The Day The Prairie Cried

The old Chevy feed truck squeaked and groaned under the weight of 1,000 pounds of grain and the 1,000 pound hay bale dangling from the forks on the back.  The ground was uneven next to the feed troughs and the frame of the truck whined in protest as it approached with its full ton load.  Right foot still on the brake, she swung the door open and reached around to let the arm of the cake feeder down.

The phone was buzzing in the seat next to her.  In her haste, she wedged it between her shoulder and ear and strained to hear over the sounds of the diesel engine, the motor releasing feed into the troughs, and the sputtering sound it made as it hit the metal trough bottoms and scuttled in either direction.

"He's gone," came the quivering voice on the other end of the line.

She threw the truck into park for the first time since starting it, released the trigger on the cake feeder, and slid out of the truck until her boots hit the hard dirt below.  Thirty thousand pounds of cattle crowded around her, snorting and butting each other out of the way, battling for what little grain had already been released.  "He's what?!"

"He's gone," the soft voice replied.

"Oh, no," was all she could muster.

She dropped the phone on the hard dirt and collapsed in the empty trough behind her, stunned and momentarily dumbfounded.  She reached blindly for the phone, undaunted by the hooves of the 30 steers that clomped around it.

Numbly, she raised it to her ear.  "What are we going to do?"

Mustang Sally

Sometimes hidden gems lie waiting to be discovered in unexpected places if we are willing to take the time to uncover them.  Concerts in the park on a warm summer evening are the stuff that dreams are made of.

These hidden gems are the subject of many Hollywood productions.  The series "Gilmore Girls" often showcases live music on the town square highlighted in an ethereal glow of patrons in lawn chairs on a backdrop of green grass.


Such things truly do exist in real life - complete with blankets and lawn chairs and patrons toting picnic baskets on a backdrop of green grass with remnants of the twilight sun setting in the background. 




It's hard to imagine that all of this exists within the big city limits. This is not a charming small town with a quaint square like the fictional realm of Stars Hollow, Connecticut.  This is suburban Oklahoma City, but from the surroundings you wouldn't know it.

Nestled in one of Edmond's most beautiful city parks, this is one of the most delightful Thursday night summer traditions imaginable.  People of all ages sang along to some of the greatest hits from decades past.  The little ones who didn't know the words to "Mustang Sally" just danced along instead.

It just goes to show that you never know what you'll find if you just take the time to look.

Dining In Is Not For the Faint of Heart

The Dairy Queen at noon on a weekday in our small town is bustling.  Almost every table is full and folks are sitting outside on the covered patio eating their burgers and fries in the Oklahoma summer heat.  As we wait in line to order, I notice that the place has literally not been updated since the 1980's.  The tables are all uneven and wobbly and the booths and walls are dingy with age.  No one seems to care.  The food is good and it is the busiest place in town at lunch time.

We snap up a newly vacant table and as we wait for our food.  I hear two men greet each other behind me.  "Hello, Dick." says the first.  "Well, hello, there, Kirk." replies the other.  I turn slightly to see the pair.  I know both Dick and Kirk by first and last name.  I know their children's names and a good share of their family history that, I'm sure, they wish no one knew. 

As we eat our food, I listen to the chatter and banter around me.  Everyone here knows everyone else.  It is not individual tables talking quietly among themselves, like you find in larger cities.  It is patrons carrying on conversations across tables and across the restaurant itself. 

All of this chaos is justified under the premise of enjoying the best burger in town and walking away full and satisfied for the bargain price of $5.


When we leave, I weave around the tables in two different directions to avoid lengthy conversations with people I haven't seen in a long time. 

Climbing into the car, I breathe a sigh of relief.  Small town noon hour dining is not for the introvert or the faint of heart. 
That's what the "drive-thru" is for.