The Tide is High

Saturday, the 24th, was a day full of surprises.
In the morning, my mother and I hosted a garage sale in my front yard, something that I don't do. I'm not against garage sales, but I do feel as though I'm poking through a strangers' underwear drawer at their behest. My husband loves garages sales, and so does my mom so on that stormy and cool morning my cast off undies, so to speak, were on proud display in my front yard. Tulsans are quite vociferous in their appetite for these sales; I've never seen a town so in love with them. It's as though an ebb of used baby toys, paperbacks, lamps, prom dresses, marbles and other once loved items slides back and forth across the town, and the same objects are sold again and again. These sales also transports the buyer and the seller to the ancient marketplaces. There are no ticket prices. Each item is assessed on the spot according to the appearance of the potential buyer and the game begins. Thank god this is a novelty form of purchase; most people are better at it than me.

That afternoon, after we loaded what we didn't sell into the pickup and deposited it at Goodwill, my mom and I drew ourselves long across the couches and watched a tornado on TV. As the elder son was with his father, and the younger was taking his nap, we were free to watch whatever we pleased, and after surfing for a moment we came to a rest on CNN of all things. They were broadcasting live a tornado that was sweeping across Oklahoma less than one hundred miles away from me. I wasn't concerned that the storm was going to reach us. The storm was too black and swollen to cover the distance between us. What it did instead was put on quite a show for half an hour. Up and down went funnels of all shapes and sizes, touching down prairie mostly save one pig farm. There were no fatalities, human or hog.

In the evening my mother took the boys out for a night on the town, and my husband and I took our garage sale monies and did the same. Our diner was a dismal failure, a textbook case of bad management, Cisco goods, and bad seating. We were buoyed by the fact that, if our food arrived in time, we were going to see the new Indiana Jones movie and related our memories of the series over an empty table. In record speed we ate and drank and paid for all of it, had a quick smoke, and made it in time for the film. I don't think I'm spoiling anything for anyone by stating that the film is a disappointment from beginning to end. I am still reeling from the mediocrity of it. My question: if a bridge is supposed to carry you from one side to the other, and the other side looks, acts, and seems predestined to bore, why cross it at all?

At the end of the episode we were completely sober. Leaving the theater we went directly to our dive and commenced to rectify the problem. While doing so, a flock of girls flew in, one after another, in their 80's inspired mall finery. After much noise and booze out they flew again, and so did we. It was the end to a strangely electric day. Maybe it was atmospheric, or maybe it was the act of doing something completely out of character, but I feel as though I've taken a small step forward somehow. And that is exceptional.

Rattle It

This weekend the boys and I made the pilgrimage to Magum, Oklahoma to participate in the bizarre glory of the annual Rattlesnake Derby. It's grown a bit since I was a kid; there are more vendors of inflatable plastic children's characters, more funnel cake and corn dog eateries, and accordingly more fat lower middle class people than you could shake a stick (or a snake) at. My boys wanted one of everything. Rattlesnake head suspended in formaldehyde in a Mason Jar ($8 ea.)? A ride on the (dilapidated) kiddie roller coaster ($2 ea.)? A bite of deep fried snake with a sip of Coke ($4 ea.)? Check, check, check.
The first stop was the Snake Pit. After traversing the ambulatory of flea market goods, we dived right into the Pit, a large makeshift tent. Inside two cowboys equipped with microphones walked around an enclosed oval filled with roughly 1000 snakes (it's hard to estimate snakes-they are fond of the dog pile). As they walked they would pull random snakes up with their "snake sticks" to explain how one may determine the animal's age, sex, etc. Rattlers struck their leather boots indeterminately as they lectured. The boys, quickly bored, were ready for the midway.
Emerging again into the sunshine, we made our way to the Snake boxes. Like the Pit these boxes contained an ungodly amount of venomous reptiles. These pressed board boxes were free and open to the public however, and one was separated from the snakes by two layers of chicken wire spaced two inches apart. Still this was tiresome. We needed oily food, big and sugary quaffs of soda, and rides on spinning strawberries.
After the midway funds were depleted and substances were consumed, we made our last stop into the Butchers' Shop ($1 for adults- kid's free). This has been, and remains, my personal favorite. It is a small space; 1/2 of it is bare concrete covered by elderly bleachers. The other half, separated from bleachers by a press board divider, is where bad rattlers go to meet their maker. The butcher, a middle aged man who told the audience he'd kept company with the Captain all day, was assisted by a high school aged boy with yet another snake stick. A snake was extracted from the pit by the boy with the stick, the body was laid across a tree stump and with some fanfare it's head was removed with an ax. The butcher then took the body and strung it by a wire over plastic shower, skinned and disemboweled it as it still writhed. As he did so, this man cut out the still beating heart and ate it. Amazing!
The day was over after that. We retired to the ranch for some four wheeler fun and spaghetti. My boys were delighted, dirty, and full of strange food. What a story for their classmates tomorrow.

Southern Gothic

I love the American South. When I moved there at 19 it was like moving to a different country, where literally everything was Topsy-turvy. But what does anyone know when they are 19? I married a Southerner and periodically we travel there for family functions, as we did this past weekend.
I am not as pliant as I used to be, nor do I have such a deep well of energy and wonder. I prefer to be by myself. All of these conditions conspire against me during the Southerner Extravaganzas that are the birthday parties, national holidays, or the just-fors. Inevitably I depart from home questioning this foreign culture. For instance: why are women and men and children so separated? Why must we always, always eat and drink richly? Why does no one go outside? How is it that only white people attend the functions while only black people serve them? Why must women be painted and trussed while men are, well, not? Curious and curiouser.
The southern Bourgeoisie are the opposite of myself and the knowledge stings. I am a loner, an intellectual, a feminist, an atheist, a proletariat, as well as being of Mediterranean/Midwestern stock; I am very much of an iconoclast amongst the iconodules. It makes for awkward conversation around the feta dip. But all things come to an end, and I am safely ensconced once more in the heavenly bosom of Oklahoma. This is a place where I possess all of those nettling virtues but the culture sees me as a rare, exotic bird, not as Mikey's Stupefying Consort.

The Culinary Dictates of Oklahoma

I have it on good authority that to be Oklahoman, one must consume small game. Maybe California wasn't so bad after all...

Opossum
If possible, trap 'possum and feed it on milk and cereals for 10 days before killing. Clean, but do not skin. Treat as for pig by immersing the unskinned animal in water just below the boiling point. Test frequently by plucking at the hair. When it slips out readily, remove the possum from the water and scrape. While scrapping repeatedly, pour cool water over the surface of the animal. Remove small red glands in the back and under each foreleg between the shoulder and rib. Parboil, page 132, 1 hour. Roast as for pork, page 407.
Serve with:
Turnip greens
The Joy of Cooking, 1971

Let the reign of holy Electric Light finally come…

Sweet God my power is back on. So cold and dark for so long....
The boys and I were stationed at the home base during the power loss from the ice storm for five days. We had it better than many. I've heard stories of people dying from carbon monoxide poisoning, from fire started by candles, from risking the Russian Roulette that is the Tulsa four way and losing. We were cold, put out and bored, but we made it through.
I tried to make it a game for them called Pioneer days. The food was kept in our garage and as it hovered around freezing everyday nothing was spoiled. It was novel to have food outside of the fridge for them. We stocked up on what candles (our house smelled like a florist shop!) and batteries that were available to purchase, and bought more minutes for the cell phone that was recharged at Mike's workplace (why doesn't the car charger work?). And everyone got his own flashlight, two lucky finds from the bottom of the Big Lots barrel. We have a gas fireplace in the living room that kept the house moderately warm, and a gas stove top and water heater so we were able to cook and bathe.
It was most tedious at night. What sunlight we had died around five o'clock leaving us in the relative darkness, save candles and flashlights, for hours. I brought out the Geotracks box from the garage which I am loath to do because there are hundreds of little pieces to this noisy little train set, but it kept the boys occupied which saved some of my thinning patience. During the day, once the streets were clear of the fallen tree limbs, we went to the mall, the aquarium, any where that was lit and warm; everywhere we went we met others in our situation. Literally everyone was affected.
Our power came back on during a trip to the laundromat. We ran around the house turning things on as if it was a miracle. Now there is snow on the ground, and we are barred inside again, but we have television, and computers, the coffee machine, microwave, and lights, lights, lights! Bless the power service people from Oklahoma and beyond who have been working 24 hours a day to restore us to electricity, and the tree people for helping us to clear the colossal mountains of branches and debris from our property.