James M. Redwine

Pawhuska

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.

Other Countries Heard From

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Photo by Peg Redwine

President Kennedy gave his inaugural address January 20, 1961 when I was a senior in high school. He was concerned about the Soviet Union’s 1957 Sputnik achievement and challenged American youth to respond. That September I entered Oklahoma State University and boldly majored in physics. By June 1962 I had learned how to smoke but not learned anything that would raise concerns in Russia. I changed my major to English and then in June 1963 decided to “ask what I could do for my country” without the headaches of college level studies. I became a 1960’s Okie and headed for California. On the way I took my first foray out of the United States to Nogales, Mexico.

My friend and fellow OSU dropout, Ed Kelso, and I drove his 1954 Mercury down to the Mexican border and were waved through without so much as a question, much less a visa. We stopped at the first bar we came to and ran into my old high school classmate Jim Reed and a few other guys from Pawhuska, Oklahoma who were there on a similar journey of cultural discovery. What I noted from my brief sojourn was my high school Spanish was sufficient as long as we had U.S. Dollars. I also received my first faint awareness of how lucky I was to have been born north of the border.

Another foreign country experience was when as a member of the National Judicial College faculty I was sent for two weeks (December 1999-January 2000) to Ukraine to teach Ukrainian judges. I liked the Ukrainian people but found their lives to be quite difficult. The judges told me they frequently did not receive their small monthly salaries and the Ukrainian government often failed to provide them and their families with promised individual family housing. Also, police corruption was in full view on the streets of Kiev and workers who were supposed to help repair such public assets as the fountain in “Freedom Square” did about as much work as I did at Oklahoma State. As the old Soviet saying went, “The government pretended to pay them and they pretended to work.” I left Ukraine with a greater appreciation of what our Founders sacrificed for us.

Then in 2003 the National Judicial College sent me to Russia for a week to teach Russian judges about jury trials. The old Soviet Union abolished jury trials after the 1917 Revolution and Russia was just reinstituting them into their legal system. Peg was able to be with me on that trip and we, once again, found the Russian judges to be friendly and gracious but the Russian culture caused us great chagrin. A good cup of coffee was truly a foreign concept, but the consumption of alcohol was quite prevalent. The idea of innocent unless proven guilty was belied by the defendants being housed in metal and plastic cages in the courtroom. And when a defendant on trial for murder was marched into the courtroom by four AK47 carrying uniformed guards right in front of the jury, my American sense of justice was assaulted. It was good to get back to my Indiana courtroom with its guarantees of equal justice. Russia was interesting, but the United States was good to come home to.

Most recently (June 2022-February 2023) Peg and I completed a six-month judicial teaching mission sponsored by the American Bar Association, the East-West Management Institute and the United States Agency for International Development. I was sent to the country of Georgia that until 1991 had been part of the old Soviet Union. My duties were to make friends, observe, work with and give suggestions to Georgian judges based upon my more than forty years of experience as an American judge.

We had a wonderful experience with the Georgian judges and our newly-made Georgian friends. They could not have treated us any better. Everyone we met was positive about our involvement and open to suggestions. We would gladly return to Georgia whenever invited. Of course, we did note substantial differences between the Georgian culture and America’s. Georgia is bordered on the north by Russia and on the south by Turkey. Twenty percent of Georgia is militarily occupied by Russia; that is a constant worry for the Georgian people. Peg and I thought how different our lives in America are. Our northern border is Canada which we visited in 2018 and is about as good a neighbor as any country could have. And our southern border is Mexico that appears to want to join us.

What this 2023 Fourth of July birthday party has helped us to reflect upon is, no matter how much CNN, MSNBC, FOX News and many in government service complain about America and malign it, many of the alternatives are pretty scary. After seeing how some of the rest of the world has to live, I find the ’ole USA absolutely marvelous. America has faults and foibles, but as Francis Scott Key wrote, it is really wonderful, “That our flag is still there.”

Photo by Peg Redwine

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

Dune Buggy Art Nouveau

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Photo by Jim Redwine

Gentle Reader, I ask you, does this photograph look like any place you would ever expect to find a battery? I do not know about you, but after many experiences changing out dead batteries in cars, pickups, lawn equipment, flashlights, etc., I never expected any semi-comatose foreign manufacturer (what other kind do we have now?) to hide the battery to my dune buggy inside the cab under a passenger seat. It probably took several committee meetings of diabolical Russian or Chinese speaking, Cal-Tech educated, overpaid engineers for them to gleefully agree upon such an inane placement.

I realize it has been 60 years since I worked at a Phillips 66 service station on Main Street in Pawhuska, Oklahoma, but I would have thought if a teenager could open a hood and locate a battery said location might have, at least, not now become hidden from common sense. By the way, it was a service station where one could get their tires aired up, their tank filled with 27¢ per gallon gas by an attendant, their oil checked and their battery replaced all for less than the cost of 10 gallons of liquid gold. Alright, it is true you could not get a rotisserie chicken or a garish faux silk screen shirt emblazoned with some supposedly witty saying your mother would get out the soap for.

Now I ask you, are not batteries supposed to be right under the hood or, with the parochial pride of the Europeans in mind, right under the trunk lid? Would any self-respecting automobile mechanic deign to pull up seats in the passenger compartment in search of a battery? I should say, not!

And if one has to search for the Holy Grail of batteries where only a lost coin or a stale cookie would be expected, could the designers of the automotive Enigma Machine have at least put a label on the cleverly camouflaged cover with a small clue as to what it was hiding? Say the word “Battery”, maybe?

Photo by Peg Redwine

I read the “Operator’s Guide” cover to cover after lifting the hood and finding nary a battery. The “Guide” is 196 pages from stem to stern and I make my living reading lots of words, including as Edgar Allen Poe might say, many a volume of forgotten lore. I am used to reading dross trying to pass for depth. However, the drivel of this manual does not pass as information much less enlightenment. The photograph contains the “Guide’s” entire instruction on battery replacement (Pages 124 and 125). I defy you to detect how the process is to proceed.

But once the battery is located and the cover is removed, the fun has just begun. I bet those Cal-Tech foreign born geniuses are still chortling over their anticipation as to how a normal sized human would surrender in frustration trying to put a screw and a nut into the space of a gnat’s nest.

Well, I am nothing if not stubborn so I refused to file a lawsuit until every knuckle I had was skinned and Peg was suggesting I just give the dune buggy to somebody we do not like. I could not think of anybody I was that mad at. Anyway, after only 3 days I got the red attached to the positive pole then the black to the negative. Of course, I had to reconstruct how the cover must be replaced. And even though I had tested the buggy’s starting before putting the gaggle of parts back together, when I got it all rearranged and was filled with self-satisfaction in my refusal to let the foreigners win, it refused to start.

It’s all good now as I have decided to follow the example of several grangerized folk artists I have noticed who have made their old vehicles into yard ornaments. When you drive by JPeg Osage Ranch, Gentle Reader, you may find a dune buggy surrounded with cacti and sandstone sporting a R.I.P. sign.

Photo by Peg Redwine

 

Game On

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Peg and I sat in our warm cabin on the Osage County, Oklahoma prairie recently and watched the live stream of the state high school semi-final football game between the Pawhuska Huskies and the Cashion Wildcats. Thank you www.kpgmtv.com!

It is not that we are only fair-weather fans; we have enjoyed attending the Huskies games in person since we moved from Posey County, Indiana to Osage County, Oklahoma two football seasons ago. However, this state semi-final match was played on a neutral field about 70 miles from our home so we opted for armchairs. It was still an exciting game, final score 35-31.

And while we truly appreciated the free live-feed, there were parts of the game that may have slipped our attention. So, if my observations are not 100% accurate, that is my excuse. That said, as Fareed Zakaria might say, “here’s my take” on the game.

The opening ceremonies affirmed both schools’ commitment to all that is good about high school sports. Then the hard-hitting play that followed had to make both fan bases proud. Neither team ever let up from an all-out effort on offense, defense and special teams. There were few penalties and none for unnecessary roughness, late hits, unsportsman’s-like conduct or taunting. There was no taunting, only two fiercely competitive groups of finely disciplined and talented, well raised and well coached young players. The game could be used in civic classes as an example of why high school sports are an important component of education.

These players likely all started in the summer of 2021 with two-a-day practices and sacrificed fun times for sweat and misery to be ready for this 48 minutes. High goals were set and achieved. Most significantly those goals included giving their best, not just in the game of football but in their examples of how sports can help mold character. It was unquestionable that each player on both teams wanted to win. However, Peg and I saw several players from both teams help their opponents up and even pat their adversaries on the back during the game. There were no fights or shouting matches or claims of bad calls. Football for football’s sake was the standard.

As a graduate of Pawhuska High School, I was gratified by the lessons these players so obviously had learned. The same would have been true had I gone to Cashion. So, thank you to the parents, coaches and teachers who set these young people on the right track and thank you to the players for a great game.