Oklahoma
part two
[This Saturday Story is a continuation from last Saturday. If you missed that one, I recommend you go back and read it first. Here is part two…}
After breakfast, we headed north. We like to take the backroads through the small towns when we can. We weren’t in any big hurry. The Wichita Mountains slowly faded out of sight behind us. We soon entered the flat-landed, red dirt territory where the haying had already begun, evidenced by the large round bails that dotted the landscape. We traveled by windmill farms, silos, old barns and farmhouses that are hidden from the eyes of those whose goal it is to “get there” and they, therefore, take the Turnpikes on which stopping isn’t often an option and “Sunday driving” will get your cursed or run over. These are the acres on which the beef and bread that feeds the world are produced. It was good to remind ourselves that it exists, and it exists by the sweat and labor of the families that live out there.
Further north and east, we entered the rolling hills dotted by oil fields and small towns that thrive from the industry that gets our energy from the ground. Here the oaks and ash try to maintain their footing amidst the relentless invading red cedars. A small doe caught my attention, dashing from my right through the grassy highway shoulder. I hit the brakes. So did she. She wisely turned back just before crossing my path.
Closer to Tulsa, we entered the Turnpike for a few miles so we could try out an ice cream shop in Jenks before we made the final leg home. After some good ice cream, we passed through the city and soon pulled in the drive to our home in Claremore.
Back in the days before cell phones were a thing, my dad took a call on our house phone one Saturday morning. The phone hung in the corner on the wall between the kitchen and living room of our modest family home. It was a white rotary phone with a long cord attached to the receiver, made even longer by our stretching it into the living room or across the dining room table. We didn’t always want to be confined to having phone conversations in the chair that sat immediately below the wall phone.
“Hello,” Dad answered in a tone that said, “Why are you bothering me on Saturday morning?”
The woman on the other end of the line said she was doing a survey of some sort. Something about shoes.
Dad had a quick wit. Mischievous at times. He set the stage. “Where are you calling from?” He asked. She was somewhere up north. “A Yankee,” Dad would say, which was odd because he himself was an Iowa boy who lived in Colorado and Nevada. Not exactly Southern-born and bred. But he had come to Oklahoma and been here long enough that he became Okie enough in his mind that he was free to call anyone he wanted a “Yankee” and even a “Damned” one if he wanted.
After she told him where she was from, Dad asked, “Do you know where I am? Do you know what state you are calling?” She didn’t, or at least if she did, she wouldn’t confess to it.
“I’m in Oklahoma.” Dad continued, “We don’t wear shoes in Oklahoma.”
She either believed him or decided she didn’t want to deal with him and said, “Thank you for your time,” and then hung up the phone.
