James M. Redwine

Females/Pick on Peg

Unpaid Staff

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I have a friend who quite frequently volunteers to help others. He refers to himself and other such generous souls as unpaid staff. Fortunately for those of us who are blessed to live in or visit Osage County, Oklahoma there is a hard-working unpaid staff that helps preserve and promote the historic Constantine Theater. My family benefitted greatly from those efforts a couple of weekends ago when we held our two-day family reunion, jam session, art show and new book launching at the Constantine. We had a great time.

In addition to the volunteers who serve on the Board, there are a few competent and gracious paid staff such as Jennifer Adair and Shannon Martin who do the scheduling and make sure the lights come on. Jennifer’s mother, Linda Hubbard, as well as Jennifer’s daughters, Katie and Grace, also pitched in and helped make the weekend special. One of the unpaid staff, Board Member Cameron Chesbro, not only saw to the myriad technical needs of our diverse musical group he also displayed his own fine musical talents by sitting in as our unpaid drummer. Neither Gene Krupa nor Buddy Rich could have been a better fit.

It was wonderful to see friends, old and new, who took the time to drop in and cheer on our family jam session that included the world premiere of an original song The Redwine Waltz written and performed by C.E. Redwine and Roger Coble. We have a family that includes a few truly exceptional professional musicians, not including Peg and me, and several enthusiastic non-professionals, that is Peg and me. However, everyone dove right in and even some audience members got up and danced in the aisles of the grand ’ole Osage County Opry. Thanks for joining in the fun.

As one who grew up in Pawhuska and attended the Kihekah (Constantine) Theater on a regular basis for numerous community events it felt good to see the old girl sparkle once more. Osage County has many talented and creative people who need a stage to display their gifts to our community. The Constantine has a fine lighting and sound system thanks to the generous support of the contributors and volunteers. The Constantine has even served as a regular venue for feeding the extremely courteous and friendly crew and extras of the Killers of the Flower Moon movie.

Plays, movies, ballets, musical performances, lectures, dancing and numerous other public uses are being made of this one-hundred-year-old, ornate edifice. On mine and the whole Redwine Family’s behalf, several of whom have called Pawhuska their home, thank you to all the staff, paid and unpaid, who helped make our reunion so memorable and so much fun.

By the way, the Constantine is available for use by calling 918-900-6161 or just stop by and speak to the friendly people who are proud to be able to show off the grand old dame.

Abandon All Hope

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People may come in various varieties but I suggest there are only two types: (1) those who think up projects; and, (2) those who have to do the work. In marriages the lines are clear. Someone cooks the meals; someone helps eat the meals. Someone dirties the clothes; someone washes the clothes. Someone decides flower or shrubs or vegetables must be planted and someone digs the holes. We could go on but I am confident you agree with my general concept.

I am aware there are those readers who would get deeper into the weeds of this ancient dynamic. For example, I can hear Peg offering the following division of labors: someone cleans the house while someone watches football or someone goes fishing while someone deals with AT&T, Amazon, the bank, the various levels of government from the local precinct to the president, and responds to requests from kids and grandkids. My position has always been I am simply staying out of her way. But starting next week we are going to find out if my theory is reality or merely bug dust. Peg goes for hip replacement Tuesday. There may not be enough time for me to learn how to be a wife.

It is not as if we haven’t known this time was coming. About every week since April Peg has served up cautionary instructions with our morning coffee. The days normally begin with this dreaded announcement, “Jim, we need to talk”. Each such session includes some lesson akin to grade school. “Now you know we need groceries; here’s how I order them online and how I pick them up. The sweeper is in the living room closet; you have to plug it in. When the sink is too full to hold any more dirty dishes you must rinse them and put them in the dishwasher [Tell me again why we must wash the dishes before we wash them]. Let me show you which button to push to start the dishwasher. Of course, you need to use dishwasher soap and it is under the kitchen sink. When the dishwasher stops you need to make sure the dryer has dried the dishes then put them away. Now let’s move to the laundry. I have written out the procedure to load, wash and dry. All you need to do is put the clean sheets on the bed and fold everything from socks to shorts; remember, use thirds and don’t just stuff everything in a drawer. That’s enough for this week. After all, I’ve got to get this week’s Gavel Gamut typed, sent in to the papers, put it on your website and post it on Facebook and Twitter.”

Well, Gentle Reader, I suggest next week will begin my rowing across the River Styx to Hades where the dog Cerberus guards Hell and according to Dante’s Inferno the sign on the gate says “Abandon all hope, ye who enter herein.” Maybe I’ll see you on the other side after Peg recovers. Wish her to get well soon, I know I certainly do.

The Cure for Black Robe Fever

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In response to both the states of Indiana and Oklahoma’s CLE requirements I am currently engaged in a forty-hour online Mediation course presented by the National Judicial College in Reno, Nevada. I may subject you, Gentle Reader, to the exciting content of this course before long. Hey, why should I have all the fun alone. But for this week I thought you might prefer another of those true courtroom dramas such as the one presented in last week’s column about my service as a prosecuting attorney that helped keep me from falling too deeply into the Black Robe Syndrome. The case that today’s column is about occurred about 25 years ago in front of me in the Posey County, Indiana Circuit Court. To my chagrin, I confess it is all too true and was first confessed to by me in a Gavel Gamut article on August 07, 2006 and appears in the book Gavel Gamut Greetings from JPeg Ranch.

The whole embarrassing courtroom episode reminded me of Dorothy’s serendipitous traipse along the Yellow Brick Road in the land of Oz with the cowardly Lion, the Scarecrow and the Tin Man in search of a brain for the Scarecrow, courage for the Lion, a heart for the Tin Man and the Wizard of Oz for Dorothy. When the mighty Wizard of Oz is finally seen for what he really is by Dorothy his façade of omnipotence gets shattered.

It is probably a good thing that we sometimes have false images of our leaders.  I remember my feelings of dismay when I was told by one of my grade school teachers that the painting of George Washington that hung in our classroom and in which The Father of Our Country looked so stern and powerful portrayed General Washington with his lips tightly pursed because he had ill-fitting false teeth.

And I will not disclose at what advanced age I still clung to Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.  I might have been slow to catch on but I was happier than my peers.

We may be wrong, but most humans believe in pomp and circumstance and the regalia of office.  Police officers have badges, soldiers have uniforms and presidents have Air Force One.  We do not need to know about what happens behind the scenes.

Then there are judges.  Judges have courthouses, high benches, gavels and those flowing black robes. Hey, it’s kind’a cool. And, of course, some judges have spouses who are not so easily impressed by all the accoutrements since they see their judges asleep on the couch in dingy tee shirts and torn Levi’s.

But what brings the old “feet of clay” sharply into focus are those unexpected events that occur in court where some citizen decides to act like this is a democracy and he or she is an American.

While there are many instances where I have been made to realize that the trappings were for the office and not for me personally, my wife Peg’s favorite story involved a case from about ten years ago where I was imparting great judicial wisdom and admonitions to a young woman who had been found guilty of stealing.

As I was regaling the full courtroom with the majesty of the law and how it fell so heavily on this poor young miscreant, all of a sudden the huge double doors in the back of the courtroom burst open and a large woman with her hair in curlers wearing a housecoat and bunny slippers charged up towards my bench. She was the young woman’s mother and she was not amused and certainly not impressed by my lecture to her daughter.

The lady stopped just behind the bar that separates the hoi polloi from those who are paid to serve them. She stood to her full height and said very loudly:

                     “If you weren’t wearing that long black dress, I’d come up there and slap your face!”

Then she turned and marched slowly and grandly out the back of the courtroom giving me what for the whole time.  The packed courtroom was split between amazement and amusement.

As for me, I knew how the old Wizard of Oz felt.

Dear Mr. Scorsese

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Osage Hills State Park Falls

As Martin Scorsese ramps up production for his movie of David Grann’s book, Killers of the Flower Moon, concerning the tragic murders of members of the Osage tribe in and around my home town of Pawhuska, Oklahoma, I thought Mr. Scorsese might appreciate a little movie making advice. Here is some information he may find helpful.

Ten years before Pawhuska’s favorite son, Ben (Son) Johnson, Jr., won an Academy Award for his role as pool hall/movie theatre owner Sam the Lion in The Last Picture Show I sold him a Stetson hat. Son, I called him Mr. Johnson, was home for a visit in Pawhuska, Oklahoma in 1960 and I was working Saturdays at Hub Clothiers Men’s Store on Kihekah Avenue. Son had just that year had a gun fight with Marlon Brando in One-Eyed Jacks.  I am not suggesting I deserve any credit for Son’s later success but I am pretty sure the hat he wore in The Last Picture Show was the one I sold him; it looked about right for wear and tear.

In addition to that association with stardom I would like to point out that one summer during Vacation Bible School my Sunday School teacher at the First Christian Church, Violet Willis, had our class film a re-enactment of the Christmas story. It was in July and we threw up a manger of blankets and black jack posts on the banks of Sand Creek near the falls in Osage Hills State Park. I played a shepherd. Now I know there aren’t too many sheep in Osage County but I thought my portrayal was still pretty authentic. And it may be of note to Mr. Scorsese as he directs his new movie about Osage County that Violet both lived and worked at the Osage Agency and was herself Osage.

My memory is that Violet used an 8-millimeter hand-held Bell & Howell camera and that she cast my friend and classmate, Glenda Van Dyke, as Mary. Glenda was blond haired, blue eyed and ten years old but she pulled off the young Hebrew mother role quite well I thought. I wish Glenda was available for a casting by Mr. Scorsese now.

Another person who might merit consideration is my big sister, Janie. Much as Lana Turner was discovered at the soda fountain of the Top Hat Café on Sunset Boulevard in Burbank, California, Janie used to work at the soda fountain of Mom and Pop Curry’s snack shop next to the Kihekah (now the Constantine) Theatre in Pawhuska. Janie might be of more utility behind the camera as she is good at giving directions.

And although I do not wish to accentuate my own resumé, I think in fairness to Mr. Scorsese I should mention that I did have a role in my high school’s junior play. Further, I am generally available except when Peg has me doing some chore around JPeg Osage Ranch.

 

Sans Sand

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Just when it looked like it might be safe to leave the beach and go back in the water the beach is disappearing. After more than a year of masks and isolation Peg and I finally got our second Pfizer shots last Friday. We just need to avoid all human contact for one more week. We were anticipating a return to a normal life. Then I read of an alarming new and totally unexpected world crisis, a sand shortage? Yep, that was the cautionary tale screaming from the Internet. I know I should not use my iPhone for anything but ordering from Amazon, but I find it impossible to ignore the AOL pop-ups in my email.  I know better but still click on the cleverly worded come-ons beseeching me to read about global warming, COVID-19, politics, sports or even Prince Harry and the Duchess of Sussex. This morning as the sun rose I was dinged with an exposé about our planet’s disappearing sands. Had I been aware of the situation I wouldn’t have recognized it even was a problem until I read the CNBC article shouting out the impending catastrophe of sans sand. So, Gentle Reader, just in case you might not have been panicking over this issue either, let me share my newly found angst.

Until this morning about my only concern in regard to sand was Peg’s complaint that I traipse it into our cabin after I have been out walking on the sandstone covered prairie. Peg demands that I leave my boots at the door and slide around in my socks on our bare floors. Now I can tell her I am helping to save the planet when I accumulate sand on her clean floors. She just needs to start bagging it up. Anyway, here’s what the Internet says is as significant to the world as fighting the pandemic.

According to an article on CNBC by Sam Meredith, sand is the world’s most consumed raw material after water and it is, “… an essential ingredient to our everyday lives”. In a “coals to New Castle” type comment the article goes on to say the United State government is hauling in countless tons of sand to protect Florida’s beaches that have been decimated by global warming. Apparently this is a world-wide dilemma and just as some people blame China for COVID-19, China’s over use of sand in massive construction projects accounts for almost 60% of the world use of sand as it is mixed into cement. It takes 10 tons of sand to produce 1 ton of cement.

You, as did I, might think that with such deposits as Sahara or Death Valley or the front yard of JPeg Osage Ranch, we would never run out of sand. However, it turns out that not all sand is created equally.

Desert sands, those created from wind instead of water such as by the seas and rivers, are too smooth to be used for construction so we are depleting our “good” sand too rapidly. There is even a huge illegal enterprise in sand excavation in some countries that has led to mafia type activity or so says CNBC.

As for me, I have resigned myself to continuing to pour cement into fence post holes and hope there will be enough to circle our new barn. If Peg does her part we might be able to make it stretch.

 

 

The Prairie Sirens

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Peg and I like living in the country. Our nearest neighbor’s residence is within sight but not sound. Even the occasional gunshot is but a faint report. No one just walks over as they used to when we lived in town. Of course, with ’Ole 19 raging no one would do so in town either. So town living resembles country living for now. Perhaps a few million vaccinations will reprise neighborliness. Although I find myself gradually becoming acclimated to the solitude. I do not believe I am as yet completely misanthropic but I can sense the progression toward it. Even the occasional arrival of a UPS or FedEx driver now causes an initially negative reaction. There was a time such an event brought forth excitement. Now not so much. My current reaction is more like someone whose emersion in a good book is interrupted by his or her spouse’s request for attention to some task in need of immediate attention. Really, is there anything going on in our COVID-19 world that cannot wait? After all, if Congress and the president do not deem matters essential, why does Peg?

Anyway, life on the prairie in winter, especially during the pandemic, has a baleful bucolia about it. One is aware of the potential for evil in the outside world but the solitude insulates the senses from it. One begins to gradually retreat from the angst brought on by the cacophonous environment that assaults us every time we interact with our complex culture. On the prairie such things as politics and boorish behavior recede from one’s daily consciousness. If a person can detach him or herself from television, self-delusion can seep through the veil of awareness. Maybe 2020 was a bad dream and merely the detour we have had to take to get to the future.

But the sirens of prairie reverie can lull us into hopes that if we ignore the world it will leave us alone and, more importantly, that all will be well. It is similar to our hopes that by eating only chocolate we can lose weight or that more wine is the answer to depression. When the chocolate and wine are gone our clothes still will not fit and our problems remain. As we learned from Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862), simple living and a desire to eschew government do not result in solutions to complicated societal problems. The hard work of day-to-day living and operating a country cannot be accomplished by wishing it so from the prairie. Somebody has to turn on the lights.

I may find myself drifting toward a desire for a reclusive Elysian prairie existence, but I expect hard scrabble involvement will be called for, at least by millions of other citizens, if I want to continue to enjoy my detachment.