Travel

The 23-Hour Sunday: A Lesson in Oklahoma Nice

I have lived in Oklahoma for almost a year and a half now, and most days I’m met with a frequent reminder of just how nice people are here. We aren’t just talking “Chick-fil-A” level service; this is something deeper. As a Midwesterner by way of Texas, my critical thinking usually searches for the catch—but in Oklahoma, the “My Pleasure” attitude seems built into the asphalt.

The DFW Gauntlet vs. The OKC Glide

Coming from the northeast side of Fort Worth, I’m used to a certain kind of vehicular combat. To get to DFW Airport, you had to survive a dozen traffic lights, a train crossing, a toll road, and that tangled knot where 820, 121, and 183 all fight for the same patch of dirt. You’d shrug at the chaos and mutter, “What else you got for me, Mr. Highway Engineer?” Up here, the experience is so different that it almost feels unfair.

From our house to the Will Rogers World Airport, we encounter fewer than five traffic lights. In fact, we don’t even see a signal until the terminal is practically in view. This lack of friction invites you to relax. It’s likely why I can’t think of a single roundabout in our part of Oklahoma City; the 4-way stop remains the preferred method for handling the world, one car at a time.

The Great East-West Bottleneck

However, that casual pace is put to the test just north of our house. We live near one of the last major north-south roads before the city peters out, and our local 4-way stop can easily see two dozen cars backed up at once. While the north-south flow is steady, the east-west traffic can become a genuine test of character.

You would think this would breed the “every man for himself” mentality I learned on the Texas tolls. Instead, it seems to build a peculiar kind of patience.

The Two-Fingered Salute

This morning, my wife and I were heading north to church. As we pulled up to that busy 4-way stop, I encountered a driver to my left heading east. While he had no backlog to contend with at this hour, he insisted we go first. He gave me that classic move: the two-fingered wave from the top of the steering wheel. It’s a motion that says, “Get on with it. I can out-wait you.”

I took him up on the offer. Why delay our arrival at church, even by a few seconds, when someone is determined to be more patient than you?

A Deficit of Time, A Surplus of Grace

What made this act of kindness truly remarkable was the timing. This was the first day of Daylight Saving Time—the annual 23-hour day that serves as the bane of most people’s existence.

On a day where every human being in the Central Time Zone is starting with a sixty-minute deficit, this man chose to use up a few more of his precious seconds just to put himself at a further disadvantage. “Out-nicing” another driver is one thing on a standard Sunday, but when you see it happen during the exhaustion of a 23-hour day, you know you’ve found something special.

You must be in Oklahoma.

The Retirement of a Workhorse: A Eulogy in Carnitas

The spices were piled on the pork butt with the jalapenos on top.

Sunday’s lunch was a milestone. Our youngest grandchild was dedicated at church—and while she is currently our only grandchild, we speak of her in terms that suggest a full basketball team is waiting on the bench for the coach to send them in. My daughter and son-in-law were surrounded by family, and the day felt appropriately momentous.

My wife had volunteered to host the meal, and we eventually settled on our signature carnitas. It’s a “start it the night before” kind of meal, which is much kinder to the nerves than trying to crank out chicken on a grill after church. I even snapped a photo of the full crockpot for the family cookbook I’m assembling, blissfully unaware it would be the machine’s final portrait.

The Last Supper (Lunch really, but “supper” sounds more foreboding)

The meal was a triumph. Eleven of us (counting the guest of honor) kept the conversation lively while a significant portion of the carnitas disappeared.

The Great Escape

As the party wound down and the cleanup began, the grace extended to our seasoned crockpot was forgotten. The front panel sticker—the one that actually tells you what the buttons do—finally gave up the ghost and peeled off.

But the real issue wasn’t aesthetic. My wife discovered a pool of carnitas broth on the floor when we got up in the morning. This pork shoulder had more fat than usual, and as it rendered overnight, the broth level rose. The lid no longer sealed tight against the pot. Once the liquid peaked past the dome, the leak allowed the brothy contents to escape.

To the Picnic in the Sky

This crockpot had served us for at least sixteen years. We brought it from Ohio. It outlasted its predecessor, which met its end when I dropped a frozen pork loin into it and cracked the crock clean in two.

Fate—or perhaps a premonition—had intervened a week earlier when we spotted a deal on a slightly larger model at Sam’s Club. With a successor already waiting in the wings, we sent the old crockpot to that great church picnic in the sky.

No gold watch. Just gratitude for sixteen years of carnitas.

Hockey Boy Broth

When we moved to Oklahoma to be near our soon‑to‑arrive granddaughter, we bought a house with space for a backyard hot tub. A few months later: hot tub, pergola, grill, generator — the full “we can survive anything but a direct tornado hit” package. Part of the deal was that my wife would handle the chemicals. This was a great plan until it wasn’t.

Somewhere between the third and fifteenth water test at the pool store, I became the reluctant caretaker of the tub. Over time, I learned enough to keep the water clear and the employees from greeting me by name. I even became a semi‑competent “hot‑tub whisperer,” spraying filters, checking levels, and pretending I knew what alkalinity actually meant. My wife and I enjoyed the tub a few nights a week, letting the jets work on our aging joints. The jets are its whole personality.

Then the hockey boys arrived.

They live with us during the season — not our kids, but “our kids” for those months — and they discovered the hot tub like explorers stumbling upon a natural spring. They didn’t use it constantly, but when they did, they treated it like a giant, silent crockpot. No jets. No circulation. Just two teenage athletes sitting motionless in 104‑degree water, marinating like slow‑cooking briskets.

I tried to explain — gently at first, then with the passion of a man who has seen too many water‑testing printouts — that the jets are not optional. The jets keep the nasties moving. The jets are the sanitation system. The jets are the difference between “spa” and “soup.”

They nodded politely and continued soaking in contemplative silence, scrolling through hockey reels, texting, singing, or simply existing in the tub like two large dumplings. If I’m lucky, I might get thirty seconds of jet activity before they settle back into their preferred mode: simmer.

And that’s when it hit me. Chicken broth. Beef broth. Vegetable broth—all available at Walmart. Human broth? Not on the shelves for a reason. Yet here I am, steward of the simmering teenage stock, responsible for skimming the surface and restoring balance to the backyard cauldron.

Still, as much as I complain — and as much as my wife wishes I’d complain less — I’m glad they’re here. Their presence breaks up the quiet, gives the house a pulse, and reminds us that life is more than routines and chemical levels. I’d rather manage the broth from the hockey boys who live with us for the season than from strangers we don’t love.

So I sigh. Then I smile. Then I go check the chlorine.

What Two Hours of Productivity Looks Like When You’re the Only One Who Can Hear

I have been up for two hours. What do I have to show for it? I have had breakfast and consolidated two half-empty peanut butter jars into one.

And there is the reason I got up early in the first place.

In my sleepy stupor with new earplugs firmly secured, I heard a beep-beep. Was it something making odd noises after the generator kicked on? No, the clock wasn’t blinking. Must have been in my dream…beep-beep. This definitely was not in my dream.

Jeff, my son, had called the night before as his new house around the corner had just had its alarms tested. “Were they going to go all night?” he wondered. Give it 10 minutes, I told him. Should just be the standard test. Ironically, our alarm—which had been off the ceiling all during our cold weather a couple weeks back—decided this morning was the perfect time to remind me why I pulled it off in the first place.

I wandered to the garage to get the ladder in my underwear, realizing I would not be crawling back into bed. Carefully placed the ladder in front of our bedroom door. Removed the alarm, disconnected the batteries. Sat on the couch for a few moments to ensure no other annoying utterances were issued by any electronic device in our home.

At least I woke up for another day.

With coffee brewing and pajamas stowed until this evening, I cursed the fact that I am the adult in the house with the best hearing even with earplugs in. I cursed the hour of sleep I would miss. Then I did my daily chess puzzles to try to wake my brain up. I immediately thought about the afternoon’s potential to grab a nap.

Yes, I can make it through this day.

Old-School Fly Wars: A Swatterless Survival Guide

Since moving, my relationship with fly killing has taken a turn for the primitive. With my trusty fly swatter sitting in retirement (or lost in a moving box labeled “Misc”), I’ve had to return to the ancient, honorable art of manual fly extermination. Let’s review the current arsenal:

1. The Clap: Thunder in the Kitchen

This is the classic method—two hands, one fly, and a prayer. Does it work every time? Absolutely not.

  • Best used: When the fly is on an unobstructed surface, preferably somewhere elevated.
  • Technique: Approach from behind—their getaway car is always in reverse.
  • Success rate: Lower than my high school batting average, but occasionally glorious.
  • Note: If you miss, pretend you were applauding yourself for trying.

2. The Smash: Window to the Soul (of the Fly)

When a fly camps out on a window, the Smash is your go-to.

  • Needed: Napkin, tissue, or whatever paper product is within reach.
  • Method: Cover the fly, scrunch, and hope your hand-eye coordination hasn’t gone the way of your fly swatter.
  • Real-world example: Yesterday’s attempt resulted in a close call—the fly escaped with a story to tell at the next Fly AA meeting.
  • Disclaimer: All my rage is directed at “guy flies.” I like to think the lady flies are just lost on their way to a garden party.

3. The Grab: Picnic Table Panic

This move is for flat surfaces only: countertops, picnic tables, or any place where the fly can’t hide under your toaster.

  • Execution: Skim the surface, grab from behind, and listen for the telltale buzz of success.
  • Finishing move: If the fly is buzzing inside your hand, give a couple of shakes, then toss to the floor and quickly enforce the “no fly zone.”
  • Caution: May result in bystander confusion and/or admiration.

Swatter Status and the Flies’ Perspective

  • Fly swatter purchases: On indefinite hold, unless I stumble into a homeowner trade show or a hardware store offering a buy-one-get-one-free deal with a new plunger.
  • Reliability: Swatters are still king if the fly is parallel to the ground. My hands? Let’s call them “aspirational.”
  • House rules for flies: If you’re a fly who prefers dining while facing down, congratulations: you’ve found a safe haven.
  • Good news for flies: None of them read blogs.

Final Buzz

Until the fly population reaches DEFCON 1 or I cave and buy a new swatter, I’ll keep clapping, smashing, and grabbing—one primitive, questionably effective method at a time.
If you hear thunderous applause from the kitchen, it’s just me, celebrating the one that didn’t get away.

When Brisket Bites Back: A Tale of Smoked Hubris and Redemption

Act 1: The Brisket Blunder

Saturday’s dinner was supposed to be a triumph of smoked meat. The sides were flawless, the company delightful, but the brisket… oh, the brisket. The first three hours on the smoker gave us hope. Then Judy made a quick trip to Abby’s, and apparently, the brisket decided to use this window for its escape from “tender” into “chewy boot leather.”

Approximately one-third of the brisket was edible. The rest? Let’s just say it would have made a fine rubber band collection.

Act 2: CSI: Brisket Edition

We launched an investigation:

  • Was it the missing orange juice when we wrapped it in foil? This is our favorite theory, as it makes us look less incompetent.
  • Was it the smoker running too hot? (We plead the Fifth.)
  • Did I over-trim it? Possibly. Maybe. Okay, likely.

No matter the cause, our brisket won’t be joining our greatest hits playlist any time soon. And after two out of three brisket fails with the kids, we’re keeping the next attempt private. I’d rather have a meal as a backdrop for conversation than as a reason for continuous apologies.

Act 3: The Vegetarian Perspective

There was one bright spot: our resident vegetarian gave the meal an “A.” Black bean burgers, veggies, all the fixings—she was blissfully unaware of the brisket fiasco. Sometimes it pays to skip the main course.

Act 4: Sweet Redemption

Thank goodness for blondie brownies and ice cream. Dessert provided just enough sugar to help us forget our meaty missteps.

The next night, we redeemed ourselves with fajitas—chicken grilled to perfection (thanks, 10+ years of chicken experience!). Judy and I shamelessly angled for compliments, and the kids, to their credit, tossed us a few. The watermelon and street corn were the real MVPs, making the meal feel like a true celebration.

Epilogue: A Weekend Turnaround

We finished the weekend on a culinary high—proving once again that while brisket may occasionally defeat us, chicken (and dessert) will always have our backs.

Oklahoma Snow

As the weatherman gave us a couple days notice of the upcoming winter weather, I didn’t believe him. Having been exposed to how Southerners feel about snow, I expected a light dusting and empty shelves at the grocery store. We got more winter than I could have imagined, but it was done Southern-style.

  1. When we woke, the flakes were following. In Texas, flakes are often greeted by a layer of ice. In Oklahoma, our first winter storm had no ice. It was a very damp, packable snow.
  2. With no kids in the house to confirm, it appears that because of the snow and lack of significant snow removal equipment, the schools are closed until Monday.
  3. While I hadn’t completed my research at the local Walmart, my son, who has lived in Oklahoma for 10 years, assured me that the shelves were empty. His conclusion is formed more by stereotypes than validation.
  4. Who clears the snow from their driveway and sidewalk? I do. Why? I am a Midwesterner who has moved to the south. Southerners, those I have met, believe letting it melt is far superior to any physical exertion. It is better to have a chance of slipping than to remove the snow and remove the risk of injury. (Their apparent logic.)
  5. Oklahoma (and by extension, Southerners in general) extend a great deal of latitude when their children want to enjoy the snow. While walking yesterday, I saw an elementary child in his underwear (bottoms only) diving into the snow. I only saw one dive. I don’t know if it was his last or if he went to warm up before diving again.
  6. Finally, tornadoes bring far less fear than winter storms to those in the south. Yes, I could be exaggerating a little. Yet, when you have a storm shelter in your garage, the world “is your oyster.”

The Rec Center Walk

This past weekend, it was really cold in Oklahoma. With flurries blowing, I had three choices: take my walk outside and be miserable, skip my walk entirely, or go with my wife to the rec center and walk as she swam. I opted to go to the rec center.

We have an “old folks” rec center near our home. If you are over 50, you can join and take advantage of the programs specifically designed for more seasoned citizens. While I don’t physically put myself in this age group, I can’t hide from the chronological facts. So, as she swam, I took my first walk on the 11-laps-per-mile track.

When I first started, the track was not crowded. As I added laps to my total, more people came to join me, and I was glad to see people doing healthy things. But, I had some criticism. If people want to walk 3 -across and take up the whole track, I consider this rude. When I walk outside, I stay aware of who is coming toward me and who is behind me. On the rec center track, I had to get in the habit of yelling, “On your left” while a few yards behind. (Also, good etiquette outside.) They moved with slight annoyance. I thanked them for allowing me by…or was I thanking them for sharing the track like a civilized person would do? While this was annoying, I had a far greater frustration.

Typically, I walk 15-16 minute miles. I have gotten in the habit of using a phone app that announces the miles and the minutes per mile. When the app told me I had completed my first mile at a time of 19+ minutes. I was appalled. Prior to this disturbing announcement, I was convinced I was walking an average pace. Yes, passing people and diving through gaps does cause me to break from my normal stride. Yet, walking 3 minutes slower than normal did not sit well. The only way to solve this problem was walking faster. When the 3 miles were completed, I did not greatly improve my minutes/mile speed.

After doubting my masculinity and almost accepting the fact I am old, I developed a theory. I am certain my phone app and the GPS function were actively working against me. The GPS was not able to detect whether I was on the outer ring or the inner walking ring.

My extremely well-read friend gave this response to my question:

Walking small, repetitive laps (e.g., around a track or small park) can sometimes confuse GPS systems. The curves and overlapping paths may result in under- or over-estimating distances due to signal "drift" or smoothing.

Whether this is accurate or not, I am claiming it. As long as I am in control of my faculties, I will not trust a sporadic electronic hiccup over my gut. And, by extension, I am unlikely to walk rec center laps again…

The Sooner Move

After using trash days to target my weekly “purge” goals, the day finally arrived. No matter how much is tossed, donated, left at the curb the night before trash day, or loaded with kitty litter so it can be thrown out with the normal trash (mostly paint), the day before packing was full of surprises. The box of photo albums hidden behind clothes in the closet is an example of little things that threw our box count off. Fortunately, Home Depot and Lowes both got some of our business.

On moving day, the crew arrived at 9:00ish. (I was out making a box run when they arrived.) They had an indoor and outside crew. (Think “tear-down and load furniture” crew and a “load boxes from the garage” crew.) Labels were slapped on everything, and the Tetris began. We had to do some last-minute shuffling of items to accommodate the “no chemicals or perishable foods” rule. Once this was done, we were pretty confident we could make everything fit in the two cars. (The van was already packed to the rim. The Camry was the overflow vehicle.) After a Sonic run to get everyone drinks somewhere at the midpoint of the loading, the “goodbye” was all that remained.

This house was where family, exchange students, hockey players, and a few random others ate pizza and carnitas. It was a happy place with a swimming pool and quirks only an inhabitant could appreciate. Yet, it was a place of SO MANY memories. We are confident new memories and adventures await us in that “state up North.” (Our previous state was Ohio, where the “state up North” has a much more negative connotation.)

Jump ahead 5 hours…

My wife and I both enjoyed our separate feast on the way up. (She did the Chick, and I did the Arby’s “4 for $10” special.) The unloading time was half of the packing time. Things would have stretched out if the crew had been better at putting boxes where they were supposed to go. However, because we still under-purged, there were more boxes than floor space. The garage became a 50+ box pileup.

Two days into the future (Thanksgiving morning), most boxes/containers seemed to have survived their encounter with the OK state line. My desk was on life support (dumb particle board) before we left Texas. It was an unfortunate casualty. We haven’t found the lamps yet. Except for the wall “ding” and the usual mishaps, the move to Sooner-land crawls forward. May we make it a home and avoid any of the windy mischief that visits this part of the world!!

**Note: Apparently, moving truck drivers can only be on the “clock” for 14 hours in a row. Then, they need to be off the road for 10 hours before they can drive again.

The Wizards Of Bob Evans

The purpose of our traveling was to get to a family wedding in Ohio. Since Bob Evans is not in Texas (I think the mashed potatoes and sausage may be in the grocery store), we usually have at least one meal there while visiting.

This trip, it was Saturday breakfast. In complete tourist fashion, I had to chat with the wizards from down on the farm. They had no interesting stories about quidditching or spellcasting. They quickly told me they were Christians and like eating pancakes while wearing pointy hats. Or, was it something to do with putting pancakes on their heads and letting their hats keep them warm? Whatever the true story, they were gracious enough to pose for a picture for this relocated Ohioan. (One of them was too shy to pose. 🙂 )