The Free Spirited Monarch

A truish story of my family's journey to Tulsa

Note from PAP: The following story is a bonus story. We thought we had one Oracle left, but, surprise, we have two. So if you're in town for graduation be sure to pick up next week's paper. This story, therefore, is a bonus (that's a polite way of saying "philler"). My official last column will come next week. Everyone that cares raise your hand. The rest of you may continue to read.

Anyway, as I prepare to graduate and leave ORU, I think it is appropriate to recall how it was that I arrived in Tulsa. I hope the following account is not to confusing, and gives each of us time to laugh, and remember our own experiences, and how we came to Tulsa, through the eyes of a child. I was six when this story took place, and a freshman when I wrote it.

The Free Spirited Monarch
based on a true story

Few friends said the move west would be an easy one - and those who did were committed, so we tried to avoid their advice. But as with any tradition it makes little difference if it makes sense - tradition must be followed. Hence we readied ourselves to leave North Carolina and move to Oklahoma - and in so doing, create a new family tradition.

I was a young lad, barely up to me father's kilt I was (In truth my father owns no kilt, for the Scottish blood I inherited from me mother's side) when the journey to the land of the red man began. It was the beginning of a memorable life for me.

"Dah'd?" I queried with my innocent speech-impeded voice, "Can I sit in the font seat wichyou?" The question lost its intended impact since I was the last of the six children to ask it.

"Phi'il, move out of my way! Go sit in the back with all of your dolls! I'm riding with Dad in the front seat," my sadistic elder brother, Eric, belted out as he expelled me from his path and for that matter the lawn. Okay, it wasn't quite that bad, but big brothers are supposed to be mean and since mine really weren't (and still weren't... I mean aren't) I feel deprived and need to exaggerate their behavior, so that I can ease my social obtrusiveness. How else can one blame society for one's actions if society has never done one wrong? These thoughts did not occur to me at the time, for I was preparing myself for the 20 hour ride in the back seat of the van with my younger socialite of a brother and his mongol army of chewed up stuffed animals.

"Sam would you, pretty please with a booger on top, move those animals? I would like to sit there. Thank you." I asked in my sincere voice.

"I would be most happy to have my animals move over to accommodate my older, more mature and wise brother whom I admire more than any other," was Sam's reply... I think. He seems to have learned his pronunciation by listening to me.

"There's a cow. One point. Moo! <hick-up> Moo! Moo! Hey buddy your blinkers on! Road hog!" We were finally on the road to Oklahoma. Boy! how the time flew as we napped, played games, or our mom's favorite "the quite game," which I was amazingly good at - and believe me it didn't come as easily as it would for children who had the assistance of duct tape.

After a few hours in the car I began to suspect something villainous. But before I jumped to any conclusions I decided to investigate. "Faith, what is your hair doing stuck to me thumb, don't you know I could choke? Are you trying to kill me? ... What? Like what am I supposed to do cut my thumb off?"

"Phil, please take your thumb out of your mouth. We can't hear a word you're saying," my mother retorted as she yanked the offending appendage from its place of rest and comfort. I was not to be fooled, for I knew that even without my thumb in my mouth my speech was still indiscernible. So naturally I just said what I wanted to say, it really didn't matter if they understood me or not. This trait has been the foundation for all of my writing and public speeches, if you haven't noticed. "But Mom..." I replied with Buckleyian eloquence.

"Phil, stop whining. Everyone, we are almost to the rest room. And if anyone really has to go we'll get you a rubber band." My mother's response to my fear that my sister was trying to kill me was a little off base. Which brings me to the second point I learned during that time which has made later life so much easier: Be your own best audience for if you don't enjoy you, there is little hope others will.

"Okay, everyone, rest room break. The next stop we take will be in two hours," our father futilely warned us.

A couple of miles passed after we left the rest stop, if that many.

"Mom!" arose a wail from the middle seat.

"Ingrid, will you hand John the mason jar?" was mom's well trained, calm, level-headed reply. Of course, she didn't have to go to the bathroom either. Mom with her master's degree in Mommery had done her paper on the rate of liquids traveling from the throat to bladder, and had found that this rate increased two-fold when there was no place to relieve oneself. I think, it was either that or something about the affects that churches had on communities in the inner city, but I'm pretty sure it was on the rate of liquids. She seemed to know it all, and could predict to the minute when we would be yelping and would be ready with down to the mile distances to the next restroom, "just a little bit further."

Nerves began to fray in the car packed with the whole family of eight. Tensions broke, but thankfully the mason jar didn't. The trip began to take its toll on everyone.

That night as we passed through Arkansas we began to sing. "No you can't get to heaven in/with/by/via ______" and other resplendently funny songs such as "Bullfrogs and Butterflies" and "Animals." I'm not sure if we got around to such perennial favorites as "Say to the Mountain Move" and "Something Good is about to Happen to You," but we did cover a wide repertoire of songs (at least 5) which we sang all night. By the time dawn broke, our voices were in the latter stages of pharyngitis and I knew of 127 things which wouldn't get me into heaven.

The singing renewed everyone's spirits as we neared the Oklahoman border. My parents knew God had called them to Oklahoma for a time of training. So they had in obedience packed up the family things (which included six children ranging from 14 to 4), Sable, the dog, and struck out in their van for Tulsa to attend Bible school. They had left behind friends, a church, a semi-paid for home, a prosperous pediatric practice and much else, but under cross examination they are pretty sure they heard God and brought all of the kids.

The closer and closer we were to Oklahoma the more a new spirit began to envelop the van. Fighting ceased and tempers cooled - we were almost there.

The sign that read "Welcome to Oklahoma" was never read with more joy and celebration than it was by us on that day. The utopia did not last long - it ended the same time the extra asphalt laid by the Missouri road crews did.

Spirits undampened and emotions high, we wouldn't let a few minor pot holes or canyons deter us from reaching our destination.

God saw us and our progress and I know he was pleased. We couldn't have been in Oklahoma for 15 minutes when God opened up heaven and sent us a sign. God works in mysterious ways, and the way with which He mesmerized us was very unique and special.

"There kids! Would you all look at that!" a nearly epileptic father gasped in awe (this was before we learned the correct way of saying "yall"). "My God, I've never seen anything like it before in my life, honey."

"That's fine - let me sleep," our poor mother responded in her well rehearsed dead pan. Dad then let her in on the attraction (she has never been one for surprises) but still she didn't seem too impressed.

There wasn't time to persuade those who doubted or the cynics, this moment was to good to be true and it had to be seized. An orderly disembarking would have been impractical and dangerous and besides we hadn't had one the whole trip, so starting one then would have been very dangerous indeed.

There it was, silhouetted against the rising sun. Its hair lay flat, stream-lining its sleekly armored body. It didn't just resemble the free Oklahoman spirit - it personified it. What we were gazing upon was truly historic, even being only six years old I could see the importance of it.

There we were staring with the admiration of a thousand gawkers. What we saw very few ever stopped to notice for they were "used to it." It's so sad to see just how calloused they had become to it for they passed us by without ever realizing the loss was all theirs. We probably looked like tourists or out-of-town folks, and, well that was all right, for we didn't mind what others thought (and Mom was too tired to care). This moment was our own.

In reverential awe and respect for the beast and its untimely demise we backed away. Back into our car we went not wanting to forget and yet suddenly overcome by a stronger sense of duty, timing and most importantly of smell. We left the armadillo where it lay. The death of a Midwestern monarch, we could already read the papers saying. Though it bereaved us to leave, a town called Tulsa beckoned and we heeded the call.

"Okay boys, are you ready? Phil get your thumb out of your mouth and will somebody hold onto the mason jar? Ready? Let's head 'em up and move 'em out!" The voice of a true pioneer range out.