Storytelling began with my dad

I was raised in a rural community northeast of Oklahoma City (between Spencer and Jones) called New Chance. Growing up, we often referred to it as no man’s land because it was far from a police and fire station. If something caught fire (a house, grass, etc.), the entire community came together to put it out. No red truck was coming to save us. That was when I was little. Presently, a fire station is closer, but neighbors still respond to fires and work collectively to extinguish them. They take no chances with spreading fires.

I’m from a large family (eight kids, two parents), but we were nothing like The Waltons on TV
or the Ingalls family in the Little House on the Prairie show. We had one black-and-white TV
set, similar to the Cunninghams in Happy Days, and a “party line,” which meant we had to share
phone time with another family. I realize to some of you, this time period must seem like
hundreds of years ago, when it was actually the 1960s.

O.K. Here’s the part about my daddy’s stories.

Living in rural Oklahoma, we came to rely on certain things: a beautiful, starlit night sky, the
shrill chirping of crickets, and severe weather. During intense thunderstorms, it was typical for
our electricity and phone to go out, leaving our house dark and quiet for hours. We would gather
in the living room and be still, waiting for the storms to pass. Like a rare treat, we would also
listen to my dad tell tales about growing up in Central Oklahoma during the 1920s and 30s (in
the Stroud and Cushing areas). We were all an enthralled audience of my dad’s, especially when
his stories spotlighted the exploits of Pretty Boy Floyd, Oklahoma’s most notorious and
celebrated bandit.

Sometimes, my dad would retell jokes he had heard. I still remember most of them. When we get
together, my family and I recall those treasured times and recount the stories and jokes, keeping
them alive in our heads and hearts.

From me to you, here’s one of my favorite daddy’s jokes. Enjoy.

There was a black fellow who loved to jump freight trains. He would run alongside them
and hop on, grabbing hold of its side ladder. He would travel the countryside from the middle of
the country into the Deep South, leaping off when the train approached a town and slowed.
During his travels, one of the things he noticed about these small towns was that black folks
always seemed to live on the other side of the tracks, in the opposite direction of the town square.

This fellow would wander through the streets of those black communities and bum
sandwiches and sometimes full meals from the families there. He’d sit on their porches, even in
the grassy fields, and enjoy corn on the cob and peach cobbler. On hot days, he could score a
cold glass of lemonade. Those were his best times.

Well, one day, this fellow decided to jump off the train as it slowed and passed through
an itty-bitty southern town he had never seen before. It seemed to be hidden behind a cluster of
tall oak trees. He was instantly fascinated by the place. The town hall area was deserted, except
for two teenage white boys fighting over a shotgun and an older man who stood nearby, leaning
on a street pole, watching them. The fellow decided to approach the older man.

“Say, hey there, Sir. Do you know where the black folks hang around in this here town?”
The white man, chewing on a toothpick, paused and pointed at one of the massive oak trees.
“The last black folk in this town hung on that tree over there,” he said.
The black man rubbed his chin and said, “You don’t say.”
“That was some time ago,” the older man said. “You see them boys over there?” The
black man nodded, looking at the teens still fighting over the gun. “They’re fighting to see which
one of them gonna get to shoot you.”
“Is that right?” the black man said slowly.
“But I tell you what,” the older man said, straightening. “You seem like a good enough
guy. If you promised to get on the next train coming through here and never come back to this
town again, I won’t let them boys shoot you.”
The black man considered this. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, leaning to his left and
peering down the train tracks. He could see only the smoke from the locomotive as it picked up
speed. “If you stop them boys over there from shooting me…” He nodded in the direction of the
departed train. “I’ll get back on that train I just got off.”