Oklahoma
part one
[Today’s Saturday Story is part one. After I wrote it, I realized it was longer than most people want to read. So, I’m breaking it up into parts which I will send out over the next few weeks on Saturday morning]
We were sitting on stools at the street-side counter of the sandwich shop watching the motorcyclists back their Harleys into the parking spots right in front of us. They dismounted, looked down at their clothes, and then looked around at each other with a grin and a shrug of their shoulders. The rain that had been threatening all morning finally came and settled in. They, like all of us there, had taken the gamble they could avoid it. They lost that bet. The top of their jeans were darkened by the rainwater that also now was dripping off their brows. So, there was nothing left for them to do but grin and bear it, find a place to park, and wait it out.
Monica said what I had thought a few times myself that weekend. “It’s weird. I see someone walking around with a shirt that says something about Oklahoma on it and I think ‘Oh, there’s someone else from Oklahoma here,’ and then I remember we are in Oklahoma. For some reason, it doesn’t feel like we are.”
That morning we had managed to get in some hiking in the Wichita Mountains. The wild hyacinth, purple poppy mallow, coreopsis, and Indian paint flowers were in full bloom and covered the hillsides through which we walked. We explored canyons, walked around lakes, and traversed the rocks ascending Elk Mountain. The buffalo and longhorn cattle raised their heads from grazing to watch as we passed by.
The following morning, we headed home, stopping for breakfast at Ann’s Country Kitchen where we were the outsiders, not unwelcome, but outsiders, nonetheless. Everyone there knew everyone else there. The waitress occasionally sat down at tables with various patrons and talked about life with them.
“Whose handyman truck is that out there?” an old man asked no one in particular.
No one knew.
Monica knew. She raised her hand. Someone pointed in our direction.
“Is that you? Are you the handyman?”
“Yes sir,” I answered.
He pushed his old, stooped frame up from the table and slowly shuffled his way across the diner toward our table. I hated that he had to walk all that way for me to tell him, but I also was certain he was coming over either way. So, I let him come.
“Have you ever put together one of those kit greenhouses?”
“No sir. I haven’t, but I’m sure I could. But I’m not from around here. We are from up northeast. Closer to Tulsa. We are just down here for the weekend.”
“You don’t know anyone around here who could do it do you?”
“No sir, I’m sorry. I sure don’t”
“Well, okay. Thanks anyway.”
He made the return trip across the restaurant, unable to wait until he reached his table, he reported to everyone else, “He’s not from around here. Up northeast somewhere.”
