and installed a new set of six tires on the bus. Finally, a third member, who owned an auto body shop, agreed to replace the cracked windshield and paint the bus.

On the first Saturday of October, a bright sunny day, the youth group and the adult men’s study group, hosted a pancake breakfast in the church fellowship hall. Outside in the parking lot, was a large white canopy where a teen band from the high school class played and sang as folks milled around in the shade drinking coffee and speculating how the bus might look. The bus, after all its improvements were completed, had been kept under cover in a local garage awaiting this moment when it would be seen for the first time by the congregation. Reverend Smith had been busy for the past several weeks, getting volunteers organized and trained to drive the bus and working with church members to identify senior citizens and children who would like a ride to church on Sunday mornings.

Suddenly, the blaring sound of a bus horn filled the air as the bus turned off Main Street and pulled into the parking lot with Mr. Gibbs behind the wheel, smiling from ear to ear as he waved to the crowd of folks gathered for the occasion. Everyone was amazed at how beautiful the bus looked. Its shiny yellow enamel sparkled in the sunlight. It was not the normal yellow color of a school bus but a much lighter yellow; almost a creamy appearance. Along the sides, in big stylish red letters, was the name of the church. On front above the windshield, on the rear doors, and on each side were representations of the church logo in bright colors. The crowd burst out in cheers, welcoming Mr. Gibbs and the three men who were responsible for the miraculous transformation of the bus.

As people walked around the bus and climbed inside to look it over, Reverend Smith called Mr. Gibbs aside and told him he had something special in mind for this occasion. Finally, when everyone had had a chance to enjoy looking over the bus, Reverend Smith asked everyone to gather around. He had some words to share. First of all, he thanked the Board of Trustees for providing the money to purchase and restore the bus. And he thanked the three men who had volunteered time and materials to repair and restore the bus. Then, lastly, he turned to Mr. Gibbs and asked if it was alright to share his personal story. Mr. Gibbs nodded in approval.

Reverend Smith then told about how he had, by chance, met Mr. Gibbs at a coffee shop in town one day. Their conversation then led to Mr. Gibbs telling about his career as a bus driver and about the neglected, abandoned bus which now had been restored so beautifully. Reverend Smith then went on to tell what more he had learned about Mr. Gibbs when he had gone to the school to complete the purchase of the bus. He learned that Mr. Gibbs had graduated from high school in the small community and had been a good student and athlete, excelling in basketball. He had served in World War II as an infantryman and was severely injured during a battle in Europe, returning home a decorated soldier. However, the injuries sustained in battle had left him partially disabled. The role of bus driver and janitor at the school had suited him well since that time. Reverend Smith asked everyone to join him in thanking Mr. Gibbs for his sacrifice for his country and for helping to locate the perfect bus.

At last the first Sunday of bus service had arrived at the friendly church in this Kansas town. Reverend Smith provided a map and a list of all those who had asked to ride the bus. The afternoon before, he and the four volunteer bus drivers had traveled around the planned route to familiarize themselves with the locations where the bus would stop to pick up passengers.

First stop was for Johnny who lived way out on the north end of town. Next stop was at a nursing home where three people were waiting to board. Two were very elderly ladies who needed assistance from the driver to get up the steps onto the bus. The third person was Herbert, a man with a learning disability who was very able bodied. Dressed in a suit and tie, a worn bible tucked under his arm, he smiled and greeted everyone as he walked down the isle and found a seat, seeming very happy to be onboard.

At the next stop, there appeared the loveliest little girl one might ever hope to see. She waited in front of a nice home in a newer neighborhood. Her mother, an attractive slender woman, perhaps in her late thirties, waved from the front door. The girl was wearing a pretty blue dress. She had bright blue eyes. Her hair was a golden yellow color; straight and flowing with a bow clipped on top, a little to the side. She looked to be about seven years old as she climbed onboard and sat in the front row near the exit. Her face was sweet with an expression that conveyed just the hint of a smile but also revealed the nervous tension one would expect in a child of that age boarding a bus of older strangers.

Two more stops to pick up elderly ladies at their homes, then off to the senior citizen high rise center where three or four older women boarded. Finally the bus arrived at the church.

The church bus program was a good success. The girl with the golden hair brightened the lives of all who rode the bus. The senior citizens seemed to delight at seeing her, and little Johnny rarely missed a week at Sunday school. Reverend Smith eventually moved on to greener pastures.

And Mr. Gibbs with his little friend, Buster, may still be seen late at night beneath that giant elm tree in the corner of a dusty gravel parking lot. If you listen carefully, you may hear old Mr. Gibbs telling Buster about the beach at Normandy or the farm house and hedge row where snipers lay waiting one cold winter night. Look closely in the moonlight and you may see Buster look up and lick the old man’s chin. The bus rolls on.

James Middleton

February 25, 2014

Joshua 6, Verse 21

2014-02-18T02:57:00.001-06:00

A couple of years ago, I received an email from a friend questioning my views on religion based on a conversation we had had about the events of 9/11. This was my reply:
Yes, the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, were very barbaric; such a waste. It is sad what fanatical thinking can do to people when they blindly follow others and refuse to validate their own beliefs against the vast evidence of history, including their own experiences.
I first discovered that Joshua verse, at about age 31, while reading a book I bought at the Woolworth store in Independence, Kansas one day in 1978 when my wife and I went there for lunch when we worked at ARCO Pipe Line Company. The paperback book was a history of the bible based on archaeological discoveries in the holy land during the 19th and 20th centuries. Passages from that book had me referencing my bible. That led me to read Joshua chapter 6, verse 21. This scripture immediately follows the story about the walls of Jericho tumbling down. That is the basis for the sweet little children's song that I had sung in Sunday school at the First Church of God in Henryetta, Oklahoma.
The experience of reading the stark language of Joshua in contrast to the sweet innocent voices of children singing “The Walls of Jericho” was a critical turning point in my thinking about religion. I could not accept it being ok to have an entire community, including the elderly and little children, approved for slaughter so that another group of people could take over their homeland. That made no sense to me and was contrary to my religious views up to that point in my life. More recently, I Googled the book of Joshua and found many other similar instances of God authorizing his "chosen" to kill entire communities so they could take another's land.
Here is a note I wrote to myself a few years ago about my reaction to Joshua 6:21...
"A major turning point in my attitude toward Christianity was my reading of Joshua 6:21. This verse is the culmination of a running dialog among God, Moses, and Joshua with the ultimate goal being the acquisition of the "Promised Land" by the Israelites. This reading made clear to me that the God of the Jewish heritage was and is simply a justifying mechanism for the most appalling crimes that one group of people can commit against another. It is interesting to observe that the present day Jewish community fails to include this scripture within the context of Holocaust related discussions. I don't make this association to justify the Holocaust. The crimes committed by the German leaders against the Jewish people during WW II were punished to the fullest extent possible at the time. Those acts stand on their own historically and can never be justified."
And that being as it may, I believe not what I am told by some authority, dogma, or creed to believe, but I believe what I am compelled by my own conscience, life experiences, and understanding to believe. I don't pretend to know the answers of where we came from, where we are going, or what it is all about. Most of what I believe about religion is actually based on what I don't believe. That is the crucial test for me. I have bought a few used cars and encyclopedias in my time and have known a lot of different people. I have learned to recognize deceit, deception, and insincerity when I hear it or see it. It is my sincere belief that the institutions of religion are based on nothing more than folklore and myth; creative story telling by those who seek to entertain, dominate, or control others for their own prestige and gain. They can’t help it, it’s just the way they are.
But that is not an indictment against the nice groups of people who gather together in churches and enjoy each other's trust and support. The social and supportive aspects of church groups are great. It is the thin hard outer shell of lies, deceit, domination, and control that is the true evil of religion. If not for the Roman Catholic Church and subsequent others that followed, I imagine that air travel and other modern technologies would have emerged hundreds of years before they actually did. I believe their delay was due to the systematic prohibition and restriction of scientific learning, lethally enforced by the Church for centuries. Unfortunately science is discouraged and discredited to this day by religious leaders around the world.
Other than that, I think all people are about the same. Life and human existence are very complex and not a series of simple choices between right and wrong. Life is messy.
I am comfortable with my own views and respect the rights of others to believe as they feel appropriate.
I just try to get by day to day, generally meeting the expectations of family, employer, and society.

The Interview

2014-02-13T02:18:00.001-06:00

Mom died in January, 2010 after a long illness. Her years in the beautiful independent living center had drained her resources so that she was left with only Dad’s Social Security and her own small pension from the State of Kansas as her total income. This status made her eligible for Medicaid and she spent the last couple years of her life in nursing homes.

My sister, Geraldine Middleton Williams, had meticulously managed Mom’s finances throughout her declining years. As the executor of Mom’s estate, Geraldine filed all the necessary paperwork, initiated the collection of death benefits, and prepared a final summary of cash on hand. Because of her careful planning, all the costs of Mom’s final arrangements were prepaid, leaving a modest amount of money to be equally distributed to each of Mom’s five children.

As I opened the envelopes and held in my hands the checks representing my share of her final estate, I struggled with thoughts of what I should do with the money. I was also filled with gratitude for the hard work and love both Mom and Dad had committed to each other and to their family. There was a feeling of satisfaction in knowing they had provided unselfishly for the needs of their family in a lifetime of sharing their modest resources and had crossed life’s finish line with just a little bit in reserve. I wanted to find a way to honor that commitment to family.

I thought of a couple of rather selfish things I might do with the money. After all, Mom and I shared a love of singing, so maybe I should buy more sound and recording equipment to enhance the stuff I already had. But something about that idea just didn’t feel right to me. I thought about making a contribution to a church or charity in her name but knew the amount to be contributed would not be enough to represent a significant legacy.

It was Springtime. Memorial Day was approaching and I heard that my aunt, Velva Middleton Bowen, had been to the Salem Cemetery cleaning and decorating the graves of relatives who had died in the early 1900s. There were seven graves that originally had only large sandstone rocks as grave markers with no inscription. Information as to who was buried in each grave was passed down within the family during annual decoration day activities and while attending other family burial services. Of course the official records of the Fairview Cemetery at Salem, Oklahoma contained the information as well.

Sometime in the 1950s, Aunt Velva had purchased and installed small aluminum markers for those graves. The aluminum markers were the kind that had individual letters and date numbers glued or soldered onto them to identify the graves with names and dates of birth and death. The small plates measured about 4” x 6” and were mounted on aluminum stakes which were driven into the ground. Through the years, damage from the elements and maintenance equipment had destroyed some of the markers and left the others bent and unattractive.

Word of Aunt Velva’s annual ritual of care and respect at the cemetery sparked an obvious thought about what I might do with my portion of mom’s estate. I recalled that several years earlier, mom had arranged to have small grave stones placed on the graves of some of her relatives at the Sonora Cemetery which is located a few miles northeast of Salem. Knowing that Geraldine had helped mom accomplish this nice project, I called her to find out how and where they had obtained the markers. Geraldine told me they had gone to a local monument company in Independence, Kansas where she and mom had both lived at the time and had ordered small stones prepared with names and dates for three relatives. These were not very expensive, maybe $50.00 or so each, and were small enough that she and her husband, Glenn, had placed them in the trunk of their car and driven the 145 miles down to Henryetta, Oklahoma with mom and placed them on the graves for her. This was probably done around Memorial Day in either 2000 or 2001, about a year after dad had passed away and was buried at Salem.

In my usual hasty manner, I found the phone number of the Kelly Monument company in Henryetta and placed a call to inquire about the availability and cost of grave stones similar to those mom had arranged for relatives at Sonora. This is where the art and skill of communication sometimes escapes me. In my mind, as I talked on the phone to the person at Kelly Monuments, I was describing the kinds of markers that Geraldine had acquired. But my words and descriptions to the Kelly Monument company in Henryetta equated to their smallest basic stones which were more expensive than I expected. As it turned out, my understanding of the size and cost of the Sonora grave stones and that of the Kelly grave stones were grossly inaccurate. But I would not fully understand and appreciate the difference until the following month when I arrived in Henryetta to pick up the new grave stones.

Because nearly ten years had passed since Geraldine had purchased the grave stones in Kansas and considering that the ones I had ordered from Kelly were a little bigger, I rationalized that the difference would be well worth the price and that I would be able to handle the placement of the new stones myself without much trouble. After all, I have always done a lot of manual work. That is how I was raised and through the years had worked on many projects with Dad and on my own in the various homes I had owned. However, my entire professional career had been spent behind a desk in an air-conditioned office.

In preparing for the trip to Henryetta from my home in The Woodlands, Texas on June 24, 2010, I packed some short 2x4 and 2x6 boards in the trunk of my Acura sedan and placed a ball cap, gloves, shovel, hoe, and a rake in the back seat floor area. Added an ice chest with beer and water and felt like I was well and wisely prepared for the task.

Arriving in Henryetta late that afternoon, I checked into the former Holidome Inn which by that time had become very run down. There were still a few hours of daylight available so I decided to drive out to Salem and prepare the grave areas where the stones would be placed. I had never visited the cemetery alone. Driving out the old lake road past Nichols Park, memories of my younger days ran through my mind like a slide show presentation as I passed familiar landmarks tied to moments spent with family and friends during the 1950s.

Beyond the last Nichols Park entrance, a mile or so over the large wooded hill, the blacktop ended and the old familiar sounds of wheels on gravel and the vision of dust billowing up in the rearview mirrors took me back to memories of funeral processions along this road toward Salem. Finally arriving at the cemetery road, I took a left turn up the steep incline off the rough gravel road onto the dirt lane that led a quarter mile north through pastureland past the driveway to a homestead. Beyond that driveway the last 50 yards of the cemetery road becomes more narrow, recalling occasions when it had been muddy and treacherous. On this nice evening, however, the large trees overhead provided a welcome shade as I made the sharp right turn through the open cemetery gate beneath the prominent sign “Fairview Cemetery - Salem”.

The cemetery grounds were nicely mowed, presenting a quiet peaceful scene. The sounds of birds and other creatures of the woods and meadows were all that broke the silence of the place. I was alone there. The single gravel drive cutting straight east through the center of the cemetery provided a distinct separation between the older tree covered portion to the south and the slightly elevated area north of the driveway where only a few scattered trees dotted the remainder of the land. Fairview Cemetery is not a very large place, probably ten acres or less. But it was a very important place for the families who settled in the area during the late 1800s. My Middleton ancestors were part of this early community before statehood when it was part of the Creek Nation in Indian Territory. According to my dad, his father’s family was granted ownership of several burial plots in return for their labor in clearing and fencing the cemetery property which was near their home place around the Ryal community. Those plots were in the southwest area of the cemetery beneath large cedar and other shade trees.

As I walked around those seven graves I was able to read the names of some from the remaining aluminum markers. For others, I had to refer to a reference document provided by my brother-in-law, Glenn, who had done extensive genealogy research on our family. I removed the aluminum markers and laid them temporarily out of the way at the foot of the graves. To my surprise, the original sandstone rocks which had been placed at the head of each grave presented varying degrees of difficulty in removal. Some were not too big but a couple were longer and embedded a foot or more into the ground. After removing the stones, I then dug holes for each next to the spot where each grave stone would be placed and buried them deep enough that they would not impede the mowing and maintenance of the graves but shallow enough so that they were still visible for appreciation of their historical significance. Even though the sun was low in the west and the large trees provided a dense shade from the remaining sunshine, an hour or so of work with those garden tools had me sweating profusely.

By the time I had filled in the holes and smoothed out areas I assumed would be large enough for placement of the new markers, I was drenched in sweat and very dirty. My now wet jeans were soiled from kneeling in the fresh dirt and my t-shirt and arms were muddy from the sweat soaked dust that had accumulated upon them in the process. It was definitely time for a beer. Grabbing a cold one from the ice chest, I strolled around the cemetery until it was almost dark pausing first at the graves of my parents and next to them the graves of my dear Aunt Mildred and Uncle Robert. Nearby was also the grave of cousin Johnny’s son, Terry, who had died tragically at a early age.

Across the rest of the cemetery, I wandered, slowly, appreciating some familiar family names that had been common to us back during my first thirteen years of life in Henryetta. Leaving the cemetery that evening at dusk, there was a nice satisfaction at having made good progress. I was feeling proud and confident.

The next morning, a Friday, I drove out on West Main and up the hill toward Westlawn Cemetery. Just part way up the hill on the right was the entrance to Kelly Monuments. Although I had passed by this place many times during my lifetime, I had never stopped there. Pulling in across the large gravel parking area, I looked around trying to decide where to park. The property was dotted with numerous cemetery monument products like an outdoor showroom. To my right appeared to be a residence and to the left was a long building with what appeared to be an office at the front end toward Main Street. So I pulled up and parked near the office door. Inside was a nice older lady. Previously, by phone, I had discussed the details of my order with a younger woman and was surprised not to find her there. I told the lady who I was and that I was there to pick up the seven grave stones.

She showed me out to the adjoining work area and called for a middle-aged man there to show me the engraved stones for my inspection and approval. I was somewhat surprised and impressed with them. They were larger and thicker than I had expected and had the look of a high quality product. They were 18” to 24” long 10” to 12” wide and probably 3” to 4” thick. I had already paid for them in advance via credit card over the phone, so the next step, after verifying the information on each, was to load them into the trunk of the Acura. Because of their size, I let the worker know that I wanted to make at least two trips to haul them out to the cemetery. He asked what kind of vehicle I was driving and when I pointed to the sedan parked outside, he seemed a little skeptical.

So I went out to the car and backed it up to the loading area. I arranged some of the boards on the floor of the trunk to make a platform for the first layer of what I expected might be two or three stones and placed the remaining boards on the ground near the car. Then I went inside where now a younger man had joined the other guy. I asked, “How much do you think these things weigh?” The first man answered, “Well, the smaller ones might be 80 or 90 pounds but some are a little bigger and are probably 110 or more.” I looked them over and decided to start with what looked like the smallest one. Wearing my leather work gloves, I grasped the stone and picked it up. It is amazing how heavy something that dense and compact can feel. Slowly and with considerable effort, I turned and carried it out to the car. At this point two thoughts simultaneously occurred to me. I have always been very particular about not damaging my vehicles when hauling stuff in them and now here I am in the awkward position of needing to rest the stone on the edge of the trunk in order to assume a better posture and grip before putting it down the additional foot or so into the trunk. The second thought is of the many safety training sessions I had participated in at work concerning proper lifting and the hazards of bending under stress in an awkward position. But they were watching me and I was beginning to feel more than a little embarrassed. So I made the most proper looking move I could muster as I bent over and placed the heavy stone into the trunk. About that time one of the workmen came out carrying another stone and placed it in the trunk. I was already breaking out in a sweat as I turned to head back for another one.

That is when I first heard his voice, “Were any of the folks on these monuments related to Wayne, Everett, or Robert Middleton?” Standing there in the doorway of the shop was an old gentleman in blue & grey striped coveralls. Thinking he was a custodian or perhaps just someone who hung around the place to visit, I said, “Yes, Everett was my dad and Wayne and Robert were my uncles.” as I stepped around him intent on getting on with the loading but beginning to question the wisdom of my plan to haul these grave stones on my own. How would I get them up out of the trunk without hurting my arthritic back with which I had a history of occasional mild but painful bulging disks? “Just hang in there, be careful, and take it slow”, I thought to myself.

“Wasn’t one of them boys married to a Childs girl from Bryant?” It was him again. I was surprised at how familiar he seemed to be with my relatives but thought it not too surprising in such a small town. “Yes, mom was Berneice Childs and Uncle Robert married her sister, Mildred Childs. What is your name?” Thought I might as well rest a minute and find out who this man was.

“I’m old man Kelly” he said with a laugh. Hmm…”Kelly”, I thought….must be a relative of the owner.

“Didn’t your mother have a brother by the name of Luther?” he asked. “Why yes, she did. Did you know Uncle Luther?” “I sure did.” he said. “Luther married Beatrice, my mother’s stepsister.”

Without saying much more, he turned to the two workers standing nearby and said “Boys, load the rest of these monuments up on the big truck and take them out to the Salem Cemetery for this man. And drop each one of them right where he wants them to go.”

I was stunned and watched as the guys disappeared behind the long building and returned in a beautiful nearly new heavy-duty truck, the kind with a hydraulic boom/hoist and of the type apparently used by successful companies in the business.

Stammering, I offered to pay a proper amount for this service which by now I knew I desperately needed. I don’t recall exactly what words he used to brush aside my suggestion; something about not having a job scheduled that morning. He just smiled as if it was no big deal.

Soon the two workers had the other stones loaded on the truck and headed east on Main Street as I followed along behind in the Acura, its rear-end sagging a little under the weight of the first two markers.

At the cemetery, I hustled to walk ahead of the men as each one carried a monument stone. Referring to my reference sheet, I pointed out the proper spots. In no time at all they had the seven stones dropped where I had indicated and were on their way back to town. Talk about gratitude. I was so appreciative.

As it turned out, the original spots I had smoothed out were not big enough or level enough to properly place the new markers. Again, I was on the ground shoving the heavy stones around and using the garden tools to better prepare the placement of the markers. That morning as I worked my thoughts were on old man Kelly. Something about his manner and his generous support made want to go back there to thank him again and find out more about him. Even though the most difficult task of hauling and placing the stones had been done for me, I was surprised at how severely the heat and humidity that morning had affected me. Once again I was sweating profusely. By the time I was satisfied with the leveling and positioning of the grave markers, I had begun to feel as if I was overheated. I put the tools away in the car which was parked in the shade of one of the big trees, sat in the driver’s seat, started it up, and sat there with the air-conditioner on trying to cool down.

Eventually, I went back to the hotel, took a shower, and rested up a bit. It was mid-afternoon when I returned to Kelly Monument in search of old man Kelly. In the office I again found the nice elderly lady I had met earlier in the day. She told me she was Georgia, Mr. Kelly’s wife. They had been married over 60 years and had been operating this business most of that time. When I asked to speak to Mr. Kelly, she told me he never spends time in the office because it is air-conditioned and “He doesn’t like air-conditioning! You will find him out in his shop. Just walk on back that way through the monument shop. He is probably working on one of his VW bugs” she said as she got up from her desk and opened the door to the monument workshop and called out, “Junior, Mr. Middleton would like to talk to you”. “Just walk on back that way. I am sure you will find him back there”.

There was nobody else in sight. But as I walked through the spaces, a series of shop areas one after the other down that long building, each with its own garage type of door, I saw him come walking toward me.

“Hello there. Did the boys get you taken care of out there this morning?”

“Yes they sure did. And I am very grateful to you for helping me out the way you did. Please let me pay you for that. I am not sure I could have done it alone.”

“That won’t be necessary. Like I said this morning, we didn’t have any jobs going on and you sure looked like you could use some help!”, he said with that laugh.

“Well I really do appreciate you doing that for me. I didn’t realize how hot is was out there. And the humidity!”

“You probably work in an office and aren’t used to working outside. That’s why I don’t like the air-conditioning. I just prefer to stay out here and work on my projects.”

“That’s right. I have worked in an office for 36 years. My wife even hired someone to do our lawn and gardening about 10 years ago, so I guess I bit off more than I could chew. I underestimated how heavy those grave stones would be.”

“Well, Mr. Kelly, I am very interested in hearing more about what you know of my family. We really didn’t get much time to talk this morning. Would you mind if I interview you and record it here on my iPhone? My brother-in-law and sister have done a lot of research on our family history. They even published a 400 page book on all they learned. It would mean a lot to me to record your memories or stories about any relatives you recall around here.”

Mr. Kelly agreed. But first he showed me around his shops. He told how the inscriptions for the monuments are done. There in his building are three generations of the process. The two older methods, though abandoned, were left in place, like a sort of museum. The latest was a computerized system with high tech methods of engraving.

He was a slight man with wispy gray hair under the cap he wore outdoors. In those coveralls, he looked very comfortable; a wiry man with a weathered face. I learned he was about a year younger than my mother. At the time of the interview he was just two months shy of his 87th birthday.

That afternoon, I had returned to thank him with hope of hearing some stories about his life, especially what he knew about my relatives. What I discovered, in addition to all of that, was a man of great personal accomplishment; achievements and motivation that his faded coveralls and quick laughter belied. Here was a man who from an early age began entrepreneurial endeavors in several fields of business while embarking on a unique and challenging U.S. Postal career at the same time. This ambition led him into businesses involving portable community movie theater, movie theater equipment, cemetery monument sales, Volkswagen Beetle restoration, and private aviation. Despite this kind of drive and ambition, he maintained a low key family life and followed a simple lifestyle.

Following is a photo of Mr. Kelly which I took on the afternoon of the interview accompanied by the actual voice recording of that interview: (although the recording is rather lengthy, you may skim through it if you like and I encourage readers to listen for at least a little bit just to appreciate this man’s unique character)

Edward Kelly Interview

Less than two years after my interview with Junior Kelly, I learned that he had passed away. I am grateful for the opportunity I had that hot June afternoon to sit with him out in his shop and listen as he related in colorful style, stories about my uncles and about his unique life.

Here is a copy of his obituary:

Obituary for Edward Junior Kelly

Edward Junior Kelly a resident of Henryetta passed away on March 23, 2012 in Henryetta at the age of 88. Born September 1, 1923 in Henryetta to John and Dorothy Kelly. Junior served in the US Army Air Corp being stationed in Alaska and the Aleutian Islands with the 15th Tow Target Squadron, 28th Bombardment Group checking and maintaining airborne radar sets. His group received a Citation for outstanding performance in action against Japanese from April 1, 1944 to August 13, 1945. After the war, he married Georgia Selvidge on December 25, 1947 and made a carrier with the US Postal service and helped with the family business “Kelly Monuments”. He started with the Postal Service as a railway clerk and then a rural mail carrier and retired after some 40 years of service. He graduated from Henryetta High School, attended Oklahoma City University and was a member of the Masonic Lodge, VFW and American Legion and attended the Nazarene Church. His parents and a sister Lorene Winters precede him in death.
Survived By
Wife: Georgia Kelly of the home
2 Daughters: Sheila Burney of Henryetta
Connie and Mike Pinkston of Henryetta
2 Grandsons: Cole Pinkston of Sapulpa
Kyle Pinkston of Glenpool
Great Granddaughter: Scout Pinkston
Brother; Frankie Danels of Palmer, Alaska
Step brother: Claude Danels of Joplin, Missouri
Graveside service will be 10:30 Tuesday, March 27, 2012 at the Westlawn Cemetery under the direction of the Rogers Funeral Home.

Johnny Ray Middleton

2014-02-06T02:12:00.001-06:00

Johnny was four years older than me. For about nine years, maybe 1952 through 1960, our families were next door neighbors on South 7th Street in Henryetta. During that time, Johnny was age 9 through 17 while I was age 5 through 13. So we both did a lot of growing and changing during that time. Although the two of us were not buddies, our lives were closely intertwined through the daily activities our families shared.

Sharing; that was the great thing about our two families. It was a real cooperative partnership the way us kids were shuffled back and forth to school and shared yards, houses, pets, and neighborhood friends. During all those years, our house did not have a telephone so we went to Aunt Mildred’s house to use the phone or when someone called there for one of us. For half of those years, we didn’t have a television, but Uncle Robert and Aunt Mildred did; so we watched a lot of TV over there. Their house was always open to us and so was ours to them.

Spending so much time at their house, I gained an insight into the uniqueness of their lives in contrast to ours. Our house was characterized by the feminine side of things with mom and the four girls creating an air of scheduled tidiness and efficiency that revolved around dad’s work schedule, household chores, church activities, visiting relatives, and going to school. I was the one disruptive factor in this otherwise serene picture.

The house next door at 1211 South 7th provided quite a difference in style. All three boys were great students of their dad when it came to hunting and fishing. In Joe, Johnny, and Bobby, Uncle Robert found three hardy kids who took to the outdoors like many of their uncles and cousins had done. And Aunt Mildred was a great bunkhouse master, keeping the guys fed, cooking their game and frying their catch; always the caring and patient mother, proud of her sons. With Paula Kay, Aunt Mildred found a sweetness and joy to fill her life as well.

The activities of hunting and fishing didn’t play much of a role at my house and didn’t matchup very well with our family profile or our schedule of activities. And, as time would prove, my personality and interests were not well suited to such activities requiring patience, prowess, and judgment.

In Johnny’s house, sporting equipment and man stuff ruled the day. In boxes, stashed in corners, and underneath the beds in the boy’s room, there seemed to me to be sporting goods of every sort. In our front yard along 7th Street was an area that made a nice little sports field. Johnny, Joe and other friends their age would often get together out there to play sandlot style games of baseball, track, and football. Early on, I was merely a spectator. As Johnny got older he was on the track team.

One day, I recall Bobby showing me Johnny’s cool track shoes with sharp spikes on them. We both had to try them on and see if they would somehow allow us to run really fast. Of course we were a little nervous about messing with Johnny’s stuff. We knew he would get pretty mad if he came home and caught us wearing them. That was one of Johnny’s characteristics, that as a youngster, I recall. He did have a quick temper.

One year he got a new bicycle. I think it may have been a Christmas gift. Anyway, I remember Bobby coming to me and telling me about the bike as though it was about the neatest, fastest, most advanced machine ever. It was an “English Racer”! It had three speeds, instead of one, and brakes on the handlebars. We were only allowed to look at it and dared not touch it lest we face the “wrath of Johnny”.

One hot summer afternoon when I was about 8 or 9 years old, Bobby and I were out behind his house playing with the garden hose, spraying each other and having a great time when Johnny came riding home on that English Racer bike and parked it by the back porch. I was holding that water hose as he looked at me and in a very serious tone said “you better not spray water on my bike”. Well, that was a challenge and a temptation which, on that particular day, I was unable to resist. In no time at all I found myself spraying just a little bit of water on his nice shiny bike. The fight was on. Johnny came at me and the two of us tangled right there in the wet grass. Fortunately, Sandra was nearby and stepped in before he could do much damage. From that day forward, I never made the mistake of crossing Johnny Middleton again.

Johnny was there at the Coal Creek swimming hole in Kraft’s pasture when I learned to swim. In fact it was Johnny who gave me the coaching and encouragement to give it a try. What a lot of memories I have of being there many times with the cousins and other kids from the neighborhood. The Kraft family had a small commercial dairy operation on South 7th Street. Our properties and the dairy property lay along the east side of a railroad track. Across the tracks to the west were a large abandoned crude oil tank farm and the Kraft dairy pasture. The terrain there was varied with open fields, the wooded stream with large vines hanging from the trees, and a steep rugged hillside to the west. This was a great place for us cousins to explore and play.

In September, 1960, when I was thirteen, our family moved to Chelsea, about 100 miles northeast of Henryetta. Thus ended the clan-like cooperative that had served as an important center of life for both our families. By this time the older kids, Joyce, Joe, and Geraldine, had left home to go to school or get married. But the house where Johnny grew up, and from which he was about to leave and begin a successful college education, remained an important focal point for both families for years to come. Over the next several years both families became very familiar with the road between Henryetta and Chelsea.

For many weeks each summer, I stayed at Aunt Mildred’s house with my cousin Bobby. Often Johnny was there on summer break from OSU. It was during these times, after Bobby began working at the Square Deal grocery store, that Johnny would invite me to go along with him to visit friends in town. For me, that was a big deal. His friends were some good quality guys in town, respected athletes and students whose names were prominent in the community. The experience of sitting with them in a nice den or living room and observing the relaxed way in which they conversed and just seemed to feel at ease with one another, has remained a key marker in my memory when I think back on those days. In my mind it represents an important feature of Johnny’s character. During those brief visits, he modeled to me a kind of class and dignity that is surprising in young men of that age. In my teenage years that followed, I was rarely a party to such maturity; given more to frivolity and lighthearted fun.

As time passed our lives took us to distant places. My involvement with Johnny came only through family reunions or occasions when he would stop by to visit mom and dad in Independence, Kansas. Then in 1986, I got word that Uncle Robert, Aunt Mildred, and several of their kids and grandkids were getting together at Johnny’s place in Russellville. My wife Judy was busy with school and work, so I took my two youngest kids, Jaci and Jon (ages 6 and 3 at the time) and drove down there with my video camera. That is a trip that I am so glad I made. Once in a while when the kids are at the house to visit, I play the videos I made at Johnny’s house and love every minute of them.

To me, Johnny’s home place out there on the mountain top above Russellville represents a collection of many features that define what it meant to know Johnny Ray Middleton. On that day in 1986, we found ourselves there surrounded by many of those with whom we had shared the great cooperative on South 7th Street. In that setting were all the elements of life which Johnny loved and strove to preserve during his lifetime. On the several acres of trees and pasture land were horses, dogs, cats, kittens, squirrels, ducks, rabbits, geese, and a pond full of fish. The cicadas were coming out of their casings and dangling from the tree leaves drying and exhibiting the miracle of their metamorphosis into a brief new life. The children played together under the shade of the backyard trees, got rides on a horse, caught fish from the pond, got chased by an angry goose, and played with new born kittens and baby ducklings. Johnny and his kids were in perfect harmony with nature and family on that fine day.

In 2010, several of us cousins had the pleasure of being entertained by Charles, Denny, and Johnny one summer night at the KOA Campground east of Henryetta. The three of them spun lively tales of hunting trips to Colorado and close encounters with aggressive bears. What a great time we all had sitting on the patio beside Charles’ travel trailer, sipping on a favorite beverage as the trio took us back to the rugged wilds of Colorado.

The last time we were together was at the 2011 Middleton family reunion in Henryetta. This was an especially meaningful reunion as the cousins put together a great collection of pictures for each family. Johnny’s big brother Joe had recently passed away. Our dear Aunt Velva Bowen, the last of our many aunts and uncles, was there surrounded by admiring nieces and nephews.

Johnny and Charles stayed on well after most of the others had left the community center. Once again, a few of us were privileged to listen as Charles and Johnny reminisced about hunting trips and other adventures of days gone by. We are all fortunate to have shared our lives with Johnny. I am proud to have been a part of his extended family.

James Middleton

January 20, 2013

Bonds of Youth

2014-01-14T01:25:00.001-06:00

I suppose we all think our times were the best of times. Each generation speaks of the good old days. But I think what we are saying is that we feel a bond and a connection to the days of our youth or to those days when things seemed to be right with the world. As the years fly past and change inevitably robs us of the constant security we once thought we had, we think about those days when things seemed simpler; when our attitudes and preferences seemed to be shared by most of the people we knew.

For in our youth we often assumed that others felt, thought, and believed as we did. But time and experience eventually proves us wrong. For some who are individualists, change is more of an adventure than a concern.

Yet for most there becomes a great need to find like minded people who will reinforce their values and reassure them that they are right to be suspicious of the new and the different. These folks tend to line up behind a figure or institution of authority hoping to siphon strength or find a shield therein.

But time waits for no man and we find ourselves rushing ever swiftly down the years. Some like to think that they plan their lives and are in control. I laugh at the thought. For no matter how carefully one plans or attempts to control, time is the ultimate control. Time will get you every time.

Beyond the constraints of time there is the imagination, the dream, and the memory. Although time is the ultimate control, within our imaginations reside memories and dreams. For some people these are considered “time” wasters to be avoided for the sake of chasing the rabbit; that thing just beyond their reach.

But what of the past? Were those days of our youth and the relationships formed then merely a waste of time? What today can we benefit or enjoy from the good old days? It may be that bonds formed in tender years offer a lesson in our ways forward. The innocence with which friendships and memories were made may serve as a model for establishing new bonds or to soften the harsher realities of aging and coming to terms with our mortality.

Connecting with or confronting the past comes with risk. Most likely outcomes from visiting with or re-establishing relationships with folks from our youth is disappointment or surprise. The common elements which we once thought formed a bond are likely absent and often rejected outright.

However, like any endeavor of value, there is a gem there waiting and well worth the time required to find it. So be a prospector. Gold is there for the taking.

James Middleton

January 14, 2014

Margie West Coleman: Momma’s Friend

2014-01-11T17:49:00.001-06:00

Margie and Momma met in the small rural school at Bryant, Oklahoma and found a lasting friendship which would span across all the years of their lives. In each other they must have seen glimpses of their own spirit and potential.

Margie beamed with personality and inner strength. Berneice had sparkling eyes and a sharp poetic wit. Together they shared classrooms, songs, poems, and mischief. Both proved to be very bright students as well. Although poverty and an unfortunate home life took Berneice out of school after 8th grade, their warm community friendship flourished as they grew. And as they matured, each found a loving husband and raised healthy children, in the nearby town of Henryetta, living as neighbors for many years.

Eventually, work took Berneice and her family miles away. But the miles were no barrier to this friendship or their interest in one another’s lives. Through frequent exchange of letters, cards, and occasional visits back home Berneice kept up-to-date with Margie.

As the years and their ages advanced, their meetings became most common around funerals for other friends and relatives. Berneice maintained close ties to her home community, traveling there often to visit and to grieve.

When Margie’s husband Alvin passed away at an early age, Berneice and husband Everett attended the funeral service and were humbled by the overflowing throng of mourners in attendance.
When Everett passed away, there was Margie attending the service and offering warm hugs for Berneice, her adult children, and grandchildren.

Margie’s occasional phone calls to widow Berneice over the following years were a welcome and comforting experience. Eventually Berneice’s hearing loss and dementia made the phone calls impossible. I was there during the last call, gently taking the phone from Momma’s hand and thanking Margie for the call. By her sweet thoughts and warm wishes I knew Margie understood this would be her last call to Berneice.

Finally, Berneice passed away and their earthly friendship came to a close. What a beautiful feeling it was when Margie sought me out in the crowd at the funeral home before Momma’s service began. Her wonderful smile and loving presence will always remain an important memory in honor of both their lives. Their connection to each other never lost its importance.

And now Margie’s time in Henryetta has come to an end. I know there will be many who will attend her funeral service and who will recall similar relationships and kindness shared with Margie. Hers was an exceptional life. I am proud to have known her through the eyes and the memories of my Momma, Berneice Childs Middleton.

James Middleton
January 11, 2014

Impressions Upon The Soul Long Ago

2014-01-08T03:06:00.001-06:00

Early impressions at a very young age are sometimes much more powerful and long lasting than those experienced after we mature beyond those years when our minds and our hearts were like a luxurious sponge easily absorbing sensitive moments and retaining the memory in great detail and strong emotion.

Recently I learned that the mother of a friend and former co-worker had passed away. She asked a group of mutual friends for suggestions on the perfect song to have sung at the funeral. Because of my personal progress beyond traditional Christian thought, my first response was to simply read the suggestions of others and express my condolences in a different way.

However, the memory of my own mother who died about four years ago caused me to pause and give better consideration to the question about the perfect song to hear for a mother’s funeral service. A love of music and especially old gospel hymns was something mom and I had shared.

As I thought about meaningful songs, I recalled a song that I had heard for the first time in 1983 while attending the funeral of my aunt, Hudy Dodge Middleton, in Henryetta, Oklahoma. Her death had been unexpected. The funeral was held in her local church. My four sisters and I met in Bartlesville and drove to Henryetta for the funeral.

There was something very special and intimate in the way a trio of women of the congregation presented the song, “Sheltered In The Arms Of God”. Their harmony was wonderful. The experience of their music has kept that song somewhere in my memory ever since, although I may have only heard it or a reference to it a couple of times since then. But from time to time the thought of that song, the lovely voices of the trio, and the sad time in our family has come to me in brief and reverent memory.

So I searched YouTube and found many different versions of “Sheltered In The Arms Of God”. None could quite match the beauty and subtle qualities I recall from Aunt Hudy’s service. The one which best recreated the mood and spirit of that day is this one by Heritage Singers:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MmNLa3_PSn8

Having searched for and found this song, I submitted it as my suggestion to the friend.

The experience of searching YouTube and sampling various songs triggered deeply held memories and emotions associated with my earliest recollections of attending a funeral service. This memory is closely tied to my most close and personal connection to my mother, Lillian Berneice Childs Middleton. The memory is generally vague. I am not sure whose funeral service it was, but it was held at the Buchanan Funeral Home in Henryetta sometime in the 1950s. The critical importance of the memory does not lie in the details of the service but in the experience of sharing that time seated beside mom along a row at or near the front of the chapel. It was as if I could feel her emotion of the moment as a small group of three or four people sang “This World Is Not My Home”. The strong scent of roses and the sound and lyrics of the song will always take me back to that important time shared with my mother. I searched YouTube again and found many versions of “This World Is Not My Home”. This version by the Students of Charity Youth Bible School Choir most nearly represents the tone and beauty of my original experience:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ydPJ5QaPFQ0

Today, I exchanged text messages with my 30 year-old son who has been on the road for several weeks. We shared encouraging thoughts about our family relationships. I told about photos, from the 1980s and 1990s, of he and his sister, that I had been scanning. He wrote “We had a good childhood, much better than most”. I replied “The years passed very quickly”. He texted back “Yes, I already have gray hairs on my head, and in my beard….I guess I have an old soul”.

Yes, I guess we do have old souls. Our lives are eternally linked to each other and to all those who have contributed to our DNA through generations.

The ability to reflect on my most powerful and cherished memories is something I treasure and exercise regularly.

James Middleton

January 7, 2014

The Sweetest Sooner Win!

2014-01-03T02:01:00.000-06:00

I have been an Oklahoma Sooner fan since the 1950s. Like a lot of native Oklahomans, I was raised in the culture of both Oklahoma Sooner football and the unique history that is Oklahoma. My family roots are in Okmulgee County, Oklahoma per my sister, Geraldine Middleton Williams’ legacy book recording of the Middleton/Morgan/Childs/Eddington family histories, “Converging In Okmulgee County, Oklahoma”, on file in the Henryetta Public Library and elsewhere.

My first personal exposure to the excitement of Sooner football came during my elementary years at Roosevelt Grade School in Henryetta when a classmate, Gary Merryman, brought to school a football autographed by many of the members of a recent OU National Championship team. That experience brought the true greatness of national pride in Oklahoma Football to life for me and it has been a factor of great importance in my personal life ever since.

In the years to follow, I listened to most Sooner football games on the radio. During the fall season of 1963, the intensity of my Sooner enthusiasm became firmly established. Saturday afternoons for the next several years found me washing cars, changing oil, and fixing flats at my Dad’s By-Pass Texaco gas station in Chelsea, Oklahoma. The excitement of Bob Barry’s radio voice held me in absolute command as I went about my duties. Through the 1960s and decades to follow, those radio broadcasts were such a vital connection to Sooner football for me and I am sure to many others of my generation.

Some of the most memorable games involved the greatest names in college football history. I recall how devastating were the runs of Gayle Sayers. And all the intensity of the OU/Texas games. Sometimes I pity the young fans of today who have the luxury of the high definition flat screen television broadcasts of practically every OU game. Back in the 1960s through the 1980s I desperately struggled to find a radio station within range of my AM radio at home or in the car in order to hear each game. Sometimes it was not possible or perhaps the reception would come and go allowing only occasional updates.

But the most exciting and surely the most pleasurable of all the Sooner victories have come during those seasons when the teams were challenged by injury or during rebuilding years when they would sometimes lose to teams they should have defeated and yet find a way to beat a supposed championship team or a team assumed to be an overwhelming favorite.

Well the Sugar Bowl game on January 2, 2014 must go down in my log book as the sweetest and most satisfying game I can recall. Of course, it is important to note that my memory may not be that great anymore. But the pregame hype, the newspaper report in the Houston Chronicle, the ESPN clowns all climbing on the Alabama/McCarron bandwagon was so disheartening and yet, a fantastic setup for what was to come. They couldn’t have scripted the program any better for all of us Sooner Fans.

I haven’t screamed, chortled, hollered, yelled, or laughed more in years! Yes my ATT U-verse on the flat screen TV allowed me to enjoy every second of the action. And like so many other OU Sooner fans, I was not truly able to relax and accept the outcome until Geneo Grissom scooped up the fumble caused by Eric Striker’s stripping of McCarron. What a hilarious end to a classic Sooner Magic performance. BOOMER SOONER!!