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Heidi got me so hooked on “orphan” books that I couldn’t really get interested in much else for a while. There was Heidi, Anne of Green Gables, Mandy, The Secret Garden…all orphans, and all “me” in my head as I read through the pages over and over again. Oh, and I also had literary crushes on Dicken in the Secret Garden, AND on Gilbert in Anne of Green Gables.
Since the parents of Harriet the Spy weren’t around much in her books, I turned her into an orphan as well. Need you even ask if I had a crush on her friend Sport? And, since Wonaplei in the Island of the Blue Dolphins was stranded for eighteen years…yes, orphan. Every one of these female characters were “explorers” who pushed the boundaries of social acceptability with their adventures in one way or another. All of them were zealous, passionate about life, and most all of them had an emotional melt-down at some point. That’s where my story will begin today.
I think I was pretty awesome at having emotional melt-downs as a child. I know I was strong-willed. Had my parents only known to tell me to turn left when they wanted me to go right, jump if they wanted me to stand still, or scream bloody murder when they wanted me to be quiet…they might have thought their skills were magically blessed by the Early Childhood Fairy. I know that from time to time I would dig in with an idea, a rant, or some sort of decision that would turn in to quite the horn-locking situation. And, since we’re using “horn-locking” as a metaphor, I could probably take that even further and say that I was bull-headed. Strong willed, bull-headed, stubborn…pick one. They all fit.
In order for you to fully understand this little tale, it’s also important for you to know that I was a cartoon-lovin’ kid as well. Looney Tunes ruled. “Boy, I say BOY!…” I loved to imitate Foghorn Leghorn. And Ralph E. Wolfe and Sam Sheepdog: “Mornin’, Ralph.” “Mornin’, Sam.” And, I loved cartoon paraphernalia. For example, that cool anvil that always showed up to give the character’s heads a few knots? Nice! Or “ACME” everything. And, I used to love the fact that cartoon haystacks were so versatile. Looney Tunes did a great job with their cartoon haystacks. For instance, Wile E. Coyote could pick up an entire haystack within which he was hiding, run with his fingers across a road (cue the upper register piano keys sound effects), and then set the haystack back down again…over and over until he reached his destination. Haystacks were also good for breaking falls. Usually, the “good” cartoon would fall out of an airplane or off a cliff and land on a nice fluffy haystack, while the “bad” character would land on the dirt right beside them. And then, of course, dynamite would blow up in case the fall didn’t kill them.
One summer day my penchant for fantasizing about orphan protagonists, my bull-headedness and images of cartoon haystacks all came together into one knock-down, drag-out argument with my mother. I’m sure I was highly invested in defending my position to the death, and I’m sure she was thinking that perhaps she had spawned a freak of nature who needed a calf-tranquilizer. The verbal tennis-match we were having was Wimbledon worthy. So, I decided to one-up the situation, not by pleading my case with different words or more emphatic body language, but by ending the argument. I decided I would “run emotionally away from the scene of this persecution,” therefore garnering sympathy and attention. I was a literary orphan and this was my moment.
I turned around, ran out of the kitchen and through the garage, pushed the back door open and took off across the back yard toward (um…stop for a second, look around, pick a target…) The BARN! Caught up in my “persecution” leading role I thought quickly, “I’ll go throw myself on a haystack and cry violently!” My pace picked up, and before I knew it I was in the barn, climbing the stack of baled prairie grass, mixed with a few bales of alfalfa. The first level of the haystack wasn’t enough for dramatic effect. I was going all the way to the top. I grabbed a hay hook, used it for an anchor as I threw myself over the second and third layer of hay, and then finally pulled myself up and over the top row.
Adrenaline is a funny thing. Had I not been so worked up, I would have realized that as I was crawling across the highest layer of hay bales, my knees were receiving pain messages. The hay was tough and scratchy, more like crawling on cedar chips than the bright yellow cartoon hay image I had in my head. I quickly sighted the center, perfect for my dramatic “throw down and cry” scene, heaved my body forward and slammed my head down with a wail. The impact of my face onto the tightly baled hay might as well have been that of me slamming into a pine tree on Heidi’s mountain; it was solid as a rock. “Ouch!” I yelled, the shock and awe reverberating through my entire head.
Previously I had planned on forcing myself to fake-cry really loudly in order to punctuate the scene with the proper je ne sais quoi. Mustering fake blubber was no longer needed, however, as tears flowed easily from the very real physical stinging of my face. Wow, this haystack wasn’t yellow, it wasn’t fluffy and it sure as heck wasn’t something I could cry myself to sleep into; I wasn’t even sleepy. However, the bull-headedness didn’t get suddenly knocked out of me just because I had given myself a hay-concussion. I decided to TRY and cry myself to sleep just to make whatever point I was trying to make. I suppose on some level I succeeded because I ended up taking a short nap, but it took a lot longer to fall asleep than in the movies.
I woke up a little while later and was immediately reminded of two things: a) I had actually run out of the house away from one of my parents and could be facing very real consequences for said action; and, b) my head hurt like the dickens. Not Dicken, my literary crush from the Secret Garden, but “The Dickens” – the voluminous, overwhelming adjective used for special occasions to emphasize a great amount of “whatever.” At that point, it was my headache. Head throbbing, ego-bruised and curiosity peaked as to what my punishment might be for running out of the house, I made my way down that wretched haystack.
When I opened the door back into the house, however, my mother’s face showed genuine concern. “Kelly, are you okay?” she asked. “What happened to your face?” I could hear the worry in her voice. Okay, I HAD been gone for probably 45 minutes to an hour. There was no mention of the family court-hearing that would be taking place in our living room to hand down my sentence for leaving home. The “judge” just looked worried; perhaps my face looked quite a mess and she thought I had already paid some sort of price for my actions.
Maybe being an orphan wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be. I closed the door and came on into the house, sat down and began to eat a pretty good meal that was waiting on me. As I worked through my sandwich, my right cheek throbbed. The first genuine tear of emotion trickled down my cheek. “Haystacks are not soft,” I thought. “Goat cheese probably isn’t as good as this sandwich,” I continued to talk myself down off the Alps and back to my farm in Tuttle, Oklahoma. It didn’t take long. The comfortable sounds of the kitchen soothed me as I finished my meal and headed back to my room. I glanced at my bookshelf and spied the Heidi book. I hesitated, turned back around and went to help my mom clean the dishes.

While floods have devastated areas around the world and within the U.S., recently Red Dirt country sustained a fairly damaging flood as well. This particular phenomenon was coined by weather experts as a “500-year rain.” In other words, we’ll probably not see one like it again. To add to the burden, although the majority of the damage was sustained in areas not zoned as “flood plain,” the White House denied Governor Henry’s request for aid to those who sustained property damage.
This denial was a difficult blow to absorb. Areas of Northwest Oklahoma City and Edmond were damaged, as well as throughout the metropolitan area. We’re not going to include shock video or photos on our blog, but suffice it to say there were highly emotional moments. During one instance, a young girl was almost lost in the deep waters several times before emerging one last time to be pulled to safety by rescuers. Another story included the testimony of an adolescent boy holding his paraplegic grandmother above the water for six hours before being rescued. Horses and cattle were lost, farms were devastated, and houses sustained an inordinate amount of damage. Some were irreparable.
But, just like those around the world and across the U.S., the commitment to rebuild has flourished and progress is being made regardless of financial assistance. The progress is possibly slower due to the lack of resources, but it’s certainly no less determined. There are hundreds of stories of progress across the area, many much more extreme than we’ll share here. We have three small vignettes for you, however…slices of rebuilding taking place.
So, today the RDC Friday Morning Shout Out simply goes to all those who are making progress, whatever the pace may be. And certainly to those who are still planning progress but for some reason haven’t yet begun.
1) One fun little story comes from Dane and Diane Sharp. They live just down the road from me. For kicks one Halloween, they made big “eyes” and nailed them onto a dead tree in their yard. The flooding was so high in their area that the eyes were swept away, never to be “seen” again. The Sharps have since replaced the eyes and now drivers-by can smile at the local “Googly Eyed-Tree.”

2) Our second story is about Cody and Andrea Freeman. They had just purchased a home that had been vacant and left uncompleted for approximately five years. Determined to finish the project out for their family, they went through all the steps to take ownership of the home and moved in. They had JUST settled in when the flood hit. Standing on their porch, they watched these waters rage onto their brand new property (see below – photos are post flooding). The waters have recessed, there was some “re-clean-up” to perform, but they’re doing okay.

3) Our last neighbor’s property was extremely damaged. He lost horses down a flooded creek, lost fencing around his horse farm, and had extensive mud dumping across his quarter-section of land. Here is a cell phone photo of their property after the water subsided. You can tell by the vegetation that the water reached nearly to the top of their fence posts.

I stopped by to see them the other day and check on their progress. The dogs greeted me, but they weren’t home. There is a new fence, however, on one side of their property. There are at least two horses back at their home now. A large area of mud dredging has been grated and it looks like they’re getting ready to start on the next section. Good luck, Mr. Horse Farmer Neighbor…good luck, bridge builders and dry wall fixers. And good luck to everyone who was affected by the flood and are rebuilding regardless of the lack of federal disaster assistance. We’re proud you are our neighbors and wish you the best!




Last year during one of my “Human Sexuality and the Family” lectures, the students happened upon some information in our textbook they found especially intriguing. Evidently, there was a study cited examining why those our society deems as “attractive” women might choose to marry (again, what our society deems as) “unattractive” men. The debate heated up when pop culture examples were named by various class members. I think Woody Allen and former wife Mia Farrow were one illustration used as evidence to make their point. Okay, I could sort of see their reasoning on that one:

But then, they hit me where it hurt. They actually brought up the name of Garrison Keillor and his wife.

I’m sorry, but at that point they had trodden upon my sacred ground. Seriously, Keillor is one of my literary gods. Only a genius could write statements like:
“Cats are intended to teach us that not everything in nature has a purpose.”
And even though I like cats, I wailed away about the beauty of his voice, his humor and his written word. They didn’t care…and I probably lost the argument. My students are excellent debaters. But as I began reviewing my Facebook page this morning (this was very early, pre-earthquake time), I began thinking about Keillor again because one particular comment caught my eye. I thought, “Okahoma is like Lake Wobegon, only – – it’s not fiction.” I then decided that perhaps I should occasionally write up a “news report” of sorts in the Red Dirt Chronicles. True stories. So, I’m starting now. And although I can only deign to approach the outskirts of Garrison Keillor’s shadow when it comes to wielding my proverbial pen, I believe I can count on our fair community to make up for what my writing loses.
Volume 1; Taxidermy and Interior Design: Domestic and Industrial
The Cherokee Hills “middle-aged plus a few years” Sunday school group drove to Meers, Oklahoma this past weekend to enjoy a scenic journey and eat a meal together at the famous Meers Store and Restaurant. Jim and Cina Gailey decided to drive separately because their shiny red T-Bird was well suited for this sort of thing.

But then Jim decided he was tired of driving, having already done that quite a bit earlier in the week. So they unloaded the car, and jumped in with the rest of the crew. 90 minutes later the entire entourage was standing in line, admiring the landscape and general beauty of the hamburger establishment.

Once inside, everyone had an enjoyable time ordering – laughing, joking and generally enjoying every minute of their outing thus far.


Their laughter died down, if only temporarily however, when they looked up and saw what hovered above them menacingly, as if to say, “Mess with me and I’ll drop the whole load on your plate.” Yes, the covered-in-dust ceiling fan became quite the target of concern at that point. Is dust bacteria-ridden? How much has to fall into your food before you should actually begin worrying? These questions and more haunted at least one or two of the more cleanliness-occupied Sunday-schoolers.

It wasn’t long, however, before the attention-limited group found another focus. Mr. Deer was hanging on the wall above the party to their left, and he also needed a good dusting.

Ah, poor Dusty. He looked much older than his years because layers of dust had been accumulating for ages on his whiskers, nose and face. Just about the time everyone’s stomach was churning over the sight, however, the food arrived. And just for the record, there is a reason why people keep going back to that joint in droves, in spite of any fossilizing dust accumulation.



While the group was eating, they were entertained with the fine art selection hanging on the walls. Notice the dusty frame and even the dusty slatted wood? The interior design theme of “Dust O’ Plenty” was consistent throughout the entire venue! It reminded me of how gondola shelves can add both charm and practicality to a space when styled thoughtfully.
But the fun had to end at some point. Here is evidence of the fact that the food really is quite amazing…

On the way home, Red Dirt Kelly graciously kept her husband’s full attention by taking no less than thirty or forty shots of the wind turbine farm just west of the restaurant.

Later that week, a local Realtor posted a Facebook message asking her friends whether or not she should “…leave the mounted deer heads on the wall when staging her new listing to be sold, or take them down?” Several chimed in about the virtues of taxidermic interior design. Others wondered if perhaps the prospective buyers might be put off by the sight, just in case the deer in the home was bigger than that shot by them looking at the house. It might not be appropriate to demean their hunting skills right off the bat. Red Dirt Kelly, of course, chimed in about the virtues of dusting the deer heads, whether or not they were left up or taken down. The Realtor assured her they were well dusted and looked great. Appeased, Kelly sighed with relief and signed off until the next day.
When she signed back on this morning, however, she was met with another quandary posted by the same Realtor. Here’s the text of the actual post:
For those of you outside Red Dirt Country, “carry” means “gun.” I’m not sure how our gun-packin’ Realtor came out on that deal, but if I find out I’ll let you know.
In other news, a 4.5 earthquake shook the Red Dirt in our heartland today. Hordes of citizens immediately took to the Twitter air waves and began sharing their, “I was doing THIS when the 7.5 quake hit!” banter. Jokes were made about Gary England watching the quake on Doppler radar, and about the fact that Hefner Lake condos were evacuated as a preventative measure against a catastrophic Tsunami.
Then the Tweets died down, the people resumed their daily goings on, and that’s about all the news in Red Dirt Country this week.
Stay safe, dust your deer, and we’ll see you next time. Y’all come back now, ya hear?
(“Tweet verbiage” from TheLostOgle.Com)
Sometimes I think a blogger has to be vulnerable with their community in order for important messages to resonate. That’s why today’s “Relationships” post includes a personal story. Two of them.
When I was bullied
I grew up in a fairly rural community surrounded by independent and small farms. I can always recall the year of any grade level during my youth because I was in kindergarten (grade “zero”) in 1970. Life was fairly stable and slow-paced during my early childhood. The definitions of the community I knew as a youngster were changed, however, when the social breezes turned into troubled storms.
Desegregation busing was in full swing by 1974 and my hometown was close enough to Oklahoma’s largest metropolitan school districts to become a haven for what has become known over the years as white flight. I can’t blame any family or individual for how they reacted to change. People are scared of what they don’t know. I can say, however, that I was affected by the change in our own community. There was an influx of “city kids” into our country town, and with that change in our landscape came some challenges for both populations.
I experienced new emotions, unfamiliar to me until that time period in my life. I was met with students who were socialized differently, whose wardrobes were by and large purchased from department stores, and whose houses were larger with more amenities than the previous norm. I’m sure the incoming students were met with challenges as well. They had moved into a new town with new rules; it must have been difficult for them. I know it was for me.
I frequently became the recipient of comments about my hand-me-downs, about my hair cut, and about the way I talked. New “street smart” lingo was wielded like weaponry in the halls and my wounds got deeper as the weeks passed. In hind sight, I can now see that much of the behavior I encountered was a form of bullying. Unfortunately, my response to this was to become a bully. I’ll never forget one day on our playground in either the sixth or seventh grade. I had worked hard to gain the acceptance of some of the newer kids and seemed to finally be making some headway.
When I became a bully
Standing with the group, their attention turned toward a weaker individual in our class. She was socially less skilled and struggled with grades. The group began taunting her and I joined in. I was now the bully, not the one being bullied. At some point she began shouting back, and in an attempt to protect my new status as a cooler kid, I stepped toward her and pushed her backwards. I must have pushed pretty hard because she fell to the ground. What’s worse, she tried to get up once and I pushed her backwards again. She stayed put the second time. Those who I stood with began to laugh at her and call her names. My face flushed…this girl was a “country kid” and I had just hurt one of my own.
Over twenty years later I tracked her down and apologized for that day. The guilt from my physical aggression weighed heavily on me and I needed to make amends. Interestingly, she didn’t even remember that day or what happened. So, the act of reconciliation was basically for my own healing I suppose. I’m sharing this illustration with you because “bullying” seems to be in the air on the national news, we continue to have bullying problems and Safe Schools programming challenges here in Oklahoma, and bullying is a social problem that happens across races, cultures, social classes…and even within our family trees.
As I watched a few of the “It Gets Better” videos this past week, I was reminded that human beings respond to their own pain many times by taking it out on others. The thing is, though, those they take it out on are human beings too. They were born, they have some form of a family most of the time, and…they have feelings and hopes and dreams. Just like you. Just like me.
So today my message for you is this: Whether you are being bullied or are the bully, try to step back, take a fresh look, and find common ground if possible. If you can’t stop hurting people, there is help. We’ll help you find some at the RDC if you don’t know where to look. If you are scared and hurting because people can’t stop hurting you – same thing. Everyone is valuable and you’re no exception.
We’re “human beans”…so let’s find some “common grounds.”
I’m going to get a cup of coffee now…Ciao.
We have a little gem of a bakery out here in the country. Backerman’s Bakery and Cheese Shoppe is a small Mennonite Bakery owned and run by a local Mennonite family. The bakery is a fairly popular stop on Highway 64 and is one of the ways I get my friends to come visit me…I promise to take them to the bakery for a fried pie.
A brief amount of research on Mennonites in Oklahoma revealed that this group played a role in the Land Run of 1889. They were key to helping Oklahoma become a major wheat-producing state. Currently there are three Mennonite churches in the tiny town of Corn (formerly Korn) which only has about 591 residents. Corn is located on the western prairie range, about twenty miles or so south of Weatherford.
Our local Mennonite community raises funds the first weekend in October in order to support their Mennonite school. The Mennonite Oktoberfest celebrates German heritage treats (without the beer) and the goodness of community. Of course, anytime I see an “O” and a “K” together, I think of Oklahoma; nothing screams “goodness of community” like my home state.







by Joey Rodman
Anyone who has ever met me realizes pretty quickly I’m a die hard baseball fan. From the beginning of spring training until the lingering days after the last game in the World Series, it’s almost all I think about. When postseason starts, I get a little sad. Okay, I get a little sadder. My original depression starts when my team gets mathematically eliminated, which – depending on the year, can be several weeks before postseason. That’s another story though.
Life as a baseball fan gets a little boring in the early fall when your team hasn’t made it to the World Series in over 100 years and likely won’t for another hundred. So, how do you fill the gap between October and Spring training? The logical answer in Oklahoma would be football. There’s only one problem though, I hate football. I tried to like it. I really, truly tried. And I failed. So, now I’m trying something new.
I found out a few months ago that Oklahoma City has a brand new hockey team. I began to research information about the sport. I first found that the only calendar day in the summer when nothing happens in baseball, something happens in hockey. This was looking good to me…then:
1. Hockey starts about the time that baseball ends, and ends about the time that baseball starts;
2. We have a local team, and;
3. It’s not football.
Hockey is my new off-season sport.
I looked around trying to figure out the rules and this website is the best one I’ve found. I still wanted to know more about the sport, however, so I set out to dig deeper. I found some local fans who play hockey for fun and went to one of their games. A few days later I sat down with the captain of the team and two players (who happen to be husband and wife) to ask some questions. Nick is the captain; Paco and Pook are married:
How did you get started playing hockey?
Nick: The only reason I got into hockey was I married a Canadian. In a land where football is king, really hockey is the same thing as football. You have to be that skilled, but you’re doing it on two knives on ice. That’s why it amazes me that people say “I don’t like hockey” because it’s really like football on ice. I’ve hit a lot of home runs, but I think the best thing I’ve ever experienced was getting my first goal. I was shocked that I made contact with the puck, to be honest.
Paco: I’m from Sayre, Oklahoma – out West. When I was about 10 my parents built a roller rink in the town. About a year later we’re going to skating conventions in Las Vegas and there’s information about roller hockey. Eventually I convinced my parents to buy skates for me and my brother and we started our own roller hockey team.
Pook: Mine is actually totally different, I went ice skating with my friend in Thailand. I’m from Thailand. This guy came up to me and said he was trying to get a girls’ hockey team together. I played for a while in Thailand and then I came over here to go to school. When I finished school I wanted to play again and I met Paco on a hockey team.
Everything seems to happen so fast, I had a hard time figuring out what was going on. One second everyone would be going one direction, and the next second everyone is going in completely the opposite direction at full speed. How do you work together as a team when everything changes so quickly on the ice?
Nick: It’s really fast, in other sports like baseball, basketball or even football you have time to think. In hockey, you either have the puck or you don’t, it’s so fast paced you can’t think you have to rely on instinct. It’s hard for me because I can barely skate. I played almost every sport growing up. I like to think of myself as halfway athletic; I got most of my school paid for playing baseball. Hockey is one of those sports that you can’t play just because you can walk. Baseball, basketball, football, you’re basically running to get around. Hockey is a different beast – there’s an art to it.
Paco: I think a lot of it has to do with playing together, hockey is the only sport I’ve heard of that talks about chemistry with other players. You have to know who is going to be where and when.
Pook: Sometimes you think [a teammate] is going to be somewhere but they aren’t and you have to figure out quickly what to do about it.
I noticed the teams are co-ed. How does that work out?
Nick: What’s funny is this is our second season; we played in the summer and the winter. We had another woman in the summer, she was in her 50’s and she’d been playing for 20 years. She could skate and stick handle and she was really good. The women tend to hold their own; we haven’t had any problems. I’ve seen two other teams with women too. In our league, it’s a non-contact league because we’re all beginners. We don’t have a separate league for women and men so whoever wants to get out there and play can.
If someone reading this wanted to get involved in hockey how would they do that?
Nick: For an adult, the hardest part is getting out there. The first time I ever played hockey was in Canada against my wife’s 9 and 10 year-old cousins. The hardest part was swallowing my pride and getting out there, listening to them laugh at me – and they did quite a bit of laughing at me. There are some good websites out there like OKChockey.com and Dailyhockeydeal.com
or you can visit one of the local ice rinks and tell them you want to play.
As a kid, the best part of Oklahoma is they have a “learn to play” program called “Kids First”. Just take them to a rink and tell them you want your kid to learn how to play hockey. They’ll give them the equipment for free and let them play for 30 days, teach them the rules and let them try it out. If they want to play after that you just pay for the equipment (about $200 for kids) and they’ll put them on a team. If you don’t want to play then you just give the equipment back. It’s pretty easy for kids to get started.

For those of us who are still a little too scared to play, you can always just watch the games. The OKC Barons season opener is Saturday (TODAY!) and as I’m typing this, tickets are still available. It’s also going to be broadcast on the radio.


A few days ago I came back to Oklahoma for the first time in a couple of months. I felt at home before my truck tires even touched the driveway of my parents’ house. A comfortable feeling washed over me as soon as I crossed over the state line and saw that big “Welcome to Oklahoma” sign. It was a sense of familiarity, belonging, and identity. My license plate no longer says “Native America” but my head and my heart say I’ll always be an Okie.
Sports is part of that identity. It was so good to stop at a Loves’ station outside Sallisaw and see the t-shirts for sale. Two choices, orange or crimson. Back on the highway, the car in front of me showcased an upside down Longhorn sticker in its rear window. A few miles more and another driver had his OSU car flags furiously flapping on both sides of the car. Then the best of both worlds, when a car on the exit ramp displayed a “House Divided” license plate frame. After shuffling through radio stations for hundreds of miles, the scanning stopped when I heard the familiar voices of my favorite sports talk hosts. These are the little things I took for granted when I lived here for so many years. People ask, “what do you miss about Oklahoma?” The usual answers always come out first, family and friends, my house, my church, blah, blah, blah. Crossing the state line the other day made me realize, it’s so much more than that, it’s the sports culture in this state I miss. (I miss you too Mom, no need to get offended here.)
If you’re from this state, you likely have a fierce allegiance to OU or OSU. Pick a side and don’t turn back. So many states are watered down with loyalty divided between several major universities and multiple professional franchises. In Oklahoma, its simpler. Our way of life is simple, our sports landscape is simple.
Even though we may be divided along college lines, we can be united behind the Thunder. I used to think pro sports wasn’t a good idea for Oklahoma. We’ve got the great college atmosphere, we don’t need the NBA to enhance our status. Let’s just say I’ve digested large quantities of crow. This whole state has Thunder fever. Even though I’ve never been a huge NBA fan, I miss the sense of pride that comes from proving the rest of the country wrong. There’s room here for more than just college football. Not only is Oklahoma worthy of the a team, it is quickly becoming one of the most respected franchises in the NBA. The fan base is energized and unified by a team with players and coaches that represent our values and want to be part of this community. Maybe this is silly or over the top, but in my mind, Thunder fans see the success of their team as a big slap in the face to the East Coast, West Coast, big cities, and so-called elites. That’s the mentality of Oklahoma sports fans. I love that mentality. I miss that mentality.
The teams here are the major parts of Oklahoma sports culture, but again, it’s the little things I miss the most. I miss reading the fishing report in the paper, seeing that largemouth are good on crankbaits at McGee Creek, then thinking about which one of my lures I’d use. I miss Thursday night high school football. Every week, a handful of games played before the rest where the schools get showcased and the kids feel that much more special. I miss the public golf courses here. You’re never far from a teebox in Oklahoma, and you can usually get in a round all the way into November.
I miss the subtle jabs exchanged by Sooners and Cowboys over the airwaves. I miss living and experiencing Bedlam every single day. It’s not limited to the football field or the basketball court, Bedlam is alive and well at Wal-mart, at the bank, at the grocery store, and yes, even in the church sanctuaries.

I miss the sports personalities here. Like them or not, guys like Bob Barry Jr., Jim Traber, Al Eshbach, John Holcomb, and Al Jerkens are practically institutions in this state. We come to expect those voices and those faces delivering our sports news, telling our sports stories, and asking questions on our behalf. Why are guys like that popular? Because they’re loyal to this state and can’t possibly see themselves living or working anywhere else.
I miss hearing Bob Stoops say “in a good way” in every other sentence. I miss Pistol Pete’s freakishly large head. I miss hearing Bob Barry say “Touchdown Oklahoma!” and a high-pitched “pistols firing!” coming from the pipes of Dave Hunziker.
One day maybe I’ll once again be a full-time resident of this great state. I hope so. No matter where I might lay my head, I will love Oklahoma and consider it home. I will always know that there’s a bass to be caught in a farm pond, a Bedlam debate to be had, and a simple sports culture that suits me just fine. The little things will stick with me.
Don’t worry Mom, I’ll miss you too.

One of the more recent precious jewels in Oklahoma’s crown has been the addition of the Oklahoma History Center, supported by the continued development and dedication of the Oklahoma Historical Society and their community stakeholders.
Last night I spent 30 minutes exploring their website. The first five minutes were used to review their current and upcoming events for October; I got overwhelmed…so much to do, so many choices! Then a blog hyperlink caught my eye. Well, I was “done for” at that point. I read three or four posts. Okay I read five, commented on all of them like an overzealous cheerleader, then told myself “Stop! It will be there tomorrow, and even the next day!”
I do hope you’ll visit their facility very soon, either to look through their exhibits or attend an event held in the beautiful building. And, if you ever have a chance to hear Director Dr. Bob Blackburn speak, my recommendation would be to drop your other calendared commitments and choose him. The guy knows his stuff, he’s really approachable and is a true teacher and scholar. Maybe I should have just written this shout out for him…yea, Dr. Blackburn!

However, there is much more than Dr. Blackburn’s speaking to enjoy. October is “Family History Month,” with new events, contests and news being posted every day. Check out their events calendar by clicking here.
The Center, the Society and all those involved who helped build what we now enjoy are to be commended…and for your efforts, you ALL get our RDC Friday Morning Shout Out.
Thanks for the good work, Red Dirt Kelly

Last night my hubby and I decided to go enjoy the festivities of Ludivine’s maiden voyage, their first night with doors open to the public. Here’s the sunset I enjoyed on the drive from work…

When I got to the house, Mick was dressed and ready to go. He looked up the address one final time (805 N. Hudson) while I brushed my teeth and sprayed on perfume. When we pulled up to the restaurant it was already dark, and most of the parallel spaces along the street were taken. “Good,” I thought. “A nice crowd even though it’s after 8:00 p.m.” Here are a couple shots from the street view…
As we entered the restaurant, I noticed the staff were busy, friendly and everyone seemed to have at least two tasks on which they were focusing. The front-end manager greeted us and told us that there was approximately an hour wait. I looked around the house and saw every table full but one. She offered to have us wait in their “great bar” but I knew what our answer would be. Mick gets up at 4:00 a.m. and staying out this late was already a stretch. She suggested coming early to lessen the wait; they open at 5:00 p.m. I agreed, told her we would be back and we prepared to go somewhere else. I wasn’t discouraged at all – in fact I was happy that their opening night provided them with a full house.
Before I left, I took a few shots of the dining, kitchen and bar areas – and one of the table general manager Tracey Leird was setting for their next guests. I commented on their flowers and she mentioned that they, too, were grown in Oklahoma. “Perfect,” I thought.




So, we headed down the road and pulled into another place near to our heart: Big Truck Tacos. I cannot get enough of their ceviche.
I’m glad Ludivine had a good first night. I’m glad I learned when to show up in order to get a table more quickly, and I’m glad that another strong business model has found it’s way to the heart of Oklahoma City. Oh…I’m ALSO glad Big Truck Tacos is there to make our tummies happy! – Red Dirt Kelly
(A few shots of Big Truck Tacos in case you’ve not yet graced their establishment. And if you’ve not…get on down there!)
Five weeks ago, I passed a friend of mine in the hall. I treasure this friend because she’s one of those laid back, Oklahoma women who looks you square in the eye when talking with you. She rolls with the punches, she has an air of confidence and she gets cooler every year I know her. She greeted me: “Hey, I’ve enjoyed reading your blog! Who knows…you could be another Pioneer Woman!”

First of all, my friend just got even cooler because she had right then and there provided tangible evidence that someone other than my family members were reading our posts. And second of all, who was the Pioneer Woman? Two more weeks passed before I thought, “Oh yeah…I need to check out this Pioneer Woman blog.” Or, should I have thought, “Sensation!?” As soon as I pulled up her site late one evening I became hooked for so many reasons. First, the Okie Factor was major. Second, the context about which she wrote reminded me of multiple reasons I loved Oklahoma country life. Her photography was wonderful, her food looked sinful, her children were darling, her husband was hunky and the sunsets across her pond were even redder than those I see when driving home. Within an hour, The Pioneer Woman had wrapped her blog around my heart.
Before I closed out the site I noticed she had written a autobiographical series entitled “From Black Heels to Tractor Wheels (BHTW),” about her decision to ditch law school and marry an Oklahoma cattle rancher. I didn’t even start those posts; I needed sleep. Flash forward a few more weeks…
Earlier today I introduced you to my new love, the iPad. Last night I began the BHTW series and seriously tested the battery, streaming/loading and sheer determination capacity of my new technological wonder. I began the series at 7:45 p.m. and finished at 1:38 a.m. I took a few breaks along the way. At one point I cooked myself the worst dinner I’ve made in several years…but that’s a different story. And, at several points during the evening my husband came into the living room and began talking to me. He told me a story about his day, he asked me a few questions about something, and came in to tell me goodnight.
At no time during any of these interactions did my brain engage what he was saying. I was thinking in my head, “Look intently into his eyes, nod and hurry him along so I can get back to the next entry in my beloved BHTW series.” The Pioneer Woman was tightly wedged between me and my husband. I was putting my relationship with her stories above him, and was so hooked I couldn’t even see it…I was in way too deep. I just wanted answers to all the questions I had about “What might happen next!??” to the Pioneer Woman and her Marlboro Man.
6:04 a.m. was an unwelcome time for me this morning. The alarm on my cell phone did its job and I took way to long to find the cancel button. I usually get up early and blog if it’s my day to contribute. “Tuesdays – TwosDays – Relationships…” I thought. Meh. I got ready for work, ignored the post writing (read: avoided the relationships section by writing about my new iPad), had a few meetings, and took a very late lunch. The first thing I did was call my husband: “Hey there, I’d like to go out to dinner tonight. Ludivine is opening and I want to eat their food.”
After he came to grips with the fact that he probably could NOT wear his khaki shorts and a sweatshirt, he agreed. “I’ll call Rylee and tell her we’re going on a date. And that she needs to manage dinner on her own,” he told me as he hung up.
I love my husband. The Pioneer Woman was no longer between us. She was somewhere in the room, but Mick and I were back to our interdependent state once again, standing side by side. “P-Dub” (Pioneer Woman reference for herself) is no longer causing distance between us, or deafness and blindness on my part.
Okay, now for the serious stuff. Triangles are tricky and very powerful dynamics. They basically exist when something comes between, or diverts, a healthy relationship between two people. The “third party” can be a person (any person – young or old), a thing…oh, say…like a blog, a substance being abused (drugs, alcohol, pornography, gambling, eating, etc.) or even something that might normally seem healthy – like a work out regimen. If you can see three elements in your relationship, and in general two of them are close, two of them are distant, and two of them are conflicted, then you’re probably in a triangle.

So my thought for you today is to examine the close relationships in your life and see if there’s extra baggage in your important dyads (two person relationships) that needs to be trimmed. If you find some, take that baggage and put it where it belongs. We keep real luggage on the top shelf of our closet. I put my marital baggage back at this address where it belongs: @ http://thepioneerwoman.com/
and…I’ll visit when I can. But if Mick asks me a question, I’ll put my new iPad screen on blank and really listen. He deserves it, and I’m pretty sure P-Dub wouldn’t want it any other way.
Good luck!
You might have noticed that when visiting the RDC Travel page, there is a photo at the bottom referencing a series called “Okies in Ecuador.” This blog created for the NewsOK Travel section was written and produced by my brother, Quentin Bomgardner, and illustrated with photos by he and my two daughters, Rachel and Rylee Roberts.
The format of the NewsOK site isn’t conducive to easy navigation. Therefore, “Q” created a web page where you can now begin on Day 1, travel with them through the end of their journey on Day 14, plus review a few extra photograph collections and sound file entries covering their experiences.
As a mother of the girls who traveled, I enjoyed reviewing all this work because I’ll never get that kind of detail in the living room at night…and the girls are pretty decent about sharing stories. As a sister, I was excited for the girls to take their first big excursion away from home with their uncle. And as a reader, I felt like I got a very good view of a place I’ve never visited. An excellent view. Now I might want to go myself!
Thanks Quentin, Rachel and Rylee…loved the journey, and love that I can revisit through this series any time I wish.
Red Dirt Kelly
Click the banana photo to visit an indexed page where you can start their journey from the beginning.


When did it happen? When did I become so dependent on technology? Even in the country, we are not without “city luxuries” like Internet, satellite radio and a DVR. However, the other day I had to turn in my work computer for an upgraded version. I was without the machine in my classroom for only a couple of hours, but I noticed a shift in the awareness of my surroundings. I should have taken that as a sign of how my evening at home would go.
No computer. Phone turned off.
It was a beautiful evening in the country. As soon as I entered their pasture, the animal migration began: the goats head to the shed, but the horses came to me. After all, I have the carrots and they know that. After feeding everyone, I took advantage of Jet’s lingering. She let me groom her from mane to tail while Roxy stood by and simply watched. I was able to brush her thick black mane; it’s so healthy now that she is living with us and away from the horses that used to tear out chunks with their teeth. As I ran my hands down her leg to remove the fly bots that had accumulated in just one week, I noticed crimson highlights right above her hoof. Wow. My horse is not just brown. She is brown, crimson, auburn, and black. She is gorgeous. Her Mustang brand reminds me that she was captured and taken from her home, but I take her head dropped near my chest to mean that it’s okay. She let me run my hands over her eyes and scratch under her halter, and for good measure I kiss the soft flesh of her muzzle. This is it. This is what life is all about.
I’m sure none of this would have happened with a phone in one hand.

I wanted to write about it. No computer. I scrounged up a legal pad and took some notes. This is hard without my computer; the task can wait. I checked my email from my phone and remembered I had a DVR’d television show to watch. Technology habits sure die hard, don’t they?
Somebody, please, don’t let me forget what it’s like to live life with my hands on something other than a keyboard.






Last night’s football game between the Oklahoma State Cowboys and the Texas A & M Aggies was bizarre. It was mayhem. The players and the fans alike, on both sides, went through an emotional roller coaster and the ride ended somewhere in the Tricky Hall of Mirrors…people were still reaching out to test reality as they led themselves out of the stadium. Confused, elated, exhausted…or in the Aggies’ case, beaten. And in the Cowboys’ case – at least this time – celebrating.
As I was riding home last night I started thinking about the superheros who contributed to the OSU win. I think the tuba section in the band gets at least one vote; they took the Three Dog Night hit, Never Been to Spain (You know… “I’ve never been to heaven, but I’ve been to Oklahoma; Oh they tell me I was born there…), two extra verses during a national TV timeout and had most everyone in the audience singing along by the time they finished.
The players get three votes. One lost the rest of the season to a knee injury. One played on no sleep because his baby girl was in the hospital the night before. The defense probably gets four votes because they played against 106 snaps…the game was an extra-long grueling mess for those boys. But this morning, when I think back to what helped me get through the game, five personal votes go to the kid in the orange cape.
I’ve seen him there before. He’s the kid who sends his eyeglasses into all sorts of contortions by sticking both fingers in his ears when Pistol Pete shoots his shotgun before the game. Obviously he doesn’t like loud noises. But last night I think he saved my husband from at least two cases of hyperventilation and possibly one cardiac arrest by just doing what he did all night long. The kid pretend-flew. He twirled around and around. And around some more. Sometimes he leaned over the handrails and actually watched the game. And, he ran up and down the stairs so that his cape would go flying behind him like a big orange banner.
The kid was Super Cool.
Nothing phased him. And he completely distracted the convulsing adult fan base at just the right times. Last night he was my hero, and this morning I’m giving him my Friday morning post.
Here’s to you, Super Cool. May the wind beneath your cape take you around your pretend world over and over again.

by Joey Rodman
I’ve always wanted to be part of a flash mob. “Always” meaning since the first time I saw a video of one on the internet.
If you don’t know what I’m talking about, the phrase “flash mob” could sound more than a little intimidating. And in fact, they can be. Here is a video of the mob that first caught my attention (CLICK PHOTO TO VIEW VIDEO):

I saw the video two years ago. And subsequently, for two years (which apparently translates into “always” in my brain) I have wanted to be part of a flash mob.
I had no idea how to go about becoming part of one. I’ve never really sought out the opportunity. “Did anyone do something like that here in Oklahoma?” I wondered. Of course not. My self-talk always hit a brick wall and I’d move on to other more tangible thoughts.
On Wednesday morning of last week I opened the browser on my computer completely unsuspecting…and then it happened. Someone had invited me to be in a flash mob. I clicked the link to the Facebook event not really knowing what to expect. Very few details were on the page. The invitation provided the day and time, and that was all.
Did I want to RSVP? Yes. Could I? Should I? These questions were harder to answer. I didn’t know where to begin. I began to go through “the checklist;” it’s a little bit like momma autopilot – you can’t really even think about committing to anything without going through the checklist first.
Calendar? Clear.
Babysitter? Confirmed.
Would I get arrested? Probably not.
If I get arrested, will the other moms stop talking to me? Maybe.
Well, close enough. I clicked the little button and now I was “attending” as far as Facebook was concerned. I was the seventh person to RSVP and once I did, more details showed up. They wanted 150 people. I couldn’t decide if this was good or not. That’s a LOT of people and a little more than intimidating. I calmed myself by thinking “Well, I’m only number seven. Maybe they won’t get enough to participate.” But by the end of the day they had nearly one hundred people signed up. The flash mob was going to happen.
On Saturday morning I found out where I was going but still didn’t know what I was doing. For someone who is a planner down to the bone, this was getting uncomfortable. I recruited my husband to go with me. Surely he would keep me out of trouble, although the thought entered my mind that if we get arrested together nobody will be around to bail me out. I start to wonder if Kelly would be a good person to call from jail. Maybe I could blame this whole ordeal on the blog.
“I wanted to write you a good story…for The Red Dirt Chronicles,” I would start, and wait to gauge the tension of the pause after my soft start-up.
Maybe blaming this on her wasn’t the best approach. I decided that she would definitely be the one to call from jail, however, and I began making what little plans I could.
Saturday night I got the info on “the where, when, and what.” We were going to be at the State Fair…all 150 or so of us, and we were going to fall asleep. I felt like a secret agent. Under my shirt I had the “reveal” shirt they had distributed to us. Our instructions were to fall asleep for 5 minutes, wake up, then take off our top shirts revealing that we were all in the same group. Sounded simple.
I got to the fair, grabbed my special t-shirt and jostled around in the porta-potty trying to put it on – taking great precautions not to allow MY shirt OR my purse touch ANYTHING. This is way easier said than done. You’ve been in a porta-potty, right?
Once I exited the stinky, stinky porta-potty, we walked around for a while when it hit me: Falling asleep…how to you stay asleep for 5 minutes on the midway?! What was I going to do? Five minutes started to sound like a long time…but maybe it was worth it. Maybe.
I got to the pre-appointed place and sat on the curb talking to my husband. I looked around trying to figure out who else was going to do it. I knew that once I was asleep I couldn’t watch anything, and since everyone had their own shirt on over their “secret” shirt…everyone looked normal.
I was part of a group, but not part of a group.
I noticed a few people I had seen while I was receiving my shirt from the coordinator. I covertly nodded in their direction…and they nodded back. I was beginning to feel more at ease; at least I wasn’t the only one doing it. Then I started feeling something else. The alarm on my cell phone was buzzing -it was time to sleep.
I leaned over onto my husband’s shoulders and we slept. I dared not peek, but I could hear the reactions of those around me.
“What is going on here?”
“Is she dead?”
“Oh, there’s a HUNDRED OF THEM!”
“Don’t eat the fried twinkies!!!”…
and, “I wonder what would happen if I tazed one.”
Trying not to react I began focusing on my leg, waiting for it to buzz. Waiting. Waiting. A kid walked up to me – I could feel a human being beside us, but I didn’t look. A kid voice said, “Mom, I think she’s sleeping.” And then the second step happened; my alarm went off again. It was time to wake up. I sat up, rubbed my eyes and revealed my blue shirt. I looked around. There were a LOT of blue shirts. I felt like part of something important…and silly. Mostly silly.
Suddenly I was an instant celebrity. Okay, maybe not so much. Lots of people came up to me (read 3 or 4) and asked what happened. One woman said she began to panic until she realized a lot of people were sleeping and then she was just confused.
The cops showed up, the cameras came out, and the people around us laughed a little. That was the end. All this over 5 minutes of confusion and a few funny comments. The whole process was fun, and then it was over.
For now.
If you want to be in a flash mob, email me. I know about one next month. We won’t, however, be sleeping this time.





Tradition matters to me. Maybe it’s because I don’t like change, or maybe I just like knowing what to expect. Christmas Eve is a big one. I want the same routine every year. Get dressed for church and sit in the living room by the tree eating cookies we decorated. Listen to music while sipping sparkling cider. Pile into the Suburban, drive around looking at Christmas lights then off to candlelight service at 11. Open presents Christmas morning. From this there must be no deviation or it simply isn’t Christmas.
I’m not sure when it started or how it happened, but yelling “SOONERS” instead of the word “brave” at the end of the national anthem, has become a tradition in Norman. Most OU fans probably didn’t pay much attention to the lyric change until last weekend. With the Air Force Academy coming to Owen Field, Bob Stoops asked the Sooner faithful to not only cheer for the Falcons when they entered the stadium but to break tradition and sing the word “brave” out of respect to the young men serving our country. The previous Saturday, the ninth anniversary of 9/11, the school made the same request to fans, only to hear “SOONERS” drown out any bold enough to say “brave.”
I’ve been in that stadium and trust me, there’s something powerful about hearing “SOONERS” spring from the throats of 85,000 people. I never thought much of it; just a small part of the OU gameday experience. There is way too much political correctness in this country. But there is a time for reflection and sensitivity and I think that time is now Sooner fans.

No matter where you’re from or what football team you support, I believe you are an American first and a citizen of your state second. College football isn’t just an Oklahoma thing, or a Texas thing, or an Arkansas thing. It’s an American thing. It’s part of our sports identity as Americans.
Now ask yourself, “What allows me to be here on this gorgeous fall Saturday? What allows me to tailgate, wear what I want, scream like an idiot when it goes our way and mope when it doesn’t? What allows me to bring my son or my daughter to this place for the very first time and share with them the magic of a football Saturday? Simply stated, what allows me to be a fan?”
The answer is blood. The same answer for why we enjoy so many spectacular freedoms in this country. Blood shed around the world and here at home, by men and women who sacrificed to make America the great country it is today. “Brave” isn’t just a word that closes out a catchy tune. It means someone left home, left their family, voluntarily went into harms way and paid the ultimate price for you. I’m guilty of going through the motions with the national anthem. Let’s get the game going already. But a little reflection on its words goes a long way toward changing my attitude.
The fans who choose to say “SOONERS” aren’t being intentionally disrespectful. They’re not going out of their way to diminish the anthem or try to make some kind of statement. They’re red-blooded, patriotic Americans, embracing a tradition. However, sometimes tradition needs to be put aside. Can’t you still get chills from tens of thousands yelling “brave” instead of “SOONERS?” I’d hope so. Cutting out the “SOONERS” doesn’t make you less of an OU fan. Come on, nobody is mistaking you for a neutral party when you’re decked in crimson from head to toe and you’re wearing a schooner hat.

Plus, there are plenty of perfectly good traditions already in place. The drum major strutting his way across the field. The giant Oklahoma flag and the way the P.A. announcer says, “It’s footbaaallll tiiime in Okkk-la-homaaaaaa!” There’s the singing of the alma mater, and the video that declares, “There’s only one Oklahoma.” One side of the stadium chanting “Boomer” and the other side screaming “Sooner.” You’ve got Ruf-nex firing shotguns, a pretty girl in a covered wagon, and that moment when you’re team finally takes the field. How much more fired up do you need to get? If you still insist on yelling “SOONERS” why not do it at the end of the Oklahoma state song?
We’re only sayin’, you’re doin’ fine Oklahoma! Oklahoma, O-K-L-A-H-O-M-A, Oklahoma!…SOONERS!.
Sing it in your head. It works – believe me.
Old habits die hard, Sooner fans. This is the right thing to do. After all, new traditions have to start somewhere.

Good morning friends. Today’s RDC Friday morning shout out goes to Bob Waldrop, co-founder and long-time president of the Oklahoma Food Cooperative. We’re working on a full length essay about his life growing up in Oklahoma, his teenage journey to California and subsequent sojourning to Utah, Kansas City and ultimate return to his Oklahoma homeland. We hope to have the completed piece out for you next week. I sat with him for two hours during our interview and felt like we had just scratched the surface of who this man is, and the capacity he has to love those around him.
Bob has a dedicated and passionate mission to connect the citizens of our great state with each other in order to build a community network of wholesome, organic and locally grown or produced food: Producers and consumers working together to build sustainable and satisfying, relational food systems not easily interrupted by more national events or various wrinkles in the larger systems.
You go, Bob Waldrop! Thanks for all you do…we look forward to sharing our full-length essay about you and your work very soon!
P.S. Remember…Rob will be treating you with a sports essay around noon today. His last essay on Kevin Durant’s character received an especially high readership. And, speaking of readership…THANK YOU to WordPress.Com for featuring the RDC in their “Freshly Pressed” section yesterday. Like I shared with our author group and FB friends: Who knew barf bags could be so interesting? Take care – and have a great weekend!
Red Dirt Kelly