docNumber 5 September, 1991 - Oklahoma State University
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Number 5 September, 1991 - Oklahoma State University
OFFICIAL MAGAZINE O F T H E STATE O F OKLAHOMA
OKLAHOMA Vol. 41, No. 5 September-October 1991
F E A T U R E S
A FISHING TALE 8
It happens at least a thousand times each fall: a man takes his son fishing. If supper
is actually caught, so much the better. By Rabh M a d
ROAD TRIP!
13 T h e leaves are turning, the road is calling right outside your back door, and if you use
our four itineraries loosely, we've made our point. By Shamn Martin,photographs
by David Fiagerald
SKY RAMBLERS
28 As airplanes go, the little yellow Piper Cubs are kind of ...wimpy. But when it comes
to foliage-watching they're the best seat in the house. Story andphotographs by Robetl R .
Mercer
THE LIFE AND WORK OF MIRAC CREEPINGBEAR
33 T h e layers of Mirac Creepingbear, both as an artist and a Kiowa man, can be found
in one place. In the brushstrokes on his paintings. By Joan Frederick Denton
THE ELOQUENTsASIAN PEAR
38 Compared with an average
Oklahoma orchard, how
different could a Japanese pear
orchard be? Try: Fruits that
are pollinated with tiny brushes
and then swaddled in paper
bags... Story by Max J. Nic/ro/s,
photographs by Steve Sisney
D E P A R T M E N T S
ONE ON ONE
IN SHORT
LETTERS
OMNIBUS Saved by a Hatband; by Ola Belle Williams
PORTFOLIO Tour on the Prairies
FOOD Calf Fries, by Jeanne M. Dtwlin
WEEKENDER Medicine Park, by Joel Everett
ARTS T h e Violin Maker, by Sharon Gomans
ENTERTAINMENT CALENDAR A guide to what's happening
I 4
5
6
7
22 43 45 47 49 COVER: Sailboats docked at Two-J's Marina on Ft. Cobb Lake. Photograph by David
Fitzgerald. Inside front cover:Methodist Boxcanyon. Photograph by Richard Day. Back
cover: First United Methodist Church in Tahlequah. Photograph by Gordon Larkin.
September-October 1991
3
Foliage For
Folderol
Sanbois Mountains and longer breaks
for sampling regional menus. "It's all
going so well," I'm sure my parents
were thinking, when I happened to
glance at the map and notice the num7 ve always approached the fall ber of miles logged, the amount of time
with a little trepidation. I n lapsed, and the fact that neither parent
had yet to so much as hint that the trip
theory, I love the season-the
idea of a young leaf turning into had reached its natural conclusion.
"Isn't it about time to head for
a golden version of itself has always
made me feel good about the aging home?" I asked from the back seat.
No comment from the front seat.
process.
"If we don't turn around soon," I
If the truth be known, however, I've
never forgotten that a fall foliage tour added in that calm, matter-of-fact way
adolescents adopt when talking to recut my trick-or-treating career short.
T h e year was 1970, and, u n b e - calcitrant parents, "won't we get home
knownst to my sisters and I, Mom and too late to go trick-or-treating?"
Forget about a picture saying more
Dad had decided their young brood
than a thousand words;
had become embarrassingly big for the annual AfoLiage tour seemed
,.heir silence told me
heist o f , Halloween
appr~pr~ate-tora more than I wanted to
know. It also jerked my
goodies. T h e previous family always at its
two younger siblings to
year, my eleven-year-old
On the road'
attention. "Aren't w e
self had dwarfed most of the children who swarmed the neigh- going to go trick-or-treating?" they
borhood collecting bags full of pennies, cried.
N o comment. "Oh my," I recall
apples, and candy. In hindsight, I do not find it surpris- thinking as I sunk back into my seat.
Mom and Dad may remember the
ing my parents saw need to end my
Halloween forays ...only that I never remainder of the trip (we did eventusaw it coming. As we loaded into the ally head for h o m e ) as a parental
Rambler that fateful day, a foliage tour nightmare, but I don't. In t h e end,
seemed the epitome of civilized be- coursing down highways past farmhavior-appropriate for a family that houses with pumpkins grinning from
the porch, under canopies of street-lit
was always at its best on the road.
We drove east from Stillwater on maples, and by woods as golden as the
S.H. 51, by t h e woods of Keystone inside of any cathedral seemed to me
Lake, then south to the hills and dales a rite of passage. Another step in the
around Robbers Cave State Park. T h e human aging process, if you will.
Before the car turned into our driveimage of traveling bliss intensified.
O n e sister spotted a stand of red way, it was dark, and we'd seen our
maples. Another a blaze of sumac. share of little goblins flitting up yards
Conversation moved from picking pe- and knocking on front doors and haulcans to the merits of sorghum over ingaway the fruits of their work. But as
maple syrup to an easy rendition of we unloaded the spoils of our road
"'This Land Is Your Land, This Land trip-a nice round rock, another famIs My Land." All in all, a stranger would ily memory, a jar of homemade prehave been hard put to say who was serves, I realized my parents had
being most entertained by the autumn weaned us from one American tradition, by giving us another to fill the void
outing: the children or the adults.
As on any good road trip, there was a it left behind. It seemed a fair exshort pause for stretching legs in the change.
J e a n n e M. Devlin
4
Oklahoma 'I'ODAY
Ih.
'1
eisiger ever hadthat the Oklahoma
ust Bowl was, well, just a tadoverblown
ame while doing an oral history with her
Discussing life in Oklahoma City in the
3
30s, she asked him about his memories of $
he Dust Bowl. "And he just looked at
wropper a n d hisfamily enrering Cafifomia in 1937.
A
e," marvels Weisiger. "I remember chinking, 'This is weird that he doesn't know about this.' " Dust Bowl theories as they pertained to
eye-opening. Yes, there was a Dust Bowl
T h e n she did a bit more research. Her
Oklahoma. Most now blame, among other
in pan of Oklahoma between 1935 and
discovery: only five of Oklahoma's
factors, poorly conceived federal agricul1938. And, yes, 309,000 Oklahomans did
seventy-seven counties were in the Dust
tural programs for the exodus. In the last
leave the state between 1935 and 1938.
Bowl region. Of those five, all bur two
decade historians have tried to set history
T h e catch: only 22,000 of them left from
counties were in the Panhandle. Kansas as the Dust Bowl. "It's actually a coincistraight. It is not, however, the stuff of
a state was far more affected by the black
evening news reports.
dence in time," Weisiger explains.
blizzards of dust than was Oklahoma, as
In an attempt to get the word out to the
Journalists, historians, and even federal
average man, Weisiger got a grant to stage
were parts of Texas, New Mexico, and
migration experts saw news reports of
an exhibition on the topic. "1 felt this was
Colorado.
Oklahoma dust being carried as far as the
For Weisiger, it was as if her whole dusty steps of the Capitol, saw Oklahomans
an opportunity to make an impact on how
image of Oklahoma had been thoroughly
Oklahomans perceive that period of time."
relocating to California, Arkansas,
scrubbed.
And, ultimately, how we see ourselves.
Missouri, and Arizona, and thought the
Her research led next to Dust Bowl
T h e exhibit, which includes sixty
two were linked. Few, of course, ever
migration as personified in the Joad
Depression-era photographs, runs through
actually visited Oklahoma.
family in John Steinbeck's novel "The
October 20 at Norman's Santa F e Depot,
Over time, migration experts like Paul
Grapes of Wrath." T h a t proved equally
Taylor of California came to rethink their 1 200 South Jones.
I Indian Treasures in
1 A Renovated Villa Philbrook
1
Since its beginning in 1939, the
Philbmok Museum of Art has nurtured
two things: its Waite Phillips villa and its
collection of American Indian paintings.
So it's appropriate that when Villa
Philbrook reopens October 29 after a $17
million restoration, it will do so as t h e
permanent home of the museum's
American Indian collection. Its lower
level will house not only a treasure trove
of Indian art and artifacts. but visible
storage so visitors can see the depth of
the museum's permanent collection.
A fitting prelude to the October
September-October 1991
5
k3
1
B
-5
P
(
Richard IVest's "Chevenne Sun Dance: FitJt
Painting of tkc ~ h i r d ' ~ a"y .
unveiling is an exhibition this month of
paintings by Oklahoma Native American
I
artists that reads like a who's who of
Oklahoma Indian art: Fred Beaver,
Woody Crumbo, Jerome Tiger, Monroe
Tsatoke, Acee Blue Eagle, Richard West,
Archie Blackowl.
T h e exhibit is based largely on a
painting collection built by Philbrook
through purchases from its American
Indian Annual, a national exhibition held
from 19% to 1979. In its heyday, the
annual juried competition was the most
important national showcase for Native
American artists.
T h e exhibition will be in the
LaFortune Mezzanine Gallery through
September 8. T h e museum is located at
2727 South Rockford Road in Tulsa. For
information on the exhibit or the Villa
opening, call (918) 749-7941.
Letters Joel Everett's "Zen and the Art of
Bicycle Touring" in the May-June '91
issue of Oklahoma Today is an exceptional article.
Reading his wonderful narrative descriptions of the ride, the scenery, and
the feelings and emotions of the riders,
one becomes very involved and imagines riding along, dodging the armadillos and straining to reach the areas of
rest along the route.
Let us have more articles by Joel
Everett.
Shirlee L. Parman
Pryor
Some of us were ringing cowbells
and waving "American Flags." T h e fire
trucks were there. Some were honking
horns as we gathered to welcome another convoy of busses from the Middle
East.
T h e troops had just landed at Altus
Air Force Base and were on their way
to Ft. Sill for the official welcome home
ceremony. What a joy it is to welcome
these men and women back to the good
old U.S.A.
If you could only see the expression
on their faces, see and experience the
excitement, exuberance, and anticipation of once more getting to see grass
instead of just sand-green trees,
creeks, cattle, and horses, instead of
camels.
T h a n k you Oklahoma Today for
sharing Oklahoma Today with E-4 Jeffrey D. Heath who was among those on
one of those returning busses.
Mrs. John 0.Robinson
Cache
Since I first bought an issue of
Oklahoma Today, in which you printed
an article on Decoration Day in rural
Oklahoma towns and interviewed two
friends of mine, I have been meaning
to let you know what a good publication
it is.
T h e tourist doesn't really see Okla6
homa and its history without getting off
the beaten path, and that is what you
accomplish with your magazine.
We tend to take our state for granted
but are reminded how really lucky we
are when we see the reactions of our
out-of-state friends when we show
them your articles.
I'd like to send all of my "Okie"
relatives who are living out-of-state a
gift subscription, but choose my favorite uncle as the recipient.
Keep up the good work.
homa until they've actually s e e
Oklahoma, such as in the beautifu
photography of your terrific magazin
Thanks to your magazine and infor
mative articles; it makes me appreciat
the state even more. Please keep u
the wonderful photography and
You make me truly proud of bein
from Oklahoma!
3
Perry Rarno
Alameda, Californi
I'm a native Oklahoman and also i
1
Willma Carry the services. Most of the time when I
Sacramento, California read the articles in Oklahoma Today, I
Congratulations on being named
Regional Magazine of the Year! T h e
Regional Publishers Association made
t h e right decision. We enjoy t h e
magazine very much!
As for the name of the father of the
father-son team of stonemasons who
helped build the Roman Arch Bridge
in Kay County (July-August 1991), he
was my great-grandfather: John
Christmas (he was born December 25,
1845)Armstrong. He owned and operated the quarry there in Newkirk.
Mary Lou Lawton
Elizabethtown, Pennsylvania
I ventured back to the Sooner State
in 1989 after a sixteen-year absence.
Not to my surprise, there was beauty
everywhere, from the green, hilly region around Tenkiller Lake southward
towards gigantic Lake Eufaula. T h e
Wichita Mountains Wildlife Refuge
was as scenic as ever, the glistening
lakes beckoning me to drop a fishing
line in, which I did.
Just last year I made a return Oklahoma visit, wanting to see more. Going
southward to Broken Bow Lake and
Beavers Bend State Park, the forested,
mountainous terrain reminded me of
the Lake Tahoe area of California.
That's one myth that I've been trying to convey t o my California
friends-that Oklahoma is not the
stereotypic flat farmland and oil wells
they've always pictured in their minds.
I tell them they haven't seen Okla-
get homesick. I'm always telling my
shipmates that the only thing better
than the Atlantic is the Oklahoma sky.
T h a n k s for keeping t h e USS
O'Bannon entertained.
T.L. Lyons
Petty ofher
3rd Class
Miami, Florida
Just had to tell you how much my
family has enjoyed many years of
reading your magazine. We were born
and raised in Oklahoma and have
traveled over most of it. However, we
find new places to go with every issue.
We have now subscribed for three
friends and relatives in Oklahoma, one
in Wyoming, one in New Mexico, and
one in Arizona, and they enjoy it also.
Thanks for such an interesting publication.
Boyce Timmons
Norman
Wegoofedinthe May issue onpage 5. Don
Mulhix, Jr., operates an auto detailshop
in the Route 66 town of Elk Cify, not in
Clinton.
NEXT ISSUE: Cedar trees may be the bane of our existence 364 days of the year, but one day each year they reign in splendid glory. That day is Christmas, and in a special set of stories we'll explore our ethnic roots through tree ornaments in the next issue of Oklahoma Today. Oklahoma TODAY
Saved bv a Hatband d
A father's cool head proves a potent antidote.
'n
my sixth summer, I learned that
life is bittersweet. T h e bitter following the sweet sometimes as
quickly as a change in the Oklahoma weather. Sometimes, both to be
found in the same experience.
T h e year was 1907, the same year
Oklahoma ceased to be called Indian
Territory and became the 46th state.
Word came to my family that one of my
cousins had died in the night. Mama
and. Papa dressed my four-year-old
sister Zora, my baby brother Willie, and
m e in our Sunday-go-to-meeting
clothes, and we headed out on foot as
the crow flies, across the fields of cotton, corn, and sorghum. T i m e usually
passed quickly when we walked with
Mama and Papa, but that day was different. T h e sky seemed to hang like
soiled grey laundry, fringed with soot.
Papa and Mama spoke in tones too low
to be clearly heard.
At my uncle's, a kerosene lamp
vainly tried to brighten a gloomy room.
Little Hershel had been weak from
birth, but his death had shaken the
family with its abruptness. Come sundown, Grandma Bethel decided the
restless children should go to her place
and eat supper. It had been a long day.
As we left on foot, the storm that had
been hanging overhead all day lost its
reserve. Papa handed t h e baby t o
Mama and picked up my sister. Resting
Willie on her hip, Mama took my hand.
Heavy drops of rain hit the earth stirring up dust on the path. Staring down,
I watched dust become caked mud
between my toes. It felt like pebbles,]
mused, until the pressure of Mama's
hand urged me to come on.
Tlie wagon road we followed was
through a sea of grass. Halfway along it,
September-October 1991
my leg began to sting. My vision,
however, stayed keyed to the ground,
the world outside the corner of my eyes
going by quickly, blurring together.
Some steps later, my silence had become murmurs of complaint. Assuming
the pace was to blame, Mama, now
panting herself, said nothing.
W h e n my murmurs escalated to
whimpers and then tears, Mama, who
knew I cried only for a reason, stopped.
She handed off the baby to Papa and
swooped me up into her arms. Standing, waiting for a flash of lightning to
break the darkness, she stared at my
extended leg.
T h e bolt of light was not long in
coming, and t h e deafening clap of
t h u n d e r t h a t followed it all b u t
drowned out Mama's high-pitched
scream at the sight of my puffy ankle
pierced by two drops of blood and her
words, "She's been bitten by a snake."
Mama broke for t h e still distant
house. Papa struggled behind, slowed
by t h e burden of two children but
close enough to hear her sob, "My little
girl's going to die."
With our arrival, pandemonium hit
the farmhouse. A horse was running
before my uncle had his right foot in
the stirrup-racing for the doctor in
Bristow, in a storm so fierce it would
uproot grown trees. I was placed on the
kitchen table. Faces in a circle peered
down at me. Mom knelt nearby, praying. "With this storm, it'll take too long
for the Doc to get here," my aunt said.
"We gotta do somethin' quick," another said. Someone remembered
milk had "drawing powers," and so
they submerged my foot halfway to the
knee in a pail of fresh sweet milk. "It
feels good," I heard my voice say. "It's
not doin' any good," someone countered gravely.
With that, my a u n t ran t o t h e
chickenhouse and returned with two
hens. She shoved one leghorn into the
arms of a cousin and flopped the other
squawking bird onto the wooden sink.
With a butcher knife and one motion
she sliced the fowl open from craw to
tail and wrapped the animal around my
leg. I began to scream. When the innards of the pullet turned green, my
aunt applied the other chicken. It too
turned green. "There's still a lot of
poison in there," someone said.
My uncle responded by taking down
a can of kerosene; pain shot through my
body as my leg was lowered inside.
After long minutes, I felt myself being
raised up, away from the cluster of faces
that had melted into a blur, away from
the good intentions. I opened my eyes
to see the pale eyes of my Papa, who
gently took me into his arms.
Sitting down in a chair, his hands
pressed my c h e e k into t h e linseywoolsey of his Sunday vest. H e reached
for his hat on the floor, freed the rawhide band that encircled its crown, and
carefully tied it just below my knee.
T h e wind howled, t h e s h u t t e r s
banged, and the rain battered the earth.
I lay in my Papa's embrace, until the
horse and buggy brought the doctor to
the house about two that morning.
"There's nothing I can do," he said.
Later that day, Grandpa went to the
field where I first felt the pain and
found what h e expected to find: a
rattlesnake. Delirious with fever for
many days, I do not know the fate of my
attacker. But I do know his victim was
saved by a wise, caring father and a
-01a Belle Williams
hatband.
7
By Ralph Marsh
T
h e man, t h e
boy, and t h e
new beagle
pup sat in the
car until t h e
post-dawn rain stopped,
sipping black coffee and
s w e e t e n e d chocolate
and wondering at how
d i f f e r e n t t h e world
looked from where they
were.
One was thirty-six, one
was five, and one was six
weeks. All saw the world
anew because of what
was between them. All
sat just so in the edge of
the woods at dawn in the
early spring watching
rain nudge between rows
September-October 1991
u
of newly sprouted wheat to get into the pond where it belonged. All eyes, like
the rain, went eventually to the pond. None knew what he was about. All were
eager.
When the sun came, they gathered their gear and left the car, the pup riding
warm in a pocket. All shivered from more than the chill of the dawn.
There were worms for the boy and a simple spinning rig. T h e obligatory fly
rod, nine feet long, for the man. T h e pocket for the pup. They approached
the pond in slight awe of all they didn't know.
T h e boy settled first, the cork making a satisfying plop in the mirrored surface as it settled into just the position it was supposed to be in. T h e man
watched the boy's eyes move without changing, from the cork to him and to
the pup, and he wondered that he had not seen it in the boy's eyes before.
Not even in those magical moments before a baseball game.
"Look, son," he said, "there where the muddy water hits the clear. Like a
fan. Spreading out. I'll bet ...
"Can I borrow a night crawler?"
T h e boy put down his rod and scrambled for the can.
Sound ceased.
T h e night crawler, hooked through the head, looped in long, lazy motion
up into the rain-scrubbed sky and landed with a plop similar to that of the
cork, ruffling the surface of the mirror right where the muddy water met the
clear. T h e line tightened leisurely. T h e universe stilled.
It happened quickly, like summer lightning. T h e tip of the fly rod jabbed
crazily at the surface of the pond. T h e reel tore the man's thumb. Somebody
screamed. T h e world went crazy.
A miracle-clean, white-silver, majestic-shattered the mirror into a
thousand pieces as it leapt for the blue sky, scattering diamond shards from
its sides. T h e man slipped, tried to get the tip of the rod up, and slid in the
mud toward the pond.
T h e boy threw down his rod. Ran to his father. Wrapped both arms around
him as high around his chest as he could reach, holding his father from the
water's reach, protecting him from whatever it was that suddenly had burst
The speed limit o t ~Greenleaf Luke at Greenleaf Stnte Prrrk, southecrst of B r a s , is a peurejil
25 m.p.h. Contemplativefishennevzcome seeking black bass, sand bass, and crappie.
9
Three Good-01-Boys, A Boat, A Line, And A snake
ramped out near a ~eacefulriver, spending some well-deserved hours
L
'
through the water to threaten him. T h e man was yelling,
trying to crank the reel, strip in the line, keep it tight. T h e
boy locked onto him, and the pup fled into the nearby
stand of new wheat.
Together, they fell into the mud. T h e boy saving the
man. T h e man &ing desperately to pull the tip of the
pole out of the water and behind him. Somehow, and it
was done according to no book on fishing that has ever
been written, a trophy
. . bass slid regally from the pond and
onto the shore. Surely one of the biggest and most beautiful creatures God ever created, clean silver against the
mud.
1
(
doing what they loved best, three good-01-boys decided one night to go frog-gigging, a feast of fried frog legs, their goal. Equipped with a strong flashlight and long-handled. three-pronged gigs, they loaded their boat. The river was fairly clear. A little moonlight randomly danced on the water. Gliding along, listening to peaceful nighttime sounds, they contemplated how great it was to be fishermen. They gigged a few frogs and missed a few. I
I
I
I
I
As they paddled the boat under a tree that leaned out over the river, one fisherman noticed a snake resting on a limb overhead. He wouldn't have been a good-01-boy if the thought of lightly goosing the snake with his gig hadn't at least occurred to him. In this instance, however, the thought quickly became an urge too great to ignore. The gig They say it comes free at least once to every man, woman, and child who takes the time and expends the effort. And it comes in as many different forms as there are people who pursue it. T h e two of them sat nearby in shock, looking at this
went up. The snake scrambled to escape. But the gig found its mark, and the beautiful thing the fly rod had produced. And the boy
yelled and the man began to laugh, and the boy returned
snake fell, to the good-01-boy's amazement, into the middle of the boat. Three panic-filled fishermen yelled, cursed, and struggled in three different directions. The panic-stricken snake zigzagged across the bottom of the boat. Who can say which possessed the most fear: the fishermen or the snake. At the height of the frenzy, one good-01-boy had the bright idea to use his pistol on the nasty snake. POW,he missed. POW,missed again. The snake was close enough, but, unfortunately, a moving target. Pow, again. "Can't you hold that light still!" he growled at the other two. It was getting crowded in the boat. One scared snake and three terrified fishermen had been joined by three bullet holes. Water began to rush in. One good-01-boy yelled, "Plug up those holes with your fingers or we're going to sink." "Do it yourself!" another shot back. One good-01-boy realized the shore was some four feet away, so he bailed out, half swimming, half jumping to shore. The other two followed close behind. The three good-01-boys pulled the boat partly ashore and turned it over. The snake escaped into the water but so did their string of frogs. Pointing fingers of guilt, each was prepared to assign blame to the other. But, somehow, as if on cue, all three good-01-boys burst out laughing instead. -Joe Walker
10
I
his laugh and they scooted to each other and they hugged
there in the mud of the pond bank. And one of them began to cry in a way that did not show and he held the boy
very tightly even after the pup had burst back out of the
new wheat and tried to lick from their faces whatever it
was that was between them.
And through lives that changed and separated and went
their own wavs.
, . that moment never left the two of them.
It was there to remember when times turned hard. T h i s
moment, if nothing more.
And that, my friend, is fishing. And it happens. It happens in many different ways for many different people,
but it happens best when one puts oneself in a position
for some good thing to happen, and waits.
klahomans over sixteen years of age have been
known to spend more than $461 million each
year fishing. T h a t kind of money is spent because when boys and girls grow up, they remember magical moments spent fishing and grow eager
for them to come again. And so they buy more lures and
better rods and bigger boats and fill their hats with handtied flies. And they get longer trout lines and bigger hooks
and go to bigger ponds and longer rivers. And stay in nicer
motels. And celebrate at night.
In Oklahoma, they go to Eufaula for crappie and to
Texoma for forty-pound-plus striper and Blue Cat that
reach eighty pounds. In southeastern Oklahoma, they
travel to the Poteau River for the tasty flatheads that can
Oklahoma 'I'ODAY
top out over one hundred-pounds. Konawa
Lake for the largemouths, or Duncan City,
Lake. They go to Canton Lake for the walleye
pike and to Broken Bow Lake and the Glover
and Mountain Fork rivers for smallmouth
bass. And often, they come home with the
common sunfish measured in ounces.
No fish is too small, no fish quite big
enough, no place too distant to try. And finally, they enter the inevitable competition to
see who can produce the most magic the
quickest.
'They say it comes free at least once to every man, woman, and child who takes the time
and expends the effort. And it comes in as
many different forms as there are people who
pursue it: an overly mothered boy hearing his
first cuss words when a can of sardines, in the
process of being opened, spills down the
overall bib of a respected pillar of the town; a
trout, as beautiful as a painting, sucking a wet
fly from the edge of a rock only minutes after
you have fallen and broken the handle of the
new split-bamboo rod your son sent you from
Korea; a moment when a hook grabs on to a
sunken stump, and, as you turn to walk away,
the stump moves beneath the surface and
begins a run up creek as only a three-pound
sandy can; a missed moment as you sit lazily
in a boat with a friend when the water starts
to bubble and you realize you are in the
middle of a school of feeding sand bass and
you ram the treble hook into your thumb in
your hurry and you fail to get it out until the
water is quiet and the fish are gone and you
are congratulating your friend on the three he
got by having his lure in the water instead of
his thumb.
5
F
ishing is something
than the sum An autnmn aby &ns rid&&rard~on Stan a n d E w Brr/onFu(inbforcrappie at
total of all that. It is a positive thing that ue
hedoher,
in nod
t P n ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ o m a .
lurks along the banks of ponds and the
shores of lakes and rivers and creeks. And every fish and jestic in their scattering of the diamond shards of magic.
every trip brings a memory of another trip and another fish, until So that in the going away it is even more beautiful, if
it builds in the mind to a way of living that runs parallel to and possible, than in the living.
takes the pain from managing stores and answering deadlines
Few facts about fishing are not arguable.
and cleaning septic tanks and talking nicely to people who do
But it is known by those who really know that there is
not deserve it.
no better rigging than a man, a boy, and a new beagle pup.
'Those who find it young are lucky.
And whatever it was that was between them.
It is a lifetime thing. And when they get too old, its practitioners sit in hardware stores and talk of how it once was with WrjterRalph Marsh has spent his share of time muliing the
them, and the fish magically grow as the pipe skoke rises. Skies e.wence of goodfishing in the sfreams aroundhis Heavener
become bluer and moons brighter and mirrored surfaces more home. David Fitzgeraidand David Vin.yard~reOkiahoma
beautiful and the miracles that break through them more ma- Cdy area photographers.
--
Scptcmbcr-October 1991
-
11
IT'S TIME TOll1 Labor Day may signal the end of vacation for some, but Oklahoma's Indian summer is reason g
enough to keep on rolling. Here are four for the road. By Sharon Martin
Photographs by David Fitzgerald
Adventure should be for anyone who wants it, not just for those
lucky few with money to burn or a grant from T h e National
Geographic Society.
And adventure needn't mean
climbing the slopes of Everest or rafting white waters, though the
latter may be a choice for some intrepid Oklahomans.
When it comes to adventure, my family and I favor backroad treks.
Oklahoma roads twist or fall or run straight as an arrow's shaft, and
at the end are ghost towns, museums, air fields, silos, mansions,
fishing holes, and campgrounds. Adventure is where you find it,
and finding it can take you as long as a weekend or as little as an
afternoon.
Minimal gear is required: a thermos, state
map, pencil and notebook, camera or binoculars, and a tankful of
gasoline. ("Mark of Heritage," a guide to Oklahoma's historic
sites, makes a handy companion if you're a history buff.)
Stow the family in the car. If the children are small, throw in a
pillow and blanket. Grab a neighbor. And take off for a needed day
of relaxation in search of autumn roads.
Sharon Martin is a dt-uoted road-trr'pper and alt~teru?hot ~ n i e her
s ho~1eill Cushit~g.Thi.s is her.fil:st
artirlefor Oklahoma Today. David Fitzgerald is a long-tinre rontdutor to the rnagcizi~rt.
--
September-October 1991
13
Ir
wn the FI to,,,
r l
he morning air has tang and snap.
Leaving Cushing on S.H. 18, I
lower my window to let in the
scent of it. [Jnlike some mornings, everyone on thc road seems alert and
cheerful, raising their fingers from
steering wheels in an Oklahoma salute
as I pass.
A man in a flannel shirt picks up
aluminum cans near t h e Cimarron
River bridge; another, in a g r e e n
sweater, takes rod and reel from his
faded blue pickup and descends the
sandy bank. N o r t h of S.H. 51, a
meadow of velvety white grass leans
gently in the wind. Sumac waves scarlet-tipped fingers near fields of rich
brown e a r t h striped by t h e plow.
Herefords graze on the green shoots of
winter wheat. I sense the perfume and
colors of Autumn. S h e has arrived,
unpacked her bags, and plans to stay
awhile.
A turtle crosses the U.S. 64 fork as I
round the curve. H e goes his way, and
I go mine past muddy Black Bear
Creek into Pawnee, where a sign on a
garage reads "KC'S Injun Repair."
Past Pawnee Lake, the tractor I'm
trailing turns toward Red Rock, and I
speed up past the turquoise trash bags
left by a volunteer road-cleaning crew.
Extension homemaker groups have
adopted stretches of highway through
these rolling hills, and they've left their
names on their tidy pieces of work"Do Bees," "Redbud," "Be Square."
.
I In roofs and stone walls recall old
homesteads. A pond plays catch with
the sun, snagging the light and throwing it back again. My eyes are still
dazzled as the massive tin garage on the
edge of Ralston swims into view. T h e
town lies on the south bank of the Arkansas; I cross the river into Osage
County, my eyes on the distant buttes
and cities yet to come.
Fairfax, ringed by Salt Creek, is a
family kind of town. I drive slowly past
t
r
t h e Silver Moon Cafe and Jump's
Roller Inn, savoring the old buildings
and the friendly bustle of the place.
Outside of town, Little Chief Creek
runs clear between rocky banks and tall
oaks. Tree-swathed hills surround irregular fields of wheat. N o neat squares
or rectangles here. T h e land won't allow it. T r e e s fade to prairie. Fence
"posts" b e c o m e stacks of rocks
wrapped in wire. A sign on a fence
surrounding a treeless field warns: "No
Hunting or Wood Cutting."
At Shidler I turn west toward Kaw
Lake and its namesake city. White and
Halloween-yellow grasses trim t h e
roadside. T h e lake spreads to the horizon. T h e wind whips up white caps,
but a few diehard fishermen throw out
lines on the choppy water.
I circle through Kaw City and by a
refurbished train station with a platform of Coffeyville bricks and look
back on a sign that reads: "Kanza, T h e
r
1
I
LJ,
.-
-
,. ..,
-CUSHING
ger, dong S.H. IL . .-.hove,pasturn of p/etz/y eas/ of Elow Ci/y.
._.
---
Wind People."
A twist, a turn, and a final straight
stretch bring me to U.S. 77. Into every
adventurer's life a little four-lane must
fall. I t a k e m i n e s o u t h toward
home.
-
Other sites to see on the road to K a u Ci/y :the
Paamee Bi// M~cseumin Pawnee, the Mar/and
Mansion U I I Pioneer
~
LVoman Stc~tuein
Ponra Cio,and Kaa) Lakr.
M
14t rises in streamers off the
ponds, and crows gather in
puddles of sunlight as I embark on this clear fall day. I skirt
McAlester's livestock sale barn, re-
-
-
Right, the hamest along Vallty Road, near S.H. 31. Above, "The Garden of Memories,"
at the Minen Cem~terytzear Mdurtain, in the hill country of southeasfern Oklahoma.
McALESTER
810cker
Lewisville
membering trips there with Daddy
and Grandpa Edge. I still love the rich,
ripe smell and the bawl of the cattle.
T h e bypass spills me onto S.H. 31 at
Krebs, but the town and its fine restaurants soon fall behind me. Soon, the
southern fingers of Lake Eufaula fill
t h e landscape. Concrete from old
bridges jut from the water; good crappie fishing around those old structures,
I bet.
Elm Point slips by. Two signs face
each other across the road. One announces handthrown pottery, t h e
other, dancing rabbit. I'm tantalized,
even consider investigating, but the
van glides on past mules, goats, and a
lone windmill.
At Quinton, ruins remind me of this
area's mining past. East of town, at the
S.H. 2 junction, a sign points south to
Robbers Cave State Park. Along the
road, sycamores and cottonwoods look
down on sturdy oaks and frail willows.
Color is everywhere-in the cattledotted meadows and in the Sanbois
Mountains rising behind them.
I pass a water-filled coal pit flanked
by a manmade hill. Kinta's red brick
buildings come and go. Bean pods
hang heavy on a catalpa tree. I cross
unnamed creeks. Byrd's Grocery in
Lequire stands near the grocerylfeed
storelgas station/post office my parents
ran here in the '50s. Anita Byrd, the
lady behind the counter, has friendly
answers for my questions. I fill my
coffee cup from her pot, then take a
drive through town. Only the foundation and cellar remain of t h e
schoolhouse. Ripe yellow fruit dangles
from a leafless persimmon tree, and
across the road a young woman hangs
her wash on the line.
Back on the highway I pass more
coal pits, almost hidden by the trees,
and Miners Cemetery. I cruise
through McCurtain and across Owl
Creek. At Milton Cemetery, inside the
fence, the door to one of two outhouses gapes open.
In Bokoshe most everyone in town
seems to be gathered at the cafe called
Cafe. I slow down, but decide it's too
soon for more coffee. I've planned for
this trip to end at Panama, but as with
all good adventures, the plans are
flexible. On a whim I turn north on
U.S. 59, then east on S.H. 9. There's
time for a walk through Spiro Mounds
State Park. It's too short a walk. When
there are two days, instead of one, I'll
visit Miners Cemetery, read the names
on the markers. I'll check out the library at McCurtain, and the stone
building with the slatted windows
behind City Hall. I'll walk again at
Spiro Mounds, and eat lunch at Cafe.
Until then ...
On this stretch, you migk detourfor: Lake
Eufaula, the Basebnll Card Shop in Quinton,
Robbers Cave State Park, and Spim IZ1ound.s
Archaeological Park andicfuseum.
Oklahoma TODAY
-
ou=,re Entering.,. T
tumn colors, and cottonwoods spill
their golden leaves along the road. A
duck rests on matted reeds beside the
overflow stream.
At Binger, I jog west, then south
again. Giant cottonwoods stand at attention along- a fence row. At Oney
someone has scrawled on a building
shell, "We Are T h e Lost Boys." I stop
in Nowhere, population three, to refill
my coffee cup.
T h e Washita River winds gently
through the hills, its curves outlined in
oak red 2nd cottonwood yellow. Across
the river, through Carnegie and north
toward Hydro, the harvest dance is in
full swing. Cotton pokes from trailers,
peanuts dry in hoppers in the field,
tractors create clouds of prairie dust.
Farmers scurry over fields and swallow
country roads in loaded trucks. T h e dance will stretch into the night.-
t
WATONGA
he sky promises a magnificent
autumn day west of the Indian
Meridian. A coyote beside the
Hydro ~eaV)
road confirms it. H e sits on his
haunches in the sun. H e blinks as I
Hinton
drive by.
As the earthen canyons of Roman
Lookeba
Nose State Park fall behind, I come
Eakly
upon a cluster of russet oaks, WinnieBinger
the-Pooh's Hundred Acre Woods. T o
the west, cottonwoods mark the course
Alfalfa
of the Canadian River.
T h e grain elevator gives Watonga an
urban air, its twin towers Oklahoma's
Carnegie
version of the World Trade Center.
Between the highway and the railroad
.- _., , tracks, a train station bears the seal of
the Central Oklahoma Railfan Club.
T h e tracks lead to Geary, passing
through aptly named Greenfield.
A train runs alongside me, carrying
wheat and in its open coal cars, gypsum. A sign announces, "American
Horse Lake, Public Fishing." North of
Geary I cross the tracks in search of
Jesse Chisholm's grave. Coming back,
I notice four roadside crosses, each
painted white and carrying a wreath of
plastic flowers, memorials not found
on my map.
Past the friendly Circle B ("water
jugs filled free"), I'm out of town
again. A long yellow bridge spans the
South Canadian. Side creeks carve
miniature red canyons.
In Hinton I look for the Caddo Rose
Cafe, but I stop instead at the Dr. A.F.
State Park, in
Hobbs Store, an establishment that has Left, at Two-J's Marina on Ft. I 1 Lake fi
southwestern Oklahoma. Above, ark foliaae on the lake's east end.
offered fountain service, gifts, and
veterinary supplies since the turn of The distractions are many on this l a : golfing
the century. I pass up lunch for a dip at Roman Nose State Park;fihing at
of chocolate chip ice cream at the American Hone Lake; hiking, rappeling, and
fountain. T h e visit ends with a browse swimming a t Red Rock Canyotz State Park;
fading and skiing at Fort Cob6 State Park.
through Hinton's Historical Museum,
Other don 't-misses:the T.B. Fewson Home
a fine old house south of town.
in Watonga, Hinton's Historical Museum, the
Back on the open road, I drive down, Canadian Rivers Historical Society Museum
down, down into Red Rock Canyon. itz Geary, and the Kiowa Tribal Museum in
Rocks vie with oaks to show off au- Camgie.
t
ti
b
Scptember-October 1991
F
Ritings From,,
A
rooster stands on his half-barrel
house and salutes the morning.
Grapevines d r a p e a garden
fence. A few stubborn nuts cling to the
bare branches of a pecan tree. All this
stands out starkly beneath the silver
sky as we travel southeast from Ada on
a chilly, fall morning. I have company
on this trip-my husband Dale, with
his box of pastels and his artist's eyes,
and daughter Jenny, her childish de-
Right, a c?-imson sentinel in Boggy Depot Stare Park. Above, "Little Niagara" a t the
Chickusaa~National Recreation Area, near Su&hur.
Gene Autry light in anything new better than the
brightest sunshine.
Horses and Black Angus graze on
either side of the 45th Infantry Memorial Highway as w e travel past
Thanksgiving Ranch. At the feed store
in Stonewall a sign reads: "No Chicken
Feathers Sold Here." East of town, Old
Owl Road intersects the highway.
Around the curve in Coalgate, murals
greet travelers. We slow to admire 01'
Coaly, then stop at the Miner's Museum. A child-size coffin captures
Jenny's attention, as do model coal
mines painstakingly built by the late
Sam Wells. I read the names on the
Miners' Memorial, recognize one,
Keno McEntire, and recall him as a
rancher with jeans tucked into boots.
South toward Lehigh, cattle graze
among patches of coal. West of Atoka,
horses stand in fields stained yellow
with wildflowers. Clear Boggy River
leads us to Boggy Depot. Bois d'arcs
oversee a cemetery with stone-slabbed
Confederate graves.
Past Wapanucka, t h e ground is
strewn with limestone boulders, a
giant's game of marbles. T h e clear
water of Blue River races over a low,
stone waterfall.
At the Tishomingo National Fish
Hatchery, water turns a wheel before
spilling into Pennington Creek.
T w o men sit on a pew on the porch
of the Reagan General Store; the owner
decorates a box for a box supper-a
replica of the store goes on top. Across
the road, game cocks try to outcrow
each other. "We m u s t b e in for a
storm," says the box decorator.
Near Mill Creek, a short rain brings
showers of yellow leaves to the ground.
We cruise beneath a canopy of native
trees in the park at Sulphur, climbing
Bromide Hill before heading south. We
skirt t h e Buckhorn Area of t h e
Arbuckle Reservoir. H u n d r e d s of
blackbirds fly up from road and field as
we drive through the town of Nebo.
In the Washita River bottom, two
huge aircraft and the river bridge announce Gene Autry-the town, not the
singing cowboy for whom the town was
named.
As we head north through mica-like
layers of geological history in t h e
Arbuckles, Jenny asks wearily from the
back seat, "Isn't there another museum?" She's asleep before we get
home. A fall storm arrives just a few
heartbeats before we do. osb
Sights along the road Aclude: Lake Atoka,
Born Depot Stote Park. the Chickasaa>
Council House in Tishomingo, Qickusaw
National Recreation Area, Lake of the
Arbuckles, atzdthe nearhy Arbucklt
:2lountai11s.
Oklahoma TODAY
AonTour
the Prairie Riding with Washington Irving By Barbara Palmer Photographs by Richard Smith ashington Irving, as anyone who has sat
through freshman English may recall, was the
first American-born writer to be praised by
European critics. H e is probably most remembered today as the creator of such characters as the nervous schoolmaster Ichabod Crane and legendary napper Rip Van Winkle. H e was first known, though,
for a literary form h e mastered: sketches. His musings and
observations about life in the Hudson River Valley secured
his reputation here and abroad.
It was by chance that Washington Irving, America's first
claim to literary distinction, became Oklahoma's first travel
writer.
O n e summer evening in 1832 aboard a steamer on the
Great Lakes, Irving met a diffident gentleman named Henry
Leavitt Ellsworth. Ellsworth, a Connecticut lawyer, had iust
been commissioned by President Andrew Jackson to travel
west of Ft. Gibson, beyond the very borders of civility. He
was to take a look at the land where members of the Cherokee, Chickasaw, Choctaw, and other tribes were to be resettled and report back to Jackson. H e also was to do what
he could to pacify the warring Pawnee and Osage hunters.
Irving, just returned from years spent writing and traveling in Europe, was in the company of two Europeans:
Charles Latrobe, a scholarly British adventurer who was
acting as the tutor and chaperone for an ebullient twentyone-year-old Swiss count. When Ellsworth suggested
"After a march of about fifteen miles weit
we encamped in a beautiful peninsula, made by the winding and
doublings of a deep, clear, and almost motionlessbrook,
and covered by an open grove of lofty and magnificenttrees.
Several hunters immediately started forth in quest of game
...
before the noise of the camp should frighten it from the vicinity
1
"For my own part, Ilay on the grass under the trees,
builr cabtles in the cloud4 and indulged
the verv luxurv of rural reoose."
I
"An immense cvtent of grassy, undulating, or, as it is termed, rolling country.
aitll here 2nd there a clump of trccs, diml!. seen in [lie distance
like a ship ar sea: tlic landscape deriving sublimity from its vastness and
simplicity. ' l o thc south\\est, on the summit of a hill.
I
1
was a singular crest of hroken rc~cks,resemhling a ruincd fortress.
I
.-
I t rcniindcd me of the ruin of some lloorish castle.
'1'0 this hill \vt. gave the name of Cliff Castle."
-.
'
:-'
?,
Irving's party join him on his trip west, they accepted the
invitation at once. Irving was hungry for new American
material; the tutor and the count were eager for a taste of the
West.
T h e foursome convened the following autumn at Ft.
Gibson. T h e plan was to follow the Arkansas River east to
where it joined with the Red Fork (now the Cimarron River)
and from there, to take a southwesterly course to the Canadian and the beginning of the plains.
They set out October 10 with good weather and in high
spirits, their saddlebags filled with flour, coffee, and bacon.
They were two days behind a company of rangers, who were
to provide the official escort, and the disreputable-looking
collection of French fur trappers who, it would turn out,
provided the actual frontier expertise.
T h e count was dressed in what he considered native attire-purple buckskin, embroidered with silk-and
mounted on a mehorse he picked up in Missouri. Irving had
a good horse and a good supply of notebooks. His method
of writing, he explained ro Latrobe, was to take extensive
notes on his surroundings and to add the "filagree" later.
It was that filigree that made Irving's book, "A Tour on
the Prairies," unique in its time and gratifying reading today.
Before Irving, travelers had passed through what is now
Oklahoma and had recorded information, but their reports
tended to read like the one submitted by a Captain J.L.
Dawson in 1830: "In the small rivulets of the Barren ridges,
we found occasionally a very small quantity of flinty gravel."
Irving wrote with broad and romantic strokes, his leisurely
prose filled wirh images that seemed to have been gathered
like fruit from a tree, passages like, "A beautiful meadow
about half a mile wide enamelled with yellow autumnal
flowers ...," and "The horizon after sunset, was of a clear
apple green, rising into a delicate lake which gradually lost
itself in a deep purple blue."
And maybe best of all, contained in Irving's painterly
writing is a classic travel story. His pages are filled with stories of exotic sights, half-realized hopes, wild chases, lost
travelers, false alarms, and finally, a beeline for home.
In early October, as the party passed through the rich
bottomlands of the Arkansas River, everything good seemed
possible. Tonish, a Creole guide, promised the Count they
would "catch the wild horse, bring down the buffalo, and win
the smiles of Indian princesses."
For a while, things went almast that well.
T h e party spent its first dozen days following the river and
feasting on wild honey, venison, and turkey. As they rode,
they watched for signs of buffalo and planned their capture
of wild horses, passing through meadows where beds of
crushed grass left signs of more deer and elk. But as the party
moved farther west and autumn deepened-and still no
buffalo herds-the mood changed.
A guide's tangle with a bear and a mistaken report that
Indians were attacking shook almost everyone's confidence.
By late October, the grass had withered and even the runty
pea-vines were getting too scarce to depend upon for feed
for the horses. T h e travelers' own supplies were vanishing.
T h e group decided to turn back to the east.
There was still adventure ahead. Irving killed a buffalo
and was immediately sorry, and the count spent a night
alone, lost in the woods and surrounded by wolves. By
October 31, everyone was ready to go home, and by November 3, Irving reported, the camp was near famine. Travel
was now "wearying and harassing," and often by foot; supper
one night was turkey bones and coffee. When Irving reached
a cabin of a Creek family and was served boiled beef, turnips,
and bread for supper, he called the cook, "a swart fairy of
the wild, that had suddenly conjured up a banquet in the
desert."
T h e next day, on November 9, Irving was back at the fort,
"much tattered, travel-stained, and weather-beaten. but in
high health and spirits." H e left on a steamship for New
Orleans the next day.
Irving seems to have made more of an impression on
Oklahoma than Oklahoma did on Washington Irving.
Markers point out his route at Ft. Gibson, Tulsa, Arcadia,
and other stopping points; a cove at Keystone Lake bears
the writer's name, as does a Norman middle school. Once
Irving left Ft. Gibson in November 1832, he never came
back. H e did, however, leave behind his book.
With it, Irving described not just the physical aspect of
Oklahoma in 1832, but its culture. H e recorded the colorful
dress of Creek Indians, the royal bearing of the Osage, the
Pawnee legends of stars and of bolts of lightning lying on
the prairie. Under his pen, the Ft. Gibson rangers cease to
seem the sort of ramrod straight soldiers who stare from old
photographs, but instead young men prone to keeping messy
camps and endlessly trading guns and knives.
More than a century and a half has gone by since Irving
toured the prairies and recorded his impressions. On some
October mornings, his words will still ring true:
"The w e a t h was in pegection, temperate, genialandenlivening
a deep blue sky with afew lightfeathery clods, an atmosphem of
perfcttransparenq, an airpure andblandandaglorious counrry
spreadingoutfar and wide in thegolden sunshine of an autumnal
day. .."
SKY RAMBLERS
Piper Cubs are slow and easy. In short, perfect for a romp in the autumn sky. Photographs and story by Robert R. Mercer
E
very kid growing up in Oklahoma in t h e late '40s recalls two kinds of air-
planes: Piper Cubs and those that weren't. And with good reason. T h e
comely yellow plane was a plane for the average man. Volkswagen-like in
concept, it had, as the joke went, only two moving parts-an air-cooled
engine and tires. And it could be had for $1,325.
It was built, among other places, in Ponca City. But it was the College Training
Detachments as well as the Civilian Pilot Training Program, both designed to
create a cadre of trained fliers in case the nation went into World War 11, that put
the Piper C u b firmly into American lore-and into Oklahoma history.
trained in C P T programs at airM a n y of t h e 63,000 y o u n g m e n
Field and Tulsa's Harvey Young
fields such as Muskogee's Hat Box
at Fort Sill. There, under the diAirport went on to fly Cubs
son of Piper founder William T .
rect tutelage of Tony Piper,
Cubs as artillery spotters.
Piper, Sr., they learned to fly
one, the story of the Piper
In more ways than
" T h e Little Engine
C u b is the story of
dained by t h e highT h a t Could." Dising Army Air Corps,
powered, high-fly' t h e airborne J e e p of
the C u b became
show some 5,673 Cubs,
the grunts. Records
known as L-4's, or
"Grasshoppers,"
( O v e r in O k m u l g e e ,
sported Army drab.
used to train troops.)
Piper gliders were
nary-yellow plane that
Over time, t h e cait couldn't get out of its own
was said to be "so slow
smoke," also made a name for itself in the War.
According to Devon Francis, author of "Mr. Piper and His Cubs," the very first
airplane attacked at Pearl Harbor was a civilian Piper Cub out for a Sunday spin.
Later, several Cubs, sometimes called "Maytag Messerschmitts," were cited for
downing enemy planes-including one Messerschmitt. In that instance, the Cub
pilot deliberately led the fighter into a tight, winding box canyon. When it rounded
L
- T
This Cub, over Lake Tenki//er, was one manufactured in Ponca City between 1946 and 1947.
I
a bend, the fighter was flying too fast to opened a Ponca City plant in Septemmaneuver over the escarpment that ber, 1946.
T h e trademark of the Piper Cubs
marked the end of the canyon. T h e
slow-moving Cub, of course, had all the was the canary-yellow J3C-40 (The J
time in the world to clear the rock wall. stood for chief engineer Walter K.
With bazookas mounted on their Jamouneau). It had a Continental 40wings, Cubs attacked and destroyed horsepower engine with a theoretical
German tanks. Because Cubs could fly top speed of 90 miles per hour, but no
low and slow, they were a deadly com- one remembers ever seeing a Cub fly
bination in the air. T h e Germans con- that fast. In Ponca City, Piper produced
sidered Cubs desirable but almost im- later versions of the same airplanepossible targets. At a time when Ger- J3C-65, as well as J3F and J3L modman pilots were receiving one point for els ( F indicating a Franklin engine; an
hitting an Allied fighter, downing a Cub L, a Lycoming). Oklahomans liked that
was worth two points toward a German t h e Ponca planes could b e distinguished from those made at
Air Medal.
After the war, the Piper Cub came Lockhaven-vertical serial numbers
were branded on
home. T a l k of
aviation fans "There5 nothing that PieS P o ~ tails,
c ~ horiturned to t h e
zontal numbers
"comine. of t h e
like a Piper
on Lockhaven
-
Cab."
M e r l e Helt plan... T h e yelthe Aeronautical
low planes chugChamber of Commerce of America I ging across the big, blue Oklahoma sky
Air Age." And
predicted a populatio~commuting to
work in light
- aircraft. For the crosscountry traveler, there would be Flight
Stops, where one could set down beside
the highway to rest. It seemed an age
tailor-made for the Piper Cub. T h e
snappy airplane used less gasoline and
oil than the average automobile, so one
couldn't really blame William T. Piper
for dreaming a little or for predicting
that: an ding strips, small airports, and
seaplane bases will, dot t h e
country... Your life will be fuller, happier, and more healthful in the coming
Air Age."
For awhile, the dream seemed possible. Every Joe coming out of the service seemed to head for flight school,
enrolling under the G.I. Bill. William
Piper scrapped the idea of building a
better airplane and commenced instead
to churning out as many civilian Cubs
as his company could produce. Before
the war, Piper had moved his main plant
from Bradford, Pennsylvania, to
Lockhaven, Pennsylvania, after briefly
considering the establishment of an
Oklahoma headquarters. T h e
Lockhaven plant was soon swamped
with postwar sales, however, so Piper
30
became a common sight.
In general, pilots loved the immediacy-that came with flying a Piper
Cub--it was as if the world was against
your windshield. Looking down at a
autumn forest from a Piper, for example, was more like looking at a variegated carpet than a stand of colorful
trees. Even better, in a Cub the scenery
needn't soar by. T h e plane could literally fly at stall speed. As one passenger described it: You could face into
a 35-mile-per-hour wind and fly at 35
miles per hour and not go anywhere.
It was a pilot's dream.
Then, in August, 1947, the light aircraft industry crashed. "All the airplane
industry went bust at that time, not just
Piper," explains Merle Helt of Ponca
City, a Conoco retiree whose hangar
sits a quarter-mile from the old Piper
plant. Common wisdom blamed the
crash on a combination of the government dumping surplus L-4s on the
market and a saturation of the air instruction market. I n a matter of
months, the number of Piper employees went from 2,607 to 150. Production
ceased while the company reorganized.
T h e 53 Cub was history. Still, more
than 20,000 Cubs had been built.
T h e company eventually resumed
production with a new generation of
planes that were metal rather than ragskinned. But, "there's nothing that flies
like a Cub," Helt reminds the listener.
And so, in 1949, Piper relented, producing the Super Cub, a 150-horsepowered, rag-skinned, grown-up version of the 53. T o its credit, the plane
had many of the same quirky characteristics that earlier had endeared the
53 to fliers: a sixteen-year-old could fly
Oklahoma TODAY
want to." Memer's strafegyforpn'me foliage is a d&gonalflightpattem across noflheastem Oklahoma.
it with only a few hours'instruction, it
was easy to work on, it could land almost anywhere, and it flew so slowly an
instructor could literally explain what
a student pilot was doing wrong, even
while he was still doing it.
It is little wonder, then, that the Cubs
that left the Ponca City plant have lived
long lives. Dr. Stephen Bell, an engineering professor at the University
Center at Tulsa, took his first Cub up
September-October 1991
alone at the age of sixteen. Today he
owns a Ponca City-built Cub, Serial
No. NC3580N. His Cub was originally
sold to a farmer in Iowa on August 2,
1947. In the farmer's log are entries that
mention checking fence from his Cub.
T h e plane went on to be owned by a
private pilot in Omaha, Nebraska, then
a Schuyler, Nebraska, crop-spraying
service. A private pilot again had it in
1970 to '71, reselling it to a flight school.
A Tulsan returned it to Oklahoma in
1974, but retired it in 1981when a wing
was damaged. Another Tulsan bought
it to restore, but passed the job to Bell
in 1984. Buddy Bain, owner of the 81st
Street Airpark in Tulsa, rebuilt it, and
by 1990 it was flying again.
Besides being "the first airplane I
ever flew," Bell, a multi-engine flight
instructor, says he likes the way "an old
rag" airplane flies. "The plane is dirty,"
he says, and he means this as a compli- ment. "It is not aerodynamicallv smooth." After two decades of being swappel about by conglomerates, Pipers' pro- duction lines are still again. Helt wor- ries that the future may find itself short of enough light aircraft for all thos
Americans who wish to fly. Helt has
refused to sell Cubs to overseas buyer?
saying they are a part of American his
tory and belong in America. But the
market forces continue. A Ponca City
Piper sold in the '40s for $2,000. Helt or
Bain can now buy a wreck for $8,000, fix
it up, and resell it for $20,000. A Wyoming company will sell you a new Super
Cub knock-off for $70,000.
Himself, Bain sees a practical need to
keep the J3s airborne. T h e few light
planes being manufactured today tend
to be very high velocity. Observes Bain,
"It's to the point that slow is a godsend."
Donning a cynical expression, Bain
admits, "I've never seen that a Piper
Cub was good for much of anything,"
unless, of course, pure pleasure has a
practical application. For Bain, who will
surrender his pilot's license this year
after more than 50 years of flying, there
is only one justification for a Cub: "To
see that thing fly. T o drive it up into the
sky."
I
I
Robert R. Mercer is a Tulsa-based
photojournalist. Tulsan Lmis Jarrett
piloted Mercer in a Piper Cub J3,
manufactured in 1946.
Getting There Piper Cubs wil/fly into the Tahlequah Fly-In September 13-15 at the Tahlequah Municipal Airport, one mile west of town on S.H. 51. For more information, cal/ the airpo7ta t (918) 456-8731. Though not exclusively for Pipers, past attempts to establish a Piper Fly-In in Tahlequah have made it popular for Cub pilots. 32
3)rkEahoma Taday presents a cden& that takes ysu to
~lahorna's12most scenic highways. Each beautiful full:a l & photograph is accompanied by a map (showing yi3u
how to follow the scenic highway) and a description. Also
included is the latesc list of Oklahoma bed and breakfasts
.plan an adventureE
andaqalendar~feuents.Wan a w~kend..
Our 1992Calendarmaksthe perfect Chrismasor business
gik. Be the+firstto haye a blue whale on your wall!
The Life And Work Of Mirac CREEPINGBEAR By Joan Frederick Denton
fie Miracle"
irac Creepingbear once told me, "When I die, I
don't want to leave anything but my art." As a
writer, I was horrified at his disinterest in leaving a detailed record of why and how he painted,
his influences, techniques, and inspirations. But
he was persistent. "That's not my way," he said.
In October of 1990,Mirac Creepingbear died
from a diabetic complication at the age of forty-three and left
us all a wonderful artistic legacy: the heart and soul of his
Native American experience as a Kiowa in visual form. He will
be remembered as a force in Oklahoma Indian art history, one
of three painters chosen in 1986 by the Kiowa tribe to paint
its history in a series of murals now housed in the tribal museum in Carnegie, a man chosen as much for his knowledge
of tribal history and old customs and his good standing in the
community as for his proficiency with a brush.
T h e Kiowa ancestors of Mirac Creepingbear come from the
Little Chief family on his mother's side; they preserved the
September-October 1991
'
So touched was she by his
birth, that Rita
Creepingbear named her
son Miracle. The name on
the birth certificate,
however, fell in the places
reserved for first and
middle names, and thus
Mirac Lee Creepingbear
was named.
33
"The Gatheringw'1981
old ways and were respected. His father's Pawnee-Arapaho
ancestors were chiefs and medicine men. At a time when the
United States government was trying to suppress the religious
and cultural beliefs of the Native Americans they had conquered, Mirac's family was among those who revered tradition
and who secretly maintained the old stories and ceremonies
by passing them on to their children.
Bill Koomsa, a Kiowa elder who is the last descendant of
the Kiowa Tribe's two most famous war chiefs, Sitting Bear
and White Bear, once told me: "Mirac is special. H e knows
the old ways. He's not like these young guys now. T h e things
he paints are the real things held over from our past. We have
great respect for him and his work."
Mirac Creepingbear was born in Oklahoma in 1947 and
lived here all his life. Though he traveled the country to sell
his art, h e was happiest near t h e Indian culture and t h e
Oklahoma land his ancestors roamed hundreds of years before
the whites appeared. H e didn't own a phone, he came and
went at the drop of a hat, and he cultivated a list of close friends
ranging from medicine men to bikers. One day he called m e
and told me he was going to California. I knew he didn't have
much money, so I said, "How are you going to get there? How
much money do you have?" H e replied, "My cousin and I
~ i a c ' tsrademark skies
mirror the classic sunsets
and vistas visible on a
daily basis in southwestern Oklahoma, and his
dramatic lighting adds a
spiritual quality to his
Indian subjects.
Oklahoma TODAY
I
uCalLF Him" '1987
In Kiowa history, there
are stories of a Kiowa
woman who could imitate
buffalo calls. Her talent
made her the sole woman
to be taken on hunting
expeditions.
September-October 1991
have $35 between us. We'll be okay." I was appalled. I saw
them running out of gas, dropping a transmission, or being
plagued by any number of other calamities. Two days later I
got a call. "Hello, Joan, this is Mirac. We made it." I couldn't
believe it, mainly because it was something I would never
attempt or be able to accomplish. I asked him how he did it,
and he said, "I took my Oaints and sold a few things in Arizona. It was tough, but we made it." In the past, Kiowa
warriors decided to go hunting or visit relatives hundreds of
miles away with no plans other than to go and do. Though
our times are drastically changed, some things never change.
Kiowa warriors still go anil do.
Mirac Creepingbear was a quiet, easygoing man who spoke
softly in a deep, resonant,voice and projected a self-assured
presence. He was tall, strapping, and robust, his movements
smoothly focused. I don't think I ever saw Mirac in a hurry.
H e was very kind and hhmble, but proud, and he always
behaved and spoke honestly, which occasionally raised an
eyebrow. H e had a great sense of humor with a big, powerful
laugh. He seemed to be at one with the world, although his
childhood was very rough. His mother was too ill with tuberculosis to care for her ten children, and his father never had
a secure job. Mirac's childhood was nomadic: moving with
his father from one town to the next or being farmed out to
relatives (already overloaded with offspring from other immediate family who needed homes). Bureau of Indian Affairs
schools provided shelter when no other was available. H e
learned the old ways from his grandparents and his parents
who gave him values when they couldn't give him material
things.
It's only natural that Mirac's art would mirror
1
the man he was inside. His style of painting was 2
I
realistic and spontaneous, as opposed to expressionistic or abstract. "It seems to be the only way 3
I can work," he said. "The images come quick,
and I don't spend time building it up or structuring a painting. Once I get started painting,
something takes over. I don't know what it is. I
don't try to figure it out. I just roll with the
punches. It says, 'Paint me, paint me!' and I say,
'Okay! okay! okay!"'
Like many Indian artists, Mirac was influenced by traditional Indian painting, but other than a short, doomed stint in
commercial art at Okmulgee Technological School, he was
self-taught. "I wasn't influenced by anyone," he once said. "I
didn't have any formal art training or learn any biographies or
philosophies. I was influenced by the things I was around. I
do art not because of economics, but because it's a part of me,
something I have to do, a way of expressing myself. I'm influenced by a pretty sky or a shadow on the ground. Something inside clicks and you have to feel it as well as see it. It's
a personal thing, hard to explain, and the only way is to paint
it or sculpt it. I guess you could call it magical. It's voices
through thousands of centuries that you just happened to pick
up ..."
"People like us have been here
since time began. We're
recordkeepers. T o d a y w e can d o
"Bow DogB'1989
"I don't paint the
obvious," Mirac once
said. "I leave something
to the viewer. That way,
1'11 know something is
still going on outside the
picture."
September-October 1991
Aun-so-beem
v
anything-abstracts, things other
than our heritage, but we Indian
Norman
people choose to do things about
Getting There
our heritage ...We paint about oldtime things because those are things
that have to come out of us. Critics
Mirar fietpingbear mas h 1 7 1
say, 'They're painting dancers and
Sepfpmber8, 1947. T/rPJarohson
singers again,' but those things are
Foundafjofi aj;///lo~f"The,Pfirnr
born in us for thousands of years of
CreepirtgbearMemorinlShoa~"
Sepfe?nh~r8frorn?-6irri~or~r1afl.
bloodrunningthr~ughus.We're
fbrfllore il!bmafio?l, r ~ / /
the end product of it. They think we
(405)-'92-3L'12.
paint it for the paying customer.
Hell. We paint it because we want
to paint it. If we wanted to paint
ducks and flowers, we'd paint those, but those are too
simple ...the (critics) don't understand where we're coming
from. T h e y never lived like 11s.T h e y don't know us."
1
THE ELOQUENT ASIAN PEAR A Cleveland County valley is home to what may be the world's most pampered pears. By Max J. Nichols
nip...Snip...Snip...Snip...Snip...
T h e clicking sound of shears snipping tiny
branches continued for hours as a cold
January breeze blew through 4,700 Asian
pear trees in a rural valley near Norman. T h e
sound would continue for the next week, as Tom
Tanizawa led a well-trained contingent of six in
a pruning expedition through the orchard.
'The six-year-old trees had just a few branches
each-the better to grow the pears. ?'he sparse
branches each had bamboo sticks strapped to
them, forcing their growth outward instead of
upward-the better to harvest the pears. "We
prune the trees so the sun will come to each
branch and the energy will go to the fruits," explained Hal Nomura, a Japanese exporter who
is developing the Norman orchard. "If the trees
grow their own way ...too much energy will go to
the branches instead of the fruits.
'
The ror~toursof urr Asia~rpeargive rise to tht qcwsriotc:
"What is 'pear-shaped'.~"
September-October 1991
39
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