Rare, Collectible, & Otherwise

Tag: Pryor (Page 29 of 105)

Water, Water, Everywhere.

Thankfully, the water is outside the buildings, for the most part.

Not exactly the way I wanted to spend Memorial Day weekend. A lot of us making the best of it or changing our plans. But at least it’s mostly disappointment in the air along with the rain.

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Still, the storms brought tragedy as high waters claimed the life of a Claremore firefighter.

It was Memorial Day weekend thirty-one years ago that the storm was such an event that it was described as a Hundred-Year Flood and water rose to startling levels. Those of you who recall that weekend remember the months of recovery. Ruined household items like mattresses, carpeting, and sheetrock lining the curbs for pickup.

Particularly shocking to me was a reminder that remained for months on the Broken Arrow Expressway near the downtown exit. Along the route I drove every morning while heading to work was a line sprayed on a cement bridge pillar. Painted underneath it were words to the effect of “high water mark.” That line was so high up that it had to have been painted from an aerial ladder or cherry picker crane.

The Tulsa World headline in the image attests to the extent of that tragic event, and prompted major flood-management projects that certainly aided in slowing the floodwaters Saturday night. Some of you may be young enough to have grown up with the many bowl-shaped soccer fields located throughout the Tulsa area. Those grassy areas are the result of that 1984 flood and were designed to trap and manage flood runoff.

In the aftermath, there was so much information that needed to be passed along that our newscasts on K95FM seemed to be nothing more that clean-up tips and safety precautions. For weeks on end. But from that tragic event came storm management routines that came into play Saturday night.

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More storms are forecast for the remainder of the weekend, but if the meteorologists hit their mark, they won’t be quite as powerful in the Tulsa area. Still a disappointing forecast for a lot of folks with holiday plans, but calling off a cookout is a lot easier to deal with than facing the effects of three feet of water in your living room.

Memories of that weekend so many years ago made me worried about the bookshop, where we haven’t experienced that amount of water since the Main Street renovation project. Before the street construction, I remember watching during a storm as a river of water raced down the street and lapped over the curb. Back then, there weren’t storm drains along Main. Thankfully, that has been corrected.

With all the reports of waterlogged streets Saturday night, I opted to wait until morning to inspect and thankfully all is well here, high and dry inside. Outside, later in the afternoon, there was a surprise of a different sort. I was taking out some trash and spotted some scurrying specks on the car.

All over it.

By the time I got the camera out they were mostly gone, and when there were only a dozen or so, they were harder to spot. Speedy too. Hard to photograph.

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But I managed to get a couple of shots of the flood of newly hatched praying mantis babies, which are only slightly larger than the raindrops dotting the car hood. One of those Discovery Channel moments that allowed me to see something for the first time ever.

Hopefully for the last time, too. Kinda creepy.

We’ll be having a rare two-day weekend and will be closed Monday for Memorial Day. Hope yours is safe even if it probably won’t be dry.

On Tuesday? Come visit!

McHuston

Booksellers & Irish Bistro
122 South Main St. Broken Arrow OK!

And the Thunder rolled…

They said, “Take cover.” I thought it over.

Storms as predicted Saturday night, and I realized as I looked out at the flashes of lightning that there are different stages of reaction to imminent danger.

When I was chasing the weather for Channel Seven it was at that stage of my young life in which I somehow thought myself indestructible. It never entered my mind that the storm was a thing of reckoning, something that could have picked up my puny newscar and tossed it in a ditch. (A TV-logo-on-the-doors Ford Pinto, for those of you who might remember that clunker classic…)

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It wasn’t even an adrenaline thing. Never been one for bungee-jumping, cliff-diving, or parachuting. (Leaping from a perfectly good airplane, as my good friend Michael used to describe it.) Driving toward a tornado was just what the job called for back then.

Then, I hung up the camera and the microphones and found myself on the other side of the media – with children. Whoa. The sirens took on a completely different message. Closets became shelters to herd and hide the kids. Late night, or not – you just don’t take chances with the lives of others who depend on you.

The thunder boomed last night and I clicked the remote. Patches of radar red immediately filled the screen, and I considered the excited voices of the TV team and their spotters. (Some might have described the voices as panicked, I don’t know. They seemed pretty worked up.) Broken Arrow was mentioned so I got out of bed.

Trees in the backyard were almost motionless. I could see flashes to the south. The city is much larger than it used to be, and a tornado strike could be miles away and still be local.

What are the odds, I wondered – then crawled back under the covers. I enjoy sleeping in a thunderstorm. Go figure.

Those dire warnings certainly weren’t wasted in the case of the several homes hit in the southeast part of town. But I realized at the time that things have changed greatly from my indestructible days. (Daze.) Now, I can assess the situation and make a decision while knowing there may be consequences. Not crazy stuff. If those trees had been flapping I would have leaped in the bathtub.

Damage was mostly to my pride when I emerged this morning. I hadn’t rolled up the passenger window all the way. Thunderstorms seem to know things like that. The picture shows the FEMA-approved method of flood recovery. Open it up, and air it out.

We’ll be whipping up a storm at the shop tomorrow, so – Come visit!

McHuston

Booksellers and Irish Bistro
Rose District
122 South Main St. Broken Arrow, OK!

Such a short time, so long ago.

Friday.

And it’s Ray J’s birthday. I don’t make note of it every year, and I can’t say what has caused me to think about it just now. He showed up in a dream the other night, and maybe that was part of it. It was good to see him again after so long. Ray J. didn’t stay around long enough.

If we had a cake today, it would probably be one of those one-candle deals – not enough space for the true birthday number. Probably a fire hazard. He was born in 1927 and it would have been his eighty-eighth today. I can’t even imagine it. When I was young, I thought he was old, but now I’m older than he ever was. (Probably would constitute a fire hazard to decorate a cake for my years these days…)

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Pretty strange – in the dream – with him at the age I remember him back then. Younger looking than I feel, most of the time. But those sleeping events are always a bit out-of-kilter.

He missed out on the whole computer and information age, which has allowed me to know more about him now than I ever did. I have a picture of him up on the bookstore wall; he’s in his US Navy uniform at age eighteen. I’ve been asked if it’s my picture, back in the day, but in truth, when I was that age I wasn’t anywhere near a uniform and I certainly wasn’t thousands of miles from home in the Pacific.

The war was on and Ray J. signed up shortly after his birthday and in short order found himself aboard a destroyer escort taking part in anti-sub sweeps east of Tokyo, part of Task Group 30. They came upon a surfaced submarine and engaged along with another escort class ship, which wound up being the last combat operation of the USS Keller.

After V-J Day, the ship was ordered to Guam and Ray J. transferred to the USS Moore, where he reported to communications after a promotion to Radioman Third Class. I always thought that was a bit ironic, that I wound up having a career in communications as a radioman. (Third-rate, I’m reminded…) It was one of the few stories he told me about his war experiences, spotting enemy planes from the conning tower.

Most of the few tales he mentioned were those feel-good types. The sign above the serving line in the galley: Take all you want, but eat all you take. (Must be where that clean-your-plate edict started.) There was the young fellow who was always cutting himself during the required morning shave, until it was suggested that he take the blade out of his razor. I didn’t need much in the way of shaving at age eighteen either.

These days, the wartime documents can be found on the internet, and I can see copies of the ship’s muster roll, with his name and serial number recorded. Surprisingly, I can also see an image of his gravestone – posted online by someone whose name is totally unfamiliar. Maybe it was an assignment or something. Seems odd to me though, a stranger with a camera standing over my father’s grave, snapping a picture.

Equally odd is the notion that – even as I approach retirement age – I’m still wondering if he would be pleased with me or not. Silly to think of my seeking his approval at this stage and after so many years. Maybe if I had known him as an adult myself, I would have gotten past all that.

My children never knew him, just as my sisters and I never knew his father; it did not occur to me until many years later how short their lives were. It makes me appreciate my own fortune to have lived enough years to meet my own grandchildren. (Beauties!)

These days I remember with a new-found fondness the few times I heard him singing with abandon in his wonderful tenor voice, and in lieu of cake and candles – perhaps we might just share an Irish sentiment:

Why should I be out of mind because
I am out of sight?
I am but waiting for you, for an interval,
somewhere very near, just around the corner.
All is well. Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost.
One brief moment and all will be as it was before.
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting,
when we meet again.

Happy birthday, Father. I believe I can hear you singing.

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