James M. Redwine

JPeg Osage Ranch

How’s It Happen?

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This morning at 5:00 a.m. I woke up thirsty and went to the kitchen for a drink of water. While my eyes were beginning to engage, I reached into the cabinet for a glass. Then I managed to locate the faucet and turned it on. Clear, potable water came rushing out. I did not need to walk to the pond or draw a bucket from a well. It suddenly occurred to me that somehow from somewhere someone had done me a great service. And they did not even know me.

It was Thursday so I knew I needed to get our trash out. I collected the week’s refuse of leftovers and packaging and took it to our gate by the road. Later that day as I went to the post office, I noticed the trash was gone. My mail box contained greetings from two health care solicitors, we must now be in a demographics database. But it also contained cards from our kids and some important information from the V.A. Someone who did not know us cared enough to send it.

To get to the post office I drove on paved roads with proper markings and directions such as traffic control. Somebody must have sweated in the heat and shivered in the cold to help me get to the post office. And, of course, somebody at the post office who was neither friend nor family got our mail to us.

There were street lights helping to guide my way and a police officer watching out as he sat in his patrol car near the café. He may have been enjoying a cup of free coffee but he deserved it. He was there for us and he did not know us.

Who are all these people who provide water and garbage collection and sewer and street and energy and safety and health care? Why do they do it, especially all those town and city and county politicians who serve on boards and in offices that keep the lights on and the streets both navigable and safe? Many of them serve without pay or any financial benefits. Why do they give of their time and labor to serve the rest of us?

When I see news footage from other countries where people are without power or safety for themselves and their families, I not only feel for them I realize how good we have it. It even will sometimes slow down my complaining about all the services I receive from people who do not know me and have no reason to want to. Every now and then, through the dark glass of pessimism, a small light works its way into my psyche and I remember how lucky I am.

So, thank you to all of you who helped me slake my thirst. I will try to complain less and enjoy more. That should last a day or two if I do not watch cable news.

Thanks A Lot Noah

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In his book Letters From The Earth, Mark Twain has Noah making an extra trip in the Ark so he could save the housefly that spreads typhoid fever. I could not find any reference to scorpions in the Book of Genesis nor in the account of the Great Flood that also appears in the Quran. However, Noah, or in Arabic, Nuh, must have heroically preserved the “creature with the burning sting” as I stepped on one in our cabin at JPeg Osage Ranch last night. If Satan had stepped on a scorpion with bare cloven hoof, I bet he would have sent a scathing letter to heaven from his temporary banishment on Earth. Perhaps then either St. Michael or St. Gabriel, the Devil’s correspondents, might have pointed out to the Creator that His creation of the scorpion was a bust.

The Latin name, scorpion, given to the eight-legged arachnid with the pinching front claws and the stinging tail aptly describes the menace that apparently has no value except to encourage one to wear shoes in the house. Except for me, scorpions have few natural enemies other than lizards and tarantulas; choose your poison.

What I want to know is whom did Mother Nature put in charge of species extinction and why hasn’t She extinguished scorpions? Scorpions have been around for 435 million years and, I humbly suggest, that is long enough. According to Google (who else are you going to rely on), extinctions are a normal part of evolution. They occur naturally, periodically and somewhat regularly. We Homo sapiens would not be here if millions of other species, dinosaurs for example, had not gone extinct before we came out of the primordial ooze two to three hundred thousand years ago after two to three million years of genetic iterations of hominids.

I submit it is fair to ask Mother Nature, “What were you thinking?” Much like the White-Tailed Hornet of poet laureate Robert Frost’s poem, it appears to me whoever designed the scorpion should have gone back to the drawing board, or better yet, file thirteened the whole thing. The white-tailed hornet (or scorpion) might be viewed romantically by nature lovers who assume infallibility or even lovability in all of nature’s creations. But Frost (1874-1963) watched in disillusionment as a white-tailed hornet in search of a fly to eat repeatedly attacked both the head of a nail and Frost’s nose. As Frost concludes about nature and life in general, once we begin to see the fallibility of the natural world “reflected in the mud and even dust” we can no longer convince ourselves we humans are only a little lower than the angels and are probably no higher than creepy crawlers on the floor.

 

The White-Tailed Hornet

The white-tailed hornet lives in a balloon (nest)
That floats against the ceiling of the woodshed
…
Verse could be written on the certainty
With which he penetrates my best defense
Of whirling hands and arms about the head
To stab me in the sneeze-nerve of a nostril
…
I watched him where he swooped, he pounced, he struck;
But what he found was just a nail head (not a fly).
…
Won’t this whole instinct matter bear revision?
To err is human, not to, animal.
Or so we pay the compliment to instinct.
…
’Twas disillusion upon disillusion.

 

In much the same manner as Frost’s hornet, did that scorpion on my cabin floor mistake me for either dinner or a possible mate? Why bother me at all? When it should have been gainfully employed in more reasonable pursuits it was not using any reason and we both suffered for its frailty.

The Greek astronomer Ptolemy identified the constellation Scorpius in the 2nd century A.D. Why didn’t Mother Nature take that as a clue to make scorpions extinct 2,000 years ago? Even Nancy Reagan with her reliance on astrology for advice to her husband on affairs of state might have used her influence to have “Scorpio” disappeared from our existence by bringing the power of the federal government to bear. After all, our federal government killed off generations of eagles and other more cuddly species than scorpions with DDT. Why did scorpions escape?

I am glad the bison somehow miraculously survived mankind’s slaughter but do wonder what if any reason exists to preserve the scorpion. I guess it comes down to “Only the good die young” and we humans have been around about 430 million fewer years than the scorpion. We will probably be gone long before scorpions pass.

On the other hand, perhaps I can convince Jeff Bezos and Amazon to help me market scorpions to the public as pets. Hey, entrepreneur Gary Dahl got rich back in the 1970’s by convincing people a rock could be a loving pet. Maybe a slogan such as “Get Your Zing Avoiding a Sting” could be catchy. Or maybe I could sell them as a great gift idea for misanthropic people or dry them out and make necklaces from them. I see all kinds of people sporting plastic human skulls on their belt buckles or as tattoos.

Of course, if I were able to get such an enterprise going the government would just regulate it out of existence or tax it to death. Well, at least I could get rid of some of the crunchy little crustaceans that way. In the meantime, I guess I’ll just need to wear my shoes and watch my step.

 

Hope Springs Eternal

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According to Google Search (sounds like gospel to me), the Fountain of Youth is located in Osage County, Oklahoma at latitude 36.6461942° north, longitude -96.097216° west, at an elevation 938 feet above sea level. To be more precise, Ponce de Leon Spring is at that location on the grounds of the Woolaroc Museum & Wildlife Preserve. Therefore, Gentle Reader, you can actually visit Osage County’s version of what people have vigilantly searched for since at least the days of Greek historian Herodotus (484 BC – 425 BC), that is, the hope for eternal youth.

Woolaroc is a marvelous creation by oil man Frank Phillips whose namesake Route 66 is America’s “Mother Road”. Phillips’ gift to the rest of us is an amazing eclectic collection of animals, art and artifacts. It is also only seven miles from our home, JPeg Osage Ranch, so we get to enjoy it every time we drive along Oklahoma State Highway 123 between Bartlesville and Barnsdall, Oklahoma. You can do the same thing almost every day; but during the summer the museum is closed on Mondays and then in the winter it is closed Mondays and Tuesdays.  Woolaroc (woods, lakes and rocks) is one of Osage County’s greatest treasures. It is inexpensive, easy to access and a rare concentration of great western art, such as original paintings by Charles Russell and Frederic Remington and original bronzes by Osage County’s own Jim Hamilton and John Free. However, for now let’s you and I return to the Fountain of Youth.

Ponce de Leon (1474 – 1521) was born in Spain and spent his adult life pillaging the Caribbean for gold while using the indigenous Taino Indians for forced labor. There was some small measure of justice administered when in 1521 Ponce de Leon was shot in the thigh with an Indian arrow in Florida and languished in pain until his eventual death in Cuba. Ponce de Leon claimed to be searching for what most people think was a mythical fountain of youth reportedly because he was nearly 50 years old when he married a teenage girl. In reality, it was not youth he was seeking but the location and plunder of Indian gold. I cannot advise on the efficacy of the Ponce de Leon Spring waters as Peg and I have as yet not come across the proper procedure for gaining permission to access the spring. We hope to hear from the museum’s curator or maybe order some bottles online. Surely someone at Amazon is looking for a way to market such a valuable commodity. My guess is there may be a fairly substantial fee involved for what Mark Twain suggested would be the proper way aging should occur, that is, starting at 80 years of age (we are getting there) and working backwards to 18 (there’s no harm in dreaming as even Merlin youthened instead of aging).

Apparently, the Spanish conquistadors were more interested in gold than youth as such marauders as Leon and Francisco Vasquez de Coronado (1541) spent what was left of their youth searching for Cibola, the fabled seven cities of gold, that were rumored to exist in southwestern America.

Unlike the French explorers, such as René La Salle (1682), Jean Baptiste de La Harpe (1718) and Claude Charles du Tiene (1719) who sought trade with the native Americans in what became Oklahoma, the Spanish had less concern with Indian sensibilities. Fortunately, Spain sold its claims to raid the area to France’s Napoleon Bonaparte in 1800. Then in 1803 Napoleon sold the entire Louisiana Purchase to the newly established United States of America for fifteen million dollars. This purchase included what is now named Ponce de Leon Spring almost next to our home. So, if you will excuse me, I am going to see about getting permission for a quick soak to wash away a few years.

Helpful Hints for Husbands

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Peg’s recent, and successful, hip surgery has been a rewarding experience, for me. I have learned much and feel an almost female need to share. About half of the human race pretty much already knows what has been recently revealed to me but the testosterone half may profit from my force-fed lessons. Okay, class, let’s begin to lift the veil. Wives might be upset if husbands are made aware that the arcane lore of traditional house hold tasks need no longer be shrouded in mystery, But husbands have a right to know there may be more than one way to clean a house. Just as the insane strictures of military basic training have proven to have no relationship to national defense, much of what many wives demand are the only way to clean house should be relegated to the dustbin of history. May we start with dust itself?

Until Peg was rendered temporarily non-ambulatory a normal weekend at JPeg Osage Ranch might begin with Peg saying, “We (she meant me) need to get rid of all this dust! I saw a mote lurking along a baseboard in the back bedroom closet. What if someone from the roving movie production company wants to use our place for a scene? How humiliating that could be.”

I pointed out to Peg that the spic and span movie company covered the streets of Pawhuska and Fairfax, Oklahoma with dirt and horse apples. It does not appear dust is a problem for them. I suggested we could simply follow the movie’s example and set up a couple of green screens and project pictures of constantly clean rooms.  Peg did not see the efficacy of such a modern approach. By the way, the Killers of the Flower Moon (Gray Horse) production uses blue (green) screens.

Anyway, back to dusting lessons. Another rigid requirement for housewives, at least Peg, is that every item in the house must be moved and dusted under. I have found that if one does not move an item it is less likely that anyone can tell where there is any dust. Therefore, husbands, just leave things in place and only address any dead flies that may have accumulated nearby. Those probably should be removed as Peg and most other wives can see dead insects even from their convalescent beds.

Now what about laundry? Peg’s laundry system would put the Nazi army to shame. Each item of dirty clothes must be separated by either white or color, by heavy versus light dirt, by delicate versus hearty material, etc., etc. There is a container for each category and only like items may be washed together with scientific analysis of soap, bleach, and water temperature. I say “poppycock”. Dump ‘em in, turn it on and if every now and then a color runs that’s why there’s a Walmart.

But if washing in lockstep with Peg’s delusional belief that the gods of wash day actually care if a white sock mates up with a dark one, her approach to drying and putting things away is truly in need of some husband rationality. Husbands, do not fold the clothes! No one can’t tell once a tee shirt is in a drawer if it was folded with military creases or stuffed away. And do not waste time on separating items until you want to take something out to wear. You’ll know then what is underwear and what is outer wear.

Well, that’s enough common sense for now. I hope you can see the wisdom of my discoveries but mainly, I hope Peg is still under her meds when this article comes out. By the way, Gentle Readers, thanks for all the well-wishes. Peg is a true trooper and is doing fine.

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.