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I took the notebook and let her know I would transcribe what she had written, clean it up a bit, then send it to her for review. The goal was to then send it out to the family.
Last night I began the task of reading her handwritten notes. I was surprised at how much information was there and appreciated that her narrative echoed her true voice. Not many periods, quite a few commas, and no erasing…just, freestyle.
This job is going to take quite a bit of time, but I’ve already decided the rewards will be much greater than the investment. She began writing at age sixty-six. Her first memory penned was how her mother took her and her siblings to visit their grandparent’s home. She said they had to cross a bridge in order to reach their destination and the horse balked at the idea of making the pass. She recalls being terribly frightened as her mother wrestled with managing the horse, eventually coaxing him across the bridge.
I know that adrenaline helps embed memories, and from reading through these pages I can see how and why she might have recalled and written the stories she did. I’m about fifteen percent through the transcription, but today after reading the struggles manifested by the Great Depression…I’m very grateful for what we have.
We are certainly a blessed nation and a blessed family. May God continue to richly bless you and yours.
~Red Dirt Kelly
**1/16/11 Note: “One Voice of the Oklahoma Prairie: My Grandmother’s Memoirs” is now being published. Check THIS LINK to see the posts each week until they’re finished.
Norman-based Old Hat (OH) Creative is a sports ad agency. Their mission is to tell the stories of their clients, and tell them well. And if you visit their OH website, you could probably park your hiney in a chair for the next few hours because they’ve created enough cool content to keep anyone entertained for a good long while.
But there is a difference when you see their story in person.
If you review their website, you get the impression of energy, humor, sharp and creative individuals who take their work very seriously. Okay – maybe there are similarities between the online and in-person story.
If you review their website you get the impression that the team is cohesive, that they really care about their clients, their craft, about learning and growing…and about performing together as a well-oiled and evolving system, willing to take risks and think without boundaries. Okay, this is getting silly…those messages are clear when you visit them in person as well. Those who are also planning to build a new website for their business or organization may hire a memphis web design expert to achieve a design that represents their brand. If you need help with web design services, then you may consult this professional website design plano.
Damn, their website is pretty good at telling their story!

So what can we add for you this morning? Perhaps a third dimension of warmth, of genuine regard for each other as a team. And of the dichotomy between a screaming football stadium of fans where their ads may be running on the big screen compared to the pristine quiet when you walk into their office – all their professionals working on iMacs with headphones on, completely focused on their task at hand.
I spoke to Tracie Hitz, their Director of Business Development, this week and she talked about why she moved from Illinois to Oklahoma in order to join OH. She said that the Chicago area is filled with ad agencies, and a sub-group of sports ad agencies…that it’s a fast paced and challenging life, and fits the image of what you might hope to have working in their industry. At the same time, however, she related that working for the Northwestern University athletic department was – in a sense – an established system with very little room for creative influence in terms of their mission or direction. They already were how they were going to be.
When Tracie moved here, she got two things. The ability to contribute and influence the way OH was developing – she said that founder Zac Logsdon listens to her ideas, considers them and frequently she’ll see them implemented. And, she got “settled down,” a sense of stability and permanence of community. When I listened to her “two things,” I thought… “Well, that’s Oklahoma. Creative and homey.” But it’s certainly OH as well.

And perhaps that’s the thing we can tell you about when wrapping up our shout out this morning. When you walk into the OH “living room,” it feels comfortable. When you talk with their staff, they are friendly and inviting…and funny. And when you think about their website information as a whole, you get the sense that the team is a family.
I spoke to a Norman resident Wednesday night and mentioned I had visited OH and he perked up, “Yeah, they’re making waves around town!”
“Good waves?” I asked, “What kind of waves?”
“They’re well-respected, over-achievers…a really good thing,” he replied.
So, maybe that’s the rest of the story. A creative family of overachieving professionals who make good waves in their community….but you can get that from their website too. And their Twitter account. And their Facebook page.
And…you can get the chance to win a ‘Lil Duey T-Shirt and an OH hat just by Tweeting this article (see icon below), or visiting the new RDC Twitter account and mentioning us. Just Tweet a message and “@RDChronicles” today, and we’ll enter you in the drawing…and contact you tomorrow if you won.
Here’s to you, Old Hat – we’re “tipping our RDC hat” to you and yours. All the best!
***
Editor’s Note: I was a high school drama teacher for eight years. OH Founder, Zac Logsdon, was one of my former students. He and his wife Jill played the leads (mother and father) in our first off-site play, “Cheaper by the Dozen.” It’s interesting that now it seems they are sort of the mother and father of a dozen or so children at OH, all of whom are very special people...warms my heart to see them doing what they’re doing.
(For “Hitting Bottom – Saddlebags First Entry, go here.) I took it as a good omen. I pulled up to the Oklahoma State University Seretean Wellness Center and standing majestically next to the entrance were trees just bursting with fall color.
I took it as a good omen because I was looking for anything to hold on to, and fall foliage would do just as well as…oh, say…the parking meter I was fumbling with. I was on my way to an appointment I had set with the coordinator of personal training. I already feared this woman and I had never even met her.
As I neared the entrance, I glanced at the wall, paused and then stopped to read:
Okay, fine. Rub it in. Use deep words, philosophically crafted to reach down into my literature loving soul and say to me things that I didn’t want to hear because they were so perfect. Ugh. Wow. Deep breath. Okay. I pulled open the door and went in.
Kip, the student attendant at the front desk, was nice, made a joke and continued to make this horrible visit as pleasant as possible. “What is wrong with you people!?” I thought. “I’m trying to be sullen and all scared here, okay?” I didn’t even have time to sit in the waiting area and get anxious. Within two minutes, Joanna was bounding up the stairs with a smile on her face as well. “Don’t look her in the eye,” I continued to tell myself. “This experience has to be bad because I’ve built it up to be – – do NOT submit to her powers.”
Everything after that moment was a blur. Joanna started asking me what my goals were, what barriers were in my life preventing me from achieving these goals, and writing what I said down. “Stop it – don’t write it down!”…I continued my panicked thinking, “If you write it down then it will be real!” She looked at me and smiled again. [Cripes! Smiles everywhere!] Some external force took over my body and made me answer her questions, made me fill out a form and sign a membership, and made me commit to twelve sessions – to be completed at least twice per week. “…And we’ll reassess your goals then…to see if you’re ready to crank it up another level to three sessions per week. You really need to exercise intensely for 150 minutes per week if you want to burn calories and get in shape….” In addition to exercise, you may also need to make some changes in your diet and eating habits. Incorporating food supplements from NativePath into your diet can provide your nutritional needs without derailing your fitness journey. Another natural option worth considering is to buy red maeng da kratom, which some use to support focus and overall wellness.
150 minutes per week-week-week-week-week. The words were echoing in my head like someone had played around with a sound system in the building intercom system.
I don’t even know what that means. I was looking at her but I was thinking, “Maybe if I run really fast she won’t catch me. Even in these high-heeled boots, I’ll bet I could give her a good run for the money.” Then I looked at her. She was petite, in great physical shape, was wearing one of those stop-clock watches and had a determined set to her jaw. I think her jaw was more determined than mine. I gave in…right there in my head I knew she was living what she was talking about and I needed to listen to her.
“Okay,” I replied. “I guess I’m ready to go ahead and set up my schedule. And, oh – hey, I’m writing about this experience on my blog. Would you mind if I took your picture?”
A very brief but real look of surprise and possible fear crossed her face. “A blog? Um, what kind of blog? Is it – is it local?” She hadn’t agreed to the photo yet, and all of a sudden there was a slight change in that determined jaw.
I relaxed. She was human…just like me. “Well, it’s just a group of friends and we write about different things around Oklahoma and about Red Dirt country. I wrote an entry about how I needed to get in shape and I’m going to be following up with my progress – – how things go. I’m kind of scared about it.” Then, she relaxed.
She and Kip posed, the camera flashed, and I walked out the door.

I had no idea a little tiny Canon camera could be that powerful. And, I start next Tuesday morning.
I looked at the trees as I walked out, re-read the quote on the wall, and smiled. “Okay, this is going to be horrible. And, I guess I’m okay with that,” I said to myself. Then me and my saddlebags walked back to my car and drove back to work.
Next time? I almost puke: “Shaking the Saddlebags, Part #1.
by Josh Bottomly
Not long ago my wife, Amy, posted a picture of my night stand on her blog.
It was a picture of the books propped up on my stand.
From left to right.
Tim Keller’s The Reason for God.
Abraham Heschel’s God in Search of Man.
C.S. Lewis’s Quotables.
Eugene Petersons translation of the Bible, The Message.
And, N.T. Wright’s Matthew for Everyone.
An anonymous blogger saw this picture and posed this question directly to me (and indirectly to all Christians):
Why do so many Christians just read Christian books?
My first mental response was of course immature, arrogant, condescending, and reactionary:
How dare you try and pigeonhole! I peruse the Fiction and Literature section at Barnes and Noble more frequently than I do the Spiritual Devotion section.
I have a undergraduate and graduate degree in English literature.
You name a classic or contemporary author, and I’ll bet I have studied him or her. Shakespeare. Check. O’ Connor. Check. Camus. Check. Kerouac. Check.
But later, after I had calmed down, I sat down to think a bit about that anonymous person’s question. It’s an appropriate question, really. And it was probably not meant to stir up conflict. But conversation.
So after some reflection, this is how I responded to this blogger.
Simply put: I’m interested in reading any story that is written in blood.
Take East of Eden by John Steinbeck, for example. Now that’s a book written in blood. Who of us hasn’t felt an acute sense of displacement? It’s not that we are living in the wrong place; just the wrong way. Or Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. I’ve got a son now and the thought of dying for Silas – not a iota of fear. But the thought of Silas having to live beyond my dying love – nothing but fear.
Any story then that struggles with what it means to be human, what it means to walk upright in a bent world, what it means to live within tensions and questions and doubts – that’s a story I want to read and participate in because it is written in the author’s blood. Whether it is written by a Christian. Or agnostic. Or atheist. Or Buddhist. Or Muslim. Because all truth is God’s truth. And part of the theology of common grace includes the animating belief that when we tell the truth about our experience of being human, regardless of our “worldview” or religious belief system, somehow, in some mysterious way, a “gleam of the evengelium”, as J.R.R. Tolkien argued, shines through.

So I pose this contagion of questions for you to ponder – Christian or not:
What books have you read that are written in blood?
What stories have spoken and resonated with your deepest humanity?
What narratives have shaped the way you understand the narrative we live in?
No doubt, I’m always looking for a good read. And by good, I mean a story where the author simply has the courage as Fredrick Buechner puts it, to “open a vein.”
So my husband and I are building this barn, right? And it’s really going pretty well thanks to our family and friends who have sacrificed some Saturdays and our two friends Trial and Error who are there every day. The posts are in the ground and the trusses are up. Weather elements such as wind could affect any roofing or construction project. To protect your construction site from such elements, you may install wind fences from WeatherSolve. Many small builders also rely on Equipment Finance Canada to access financing for essential construction equipment, helping keep projects on track and within budget. In addition, exploring modern construction management solutions can make projects smoother, safer, and more efficient. We also got inspired by some stylish patio roofing Portland homeowners recommended, which gave us great ideas for durable and attractive roof designs.
It’s not that I don’t trust my husband’s judgment, but I just wanted to talk to an expert; enter former Oklahoma State University and NFL quarterback Rusty Hilger.

Julie: How did you get into the construction industry?
Rusty: I had just turned 16 in the summer of 1978 and I needed a way to pay for my first pickup truck. Trust me, it wasn’t much of a truck, but the $2.00 per hour I was earning at the local skating rink was no longer an option. South Oklahoma City was growing and new construction was everywhere. My truck and I got a job with a local homebuilder cleaning and organizing home sites prior to the final landscaping. In the summer of 1979, I worked for a roofing company and roofed my first house. During college, I worked summer construction jobs in Oklahoma City, Stillwater, and Tulsa for 3 different OSU Alumni. In 1985, an NFL career put my construction career on hold until 1990, when we undertook a four-month project to remodel and re-open the old Split-T restaurant in OKC. After retirement from the NFL in 1992, a career in construction seemed natural.
Julie: What kind of roof system is best suited for Oklahoma residents?
Rusty: Sooner or later (strike that; sorry Pistol Pete) at some point, most roof shoppers ask this simple question. First of all, the best roofing system for Oklahoma is not really a roof system at all. The best roofing system is actually “Full Replacement Cost” insurance with a $500 dollar deductible. Why? Since January of 2008, according to the National Weather Service, we have had more than 140 days of severe hail measuring 3/4” or larger in Oklahoma. In May of 2010, the hailstones were so large they came through the roof and into the home in some neighborhoods. No roof system will withstand these conditions and it is only a matter of time before it happens at your home. Many of our clients have replaced their roofing systems twice within the past 3 years. Check your policy or contact your agent for details. If you don’t have Full Replacement Cost insurance, get it!
Julie: Winter is on its way. Do you have any advice regarding protection from Oklahoma ice?
Rusty: Protection against ice dams is required at eaves wherever the January average temperature is 25*F or lower or where there is a possibility of ice forming in the eaves. From Kansas to the North Pole this product is required as code. In Oklahoma it is an option, yet Oklahoma ice storms and snow create problems if this product is not used. It creates a 100% watertight seal that keeps water out at the most vulnerable areas of your roof (at the eaves and rakes, in valleys, around chimneys, pipes, etc.).
Julie: What is the biggest mistake that home owners make regarding roof upkeep or maintenance?
Rusty: With the exception of storm damage, the weakest link in any roofing system remains the pipes sticking up through the roof. Most pipes are made of PVC and the pipe jack is a rubber-like material used to seal around the pipe. This rubber-like material will deteriorate over time at a faster rate than the shingles. The pipes should be checked every year and a special roofing silicone should be used to ensure a watertight seal. To avoid potential leaks and costly repairs, it’s best to have a professional like Essex Roofing Services inspect and maintain these vulnerable areas regularly.
Julie: What do you love the most about Oklahoma?
Rusty: Oklahomans are committed to the values important to me: God, family, friends, and football!. I was born and raised in Oklahoma City and attended Oklahoma State University before being drafted by the Los Angeles Raiders in 1985. I loved the time I spent in Manhattan Beach, Ca; Birmingham (Detroit) MI; Seattle, WA; Indianapolis, IN; Dallas, TX; and Nassau, Bahamas. Although these are some terrific cities, none of them compare to the down-home family lifestyle and attitude of our neighbors here in the great state of Oklahoma.
Julie: If anyone has more questions about roof replacement, how can they contact you?
Rusty: If you have questions, send an email to contact@oklahomaroofing.net or call anytime at 405.227.9689.
Wow! Rusty had some great information to share. The most surprising to me was that we both spent time on roofs in the 70’s! If you want to know more about that, contact me. If you need to know more about getting a new roof, you need to contact Rusty. Thanks to Rusty for sharing his expertise with me….and now with you! Happy building!
My drive from the Oklahoma State (OSU) v. Baylor game this afternoon to Guthrie provided the best hour of my week. You KNOW that’s saying a great deal since I’m such a huge OSU fan – and we beat the pants off Baylor today. Mick and I had driven to the game separately because I had an early appointment this morning, and then I left after the third quarter because I tend to get antsy when I sit still for a very long period of time. He stayed ’till the glorious end of that fine, fine game.
Don’t doubt my team loyalties, though…I DID listen to the game on the radio through the very last play.
I was on a mission. Pick up a bucket of chlorine treatment tablets for our aerobic septic system. We have to buy one about every eighteen months. No one carries the product within a 50 square mile area of our house except the Ace Hardware in Guthrie. I would not fail; I would accomplish my goal and meet my hubby back at home.
But then I got sidetracked. I saw another hay truck and it was broken down on the side of the interstate. I had to go take pictures! The driver and his daughter were from Apache and she had brought tools to the site so he could make repairs. I just wanted to get close to the load on that truck and smell the hay! They good-naturedly agreed. So, stop one in Logan county…broken down hay truck. I REALLY wish I could provide you with the scent of that beautiful cut hay aroma filling my lungs while I snapped away.

I thanked the driver and his daughter, turned around, and saw some cows in a pen I thought might need their family portraits taken. So I provided that service, free of charge.



I headed down the highway, got off on Highway 33, and drove into Guthrie. Before reaching the hardware store, I stopped to walk around a bit. I noticed two things on my stroll. 1) There are lots of American flags hanging from the homes and businesses there; and, 2) if it weren’t for the cars, the calendar could easily have been somewhere between November, 1880 and 1950.





Next stop, Ace Hardware (OHC Supply). I appreciate this place for all the reasons you’re getting ready to see. I love the Tractor Supply Store in Edmond, but I think I love this place almost as much.







Okay, time to leave the store. On my way out I cleaned off my lens because I thought there might be a few shots left of something I’d like to share with you from my journey through Logan County. There was.



On my way home I took Waterloo Road (the county line between Oklahoma and Logan counties) on a back-road route because I really needed some farm raised eggs. We were down to one, and if I eat one more runny store-purchased egg I’m going to throw a fit. Unfortunately, the egg sign was down. That’s country talk for, “None right now. Check with me later.” So, I drove the last few miles home.
But then I stopped again. I saw Ferdinand sitting under his cork tree. Okay, it wasn’t Ferdinand the Spanish Bull from the well-known children’s book, he didn’t have long horns and it wasn’t a cork tree. But it was a black Angus and he was looking pretty majestic under his beautiful tree this afternoon.


Well, you’ve seen about 25 of the 100+ shots I took…all reasons why I love Logan County. I hope next time you’ll see a photo of me buying fresh eggs and celebrating because the chlorine tablets are no longer $56.00 per bucket. Either way, I also hope you enjoy your own drive through this area sometime. And if you do, please send us a photo and tell us about the treasures you found.
Take care…RDK
Sometimes who you are is carved by Time on your heart. Sometimes on your letterhead, the wallpaper on your computer, or in how you dress. At least part of Dusty Gilpin’s identity is “carved” on his forearm in the shape of a tattoo; his last name etched into more than just skin by his history as a third generation artist. Also known as TRUDust, he’s been around town quite a bit lately and is leaving his artistic fingerprint on the culture of Oklahoma City. Here are just a few impressions…

Co-owner of Tree & Leaf Clothing, Dusty and the rest of their team have been on their own, growing their business for about five years. You can follow him on Twitter, check the local papers or culture scene for his next spray-paint gig, or serendipitously notice one of their t-shirts being worn by a local somewhere on the street.
However it is that you run across Dusty and his work, you can be certain there’s more to come. After all, he’s just begun his third generation influence on Oklahoma…who knows what’s in store from TRUDust around the corner of the art world? Or for that matter, life in Red Dirt Country? Congratulations to you Dusty, for what you’ve accomplished thus far. Congrats to the Tree & Leaf Clothing team. And, best wishes as you continue to carve your name, and that of what’s around you or how it influences you, on our Oklahoma hearts.
My very first car was a red, 1967 Ford Mustang. Red dust (old paint) clung to every individual who attempted to lean against it.
The vinyl top was mostly gone, and the condition of the seats….well, they were bad. I was taught how to use a screwdriver on the starter to start it. Piece by piece the car was revived to it’s almost original state and accessorized with a collection of B. Kliban Cat pillows. It lasted the rest of high school and most of college then I wrecked it. Bummer. It had the coolness factor. As punishment for wrecking the cool car, my parents bought me a beige Chevy Citation and told me I would be paying them for it. Definitely not cool. Protection Plans by Nova Warranty keep your vehicle secure.
I declined the offer and purchased a little silver Fiat Spider convertible before the month was over. The convertible top had to be duct-taped in the winter.
The next phase of my car purchases was not as exciting. My current Saturn Vue has cloth seats, and yes, there are days when I miss those heated leather seats. It’s not the coolest car I’ve ever driven, but it’s pretty reliable and gets me back and forth to work. It’s just not exactly what I need on the weekends. If you’re looking for affordable used trucks, then you may check out some used trucks in dallas here. You can also explore the work trucks for sale in San Diego for available units with an affordable price.
Enter the farm truck. Ours is a 1993 Chevrolet 3500 known by us as “The Dually.” It belongs to my father-in-law, and he is proud to drive it to do “farm-type” errands that involve more filth than usual.
The farm truck is essential to life in the country. Need some lumber? The farm truck can haul it. No trash pick up? No problem. There is plenty of room on the farm truck. Wearing muddy boots? Hop in the farm truck. The inside is trashed anyway. No one will care. When it comes to cool, there is nothing cooler than driving a farm truck…unless it had some cute pillows in the back.
I’m going to work on that.







Editors Note – It seemed fitting that I publish this particular post late on All Hallow’s Eve. I might also mention that this essay is about dealing with death on the farm, and is probably too graphic for the queasy-stomached. (PG-13 rating.) Please pass on this one if you’d rather think happy thoughts…RDK
I get a little overwhelmed when I think about all the animal death passages I endured during my children’s literature stage of life. Old Yeller got shot by his owner. Old Dan and Little Ann died protecting their owner in “Where the Red Fern Grows.” Laura Ingalls ran to the cabin and stuck her fingers in her ears so she wouldn’t hear the pig squeal on butchering day. Even Walt Disney children’s films don’t spare the gore; indeed, the 101 Dalmations were going to be skinned for their fur. And don’t even get me started on fairy tales – they are chock full of swords, axes, poison and all sorts of deathly possibilities for both the animal and human characters filling the pages.
The problem with these stories, however, is that generally the fairy tales (at least those originating from England and the US) have happy endings. Laura Ingalls got to have fun with her sister roasting the pig’s tale and making a kick ball out of the bladder. There was something tragically sweet about the great lengths the owners of Old Yeller, Old Dan and Little Ann went to in order to try to save their beloved pets. And of course, the Dalmations got the best of Cruella DeVille and the family adopted every last one of the orphaned pups.
There is a gap, however, between a literary youth tragedy, a cartoon or a “gently told” story of a little girl in the Big Woods on butchering day…and real life. These stories were written for youthful audiences and therefore didn’t include the harsh realities of what death looks like up close and personal. Those experiences came suddenly or unexpectedly in all sorts of ways while growing up on the farm. Animal death scenes and farm life seem to go together like Alfred Hitchcock and scary movies. There really isn’t a way to separate the two in my mind.
The stories are many so I’ll only share four short vignettes. The first one begins at my grandparent’s farm on a day where I was innocently sent to gather eggs from the hen house. The task is managed by opening the wooden lid of each setting box, taking the eggs left by the hen, or if she’s still there, gently lifting her up and removing the eggs from underneath her. Sometimes hens peck at the hands entering their box and leave little tiny bleeding marks on those with more tender skin. I never saw my grandpa’s hands bleed, but my little girl hands did quite a bit.
One day I reached into the box and felt not feathers, not eggs, and not wood. It felt like – wait, what was that? I opened the lid further and stared at a dark mass of coils for a bit longer than I should have; the sight sunk in slowly, registering through a foggy brain clearly not expecting anything other than chickens. It was a huge black snake and the coils filled the entire box.
I slammed the lid down and ran as fast as I could to tell Grandpa. I don’t know how I expected him to react, but he immediately headed to the hen-house and grabbed a hoe on the way. I followed him wondering what was in store for the snake. He threw up the lids of the boxes until he found the snake, stuck the hoe handle in through the middle of the coils and lifted the snake up and out of the box like he had done that sort of thing before. I backed away as he headed out of the hen-house and out to the gravel driveway. He shook the hoe and the snake fell off. Uncurling quickly, the snake began to slither away but Grandpa began hacking with the blade end of the hoe, chopping at the snake with a vengeance.
I watched the whole scene with horror, and then let out a scream when the visual went into overdrive. Evidently, the snake had swallowed five or six eggs whole, and when Grandpa’s hoe hit those large lumps in the snake’s throat, its head raised about two feet off the ground, the mouth involuntarily opened up and spewed yellow yolk everywhere. I couldn’t look anymore – I turned around and ran in the house. The image of Grandpa hacking the snake to bits while it spewed yellow goo was burned into my brain, and played over and over in my mind over the next few weeks.
Vignette number two involved a fight with my cat. I was up in a mulberry tree one summer, my face and fingers covered in purple juice from my harvest, when I heard a horrible screech from my cat. I looked down to see that it wasn’t my cat making the noise, but a rabbit that my cat had caught. The poor thing was bleeding and fur had started scattering. The cat was eating the little bunny! I dropped out of the tree and began chasing my cat who felt threatened that I was taking her meal. The cat was fast, but every once in a while it had to stop and adjust the weight of the bunny she was dragging…her prey was half-dead.
I slapped at my cat. “Leave the bunny alone! Let it go! Let IT GO!!” I love my cat, but I wasn’t going to let it have that bunny. I finally caught the cat in such a hold that I could pry the bunny out of its claws and teeth. The bunny was stunned and didn’t move. I was wrestling with the cat, trying to hold it while nudging the bunny along with my foot. “Run!” I told the bunny… “Run!” The bunny finally hopped away, the cat scratched me deep enough that I couldn’t hold on any longer, she ran after the bunny…and killed it.
I remember running across that bunny tail a few days later. I picked it up, let it dry and kept it for a while. “Animal body parts” were fairly common on the farm. I once found a squirrel tail (probably left after the cat ate it), I found a few rabbit feet over the years, and I would frequently find carcasses of one sort or another in our pasture. I know there is a food chain, and I know animals do what they do. What I didn’t know is that some animal parts look like others.
Vignette number three was especially gruesome and I couldn’t get it out of my head for a very long time. I was skipping along one day, spied a white tail from a rabbit, picked it up and began to inspect it. When I turned it over, I saw two tiny closed eyes and a baby mouth. I uttered some kind of creeped-out yell, threw it down, and realized it was the leftovers of one of our new baby kittens, probably eaten by a tom cat who had come back to visit. I had always heard that tom cats ate kittens, but had never seen tangible evidence until that day. I felt like throwing up. Seeing “the food chain” up close and personal, especially when it involved tiny baby kittens, was too much. I think I probably stayed indoors for a few days.
And finally, vignette number four has to do with cows. When you lived on a farm, it was common to have people come to your house, ask about hay, or drive out on your property for one thing or another. One day I looked out my bedroom window to see a white truck driving around in our front pasture. The cows were running around and I began to wonder what was going on because there was a man in the back of the truck. Startled, I realized he had a gun. Just about that time he raised it, aimed at a cow and pulled the trigger. A rifle-shot rang out and I saw the running cow stumble, then eventually fall. I was gripping the window sill…I had just witnessed one of my cows dying! We named our cows, for crying out loud, and we usually only kept about thirty at a time. My stomach tightened and I sat down. I always knew we butchered a cow or two, but I had never witnessed a death like that. I felt like I had seen a person killed and couldn’t shake that scene in my head for another week or two.
I was recently corresponding with Becky Winsor, a childhood neighbor of mine, and we were talking about the “cow death” experience. She was one of four sisters and wrote me her “death on the farm” story:
Growing up on a farm was, in hindsight, a very good experience. Over the years, I have put to use many of the life skills that I learned. I won’t lie, it was hard work. We raised cattle, sheep, chickens, pigs, and had a couple of horses. We also got to chop and pick cotton, bale and put up hay, and plant numerous crops.
My memories are however, for the most part, good. One of the hardest lessons I learned came when I was about 10 years old. My father gave baby calves to my sisters and I. We were allowed to name them, bottle feed them, pet them, and visit them as much as we wanted. This went on for about 7 or 8 months. One day, we came home from school to find that the calves were gone. We were understandably upset.
When my father was questioned about this disappearance, he stated that they had been sold. He explained that we couldn’t keep the calves forever, that this was a natural consequence of raising farm animals. He had to deal with 4 teary-eyed girls for several days. He never allowed us to have our “own” farm animals again. Of course, he never again really complained about the 10-12 cats we had running around either.
What I realized when I read her story was that my experiences were not isolated. There were (and are) children everywhere learning about death first hand on farms every day of the year. However, I would venture to say that those lessons are never cartoons, they rarely have happy endings, and they aren’t written by a children’s author with gentle phrasing and puppy grave sites that grow red ferns.
In fact, the doggie grave sites MIGHT just end up like mine. One day when I was running toward the creek to go play with my brother and my foot dropped about two feet down into a hole. As I pulled my leg out I saw rib bones lying around the hole, and when I moved my shoe I saw more bones. THEN I realized that was where we had buried our dog, Peppy, a few weeks before. Evidently, an animal had dug her up and had her for dinner. ARGH! It was so creepy!!
If there is any redeeming value in animal death stories on the farm, it is that the most recent trauma usually replaces the creepiness of the former traumas. Honestly, that’s the only good thing I can say about the subject. Well…and, the fact that my clients can tell me just about anything in my therapy office and I’m hardly ever shocked.
Hmm…can it be that there was actually some redeeming value in all those creepy death experiences? Naw…then it wouldn’t be a Halloween story, right?
You did it. You braved the freezing weather in your skimpy ballerina costume, or perhaps warmer than usual weather under your furry gorilla garb. You might stink due to the combination of a spandex superhero suit that didn’t breathe, or the nasty greasepaint you put on your face three hours ago. You’re possibly a little worse for the wear, sporting more than one Halloween badge of courage. Maybe you cut your tongue on the breathing and talking-hole cutout of your hard plastic mask; you know, the one with the single string of elastic that probably broke before you hit the third house in your neighborhood?
Or perhaps you stepped in a mud puddle wearing only your blue fuzzy Smurf house shoes – the ones you thought were a perfect finale for your blue sweats, blue face and white beard. You might have cuts or bruises, acquired from tripping over one too many steps on the dark sidewalks you ascended as you neared the front doors of a hundred neighbors. You may have ripped your costume in four places or cracked your tiara right up the middle.
None of this matters. What matters is that your pillow case, your plastic pumpkin with black paint flaking off the eyes, or your neatly crafted candy bag with the stuffed ghost on the side is bursting at the seams and making your arms ache from carrying it for 27 city blocks… It is now time. It’s time to pour it out on the floor of your bedroom in its bountiful splendor, look lovingly at the treasure, and start your Halloween candy sorting ritual.
Task complete, you lean back and assess your candy bank account. Was it a good year or a year of famine? You look down at your muddy Smurf house shoes, rub your bruised ankle, glance once again across the beautiful bounty of your effort and smile. You are the king or queen, and this is your treasure. Now you know exactly what it’s worth, and begin your plotting on how you’ll steward this beautiful booty.
Okay, there’s just one problem with this picture. Where do you put these weird red wax lips wrapped in cellophane?!
by Joey Rodman
Having trouble deciding what to be for Halloween?
Broke?
Apathetic?
Expected to wear something to work or a party? Here are my very best ideas for last minute super cheap costumes:
For Men ~
Cereal Killer: Wear your every day wardrobe, carry around a box of cereal that’s been maimed. Add fake blood.
Arthur Dent: Wear your bathrobe (wear sweats underneath!) and carry around a tea-cup. Look confused…
Ghost Hunter: Wear sweats and a hoodie, carry around an old remote control, wave it around while talking about *EMF fields.
For Women~
Your Mother: Embrace it. Say all the things she says. Wear the dorky clothes she wears; borrow an outfit from her if you can. Just be sure not to make the parody too close or she’ll never forgive you.
80’s Girl: You know you want to…good thing they still make Aqua-Net. Embarrass everyone around you, it’ll be great! Bonus points for attempting a “Cyndi Lauper.”
Cat, mouse, dog, or other animal: Cut out said animal’s ears from construction paper and tape it to a headband. Wear whatever you want and pin a tail to your butt. Growl, snarl, hiss, etc. at anyone who says you’re not wearing a “real costume.” The sell is all in the threat of rabies; be sure to look a little mad.
~Joey Rodman
*Electromagnetic Fields


I’m sure there is a story behind Gene Autrey’s old song “I’m Back In The Saddle Again.”
I’m not sure what it is… but from now on I’m going to think about this one:
When Judy Hart Nelson was nine years old, she convinced her dad that riding a horse was not just a passing fancy. She wanted a real saddle. They went to a local horse tack auction near Chickasha, OK and purchased one for her. She used that same saddle on her horse, Cupcake, until it was time for her to go off to college and then Cupcake was sold. The saddle went into the attic. A few years later, thinking that her horse-riding days were over, Judy also sold the saddle.
Twenty five years passed.
Circumstances allowed Judy to return to the countryside where she could own a few horses. After Judy’s dad died in 2007, she recalled the special memory of their trip to the horse auction. It made her wonder about that old saddle. Amazingly, the man who purchased the saddle entered Judy’s workplace on business and Judy decided to ask him about the saddle that held so many special memories for her.
The saddle had been used as an elk hunting saddle in Colorado. It was sturdy and had carried many elk for this avid hunter. Judy didn’t care what shape it was in. She asked to buy it back, and he let her.
Judy’s son, Hugh Hart Nelson, is nine years old and is just about to outgrow the saddle he got from his dad before he even reached his first birthday. Soon he and his parents will make a trip to an auction or tack shop to purchase the saddle he will use for the rest of his life.
No doubt this saddle they choose for her son Hugh will not get to see the same adventures as Judy’s old saddle unless it’s with its owner. Judy has learned her lesson.
“Whoopi-ty-aye-oh
Rockin’ to and fro
Back in the saddle again
Whoopi-ty-aye-yay
I go my way
Back in the saddle again.”
Back In the Saddle Again lyrics/ Gene Autry (click link to enjoy the song)




If you do what I did and accidentally search for the Ludivine restaurant in Oklahoma City by typing “Ludivine dot com” into your browser, you’ll be met with a screen full of drop dead gorgeous, blond – um…nakedness. Evidently Ludivine Sagnier, the French actress, is famous for her nude acting scenes. And, still photos of these scenes are displayed on the front page of her website in case you needed to be convinced of her ability to pull off the roles into which she was cast. Certainly it’s not just to garner website attention and attract high internet traffic, right?
I’m sharing this uncomfortable detail of my personal life because the information could be valuable in case you wish to eat at a new restaurant in the Mid-Town OKC area and you might happen to do a search at your place of employment. And, if you’re already past that stage and you work for a state agency like I do, then you might also want to do what I did: Immediately call or write your information technology friend and let them know of your faux pas. Here’s a copy of my e-mail…
Dear [Name of IT friend]–
I was looking up Ludivine restaurant because I want to go eat there tonight. I typed in Ludivine dot com (rather than the correct ludivineokc dot com) and for a brief moment was flashed with naked women photos.
Eek! I’m just telling you this because I may have set off some kind of filter or monitoring system within the workplace internet software…
See ya,[me]
In case you’re wondering if I’ll be the next state employee on the 10:00 p.m. news, the answer is no. Evidently, my anxiety level was much higher than my friend’s and his response was basically, “This stuff happens. Thanks for the heads up.” To help you manage your anxiety, shop vapes online with a wide selection of brands from Geek Bar to Vaper Gate.
I’m saving my e-mail just in case.
Enough about me…let’s talk about Ludivine. The restaurant. In Oklahoma City.
The Red Dirt Chronicles has already covered the establishment in three ways: a) We gave a shout out to Peach Crest farms, one of their local suppliers; b) I wrote an article about why I’m crazy about the concept of the restaurant and featured a link to their YouTube video library educating the viewer about various aspects re: their growers or producers, their purchasing philosophy, etc; and, c) the fact that they are now open for business. This review will wrap our regular coverage of the restaurant and we’ll only go back if we do some specialty work such as an interview or collaborative event. Oops – still talking about “us” now…time to get down to business.
Ludivine, New Prairie Cuisine…A Review
The restaurant site and interior
Located on the corner of 7th and Hudson, Ludivine sits diagonally across from the new Federal Building in the Mid-Town area of Oklahoma City. The streets in the vicinity are not too busy and provide ample parallel parking. At night, the restaurant sign beacons you with its bright robin egg blue color and a scissortail flycatcher punctuating the logo.
Enter the restaurant and you are met with a smart décor stitched together with pewter-look delicate chandelier placements, commissioned paintings that will keep you glancing at them throughout your entire visit, and heavy dark wood tables juxtaposed against seating covered with moss-green and soft gray textiles. A color palette of burnished fulvous, deep brick-red, ebony, gray, accents of goldenrod and a knock-out indigo made my synapses start firing…astute choices indeed. My favorite tabletop item was not the flowers grown in the Shawnee area, although they’re close. Rather, I was especially drawn to the flatware design – the forks have a 45-degree angle at the base of their tines, so they lend a trendy finish to a comfortable, sharp context.
The kitchen is in full view and guests are given a choice of sitting at the surrounding counter to watch the cooking action, or sit at a table in the dining area. The only drawback to the dining area I could see is that they could use between two and four feet more floor space width. The wait staff and guests move fluidly enough, but can be seen jockeying for position to find their way, regardless of the engaging and friendly banter.
The bar has plenty of space for a comfortable hang out, or to meet and greet prior to a meal. I’m still mulling over the large stripe patterned curtain chosen for the south window in the bar, but I’d take out-of-town guests there in a heartbeat. Overall, even with the space constraints factored in, I give the space a solid “A.” And, I tip my hat to the person or team who sweated the details to bring it all together. Nice job, Ludivine. You won’t be redecorating your space for a good long while.
Food and drink
A server fully invested in the restaurant, as well as his role as our dinner guide greeted us. He mentioned we were “lucky tonight because they had Coq au Vin on the menu,” kept the chilled water coming and answered all our questions. I had my eighteen year-old daughter with me; she decided to order the lamb burger. I ordered the Coq au Vin. We held off on appetizers because there was a strong possibility of dessert in our future, and I ordered one of their house specialty cocktails to start the evening.

I chose this particular drink because I had watched a video demonstration on their Facebook page and decided the beverage needed further investigation. When my Bee Smashed Kneecaps (an adaptation of their Bee’s Knees cocktail) arrived, I was not disappointed. A mixture of Broker’s gin, lemon, lavender, and honey – shaken and strained, filled the glass. At the same time refreshing and bold, the finish of lavender filled my “exhale” after the first gulp. I had been concerned there would be too much honey or sweetness but this fear was put to rest immediately. It was a grown up drink and a dandy one at that. The Ludivine bar also gets a solid “A.”
The chilled water plus the assortment of breads was a nice filler between courses. My daughter appreciated the pumpkin bread. I liked the bacon crumble extra-chewy baguette.

Next came dinner. I’ve had several variations of Coq au Vin over the years, so I was curious about the Ludivine approach. They served their chicken quarter over whipped turnips, with a few Crowder peas, steamed turnip wedges and a small pickled okra spear, the Vin sauce pooling on all sides. My most important question was answered on the first bite: Yes, the chicken came before the Vin, and was not covered up by the reduction. There is a spectrum of “done” for cooked vegetables and I was surprised to find the turnip wedges at the front edge of that range. I thought they might have been slow roasted for some time. This was a good choice because with a roasted chicken in rich sauce, plus brown Crowder peas and whipped turnip bed tending to take on the Vin flavor, a difference is needed. The barely-done turnip wedges and the tender okra spear provided that difference. I’d like to see perhaps one more element of variety to set off the complete dish; perhaps kicking the whipped turnips for something that holds up better, or pooling less sauce. Still, this dish earns an “A-.”
We ordered a plate of four assorted desserts. I’m sure these rotate every evening, so I won’t dwell too much on the detail. I will say, however, that the chilled blueberry soup was one of my top picks for the evening. If that soup is available when you visit, order it. They serve their coffee French Press fashion and for that I was grateful. The blend of their beans was roasted one to two shades too dark and oily, with a slightly bitter finish. Perhaps an intentional choice to compliment the sweet palate of desserts, but I think a bit more mellow of a finish would sit better with the majority of those dining. Dessert, A; coffee; B.
Here are a few extra notes to finish off this particular review – I noticed there wasn’t a huge amount of noise coming out of the open kitchen. This is unusual and I wonder if intentional as well? For me, it was a pleasant surprise. They provide a recycled carry out container similar to a cardboard material you would see in egg cartons…another nice touch. And, although they weren’t initially taking reservations last week, they are now. A needed addition if they keep performing like they did for our visit.
In sum, from the moment we exited my car to the moment we left the building after our meal, I felt relaxed, well served, and well fed. My artistic side was nurtured by the interior design. And, I’m certain I will go back again and again. My next goal is to try some of their colder salads and check out the homemade noodles dressed with soft herb pesto.
An overall solid “A” visit. And, I feel good about sending you, your family or your business guests there any time you’d like to go. Enjoy!
Lovin’ the New Prairie Cuisine…Red Dirt Kelly
P.S. If you click here, you’ll get straight to the CORRECT website. Isn’t is nice that we took care of that little task for you?

It’s Spring, 1893…I mean, 1983. I was standing in front of a camera in Turner Falls, Oklahoma with four other friends who had helped me survive my freshman year in college. Four other friends who, together, had walked with me through one of the best years of my life, and one of the most stressful years in my life. The camera flashed, we took off our costumes, and somehow the photograph made its way across 27.5 years of moves, still intact although a bit faded. Last night while digging through a box on a quest to find something else, I found this photo and began to reflect.
I began my freshman year as a music major at Midwest Christian College in Oklahoma City during the fall of 1982. I had not previously met any of the others in the photo except in passing during audition days. As anyone who is a music major will tell you, the time investment in terms of studio hours outside of your regular studies is astronomical. Four of the five of us were in applied lessons such as piano and voice, as well as ensemble for the school choir AND for our school recruitment singing group, “Image;” the name had been taken from the Christian phrase of being made “…in His image.”
Any one of us could write a book of tales from that year. Indeed, life was sometimes stranger than fiction:
1) A man in Western Oklahoma felt led during one of our concerts to pay for us to record an album. Later, the money wasn’t quite enough for a bare bones project so the only way we could make it happen was to record all the tracks during the cheapest studio time, midnight to six in the morning over a period of only two or three days. We did this during finals week of our fall semester…two weeks after our part-time drummer and bass player had been hit by a car and had died.
2) During a bizarre twist of fate, we found that our faculty sponsor wasn’t able to continue his appointment as the coordinator, music arranger, and director of our rehearsals for the second semester of the year. His leadership and mentorship had been extremely important to me during that transitional freshman year and he had managed the entire recording process for all of us. However (and I still don’t know how those making the decision decided to support the request), we ended up basically sponsoring ourselves the second semester. We went it alone: three freshman/sophomore women, and two senior men. Our regional traveling load didn’t lighten just because we had lost our sponsor, so most every weekend we loaded the trailer, found the scheduled church (in Kansas, Texas, Oklahoma or Arkansas), stayed in homes of the church members and led musical worship…or gave concerts. Students, on the road, getting along on their own. We did it, but sometimes when I think about it I really am quite stricken with thoughts of “what were they thinking?”
3) I spent my birthday on a dairy farm in McPherson, Kansas. We became connoisseurs of roadside Pizza Huts. One time we had to load out of a concert site over the “slain in the spirit” bodies of some Pentecostals who took longer to worship than our schedule could allow. I know at least once our sponsor had to stop the van so I could run up to a deserted farm house, go around to the back side and pee. I still wonder if anyone was on that property and witnessed my bathroom break. We rehearsed, arranged music, made jokes, created an alternate universe with a language to accompany it…we got each other through.
The year ended, however, and the five of us began to go our separate ways. Regan headed to an appointment as a youth minister in New Mexico. Marlon and Anita got married. I must have had enough because I enrolled into a college just up the road and changed my major. Beth stayed for another year to sing; she had a really beautiful voice. But shortly after that the college merged with Ozark Christian College and was eventually sold to the Army Reserve as a training ground.
When you find yourself in a closet and you look at a life that existed, but has certainly faded in your memory, sometimes you’re left with only big themes or thoughts. When I look at this photo my big thoughts are: gratitude, friendship love, stress, talent and fulfillment. I’m so incredibly grateful to my four other comrades for getting me through that “best of times and worst of times” year. And, when I look at my children now – who are the same age as those in the photograph, I know their capacity to manage life will always be bigger than I can imagine.
Thanks, friends, for being part of one of the most special times in my life. I love you guys.








As a child, I used to fantasize about being Heidi of the Alps. I used to draw pictures on my wide-ruled notebook paper of hovels on top of mountains with thatched roofs, the landscape dotted with fluffy yellow haystacks, goats, pine trees and snow. I used to pretend my bedroom was her attic bedroom where she could see the stars at night. And also, I used to have a literary crush on Peter, the goat-herder.
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.