Today, I had a rare treat as I got to tour the first home my husband and I ever purchased. We lived there from 1969 to 1975. I was 23 and he was 24 when we moved in with our one year old daughter. This is rare because the home I grew up in and our other home where we spent 27 years after this house have been scraped and either left as a blank space or filled with a new home. This was a surprise. There was an estate sale in the house that my daughter noticed and texted me, so I headed over to see it. I knew the same people we sold it to, almost to the day 50 years ago, had still owned it. I got very emotional driving over – this was a place of very sweet memories.
I had actually driven by the house a couple of weeks ago and took a picture of the huge trees.
As a young wife, I spent a lot of time reading magazines like “Better Homes & Gardens” for ideas for our home. I think I found this landscape design that I liked and had my husband copy it. He planted three trees and they are huge 50 years later. I have to laugh because I don’t think I ever thought they would be so big. Just the first of so many memories – my sweet guy digging those holes and planting the trees.
Walking up the house, I passed the gas light, which I think we updated way back then.
Here I am, pregnant with either our second or third daughter, in the front yard. Photos of me are kind of rare since I usually am the photographer. The lamp isn’t updated yet here.
The front porch, where we took so many photos looked incredibly the same.
I think this doorknocker used to have our name on the plate that seems to have been removed.
Here is one of many photos of my little family getting ready to go out Trick or Treating.
I walked inside, not expecting much & turned down the hall towards the bedrooms, which seem smaller than I remember. In our old bedroom, the folding louvre doors we replaced the sliding doors with were still there. Across the hall, in the bedrooms our two oldest daughters shared, the wallpaper threw me into a new flood of memories. It was the paper I put up when they were little – still there in all its 70s glory.
Walking through the house, the main bathroom still had the pink tiles and the laundry room looked the same as the days I did loads from diapers to my middle daughter’s beloved nitey-nite blanket that she waited patiently for.
My almost 80 year old self was suddenly that 23 year old mother and wife, trying to be the housewife I saw in the magazines. I was making a home for our family. I headed for the back yard next. My husband, Alan, was 6’4″ tall and a strong young man. He would work all day and come home to the projects around the house. We had a big yard in both the houses we owned and he loved to go out to “survey the grounds,” as he loved to say as we smiled at each other. He was the head of his little kingdom and spent so many hours taking care of all of it. Reflecting 50 years later, we had no idea that his life was half over during these years. Life is funny like that.
At the back of our yard, which had a chain link fence to keep the kids from the creek behind us which would flood and rush by to our delight, he built a big sandbox for the girls. Here they are with our next door neighbor who had only older brothers, so she loved being at our house. They are still friends to this day.
After a while, we decided we needed a patio back there, so Alan built it. I picture my big ole guy hauling the railroad ties and bricks, digging out the area and then setting all of it, sometimes into the night after work.
It is still there today, looking more like an archeological dig. I walked along the stepping stones he hauled and laid to stand in the ruins, his work still a strong memory in my mind.
The covered patio at the back of the house where we hosted so many family birthdays and parties with friends and activities for the kids looked the same other than an addition the other owners had added. So so many memories in that area. The kids learned to ride their tricycles there, Alan cooked on his first Hasty-Bake, we laughed with so many people.
Back in the house, the kitchen looked the same. The same cabinets, the same countertops, the same stove. Wow!
My girls had their first cooking lessons here and I baked so many cookies and cooked so many meals and filled so many baby bottles. How many times did I mop that floor and clean the sink?
The den with the high brick fireplace was still there although the room was painted blue when we lived there. That fireplace held one, then two, then three stockings at Christmas time. We hang those stockings plus many more these days. I made them in my craft era.
I have so many pictures of special events in that den. It was a very fun room that held lots of laughter and joy.
The dining room had the same doors and the same rug (Really?) after all these years. I do love red.
I left the house flooded with so many emotions and memories. I came home to look through my photos for more from those years. There were dance recitals and all the holidays and summer fun and winter snow. There was a little trampoline, tiny swimming pools and a swing set, snowmen, trikes and bikes, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins and friends of all ages. It was a very special time.
It’s not often I get a surprise like this one these days. Rather than being horrified that the house looked the same after 50 years, I was literally transported back to being that younger version of myself with all the wonder of being a mother and wife and all the unknown ahead of us. I can look back with love and wonder, pasting what has happened since onto my thoughts, the good, the great and the sad, and be grateful for those sweet years that helped build the foundation that propelled our family into its own future with all that life can bring. My heart is full with all the memories of events, faces, voices from those days. Such a gift.
Driving down a familiar street on a hot summer day, I was hit with a wave of memories of summers past. Once they started, it was hard to stop them.
We moved to Tulsa sometime in 1948. I was about 2 1/2 years old and my brother was a baby. We lived in this house until late summer 1955 when we moved to a new custom home where I lived until I was married. But those 7 years in that first house, when I was ages 2 1/2 to 9 1/2, packed in a lot of memories.
In the summer, we played outside before there was air conditioning. We played in the sprinklers, went high on the swings until we pulled the poles from the ground, played work-up and Red Rover in our big side yard. We looked for fossils in the gravel on the street until they paved it. I learned to ride my bike on that street and attempted to roller skate with the skates that you hooked onto your shoes and tightened with the skate key.
In the evenings, we looked at the sky for constellations before there were so many lights to make the skies not so bright. We caught lightning bugs, June bugs, lady bugs, roly polys and put them in jars with a few leaves and holes we punched in the top. Sometimes there were locust shells to collect and crunch. We walked down the street to the school where I went to play in the creek. There was trumpet vine on the back fence to use for cups for my dolls and honeysuckle to drink the nectar from.
i played with my dolls and cut out paper dolls. I loved Betsy McCall in my mother’s monthly McCall’s magazine and kept all the clothes in a box in my room. I played dress up with the other girls in the neighborhood, raiding our mothers’ closets.
My mother worked in the garden, washed the clothes and hung them on the clothesline in the back yard. I loved the clothespins in their little bag that hung on the line.
In this house, my brother and I shared a bedroom with green chenille Hopalong Cassidy bedspreads and welcomed our little sister home. I think we listened to Hoppy on the radio as we didn’t have a television yet. I loved seeing him in person one year at the Tulsa Horse Show.
When I got bigger, I had my own bedroom at the back of the house with a door to the screened in porch. On hot summer nights, I laid spread eagle on top of my covers in my seersucker babydoll pajamas, hoping for a breeze from the fan and the open windows. We drank Kool-Aid (made with lots of sugar) and waited for Jack the Milkman to come so we could run to his truck for ice chips. Sometimes he would let us get in and ride around the corner with him. And the ice cream truck would bring us popsicles and ice cream bars to cool us off.
We had a patio in the back for picnics and Daddy got a grill to cook hamburgers and hot dogs. It was the 50s as you imagine.
In the summers we went to the library and I brought home stacks of books that I read quickly. There were biographies with orange covers, fairy tales, the Oz books, Nancy Drew mysteries. I read anything I could. One time I wrote a play sitting under the big elm in the front yard. It was about kings and princesses, I believe. I still have it somewhere in a spiral notebook, written in my careful printing. We played cards, spending hours with Old Maid, Crazy Eight, Go Fish. We collected comic books and read them, loving Lulu, Donald Duck, Superman and Batman and all the superheroes.
Time went on and my parents converted our garage into a “family room.” There were big couches and my mother had an artist paint a scene of cute barnyard animals on the concrete wall. And, we had a television there and an air conditioner. It was a new world. We watched tv when it came on at 5:00 with the news. If we stayed up late (10:00), you could watch the newscaster sign off and the screen turn to the overnight screen picture. On Saturday mornings, we watched all the shows. Winky Dink was an interactive show where you placed a piece of heavy plastic over the screen and then used the special crayons to finish pictures or images that were part of the show. We watched Sky King, Lassie, Rin Tin Tin, The Lone Ranger, Hopalong Cassidy, and cartoons like Popeye.
I learned to cook in this house, making little cakes in tiny pans, first in a toy oven and then in my mother’s big oven. I cooked my first dinner from my first cookbook, proudly serving it to my Daddy, who was always amused by my attempts to be a big girl. That kitchen had a corner booth where we had breakfast and my grandmother would bring us homemade french fries with little cups of ketchup when she visited. We got our first dishwasher, which was pushed across the room where the hoses were connected to the kitchen sink.
School started in the fall and we walked down the street to our school. My parents sent me there because my birthday was past the cutoff for the public schools and, besides, it was down the street.
When the leaves turned, we raked them into piles to jump in and burn in the incinerator in the corner of the back yard. We loved the smell of the burning leaves and watching the embers that escaped and flew into the sky. For obvious reasons, this was banned in the city at a later date. In the fall, Daddy brought his hunting dog home where he lived in his pen in the yard unless Daddy was training him or we were playing with him. Early in the mornings, they would head out in search of quail which Daddy would bring home to eat later.
When school started, so did our Brownie troop meetings. My mother was one of the leaders so we often met at our house where we learned to give tea parties for our mothers, how to sew on a button, how to sell cookies and took fun field trips.
For Halloween, we donned cheap costumes purchased at the dime store or dressed as hoboes or ghosts and grabbed a pillow case and went for blocks and blocks, trick or treating. When our bags were full of caramel apples, popcorn balls, and full size candy bars, tootsie roll pops and bubble gum, we headed home to dump the load and head out again. We kept our piles of candy under our beds where we would bring them out to count or trade or eat.
In the colder weather, we lit the floor furnace, which we quickly learned to step over so we didn’t burn our feet. The bathrooms were heated with little gas furnaces on the walls to keep us warm after our baths.
In the cold weather, we had fires in the fireplace in the living room where we listened to 78 records on the big record player and toasted marshmallows and drank hot chocolate. For Christmas, we hung our stockings and waited for Santa. My favorite gifts, maybe ever, were the Madame Alexander Alice in Wonderland doll in her blue trunk with other clothes and my first puppy, a red dachshund named Mr. Schmidt. We also got sleds for the small hills in our neighborhood and made snowmen in the front yard and had snowball fights with the neighbors behind the forts we built.
With spring, we planted zinnias in the back yard and dyed Easter eggs. We found baby chicks and ducks in our Easter baskets along with eggs to hide and hunt. One baby duck used to follow me everywhere until he died even though I tried to keep him warm and well. I’m sure our back yard had many graves of turtles, parakeets, chameleons and other little creatures we brought home from the dime store or the fair. We didn’t mean to be rough with them.
I had many parties for my friends at this house. There were birthday parties and slumber parties. This must have been my last one there and everyone seems to be happy with our comic book collection. I remember the noise and the giggles and the patience of my parents.
This was the house where I lost my first teeth and the Tooth Fairy left a dime under my pillow. This was where I had chicken pox, the measles and mumps. Those diseases were no fun and I can remember days in bed, the calamine lotion all over me with chicken pox and not scratching so we wouldn’t have scars (I only have one) and staying in the dark with measles so we wouldn’t go blind. Our pediatrician, Dr. Reece, would arrive at our house, driven by his chauffeur, wearing his dark coat and hat and carrying his medical bag. He walked up the steps to check our hearts and lungs and look at our tongues. He was one of the last of that kind of doctor.
In the living room, there was a little room/closet for the phone. In those days, you had to call the operator to make a long distance call. Calls were billed by the minute so they were kept short and you waited until after 7 to make calls when it was cheaper. When I was 8 or 9, I wanted to talk to my grandmother, so I snuck into the little room and called the operator as I had heard my parents do. I can’t remember if I knew her number or just gave the operator her name, but I got to talk to her. I felt very brave and grown up and sneaky. Did I get in trouble? I don’t think so. Daddy probably didn’t realize I made the call, unless my grandmother told my parents. She wasn’t one to tell on me though.
One time I was mad at my mother, so I packed a peanut butter sandwich and an apple in my little suitcase and ran away from home. Was I 6? I made it to the other end of our block and sat down to eat my sandwich. I really didn’t know where to go, so I turned around and went back home. Home wasn’t that bad.
Were those the “good old days” of my life, the years in that house? They were definitely good for us, but they were just a part of my life. I’ve lived long enough to have perspective and to have learned history. Those days were good for us, but they were unrealistic for both my parents. Women had few rights and men had unbelievable expectations. And we were white. Needless to say, the world wasn’t fair then for so many others. I’ve met people from different backgrounds who lived at that time and shake my head at our ignorance and ability to not see what was in front of us. We also didn’t understand the lives of those around us who were dealing with infidelity, substance and alcohol abuse, spousal and child abuse. These things just weren’t talked about, much less dealt with. I was one of the lucky children.
I’ve lived most of my life within about a square mile, so it was easy to drive by the house now and then. It was updated through the years, but it was still the house. A couple of months ago, I happened to turn that way and arrived just as the last piece of the house was demolished before my eyes. I was shocked, but shouldn’t have been surprised. Such is the world.
Here is the house being built there now.
It isn’t the worst it could be, but there is no side yard for playing and I’m sure the back yard is a carefully planned outdoor kitchen/patio. It will be a nice home and I hope that the families who live there make special memories.
For me, I have the memories of my years there that helped to make me who I am today. I’m basically still that little girl with the big imagination and the urge to explore and hoping to be brave enough to jump off that wall.
My parents taught me at an early age to value the work of artists. My father tended towards carved wood or figures while my mother was more eclectic. When I traveled with them, I learned that we could bring art back easily since paintings could be rolled or laid flat in our bags. Since I seem to have never been able to develop any ability to create anything with paint, I also learned to appreciate those who could.
Throughout my adult life, I have met many artists through various projects who became friends. Nobody has had an impact on me like my friend, Nylajo Harvey, who recently passed away at the age of 95. When I was a young mother with three daughters, I became aware of her work and wanted to own a painting. I decided I might as well have her paint my daughters since it cost about the same as buying another piece. This was a giant splurge for me, but I knew it would be worth it.
When I met Nylajo in 1975, I was 29 and she was 48. I was happily married with daughters aged 6, 4 and 2. She had been married and divorced three times and had two daughters with one of her husbands and two sons and a daughter with another. Her younger daughter and son were in elementary school. At the time, she had a glassed room at the front of her house that was her studio. The house was over 100 years old and was located across from a popular park near my home. I herded my little ones in to pose for the first time and was amazed that she could set them up and capture their personalities in a short time. After that, I would bring them one at a time. I don’t remember having many sittings with all of them – thank goodness.
I found myself stopping by to see her when I would take the girls to school or had a sitter. Of course, I was checking on the painting, but we were becoming closer friends all the time. We would talk while she painted, even with other people stopping by to see her and visit also. She was smart and interesting and we were just instant friends. She must have had us over for dinner, because she and my husband became friends also. For Mother’s Day that year, he brought home a little painting he knew I loved at her house.
Having seen her art before I met her, I was aware that she had earlier periods where most of her work was in pastels, then in blues. When I met her, we shared a love of bright colors, which she incorporated into the portrait of the girls.
She had instantly caught my middle daughter’s impatience with this whole process, my youngest daughter’s sweet baby self and my oldest daughter’s oldest child taking it seriously attitude. It was a delight. Just before she was finished, we learned that I was pregnant again. She laughed at my husband showing up to tell her to stop the painting until we knew what to do. Our solution was to wait for the baby to be born, guessing it to be another girl, and then paint the infant into my oldest daughter’s lap. There wasn’t a way to tell very much about a baby until it was born in 1975, so we waited until November.
Amazingly, our fourth child was a boy and Nylajo said she would wait and paint him when he was older, little knowing what a trip that would be. She often told me that she liked me and my children, telling stories of hiding in the closet when some other families showed up. We all liked her, too.
By the time my son was three, he had already locked into wearing a cowboy hat every day, one that looked like the hat Hoss Cartwright wore on the “Bonanza” tv show at the time. I had bought it at Neiman Marcus because it was so cute, little knowing that it would become a worn out, dirty family icon. Nylajo wanted to paint him in the hat and asked that we bring his Wonder Horse to the studio to paint him on. Those sessions had to be among her craziest sittings as he would rock the horse wildly, sometimes sitting backwards. He was not the ideal kid to sit still for a portrait. But, she succeeded beyond our wildest dreams and captured my little one’s personality perfectly.
At some point, I had taken a couple of photography classes at Philbrook Museum and showed Jo some pictures I took of my kids. She did paintings from two of them, one of my son (again in the cowboy hat) and one of my youngest daughter. She gave those to me and I later gave them to those two.
My mother was about 10 years older than Jo and they also became close friends. When my mother found out that Jo owed about $5,000 on her house, she paid it off so that she would own the house outright. Money was always tight for our artist friend and my mother said that the only reason her widowed mother and my mother and her two brothers had any dignity during the Depression was because they owned their home and would be able to stay there even when they couldn’t pay the gas bill. I doubt my mother wanted to be repaid, but Jo gave her several large paintings in thanks. She would also give her little gifts, such as this small piece painting on a lid or something she found.
I think Jo was the one who first told me that it was a good exercise for an artist to paint large and small. I have this small painting, probably 2″x3″, that I love for the tiny details that let me know what is happening in this moment.
I have many of her paintings. I loved her images of children and have a couple of children’s parades. I also loved her portraits of women, flowers, so many. She had many themes.
Through the years, I was busy with children and volunteer activities and work, but managed to see Jo when I could, always trying to stop by her birthday parties in July or her annual show in December. She knew everyone in town, from artists to her wealthier patrons, and knew what was going on with everyone. It was always a lively party where I met interesting people through the years. Her dinner parties were special as she put together congenial, interesting groups, to enjoy her home cooked meals at beautifully set tables. She told me she also considered cooking an art as she made pots of soup to freeze, often sending some to my mother in her later years.
Nylajo was one of the most unique women I was ever fortunate to know. When my grandson needed to interview someone who had been alive before World War II for a high school project, I took him to meet her. She was 90 at the time. Listening to her answer his questions, I learned even more than I had known about her before.
Nylajo was born in 1926 to a banker father and a mother who was a teacher. She had one brother and three sisters and were a close family. Contrary to popular belief, she was not Native American. I recently looked up something to write this piece and found one of her paintings for sale online, and it was described as by this known Native American artist, which made me laugh. I always loved her name, but it is not Native American.
Jo always wanted to be an artist. As a child, she was told that she could draw better than she could write, and she took that to heart. She attended high school in Springfield, MO, and grew up loving sports, being a runner, a softball player and even playing football until her mother found out. She loved trout fishing with her father. Her first job was tinting photographs in a department store.
She won an engineering scholarship to Purdue, so she went there first. The men were all away at the war and women were being recruited. She learned that wasn’t for her, so she got a scholarship to the Kansas City Art Institute and studied to be an artist. During that time, she dated the son of Thomas Hart Benton and told me of meeting him in his home.
Another story she told me was of working for an architect and meeting Frank Lloyd Wright. I later purchased a painting she did entitled, “The Night I Met Mr. Wright.” Jo was known for her thick red hair which she wore in a long braid down her back for many years. In this painting, she was young, with her red hair flowing. She described him to my grandson as being really short and wearing a black cape, really interesting.
She got married for the first time in 1948 and became a mother that year at age 22. She never had much to say about any of her husbands to me as they were all long gone when I met her. She was so independent that I can’t even imagine her with anyone.
Talking to my grandson, she told him that she learned the basics from her teacher mother: honesty, kindness and truthfulness. She also fully learned the English language. She was reading a book a day well into her 90s and spoke to me about the books she was reading the week before she died. She could talk about anything with anyone. She got her first tv when she was 62 years old.
She told us that her most important decades were the 1940s-1960s when she was raising her children and found who she was. She was a strong, loving mother. She loved to be with people and often spent time in a neighborhood bar, where one of her paintings was displayed, probably given to pay her bar bill. She was a drinker and the first person I know who was 86ed from a place, the neighborhood bar, of course. Her parties were lively and she had her drinking buddies. She partied with Leon Russell and probably other artists of the area. I don’t think she considered herself one of the boys – she didn’t need to. She was very much herself always. I don’t remember her swearing or being obnoxious, although I’m sure she could. She was extremely well mannered and a tribute to the values her parents taught her. She was honest and outspoken and funny and smart.
She never felt like she was discriminated against as a woman, probably because of her self confidence, and she didn’t discriminate against anyone. She did not suffer fools and alienated many people through the years, although many worked their way back to her. She did not change who she was – ever. She could be difficult, probably with the drinking, but she had a large group of devoted friends who showed up to help her set up her shows (she was always painting until the last minute) or to take her to the store after she quit driving or to be there for her. I was not her best friend, just a long time friend, one of so many.
Jo adored her children, speaking of each of them as if they were the most interesting people she knew. They were some of her favorite subjects in paintings through the years. She enjoyed them and was able to travel with her youngest late in life. I have no idea what kind of a mother they think she was, but they loved her.
She enjoyed her children as adults. Maybe too much. After two of her daughters had died of alcoholism, she quit drinking. Having lost a child, I understand what a blow losing them was to her.
Since I didn’t see her all the time, I never knew what had been going on in her life when I stopped by. One time she was recovering from cancer, having refused the treatment. She lived at least another 20 years. Another time, she had fallen off a ladder while doing something on her roof (two story house) and had many broken bones. Her invitations to her annual show were often photos of her doing something fun and adventurous, such as riding a motorcycle. Here she is on a boat named after her.
Through the years, her lush red hair turned gray and her braid got thinner. Here she is visiting after my mother died.
Jo was a tiny woman with a big voice and terrific laugh. She was a fabulous hostess and I loved being in her kitchen, shown here a few years ago. I’m only about 5’4″ these days, so she was tinier than her oversized personality indicated.
When I took my grandson to meet her, I was struck with how great a listener she was – not just because she couldn’t hear as well at 90, but because she always had been.
From our earliest years as friends, I had always known she would be there, always curious and always compassionate. She was my confidante through the years, listening to all the ups and downs my own life took, never being judgmental, just being there. She could comfort you by being so wise and so loving, just as my mother was. They truly were kindred souls. When I lost my husband and, later, my son, she grieved with me.
A couple of years ago, I stopped by to see her and found her uncharacteristically sad. Her brother had died unexpectedly. They had spoken every week for an hour or more and he had just been chopping wood when she last heard from him. He was in his 90s and still going strong until he was gone. She suddenly felt a huge void. For the first time, she didn’t feel like painting.
When the wonderful new park, Gathering Place, opened in Tulsa, I persuaded her to visit it with me. I drove her up to the door since she couldn’t walk as far anymore. I took her outside to see the wonderful seating areas.
I wanted her to see the beautiful architecture and designs in the Lodge, so we went inside where I caught this image of her against the wall. She was having so much fun and delighting in this new place.
I drove her around to the Boathouse and took her inside the fascinating exhibit room there. She was her usual self, taking it all in and happy to be there. We didn’t stay long as I didn’t want to wear her out.
A few weeks later, she told me she was doing a retrospective show. They called it “Nylajo’s Last Picture Show.” She had been buying up her old paintings from estate sales, so had many to re-sell along with new ones. I was shocked at first and then realized that she was outliving her old patrons. When I stopped by, she was in her usual place at her easel. I took several pictures (why had I not taken more through the years?) and one was used on the invitation to the show. I just wanted to always remember her as she was when I had first met her – painting.
The show was great fun with many local artists coming to see her. She had influenced so many through the years, more than I will ever know. My son’s daughter was about 10 and threw her arms around her, to Jo’s delight. Her eyes twinkled as she remembered my son with me.
When the pandemic hit right after this show, she was locked at home with her books and cooking. I sent her a card, a cutout of Picasso. She called me, delighted, and said she had him standing where she could see him all the time. She never failed to tell me that from then on. As time went on, I stopped by when it was safe and found her as sharp as ever, interested in me and life around her.
I went by right before Christmas to leave her some bourbon pralines and could see her curled up, sound asleep on her couch. I didn’t want to disturb her, so I left the treats. She called me later to tell me they were her favorites and to say she had not been able to sleep all night and had fallen asleep, which was something that often happened. She told me about new books and I told her I’d be back by. I was going to go last Thursday, but heard late the night before that she was gone. I hoped it had been easy since I had just talked to her, but found that she had multiple organ failure and great pain and fought it all the way. Of course she did.
Grieving for someone who lived 95 incredible years is a little selfish. I am really sad because I will miss her so much. It’s not that I saw her all the time, but that I knew she was there. She made a huge impact on my life with her strong personality, her great affection for me and my family, and the wise and witty conversations we shared for all those years. For all who appreciated her work or were lucky enough to share a little of her world, there is a gap to be filled by viewing her lifetime of work or just remembering her for who she was. When those who knew her gather, there will be new stories to share. Nobody knew all of them.
She was one of those people who only needed one name to tell you everything about her.
Going to a Comic Con wasn’t on my bucket list, but you do a lot of things for your grandkids that you wouldn’t ordinarily do. That, plus the fact that a friend of mine, Scott Wilson, was appearing as one of the guest stars when Wizard World Comic Con came to Tulsa. And, I was naturally curious about a phenomenon that has grown from a comic book convention to a group of Trekkies and Star Wars fans to a show that highlights a whole pop culture world of comic books, graphic novels, movies and television shows. These things are huge. The Comic Con in San Diego draws A-list stars. There had to be something to it. Right?
There aren’t so many grandparents there because it’s noisy, you walk a lot on hard floors, the crowds are big, and other things that make it not as attractive once you’re older and more curmudgeonly. But, there are people of all ages. It’s a diverse crowd because there is a universality to costumed characters that transcends race, gender, sexual orientation, income levels, age.
I also learned a new word…cosplay. That’s short for costume play. There were signs saying that you needed to ask before taking photos of cosplayers. That amused me because I guarantee that the majority who spend hours and dollars on elaborate costumes are there to have their pictures taken. This guy strutted around all day, posing with anyone who asked. I have no idea who the character is, but his costume is cool. If you go to a Comic Con, take lots of money. There are booths with everything you want in this fantasy world. There are toys and action figures. I loved this little girl in her fancy Robin costume picking out a toy.There are swords and other props, and, yes, the swords are real metal. Wow! These guys are armed for any kind of invasion or apocalypse There are helmets and hats And beautiful masks crafted of leather and t-shirts and huge tote bags to carry all your purchases This father showing his kids the incredible light sabers amused me. The father probably grew up with Star Wars and is passing it down to his sons. I saw people playing with the light sabers they bought at costs of $200, $300, and $400 and up. They were definitely cool.And, of course, there are comic books and graphic art of all kinds…Meeting celebrities is another plus. The Tulsa World featured a piece of custom art for the Tulsa show created by this artist who was selling prints of his other work. You could meet Lou Ferrigno of The Incredible Hulk, as my grandson did. Here is Robert Englund, who played Freddie Krueger in the Nightmare on Elm Street movies, strapping on his sword-like hands for a picture with a fan. I watched a little boy wearing a mock hand and Freddie Krueger hat gasping in awe as he watched him. There were lots more stars from shows and movies from William Shatner from Star Trek, to stars from Ghostbusters, The Karate Kid, Superman, Harry Potter, and others I didn’t know. There were question and answer panels that drew thousands of fans. My friend, Scott Wilson, has a long career in films and became a Comic Con star playing Hershel Greene in the Walking Dead series. The four actors from that show who came to Tulsa were by far the stars of the show, with Norman Reedus, who plays the crossbow wielding anti-hero Darryl, being the rock star. Their lines were continuous. I have to say that Scott goes above and beyond with his fans, giving them all hugs and personal conversations. He is a gentleman and a jewel in my book. Here he’s wearing the t-shirt featuring Tulsa’s iconic Golden Driller that I gave him when he got to town.He also stayed an extra hour to give free autographs and pictures to the show’s volunteers at the end of a grueling weekend of activities. Comic Con has the reputation among the non-believers of being only for nerds. Well, maybe, but this is where these fans can meet their peeps and mingle for a delightful weekend. After all, I’ve been to Renaissance Fairs and re-enactments and the Scottish Games and October Fests which are not much different. It’s all a festival where adults can remember what it’s like to be a child again. Comic Con is a place where families can play – or cosplay – together. Here’s a family with oddly colored children. Couples can fantasize about whatever or whoever they enjoy being… Children can meet their action toys in person. And grown men can bring the Oklahoma Ghostbusters out to play. Some of you are rolling your eyes that people actually do this, but it’s really great fun to watch people enjoy themselves in whatever fantasy they choose. There was an atmosphere of camaraderie and festivity for all who attended. I got a huge kick out of watching it. Way more than I thought I would. As my little friend, R2D2, said to the crowd…Beep! Beep!My own memories flash. How many Star Wars figures did I pick up off the floor when my son was little? Why did my mother throw out all my brother’s comic books? Who knew?
Today’s the first real snow we’ve had in Tulsa in a year or so, a treat to cozy up inside and enjoy the calm it brings. Snowfall quiets everything down, mutes the sounds, takes the traffic off the street, forces us to stop rushing and sit back and reflect. I know there are the days when it freezes and we lose power and can’t move around the city, even when working people have to, but there is that time when it’s just softly falling and there’s no reason to do anything but enjoy it.
The fireplace is lit, hot chocolate in the mug, soup on the stove, and nothing but quiet outside.
Except my dog, Molly, short for Good Golly Miss Molly, who wonders why I’m not out running with her in the 20 degree weather.
Now the cats and dogs are curled up, and my mind is racing back to all the snowy days of my life. My childhood when we sledded and made snow angels and snowmen and had snowball fights and drank hot chocolate and ate snow ice cream. How idyllic it was in the 1950s. It’s fun to fast forward to my own children, doing the same things, bundled up in mittens and snow suits…
and still playing as teens…
and then on to my grandchildren enjoying their first snowfalls…
I can’t believe I have to look back to see them as babies. They grow up so fast. Sigh.
Later, I’m going to bundle up and go play outside, even for a short time. Because it’s still magic and I still can…
I keep wondering if I ever had a year when I didn’t appreciate everything around me? When I was younger, did I drive by all the beauty in a couple of decades of endless carpools and meetings and kids? I don’t think I did. I hope I didn’t. I only know I appreciate all the beauty more every year now and this beautiful world takes my breath away every day.
Tulsa is exploding with colors. The cities are often prettier than the country because people plant trees for their seasonal colors. We’re having a kind of late fall because it’s been so unseasonably warm, no freeze yet. But the color is coming every day. You drive by a tree one day and it’s green, the next day it’s changing colors, the next day it’s brilliant. Every errand is a trip through beauty. I want to stop along the way with my camera to catch it all. I’ve taken pictures before, but it’s different every year. Trees change shapes, the colors and go, it’s a new world.
One of my maples is turned, the big one is just now changing. My pecan tree hasn’t even started to turn its gorgeous yellow. But here are some colors around my yard…
I love the beauty berry…
And some more trees around the neighborhood…
Even the vines turn colors…
This tree never disappoints…
As the leaves thin out, you can see clumps of mistletoe ready for the holidays. Oklahoma’s state flower, even though it’s a parasite…we do have a sense of humor here…
It’s a beautiful fall day when the skies are a clear blue and even the fallen leaves are lovely, not yet a nuisance to be raked.
For those of you who don’t have four seasons, this is for you. For the rest of us…get out and look around you. It’s another glorious day…
Living in Oklahoma is not for sissies. True to the song, that wind does come sweepin’ and sometimes it’s a little strong. The beautiful plains probably handle it better than the cities. In Tulsa, we are in the corner of the state called “Green Country” by the tourist bureau. For those who think this state is flat and dry, you haven’t seen all of Oklahoma. We have gorgeous trees and hills in our lovely city.
This week, we had a blast of 70-80 mph winds that swept over our area, swirling and blowing until a large portion of the city was without power and nature had pruned our urban forest. It would break my heart to see the huge trees upended in yards all over the place, but I’ve been through it before and know that when all is cleaned up, we’ll look much the same around here with a few gaps in the sky. We have an abundance of trees. After our major ice storm a few years ago, the city looked like a war zone, but nature picks up and goes again. I’ve also learned from the National Parks, where they let nature take its course.
Getting around town has been slow as you dodge limbs in the streets and wait to go through intersections one at at time while the street lights are out. Poles are broken and leaning and crews are arriving from other states to help! I saw some poles propped up with a smaller pole bound to it.
If there is anything good about storms like this, it’s the human spirit that shines through. Days without power make us more grateful for what we do have. After writing about Keeping Cool earlier this week, many had to live it in the humid heat following the storm. At least there are places to go with air conditioning and ice. Neighbors and families with power provide meals and cool places to sleep. We know not to open our refrigerators to keep them cold or put perishables in coolers with ice until the stores run out. Most people should have lanterns and flashlights around. Some have generators left over from ice storms.
One of the newest problems is charging all our devices. One of my daughters without power took all of her family’s electronics to her sister who had power to recharge…iPhones, iPads, iPods. We’re kind of an Apple family and need our gadgets to stay in touch.
On the other side, my brother doesn’t have power after three days and needs to be connected for health reasons. I check on him and make sure his phone works so he can get help if needed. I’m sure there are many like him. I have to wind through the back streets to get to him because he’s on a main street blocked by electric company workers trying to get everything going.
Power outages bring out our pioneer spirit, 21st century style. We’re not exactly without resources these days. Neighbors help neighbors move limbs until the hoards of trucks and men with chain saws flood the city. There’s money to be made following a storm.
I’ve been grateful to have power, although I lost my internet and cable for a couple of long periods. Hard to complain. In fact, it makes me laugh to think how deprived we can feel without things that are really luxuries. Reading books is back in style, by lanterns or on tablets, in a storm.
Here’s a sample of some of Tulsa’s damage this week. Multiply this times a bunch and you’ll see what we’re seeing…
Here are two trees uprooted onto the owner’s house…
A tree broken across a fence…
A multi-trunked tree uprooted onto the house and new car…
and debris piled on the curbs for pick up…
One of the major problems is our glorious oaks that die from the inside and look fine on the outside but are vulnerable to the winds…
So, we’re picking up and going again. We survive wind, tornadoes (big wind), ice, heat and cold and floods here in Oklahoma. We’re OK.
I graduated from high school 50 years ago. 50 YEARS AGO!!! That’s hard to say, hard to imagine. Really? Where did all that time go? How did it pass so quickly? I was in a great class, a class of about 650 that produced 26 National Merit semi-finalists, had excellent teachers and a whole lot of fun. This week is our reunion, which makes me think about all of our reunions…I’ve been on every committee.
The 10th reunion was in 1973. The committee had to have calling sessions to find everyone, using our high school directory to call parents’ homes, phone directories, information. We sent out newsletters, printed with a fun logo drawn by one of our artist classmates, using the name of the student paper when we were in school. We worked hard to find everyone we could. The excuses for not coming that year were mostly due to lack of funds or having babies, we were in our childbearing years. Actaully, I had just had my third child a few months before – there were many of us with new babies on the committee. We ended up with about 200 attending, including spouses. We had lost some classmates and found out that some of the people we knew really hated high school and never wanted to remember anything. Many came home to see family while they were at the reunion.
Friday night was the night where you broke the ice, greeted everyone, met their spouses, and caught up on what was going on in their lives. We rocked out to records at the studio where we first took dance lessons. We still knew all the moves.
We had an Assembly at the school on Saturday. Some of our former teachers attended and we pretty much did a traditional assembly, as I feebly recall.
Saturday night, we dressed to impress and went to the fanciest country club in town. Hairstyles ranged from shags to intricate, high updos. The men had longer hair than when we graduated and mustaches were in. The clothes were loud, the times were fast. We gave awards for who had been married the longest, which went to a classmate who married while we were still in school, most children, most unusual profession (jockey), who traveled the farthest to get there, and best preserved male and female bodies (last time we ever gave that award). We were pretty groovy, dancing to a popular local band, dressed in the latest styles.
We published a directory after the reunion with all the updated addresses and phone numbers we had found so people could stay in touch.
By our twentieth reunion, we were kind of in a groove. We went through the same steps to find everyone, using printed labels for our mailings. The committee worked long hours, finding we had lost more classmates and couldn’t find others who had moved in the past decade. We were still using our old class directory and the phone to locate everyone. We’d lost more people along the way. The excuses for not coming were jobs, money, small children. We still got about 200 to show up.
The schedule for the 20th was about the same. We were noticing that the girls were becoming women and the guys looked like they were starting to lose their looks, or so we whispered. There were a few new spouses, divorce already beginning to take its toll. The list of deceased was growing. We had an elaborate slide show at our assembly, set to the song “Memories.” Teachers still came to the events and we realized they weren’t as old as they had seemed in high school. We were getting older, heading for middle age. There were those who timidly showed up on Friday, wondering how they’d be received, wondering if they’d know anyone, and left on Saturday feeling part of the group. We started to care less about what had happened in high school, the cliques were beginning to loosen.
We had a directory and a t-shirt to remember. This time the directory was copies of forms people had sent in with bios and pictures. We were a little more sophisticated these days. Our design was created by one of our classmates who was always an artist, now a professional one.
By 1993, we were ready for our 30th reunion. We had lost the heart of the reunions, our inspiring leader, and others stepped up to fill his place. The committee meetings were still the most fun, catching up with each other, helping to make the calls to locate classmates. We could still find some through the old class directory, some through calling their friends. We’d lost more in the decade, our list was growing smaller. The excuses for not coming as we approached our 40s were money, children now graduating from school or in school activities, jobs. There were still about 200 there, not even the same 200. We went through the casual evening, the class assembly, the dressy dinner dance. Now people showed up on Friday hoping they’d recognize our rapidly changing faces. We had picture nametags that year. You could see how we looked in high school and look up to see how we looked right then. The women still seemed to be getting better. The men were balding, going gray, more mature, still cute!
It was fun to see if those class prophecies had come true in any way. Our beauty queens were still beautiful, our jocks were still looking pretty fit, the smartest ones were still smart. But, not everything stays the same, thank goodness. Some of those who had lived too hard were beginning to show it. The guy who got the award at our 10th reunion for cutting the most days of classes our senior year was now president of a bank. One of the smart ones who went to Rice and got an engineering degree had married, divorced, quit big business and gone to Colorado. He was Mayor of Winter Park & loving the mountain life. Never would have dreamed it, but he was happier than ever. And we’d lost more of our favorite classmates along the way. Two of our classmates met for the first time at the reunion and married a year later.
We did another t-shirt and directory, much like the last one. We were beginning to celebrate each other as much as the memories. We were an interesting bunch.
By the time the 40th reunion rolled around, we were different, the world was much different in 2003 than in 1963, 1973, 1983, 1993. We’d been through Viet Nam, The Beatles, the 70s, the 80s, the 90s, the changing of the century, and 9/11. We’d battled divorce, moves, heart attacks, cancer, raising children and becoming grandparents. Some of us were caring for our parents. In fact, the excuses for not coming this time were the most varied yet. There were those with young children because they’d started late or were on a second or more marriage. There were college graduations, jobs, kids, illnesses and parents. We had classmates with AIDS. We were in the Sandwich era of our lives, between our children and our parents. Would there ever be a time that was just about us? We still managed to get about 200 to attend.
Technology was changing faster than we could have imagined and we had the internet. We purchased a website and got it up and running. This would be our last time to do the hours of phone calling. Once we got the information on the site, classmates could keep updating it as we went along, adding bios and pictures, doing the work for us. We didn’t have to do a directory and we didn’t do t-shirts. We were moving with the times.
We hadn’t cut away from the tradition of the casual night, the assembly and the dressy night yet. People still came Friday night, worrying if they would recognize or remember anyone. The pictures were on the name tags again. The Assembly was replaced by a tour of the old school, walks down the halls where some of our classmates could still find their pictures celebrating their athletic achievements. People toured the city to see the changes. We had golf for those who wanted it.
On Saturday night, we were still rocking to the band. The songs were the same, oldies now. Classic oldies…just like us. We made new friends with old classmates we hadn’t known then. Two more classmates married after the reunion. We were valuing these people who had shared our youth with us, who they had been and who they had become.
This time, we produced a DVD that incorporated all the slides and photos from the past with current interviews. We were changing with the times and shaking our heads at the things that had gone by the wayside.
We had so much fun at the 40th and realized how many people we were losing at a faster rate that we decided to have a mini-reunion – a 45th. We did one casual night, thinking it would be mostly for classmates who lived close by. The band was guys our age, playing our music. Amazingly, 75-80 came from all over the country. It was easy and fun. We were still rocking, still here and breathing! Some could still jump, we looked older and wiser.
The 50th! Good grief! We have lost so many people over the years, close to 100 that we know about, probably more. The 50th is here. We used the website, mail and email to contact people. We’ve added a Facebook page. This reunion is about celebrating us, celebrating that we are still here. We’ll have 175-200 for this one, some who have never been before. We’ll have larger type on the name tags, but no pictures. Everyone wonders if they’ll recognize anyone or remember anyone. We have two teachers who can come…one is 92 and will speak to our group. The other is not that much older than we are – we were her first pupils out of school.
The excuses this time are children and grandchildren, surgeries, illnesses, money, busy retirement schedules, work schedules and even Japanese Parliament not getting out in time. A former Ambassador to Saudi Arabia is coming in from Dubai. The President of our Student Council and our class Vice-President both have Alzheimer’s. One classmate just had back surgery, several with knee and hip surgeries. Some are hobbling to the reunion however they can. Our will is strong, our bodies starting to need replacement parts. We are distinguished, fun-loving, casual, full of life and representing everything that happens to us in a lifetime.
This time there is nothing to impress anyone. We’re going to be in the heart of all the happening things in Tulsa right now, right in the middle of the Arts District. We’ll meet early at a bar with a patio and then everyone can do the Art Walk, watch fireworks from the baseball stadium, get a fancy meal, enjoy their special group of friends, or tuck in early. Anyway you want it. Saturday night we meet at historic Cain’s Ballroom for barbecue, wearing comfortable shoes and casual clothes. We have t-shirts again and the band is back from the 45th, classmates of ours, to bring back the oldies. Everyone is excited to see whoever comes. We laugh that we’ll have a whole new group of friends by the end of the weekend. Our Facebook page has 70 members now and is lighting up with excitement and memories. We’ll be there with our cell phones and iPads, today’s brag books of pictures of our beloved children and grandchildren. We’ll share experiences, travel stories, memories. We’ll have our cameras! Our aging Eagles are flying in to celebrate!
I’ll let you know how it goes. In the meantime, Rock On Class of 1963!
I must be starving for hamburgers. There are lots of great hamburgers in the world and we’re lucky to still have some of the ones I grew up with here in Tulsa. They’re probably still my favorites, maybe because they come with a side order of memories.
Van’s was great, but Van sold his location on Peoria to Claud’s long ago. It’s nice to know he was passing it along and it still is owned by the family. I love the tiny space where you can watch the whole operation while you wait. Nice to get a bag of burgers and fries just like the old days.
Across the street is Weber’s with its unique history. Dating back to the 1890s, Mr. Weber made his own root beer and invented the burger. That fact was validated by the governor of Oklahoma and I love the fact that it’s still owned by the family and they use the same grill he used way back when. They still make their root beer and their onion rings are awesome. That little orange building has moved a few spaces since I was a kid, but it’s a welcome sight…gives me sense of stability to see those two families still in business at 38th and Peoria after all these years.
Hank’s goes back even further, 1949. Nothing has changed in there, for sure. Still a great burger, great fries and a malt like I remember them. Way out on Admiral, but fun for an occasional fix.
My husband was a big fan of the original Ron’s on 15th. He would head over there on Saturdays to pick up his burger with chili. I miss the little diner, but at least we can get the burgers at all the locations now.
I discovered Ted’s, over on Edison, many years ago while doing volunteer work in the area. Great hamburgers.
Brownie’s started as root beer stand, according to a friend who lived in the area when we were kids. It became a hamburger and root beer place way back when. My husband and I spent many a weekend lunch or dinner in there. We loved the staff that had been there forever, the atmosphere with all the little toys on the shelf, pictures of customer’s children lining the check-out and the food. When Brownie died, it floundered a little, but a young couple bought it and it’s as good as ever. My favorites are the hamburger and fries with a frosty mug of milk. And the pies…I try to resist the chocolate meringue but that’s always a weakness of mine. They make a lot of pies and they even have a food truck now.
And then there’s Goldies. It first opened as Goldies Patio Grill at 51st and Lewis with a par three golf course adjoining. My dad was invited to the opening and set the first course record. Their steak is a great bargain, but it’s the hamburgers, the Goldies Special being my favorite. Whatever the secret spices they use are, you can’t mistake that flavor. The quality has been consistently terrific through the years. I forgo the fries and get the slaw, unique for it’s creamy dressing. And there are the pickles. Where else do you get a pickle bar? Where else do you sit and munch on a bowl of pickles while you wait for your order?
I guess that’s my tour of my favorite local burgers with memories fried in. There are lots of great burgers, but I like mine the way I remember them. Who knows how long these places will be around…I’m going to start taking my grandkids. A little Tulsa history with a yummy burger thrown in.
On my list of things to have with me on a desert island are hamburgers – not the most practical or healthy choice. Hamburgers are comfort food, loaded with memories.
When my grandmother would stay with us, she would cook hamburgers and make french fries. We would get little cups of ketchup, just like going out.
The first hamburger place I really remember was Van’s. They had more than one location eventually, but the one I loved was on 15th Street, east of Lewis.
On special Saturday nights, I could go to Van’s with my Daddy. We stood in line, waiting for our order, listening to the waitress with her droning question, “do you want onions on that?” The guy who cooked the hamburgers was an artist with his spatula. He had long dark hair, combed back under his hat. Watching him take a ball of ground beef and throw it on the well used griddle, where he proceeded to flatten it, shape it and turn it, was an endless fascination. He worked like lightning with skills that I still admire. When they were done, the burgers were wrapped in wax paper and the fries were placed in the little paper envelope. Riding home with that greasy brown bag of burgers makes me drool even now.
But Pennington’s was the place where memories of the food mingle with all kinds of rites of growing up. Pennington’s Drive-In Restaurant was on Peoria and was the heart of my life for many years.
I started going there with my parents, but caught on easily that this was a cool place to be. We would order our hamburger in a basket with either onion rings (Pennington’s were uniquely thin and delicious) or fries. Whoever invented the basket for hamburgers deserves a place in museums of industrial design. Those colorful plastic baskets have never been improved on for ease while eating in the car. Our order would come with a stack of baskets of chicken, burgers, shrimp or any of Pennington’s favorites. Early on, the carhops were on roller skates, when that was the newest thing.
As I grew into junior high, Pennington’s became the hangout for Tulsa’s teens. When you’re not quite teen-aged, it was embarrassing to be there with your parents. Soc Row was the middle row, with pole position being the spot at the end near the restaurant. Here you could wave and honk at your friends as they cruised through, looking for a parking place and everyone could see that you were there. I confess that Daddy thought this was hilarious and I can remember him parking in the prime place, yelling “Whee” as the teenaged girls giggled by. I, of course, was sitting on the floor of the car, mortified and sure that my future life was ruined. Daddy, Daddy. Silly Daddy.
This was my home away from home all the way through high school. We raced to get there and back on our 30 minute lunch hour. If I ran an errand for my mother after school, it involved picking up a friend and stopping at Pennington’s. We went on dates that began or ended there, we piled in cars after football games to drive through, honking our school honk. We decorated our parents’ cars with our social club colors and drove through during our annual rush of new pledges. In the summer, we cruised Peoria in the evenings, looping through Pennington’s as we searched for our other cruising friends. It was where you could see who was with who and you could be seen. Reputations were made there!
We knew the Penningtons, Arch and Lola, and could see them inside behind the counter. Sherry was everyone’s favorite carhop and I’m sure she got more than her share of cocky teenaged boys trying to show her how grown up they were. We weren’t allowed to get out of our cars, for fear of being approached by Jake, the security guard. It was a time when we listened to the rules, although some tried to push him to his limits.
Pennington’s had great food, but my hamburgers, dinner rolls, vanilla Dr. Peppers, black bottom pie and onion rings are interwoven with the memories of first dates, special dates, cruising through with cars full of friends just to see who was there or who could see us, and, even the times with my parents. I miss the old places…
Confetti Thoughts 