Rare, Collectible, & Otherwise

Tag: oklahoma (Page 97 of 115)

The Good Doctor, Adieu.

Dr. Thurman Shuller came and sat with me some years ago, when I was visiting McAlester to sign some copies of my book on Pittsburg County. As it turned out, it was fortunate for me that he gave me some of his time, because there weren’t a lot of books to be signed. I was competing with the county fair, and the fair won.

To say that I was nervous about his company isn’t strong enough. At least, at first I was. Dr. Shuller – perhaps by virtue of living so long in McAlester – had a firm grip on the local history and served the county residents admirably as president of both the genealogical society and the historical society. His assessment of my humble work may not have made a difference in sales or public reception, but it was certainly important to me as a matter of pride.

Photo by Kevin Harvison, McAlester News Capital

I passed the test. He gave me the ultimate compliment, actually – telling me he learned a few things in reading my photo-heavy history. I don’t know if he truly did, but it made me feel good. He did point out that I spelled Reba McEntire’s name wrong, and that he ought to know, since she had been a patient of his. (Even now, I’m double-checking my spelling wanting to get it right for the good doctor.)

Thurman Shuller suffered a stroke on Thanksgiving Day, and died on Saturday. He was 98 years old.

He was just a few years younger when we talked in the front foyer of an Old Town antiques mall, and I can only hope I maintain my faculties as he had. He was slow-moving until he sat down, but once settled in his chair, it was obvious his thinking had not slowed at all. We talked about the book, some of the characters who had helped found McAlester in its early days, and touched on the subject of my father, who had worked with him at the Health Department and Clinic for many years. For some reason, I find it comforting to hear kind words about my dad from people who remember him from so long ago.

Dr. Shuller aided me greatly with the facts about the Busby Theatre and its namesake, but it didn’t come easily at first. I understood later his reticence in sharing his material with me, since he had researched Busby extensively and had compiled quite a dossier on that early day entrepreneur. After our first telephone conversation, I decided Dr. Shuller was a proprietary historian, one of those holding information but declining to share it – for whatever reason.

He sent me a big packet of articles along with one of his speeches, and some photocopied notes he had compiled – as well as an apology. It was his desire to have the information published in an article for the Chronicles of Oklahoma (the Oklahoma Historical Society monthly) that had prompted him to withhold the information I had asked about. He told me that he feared he might not live long enough to get the thing in print. He needn’t have worried.

All the same, my own efforts were greatly aided by the notes he shared. I hope that he got the articles (along with all the footnotes he was dreading) in the Chronicles.

He was a good man, well-respected in the community after serving 41 years as a pediatrician, later a published author, and one of the primary researchers in compiling the names of those who lost their lives working in the Pittsburg County coal mines. His accomplishments were as diverse as flight surgeon during World War II to piano player for the local Rotary Club.

I’m happy to have had a chance to talk to him at length for a single afternoon, and assist him back to his car. I owed him a debt of gratitude and I find it extra-satisfying to be able to deliver heart-felt thanks in person.

His legacy is rich in family, friends, acquaintances, and a solid body of local history preserved for all time.

Cold Turkey (and not the Thanksgiving kind…)

A fritter. Alliteratively put, a fresh fried fritter – but all the same, it was no Twinkie. The Hostess crisis hits home.

To be sure, there have been Ding Dong-less days in the past. I remember dear Mrs. Baum, my grandmother-in-law, who made a special trip to the market before breakfast to stock in some Mountain Dew. No cupcake though. I was reduced to eating her delicious bacon and eggs, with fresh-buttered toast.

As of this morning, Quik Trip (at least the one in my neighborhood) is officially devoid of Hostess products. In unofficial survey results, chocolate Donettes are the least favorite of the brand’s offerings and as late as yesterday were in healthy supply for desperate junk-foodies. Alas, they too are gone.

Spotted on Craigslist Wednesday: an offering for a single Hostess fruit pie, cherry-filled and presumably unopened, at $10. (I should point out here that I was not frantically scouring Craigslist for Hostess pastries, I just happened onto the listing, and – no, I didn’t buy it.)

In the fashion of a class-action lawsuit, those of us most affected by the Hostess shutdown should band together and pitch in to buy the recipes and a couple of bakeries. I know I can’t be the only one standing in front of the empty shelf that only recently was jammed with sugary cakes and pies – those guilty pleasures that were Ho-Ho’s, Ding Dongs, Twinkies, and Frosted Donettes. When we get our consortium together and get to the point of printing the packaging, it might be a good time to update the product line. Maybe some new names.

Ho-Hummers. Extreme Dings. Thinkies. (as brain food, you know.)

Nah.

Just offer me some Frosted Donettes and I’ll be good to go.

Ray J.

World War II had ended and Ray J. was back from the Pacific and helping out his dad behind the bar of the Palace News in Parsons, Kansas. It was a little-bit-of-this and a little-bit-of-that sort of place, with newspapers, magazines, cee-gars, sandwiches, and a frosty mug ‘o suds.

Ray J. was known as Bud, since his dad was Ray J. the elder. It would have made me Ray J. III, but I suppose that was just too confusing. I imagine he was little Buddy first, then shortened to Bud later. Some of the cousins called him Uncle Bud, and I was okay with that, although I only heard him called by that name when we visited Parsons for the holidays.

There were a couple of stories that I recall about the place. In a letter addressed to the VA hospital where Bud was recovering from injuries suffered in a car accident, his dad wrote how he had brought out the guitar when Ray J.’s young friends had come round. They sang all the old songs, he wrote. It had never been mentioned to me that my grandfather played guitar, so the letter was a revelation.

There were no musical instruments in our house growing up, save the radio/record player. Ray J. loved to sing, but didn’t do it so much when we kids were older. He was a fine tenor and told me once how he and his buddies used to sing the Irish songs. Shame on me for not learning to play them along with all those Beatles songs. It might have endeared me a little more to him, given that he was no fan of current hits, which he called “thumpa-thumpa” music. He was listening to a Musak channel on television once when I walked through the room. It was a symphonic version of the Beatles’ – Michelle.

Me: You like that song?

Ray J., nodding: Sure do.

Me: That’s a Beatles song, you know.

Ray J., without a second’s hesitation: Too bad they don’t play it like that.

He was known to bring pals back to the house years later, after a long St. Patrick’s Day evening at the Elk’s Lodge. Some singing went on then. It was never discussed much the next day, as I recall.

Ray Senior was a marketing genius, to hear his son tell it. A traveling salesman managed to unload a case of Kleenex Travelers, those little packages of tissues, which made for a prominent display up near the bar. Ten for a Dollar, he priced them. Or ten cents each. The case emptied pretty fast, selling ten at a time.

Then there were the hard boiled eggs. A big, big jar with pearly white eggs bobbing around in some sort of brine. They were to be dipped in salt, according to the custom. A plate full of salt and a free egg – where can you go wrong there? Took a lot of beer to wash down those eggs and salt. The beer wasn’t free.

This picture is one of several found among the shelves at the shop. A shot of the Palace interior is often assumed to be the book store in the old days, long and narrow with a pressed tin ceiling. You can click on it for a closer look at the old cash register and wooden cabinets. Wish I had them in the shop now…

I regret that I don’t have a picture of me wiping down the counter at Paddy’s, back in my bar-backing days. It could have been added to this one and the one with Ray Senior smoking his cee-gar behind the taps at the Palace. Three generations of bar-cleaning, beer-pulling, descendants of Mamie Gillen of County Tipperary.

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