James M. Redwine

Oklahoma

Prometheus Revisited

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A few days ago I received a telephone call in the early morning from my neighbor who owns the ranch immediately east of our property, “Jim, can we cross your place with some fire-fighting trucks and volunteers? Our controlled burn is not controlled. It may jump over on you.”

“Sure, anything I can help with?” Of course, as a judge neither I nor anyone else ever expects me to do anything except watch and listen, but I thought I should offer.

“Just keep an eye on things; it should be okay if the wind doesn’t pick up or if it changes from westerly to eastward. My cowboys and I will be coming through soon.”

Controlled burning in the early spring and fall when the land is more moist and seeds are not yet being heavily produced has been a proven technique for range management for many years. There is evidence Native Americans used deliberate burning in parts of America many years before Europeans arrived. According to a 2016 article from the National Park Service the tallgrass prairies would quickly succumb to undesirable shrubs and trees, such as red cedars, without periodic burning.

   

There are some negatives such as possible erosion and excessive smoke from pasture fires, but most experts posit the overall benefits lie with burning. As for Peg and me, our concerns were more with our log cabin and log out-buildings. I stationed myself at the fence line between the neighbor’s ranch and our place and marveled at the hard, dangerous work done by mainly volunteer fire departments from Barnsdall, Hominy and rural fire departments from other areas of Osage County, Oklahoma. I apologize for not thanking each firefighter and company by name, but there were so many volunteers and water trucks and there was so much expert and complex planning going on I do not know whom to thank. Therefore, thanks to all who responded and managed the raging backfires that preserved all of our structures and helped clear out the thatch and undergrowth from a good portion of our trees and pastures.

It was gratifying to experience the thoughtfulness and expertise of the firefighters who were the opposite of the fire company of the town of Dawson’s Landing in Mark Twain’s wonderful book, Pudd’nhead Wilson:

“A village fire company does not get much chance to show off, and so when it does get a chance, it makes the most of it. Such citizens of that village (Dawson’s Landing) as were of a thoughtful and judicious temperament did not insure against fire, they insured against the fire company.” 

It was interesting to see firefighters helping to safeguard our home who understood the elements of fire and wind and how to turn them from a possible dangerous disaster into benefits.

The new growth is already striving to turn the still smoldering old vegetation into wildflowers and new Bluestem grasses. I wondered how the ubiquitous and unfeeling conflagration would impact the deer and other animals that inhabit our fields and make them so much more enjoyable. But just today I observed a coyote gingerly dancing across the ashes as he reoriented himself to his new environment. He looked just as any human might look in the aftermath of some catastrophe, a little confused but hopeful Mother Nature knew what she was doing.

Peg and I will take our guidance from Wily and look upon the huge fire as what Peg might call another one of “Jim’s Adventures”. We are eagerly awaiting the emergence of the Indian Blanket and Indian Paintbrush wildflowers that, thanks to the uninvited wildfire, will soon be gracing our prairie home.

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.

Las Vegas In The Osage

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Wade Tower at the Constantine Theatre, Pawhuska, Oklahoma. Picture by Peg Redwine

 

Alright, I finally give it up; my 1950’s Saturday morning black and white Cowboy and Indian movies at the Kihekah Theater in Pawhuska, Oklahoma are truly gone. They have been blown away like a prairie tornado by the big band sounds of Wade Tower and his marvelous musicians. Ah well, since Pawhuska is the capital of the Osage Indian Nation, we were always ambivalent as to which side to root for anyway.

On Saturday, June 03, 2023 from three to five in the afternoon Wade and his players with the multiple octaves and complicated rhythms transformed my old Kihekah Theater to the renovated Constantine Theatre and transported the audience across the plains to a séance with Frank Sinatra and Elvis Presley. It was exciting and refreshing to experience music that did not repeat ad nauseum a single beat and three banging chords. Although Wade did manage to pay homage to his Oklahoma roots with a little George Strait. He also got the audience singing along and gyrating to Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline”, although I suspect alcohol may have been sitting in as a contributor from the appreciative audience. Wade and his Blues Brothers-dressed band members filled the ornate and historic Constantine with the kind of music and talent the old venue has not seen since my brother, C.E. Redwine, reprised his Oklahoma State University Blue Note Band there in 1994 when the newly renovated Constantine was re-dedicated. In fact, Floyd Haynes, who is Wade’s bandleader, reminded me of C.E.’s Paul Desmond quality saxophone playing.

Wade Tower and his band. Picture by Peg Redwine

Each of Wade’s ensemble was terrific. Wade’s vocals were powerful, sensitive and truly enjoyable. Sean Johnson on the tenor sax, Zac Lee sliding the trombone, Ryan Sharp on the trumpet, Chase Gulliver on drums, Vince Norman, keyboard, Rod Clark, bass and the justly featured Jerry Connel on lead guitar were solo quality artists. It was so exhilarating to feel each solid note and each changing key and modified rhythm. I like country music, but there are reasons there are seven notes with wonderfully complex sharps and flats as possibilities and multiple key signatures along with intricate tempos. Thank you Wade and your band for knowing and applying the full range of them. And further kudos go to the light and sound technicians who did a terrific job helping to bring Vegas to Pawhuska.

Also, thank you to the Board of the Constantine Theatre for your foresight and good taste in contracting with Wade Tower to perform every Saturday at 3:00 p.m. up to December 2023. Peg and I are eagerly looking forward to enjoying Las Vegas in the Osage again.

Peg Redwine, Wade Tower & Jim Redwine at the Constantine Theatre, Pawhuska, Oklahoma

Food For Thought

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Photo by Peg Redwine

Peg and I have been away from our U.S.A. home for almost 5 months now and we are each missing some of what makes our cabin on the Oklahoma prairie so special. Peg is nostalgic for kids, grandkids, great grandkids, siblings and friends, you know, Gentle Reader, the things most people get misty-eyed over. I feel her pain but, frankly, I find that what our current home in the old Soviet Union country of Georgia really needs to join the family of democratic nations is a good bowl of chili and some hand-rubbed and torturously slow smoked Oklahoma beef brisket accompanied by a few ears of southern Indiana sweet corn.

Photo by Peg Redwine

And while Georgia claims to be the 8,000-year-old birthplace of wine, a theory which Peg and I have certainly tested, I thirst for a cold Corona with salt and lime. One cannot truly swig a real draught of room temperature red wine as you can a long swallow of cold beer to follow the piquant spice of garlic and cayenne pepper. Tell me, is it any wonder these Georgians worry about some crazy Russian neighbor on their northern border wanting to once again invade them and take their most valuable natural resource, their wine? Russia has no chili, no brisket and nothing but vodka to drown their sorrows about pesky Ukraine; of course Russia is a concern.

I have written several columns about how America could better address Russian aggression than by throwing forty billion dollars worth of military assets into the same type of winter Napoleon and Hitler did. Russian generals January, February and March may not know much about military strategy, but they sure know plenty about the logistics of winter warfare.

       Photo by Peg Redwine
Photo by Peg Redwine

Why hasn’t Commander-in-Chief Biden read my columns and called to ask my advice? I would tell the President the same thing I would tell the Georgian McDonald’s and Kentucky Fried Chicken stores just two blocks from our Batumi, Georgia apartment that put out poor imitations of Georgian food disguised as quasi-American cuisine; they could make billions with a good bowl of real chili and a beef brisket sandwich. These Georgian people are smart and their traditional Georgian food is both tasty and interesting. This is probably due to thousands of years of mixed cultures from both Europe and Asia. But if we could just introduce them to what truly makes America so strong, Russia would not stand a chance.

I confess, it is not just the war effort that moves me. If we don’t get some fine southwestern chili and bar-b-q and succulent southern Indiana sweet corn soon, Peg and I are going to have to fly home and rely upon friends and family for sustenance.

Photo by Peg Redwine

Who’s In Control?

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Photo by Peg Redwine

Peg and I were in our apartment on the seventeenth floor of our 90s-Era looking building at 6:30 pm (9:30 am Central Time) in Batumi, Georgia yesterday when the whole gigantic complex quaked and my chair, with me in it, moved. Peg had been out on the tiny open-air balcony watching hearty Georgians swimming in the Black Sea. She came right inside shaking about as much as the apartment. We had experienced earthquakes before in Indiana and Oklahoma so we realized why we suddenly had a complete loss of control over our lives.

Peg heard a loud crack while I, as oblivious as usual, just existed through the moment. It takes a lot of power to cause a 42 story high-rise apartment building to move even if it is built on the small mobile rocks that make up the Black Sea beach. After we decided The End was not yet here, we checked for damage; none was obvious but we now have less faith in our accommodations. Speaking of faith, we understood why there was a gold-colored statue of the Greek god Poseidon in the public square across from our home. Poseidon was the god of earthquakes and other natural disasters, such as floods and storms, you know, like the hurricanes currently attacking the Philippines, Cuba and Florida, among other victims. The residents of Batumi must have had to endure a lot of mini-quakes over the years and decided a statue to Poseidon might help protect them.

Apparently when we realize we cannot control our natural environment we humans create gods who can. It makes us more comfortable if we have something that can control Mother Nature even if it also has the power to destroy us. As for Peg and me, it did not help assuage our angst that earlier in the day we saw workers around our complex employing a couple of trucks and a crane that looked like they were leftovers from the Dust Bowl Era. It was apparent that the job was bigger than the tools even if the workers did not appreciate the problem.

It has now been about twelve hours since the earthquake and Peg and I have had the time to assess the situation. We know it was not the New Madrid earthquake of 1811 and it was not a harbinger of the San Andreas Fault we have all been warned about for one hundred years. Oh, that will come as, unlike never happening pots of gold at a rainbow’s end, disasters do eventually appear. All we can do is create more gods, or at least, beliefs, that something somewhere can get things back under control for us.

 

Changes

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They tore down my grade school and built a church. It is a nice church that regularly fills up with nice people, some of whom I do not know and some I do. In fact, some of the church members whom I do know I first met in the first grade in our old sandstone elementary school that is now their church. I expect almost every time one of those old classmates pulls up to their new church, they get a nostalgic image of our old school. I know that every time Peg and I happen to drive by the fine new brick church with its lovely green lawn and flowering shrubs, images of a sward of almost non-existent short grass interspersed with small pebbles and an occasional anthill fiercely guarded by large biting red ants come wafting through my contemporary thoughts.

The large two-story sandstone building with a bell tower on top and a basement below was one of the first truly substantial buildings in my hometown and had once, or so I was told by my Osage Indian Sunday School teacher, Violet Willis, served as a school for other Osage girls. Miss Violet and my family attended another church that has now been abandoned with some of its congregation now joining with that of the new one that replaced both my old school and my old church. The new church thoughtfully preserved the large stain glass window from my old church that was the sanctuary’s focal point. The stain glass scene was of a beautiful stream that gave worshipers an impression the water was flowing right into the baptismal vault where I and my sister and two brothers were baptized. That old sanctuary was also where we four siblings all sang in the choir and where our Father and Mother both served as elders and were honored during both of their funerals.

The new church that replaced my old school and my old church also replaced that congregation’s original church building that had been located about one block from my old church. That old church served its congregation well for many years and also served me and other Explorer Scouts as our meeting place because the civic minded father of one of my best friends from our old elementary school both formed and financially supported our Explorer Troop and, as a member of that congregation, got permission for us to meet there. My old friend and his family still attend that church in its new location. I bet he thinks about both our old school and his family’s old church building frequently when he goes to his new church.

Gentle Reader, you may get a sense from these reflections that somehow I am casting some sort of shadow over those who have seen fit to make the changes in my old school or the two old churches or my old beloved community at large to whom and what I owe so much. You would be far from the mark. I was blessed to learn many treasured lessons from my old school and several old churches, only one of which was mine, and countless friends, teachers and wise elders. How could I rue the decisions they made that helped make me so gratified today?

Changes must happen and hopefully they will be positive. One lesson I learned from those halcyon days of now bygone buildings was that the generosity and wisdom of those who populated those structures and that of those who now frequent the new ones are what matters most.

To paraphrase Martin Luther King, Jr., it is not the structures that are most important but the character nurtured by those who dwell therein. Old schools, changing old churches and changing communities are inevitable. However, it is not inevitable that change is good; good people must make them so. I was fortunate to grow up where the people did.