A Father-Son Moment on an Ethiopian Balcony

Editor’s note: Five and one-half months ago, Josh submitted this post as a dedication to a turning point in his life of Fatherhood.  Last week we submitted a post on “Five Questions to Ask Yourself” about adopting and/or fostering a child.  We’re re-submitting this piece as a human experience complement to those questions.  ~ RDK

by Josh Bottomly

Staring down at my adopted son’s new visa and passport for the first time, I did a double take when I noticed something very odd.  The bold print read:  Tesfamariam Josh.  I asked Tafesse, our Ethiopian driver, if there had been some kind of misprint or mistake.  Tefesse grinned and then explained:  “In Ethiopia, a child’s last name is his father’s first name,” Tefasse explained.  It’s our tradition.”  I looked over at Amy in confusion.  “So my name would be Josh Roc,” I asked Tafesse, “and Amy’s would be Amy Glen?” Tafesse nodded and said, “In our culture, naming one’s child is a sacred act.  It’s a blood ritual.  It denotes a very special bond.”

Later that night, I woke up around 4:30 a.m. to Silas’ whimper.  Since it was my turn to take the night shift, I gathered Silas up in my arms and took him out onto the hotel patio, the only “cry proof” place in the hotel.

As I scanned my eyes across the city streets hushed under a blanket of fog and mist, I rocked Silas in my arms and sang quietly over him.  Suddenly, an image surfaced and bobbed on the wake of my mind.  It was of a photograph of my father and I, now yellow and faded with time.  In the photo, I was scrunched up close to my dad like a koala bear.  I must have been no older than Silas.  Dad and I were at the beach, both wearing lemon-colored swim shorts.  The sun reflected against our pale white thighs, and because of the sunhat on my tiny head, it was hard to see my freckled face or any of the tufts of my reddish-blond hair.  Dad’s face unforgettably was contorting and howling like a wolf as ten pounds of squirmy flesh scratched up against his chest hairs, sending tickle bumps through his body. Continue reading A Father-Son Moment on an Ethiopian Balcony

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My Little Victory Garden: Entry 8 – My Veggies Are Talking!

"Spinach - it's what's for dinner." That's all I said. One day, I'm out picking spinach while whistling a theme from the ballet Rodeo, and my spinach has been making fun of me ever since. Taunting me...seriously. It fancies itself Dana Carvey, and talks to me in "Western" vernacular, and makes fun of the fact that I like to read. How 'bout this. I'll even let you hear what it says...

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Black Seeded Simpson Lettuce: We're eating SOOO-O-O- much lettuce right now, because there is so much! When I go to the garden and cut some more, this is what it says: "I have been chosen...."

Continue reading My Little Victory Garden: Entry 8 – My Veggies Are Talking!

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Meanwhile Back at The Ranch: Back in The Saddle

Blame my parents.

It’s easy to blame parents these days.  For example, have you seen how many kids have cell phones?  They were all bought in the spirit of “convenience.” When I was a kid, there were no cell phones, so my parents bought me a motorcycle.

The motorcycle was also purchased in the spirit of convenience.  I was about to be fourteen with two much younger siblings at home.  It was going to be so much easier for me to put my ballet and tap shoes in a little backpack and head to dance class on my Honda CB 125 than it was to load up the previous items along with two other little people.  At least that’s what I’ve heard.  So, one day I drove my motorcycle down to the Chickasha Bank, took my written test, and hopped on my motorcycle.  I drove it in front of the bowling alley and passed Taco Mayo.  I made a right hand turn and circled the Braum’s and turned left from the center lane back into the bank parking lot.  Voila!  I had a motorcycle license.

Now along with the convenience of me getting to drive myself where I needed to go, was the inconvenience (to my parents) of me driving where I didn’t need to go.  There’s too many place to list, but let’s just make a note that no other sibling was allowed to have a motorcycle after me.  Sorry for ruining that guys.

In the fall of 2010, my husband and I decided to take the motorcycle course offered by our local Harley Davidson dealership.  Let’s just say it was quite a bit more involved than the experience I had at fourteen.  We spent an entire weekend studying the state laws and then spent Saturday and Sunday driving Buells around the dealership parking lot under the scrutiny of our peers and two instructors.  After completing the one hundred question test (we both made 100’s) we  had one obstacle left: the driving test.  Late on a Sunday afternoon, the participants went through the maneuvers described and then demonstrated by our instructors.  They held clipboards and scored us with an unknown rubric.  At the end of the weekend, the scores were calculated and we were escorted into a little room to hear the results.  Greg and I were the only married couple in there, so they said we could go in together if we wanted.  It was devastating….for Greg.  He learned that I was number one in the class, and he was number two.


"Are you sure you're in first?"

In October one used Harley Davidson was purchased.  I had to be the passenger, but I

knew how to work this deal.  Whenever we were at a stop sign and we would pull out into the road, I would ask, “Are you sure you’re in first?” This was really the only suggestion I ever made, but I made it a lot.

Today, I picked up my very own Harley Davidson.  I don’t have any tattoos and don’t have any plans to get any.  My hair is short, so it looks absolutely terrible when I take off my helmet at my destination. (Today it was Pizza Hut…not really a HOG hang out, but it was open and we were hungry). I wear jeans with my Harley boots which seems a lot safer than the swimsuit, concert t-shirt and flip flops I used to ride around in at Fort Cobb Lake.  I am a confident, safe rider, and a woman who knows she can do anything she sets her mind to.

Blame my parents.

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Silent Sunday: Poetry and Flowers

Today I’m providing a photo or two from one of my gardener friends, Alice Woodrome.  I’m also sharing a poem written by a family friend, Marvellena Scott, for her husband, Kermit.  Both of these guest contributors clearly have the wisdom and beauty of more years of life and love behind them than I.  I’m so glad to share their work with you today.  Happy Silent Sunday ~ Kelly

Taken at the Dallas Arboretum a few years ago - By Alice Woodrome of Oklahoma City.

Together Still

by Marvellena Scott

Let me hold your hand as we go downhill,

We’ve shared our strength and we share it still.

It hasn’t been easy to make the climb,

But the way was eased by your hand in mine. Continue reading Silent Sunday: Poetry and Flowers

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Barbershop Theology, Part 3: Table or Booth?

Now that I live in a metropolitan area I have adapted to the magic of the business lunch. “Hey, let me buy you lunch sometime and we’ll talk about that.” Recently my schedule called for three breakfast meetings, four lunch meetings and a couple of dinner things.

Lunch was altogether different at the barber shop. I recall watching the clock, growing hungry and for a lull that would allow us to go eat. Since my family rarely ate outside the home, walking across the street to Woody’s Café loomed as a Saturday treat. Over the years I passed the hamburger-and-fries stage and grew to anticipate a cheeseburger with onion rings.

One day I ordered with Mom. (She was the Saturday help, extra barber, and that’s another story to be told later.) Anyway, she ordered a chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, and corn. And I learned to love cottage cheese with peaches. Taking my break from the shoe shine chair and eating at the café was a welcomed relief. The food was a much anticipated treat. For an extra dose of relaxation after, mpo888 offers a fun way to unwind and enjoy a little more downtime.

To this day one of my small habits is to seek out a rural diner/café/restaurant. One where there are family pictures on the wall, a sports schedule for the local high school team, out-dated décor and pictures with horses. Continue reading Barbershop Theology, Part 3: Table or Booth?

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Showcasing Red Dirt culture ~ authored and managed by contributors with connections to the great state of Oklahoma.