James M. Redwine

Funerals

The Best Celebration

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The Church at 9th and Prudom with side balconies. Picture taken by Peg Redwine

The Fourth of July has slowly gained prominence in my pantheon of special commemorations. Once all seasons paled next to Christmas with the memories of the autumnal aromas of oyster dressing and pumpkin pie fading away to electric trains and baseball mitts. Easter was okay because school would soon be out and girls in pink dresses with blue satin sashes would dash about exposing their laughter and crinoline. But the Fourth of July brought ice cold pop, firecrackers and roman candle battles. However, as a commemoration it seemed to mean a great deal to my elders, but for me it just presaged a return to a regimen of school that broke into my summer freedom.

I am not sure when the trappings of the Fourth began the metamorphosis into my imperceptible awareness that America and I had already struggled through numerous radical stages and, alarmingly and expectantly, might face many more as a man and a country. I think the true reasons the Fourth deserves its place at the head of commemorations began to seep into my consciousness the first time my large and gentle father took me with him to collect a Metropolitan Life Insurance Company policy monthly premium from a Colored family who lived across Bird Creek in a two-room clapboard house with a front porch held up by blackjack oak saplings.

We drove across the Bird Creek bridge in our family’s 1954 Ford sedan. On the way we stopped at Henry’s Bar-B-Q to buy what Dad called heaven’s own ribs. Dad was called “Mister Metropolitan” by Henry and Dad made sure I called the old Colored man “Mister” too. The two sections of two ribs and two Grapette pops cost about a dollar. Dad had bad heart trouble and Mom would not let him eat those beloved fatback pork ribs unless he sneaked over to Henry’s. They were worth any old heart attack as far as Dad was concerned.

After we savored that hickory smoked ambrosia, we drove about another quarter mile up the dirt road of Colored town to Dad’s customer’s house. He told me to stay in the car but I was already out and on the porch before he got the words out. A skinny Colored woman wearing a yellow flour-bag gingham dress and a denim wash rag as an apron opened the screen door and said, “Lord’a mercy, Mr. Metropolitan, is it premium time again already?” Her eyes were downcast.

Dad said, “Son, run back to the car and get my debit book. I must have made a mistake”. I hustled to the front seat to get Dad’s account book and returned just in time to see him taking his hand from his hip pocket.

Then he gently said, “Alright, boy, we better get back before your mother figures out where we went”. We left and I realized somehow the premium had been paid. I think that was my earliest understanding of what possibilities America afforded. Our family was about like all white families in our little town yet Mom and Dad knew from their own Great Depression Days that in America there is always hope if we all help one another. I like to think that that Black family paid forward some of the money that came from that life insurance policy to help someone else.

It took several more years of living with a slowly changing society of segregated schools, restaurants and churches, but I finally learned what the Fourth of July truly meant in 1964 when I returned from where I was stationed in the United States Air Force to attend Dad’s funeral. Our church had a large sanctuary surrounded on three sides with a balcony. When I walked into the church with Mom and looked up, the balcony was filled with Black people who stood in respect for Mom and Mr. Metropolitan.

Black people had never been allowed in our church, but the woman I saw that day years before with Dad was there with her family as were numerous other Black people from across Bird Creek. Later my sister told me that Black lady had come by our house and asked Mom if Colored folks could attend Mr. Metropolitan’s funeral. Mom had to get Church Board permission which was granted only after Mom threatened to leave the church. Coloreds would be allowed that one time if they sat in the balcony, but that was a sea change many years in the making.

That day was when I knew America had the capacity to atone for past sins, and that was when the Fourth of July became my favorite holiday.

The Aft Balcony.
Picture taken by Peg Redwine.

 

We Weren’t Heavy

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C.E. “Sonny” Redwine

My grandfather Redwine was born in 1848 in Walls, Georgia. After the Civil War he traveled to Indian Country, married and had five children. After his first wife died young, he married my grandmother who was a widow with six children. Together they had seven more children, of which my father was next to the youngest. My grandfather was a Baptist minister who may have known the Bible but unfortunately was careless in his choice of pulpits. He was preaching to a camp meeting while standing on a buckboard hitched to a skittish horse that got spooked by grandpa’s vociferous sermon. The horse bolted, grandpa lost his balance, fell off, hit his head and died. He was buried on the spot by grandmother and the congregation. My father was eleven years old and in the third grade when he and his numerous siblings were forced to raise themselves and one another while grandmother held the family together.

My father left school at age eleven and went to work in the high-sulfur unregulated coal mines of what by then was the southeastern corner of the new state of Oklahoma. Breathing in the coal dust led to my father’s massive heart attack at age thirty-three and to his ever-tenuous hold on his health until his death at age fifty-nine. Dad did not have the benefit of instruction from his father, but learned life’s lessons from his older brothers. This circle of concern and love helped make Dad a wonderful and kind father and also caused him to believe it was natural for one’s older brothers to educate them.

With my siblings and myself this meant my older sister, born in 1937, helped Mom with the household while my brother, Philip, born in 1942, and I born, in 1943, were mentored by our older brother, C.E. Redwine, born in 1936. C.E. (Sonny to the family) was our guide and protector. Sonny was the most patient and encouraging teacher and coach. He taught Phil and me to fish, play baseball and appreciate music. Mainly he taught us to be curious, strive to be our best and love every second of life.

Sonny was an inexhaustible deep well of knowledge and had the unselfish gift of generosity to share it. He could play and teach instrumental music and sing, teach and conduct choral ensembles. C.E. led our sister Jane and Phil and me in our church choir. He formed and performed with numerous dance bands. He played his brilliant saxophone all over the world with the United States Army Field Band. And everything he learned and experienced worked to the benefit of Janie, Phil and me as he always found the time and opportunity to share.

Sonny was a master chef and gardener. He knew how to grow food, when to harvest it and how to cook it, especially how to season it. He knew how to butcher every kind of meat and preserve it. My wife, Peg, and I must have gone to Sonny thousands of times for advice on every arcane topic one can imagine. He always knew what and how to do things and, most importantly, generously shared his knowledge without any hint of self-righteousness or impatience.

For all three of us, Janie, Phil and me, Sonny gladly sacrificed his time for our betterment. Our father and mother gave to us fully, but Sonny inspired us every day. I guess now our interests will begin to narrow and our questions will go unanswered.

Alexei Navalny

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Forty-seven-year-old lawyer and politician Alexei Navalny died in a Russian prison February 16, 2024. He was serving a nineteen-year sentence for opposing and exposing the corrupt government of Vladimir Putin. Navalny had survived an August, 2020 poisoning through treatment at a hospital in Berlin, Germany. He voluntarily returned to Russia in January, 2021 where he was arrested and imprisoned. He is survived by his widow Yulia neé Abrosimova Navalnaya who has staunchly supported Alexei’s courageous public struggle for justice. Yulia vows to continue their Quixotic crusade. Why continue and what has Navalny’s life mattered are pervading questions?

Navalny was born in Russia June 04, 1976. His family has roots in Ukraine and Navalny spoke Russian, Ukrainian and English. Navalny’s daughter became a student at Stanford University in 2019 and Navalny was on a fellowship to Yale University in 2010. Most likely Navalny’s ties to Ukraine and America factored into the Russian government’s constant campaign to denigrate, marginalize and punish his populist words and actions opposing Russia’s autocratic rule including its invasion of Ukraine.

Navalny had to know his return to Russia would lead to his imprisonment and probably death. He surely also knew his valiant struggle was a mere beau geste that was akin to flinging flowers at the crush of Russian tanks. And he could have had a comfortable and financially rewarding life with his wife and two children in several western countries. So, once again, why?

In Miguel de Cervantes’ Don Quixote that was the inspiration for Dale Wasserman’s musical The Man of La Mancha, the feckless hero is fantasizing while in prison waiting to face the Spanish Inquisition. Navalny was not a foolish romantic in a frozen Russian gulag awaiting Putin’s tender mercies. Navalny undoubtedly realized his inevitable fate if he persevered in his one-man quest for justice. He also surely knew his and his family’s sacrifices would do little to change the course of history.

So we who watched his holy crusade from a safe distance are left to puzzle out, Why? What, if anything, did it all mean? What do the sacrifices of anyone who casts themselves against the barricades of injustice in a seemingly impossible dream mean?

The music and lyrics of Mitch Leigh and Joe Darion ask and answer this ageless mystery of why some people give everything for an ideal:

“This is my quest
To follow that star
No matter how hopeless
No matter how far 

To fight for the right
Without question or pause
To be willing to march into hell
For that Heavenly cause 

And I know if I’ll only be true
To this glorious quest
That my heart will be peaceful and calm
When I’m laid to my rest 

And the world will be better for this
That one man, scorned and covered with scars
Still strove with his last ounce of courage
To reach the unreachable star”

To soldier on when the battle looks unwinnable is what makes people and life worthwhile. As Robert Frost might say, it is the struggle, not the outcome, that matters. Alexei Navalny faced the unbeatable foe of Putin’s Russia with full knowledge his efforts’ likely result would not be immediate change. What makes him heroic is his fortitude to strive anyway. And, if enough people are inspired by his quest, perhaps it will not have been in vain.

Raise a Parting Glass

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Old Baptist Cemetery, Wilburton, Oklahoma

The old Irish folk ballad, “The Parting Glass”, is a favorite Irish drinking song and is almost always sung, often a cappella, to help the dearly departed on their way. Military veterans are also frequently toasted to honor their service as glasses are raised and the ballad is sung. As you will see that tradition was carried from Ireland to America.

It is Veteran’s Day and as a veteran I have been thinking of all the service members, those who have served before and with me and those who are serving now. The United States Air Force was very good to me even though I gave little more than some of my time during a time my time was not otherwise of much value. While in the Air Force I was sent to Indiana University for one year to study a foreign language. Once honorably discharged I received four years of the G.I. Bill. I still receive VA health benefits. If a balance sheet were kept, I would be much more benefitted than contributing. Fortunately, no such accounting is made. So, thank you America.

And it is not just myself in my family who have been blessed to serve. Both of my brothers and my brother-in-law received honorable discharges and veteran’s benefits from the Army. Our father wanted to serve in World War II but a massive heart attack and his age caused Uncle Sam to say “no thanks.” In my immediate family our son, Jim, got his college education at West Point and now receives disability benefits due to physical health problems caused by his active-duty combat service on the front lines of both the Gulf War and the Iraq War. His son, Nick, our grandson, just graduated from Army Ranger School as Jim did about thirty years ago. Nick also got his college education via an R.O.T.C. scholarship thanks to the Army.

During WWII my mother’s three brothers and one of her sisters served as did my wife’s grandfather and two uncles. Each of these honorably serving family members received post-war benefits from a grateful nation. So, once again, thank you America.

Now going back another generation to my grandfather, Adolphus Cash Redwine, who was born in Georgia in 1848 before he moved to southeastern Oklahoma. With grandpa we find a murkier but perhaps more interesting veteran even if I am not sure which color uniform the Civil War era teenaged soldier wore. All I do know is that a few years ago my first cousin, Paul Redwine, who was the eldest son of one of my father’s numerous brothers living in the Wilburton, Oklahoma area told my sister, Janie, another of our uncles, Henry, received a letter of inquiry from the Veteran’s Administration in regard to our grandfather.

The letter stated grandfather’s military records indicated he was entitled to a military grave marker. Please remember this was at a time all service, Confederate or Yankee, was honored. The VA wanted someone to guide them to grandfather’s burial site. Paul said our Uncle Henry volunteered and the federal man showed up in Wilburton, Oklahoma with a bronze marker for grandpa’s grave.

Uncle Henry was one of the few people who knew the place where granddad was buried as grandfather was a Baptist minister who was preaching from the bed of a buckboard at a camp meeting in the remote hills of southeastern Oklahoma when something spooked the team of mules hitched to the buckboard. The mules took off and grandfather was thrown to the ground and killed. The congregation, at my grandmother’s request, buried grandpa right there with a board to mark the spot. That area grew into the tiny Bug Scuffle Cemetery outside Wilburton. Uncle Henry knew generally where the Bug Scuffle Cemetery was located among the sparsely populated hills. Unfortunately, Uncle Henry also happened to be a local source of moonshine. Uncle Henry made the gentlemanly suggestion that before he and the federal man placed the marker on grandfather’s grave, they should raise a toast in his honor using some of the family’s pride. The federal man, probably not wishing to offend, readily agreed.

My guess is grandfather’s military service, whatever it was, was still honorable even if his marker is not on his grave. For, as you see, Uncle Henry and the federal man raised so many parting Ball fruit jars to granddad’s service they never found his gravesite and lost the marker during their search. However, to grandfather and all veterans I am raising a metaphorical parting glass to say thank you and well done, and thank you to America for allowing us to serve.

Death Is Swallowed Forever (Isaiah 25:8)

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Barbara Taylor Pease & Jim at Echoes of Our Ancestors: The Secret Game Book Signing OCHS

Barbara (Taylor) Pease passed away ten days after my brother Phil Redwine. Their Baptist Christian services were similar in several comforting ways. They were also differing as Phil’s funeral was in Norman, Oklahoma and Barbara was honored as a member of the Osage Nation in Indian Camp in Pawhuska, Oklahoma. Peg and I had attended Barbara’s mother, Judy Taylor’s, funeral in 2016 and were moved by the Osage graveside rites. Perhaps the coincidence of my appointment as a Special Judge in a recent Indian law case made Barbara’s services even more impressive to Peg and me. I know I was surprised about how little I knew of Osage traditions even though I was born and raised in Pawhuska.

As part of my legal research into an area of the law completely new to me I went to my personal library and reviewed my autographed copy of John Joseph Mathews’ book, The Osages, Children of the Middle Waters. Mr. Mathews was well known to my parents and, at our mother’s request, Mathews signed a copy of his book “with special pleasure” to my brother Phil and me. Mathew’s extensive scholarship into Osage traditions brought out the beauty and solace of Osage burial rites.

Barbara’s services included former Osage Chief Johnny Red Eagle fanning over Barbara’s body with an eagle-tail fan. This impressive ritual reminded me of the following passage in Mathews’ book that described a burial of several Osage members of a hunting party who were killed by a lightning strike:

“The survivors came into the village carrying their comrades and singing their song of death. The Little Old Men looked at the sky in fear, then fanned away the evil spirit from the bodies with an eagle-tail fan…”

See Page 68

At Barbara’s services Palee Redcorn sang beautiful, haunting and comforting acapella renditions of hymns in the Osage language and then transitioned seamlessly into English versions. One of those death songs was the traditional Christian hymn, “Amazing Grace”. At my brother’s funeral his youngest son, Ryan, who is an ordained Baptist minister, sang a deeply felt acapella version of “Amazing Grace” from the pulpit.

Of course, Ryan also gave a marvelous and inspiring message under the most difficult of emotions to honor his father much as Reverend Scott Kohnle of the Indian Camp Baptist Church spoke for Barbara. I do not know if Ryan’s mother’s Native American heritage influenced Ryan’s message for his Dad, but I do know Ryan and Scott both captured the essence of Barbara’s family’s and our grief and pride in our loved ones. Barbara and Phil were similar in their kindness and generosity and in their steadfast pride and support of their numerous grandchildren.

To lose two such priceless members of our small circle within ten days of one another was a lot to bear, but the thoughtful and heartfelt services helped. Peg and I now better understand the communal support of family and tribe.