Oklahoma Is Where I Live: and Other Things on My Mind

By Gary D. Conrad

“Gary Conrad is a storyteller in the Oklahoma tradition of Will Rogers. He shares his very personal experiences and the insights and wisdom he has gained as a compassionate physician and spiritual seeker. A satisfying read.” —Andrew Weil, MD, author of Spontaneous Happiness and 8 Weeks to Optimum Health

“Oklahoma Is

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rainbow Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781568251639

Gary D. Conrad

Gary D. Conrad lives with his wife, Sheridan, and their dogs, Karma and Buddy, in Edmond, Oklahoma. Gary is an emergency and integrative physician, and his interests include Tibetan rights, meditation, the music of Joseph Haydn, choral work and wilderness hiking. He received his undergraduate diploma from Oklahoma State University, his M.D. degree from the University of Oklahoma, and after finishing his internship in 1978, has been a practitioner of emergency medicine in the greater Oklahoma City area. He has also completed a fellowship in integrative medicine at the University of Arizona.

Book preview

Prelude

Oklahoma’s Favorite Son

Without doubt Oklahoma’s greatest storyteller was Will Rogers. Oh, how he could spin a yarn! If I could turn back the clock to the early 1930s, I am certain Will would be at the top of my list to invite over for dinner.

This day and age not many of the younger generation know of him, but as a child, I certainly did. My grandmother, Zaida Sutherland, known by us kids as Gana, lived in Claremore, the home of the Will Rogers Memorial. Many times when we visited her, we took a short drive to the Memorial and took a gander at the memorabilia of Oklahoma’s favorite son. When it was winter and the day was snowy, we hopped on our sleds and weaved back and forth down the gently sloping hill the Memorial was perched on. I have nothing but fond memories of Claremore and Will Rogers.

Speaking of Will Rogers, he was born in Indian Territory in 1879 near present-day Oologah, Oklahoma. He dropped out of school after the tenth grade and worked for several years as a cowhand at the Dog Iron Ranch.

Will’s first start in show business came as a trick roper in Texas Jack’s Wild West Circus, which led him to vaudeville and eventually an engagement with the Ziegfield Follies. Before long he was nationally known as a humorist, newspaper columnist and Hollywood actor. When he died in 1935 in a plane crash near Point Barrow, Alaska, he was one of the most popular men in America.

Storytelling in Oklahoma began even before Will was around, when his Cherokee ancestors entertained each other with stories on dark starry nights. As they shared their tribal lore, all that could be heard was a crackling fire, the blustering wind and the high-pitched cacophonic howls of coyotes. And the tradition has continued down through the years, from one generation to the next.

No wonder Oklahoma has a tradition of great storytellers.

As a little boy I remember how I, along with my brother and sister, begged my mother to tell the spooky tale of The Man with the Golden Arm. No matter how often we heard it, the rendition always invoked screams of terror at its conclusion.

Of course, I continued the ritual with my three daughters. Many evenings they would ask, Daddy, tell us a scary story. Pulleese? How could I say no? So, after we gathered in one of their bedrooms, I turned the lights down low and we all sat atop the bed. Then, with my eyes bulging ever so slightly, I would conjure up a tall tale of ghosts, ghouls and zombies that started something like this:

Once upon a time, there were three little girls, Sarah, Megan and Hillary. One dark stormy night they were up late when they heard a howling voice from the distance moan, Sarah . . . . Megan . . . Hillary . . . come play with me . . .

Even though these stories had some of the same predictability as the ones told to me by my mother, they invariably produced the same types of reactions I had as a little boy. By the end, my daughters were completely and utterly terrified.

Now, as I think about it, it is clear to me that all of us have been molded to some degree by storytellers in our lives. And it is in this spirit, I ask you to read on. I won’t scare you as I did my daughters all those years ago, but I must confess:

Nobody asked me to remember my childhood, nobody asked me for my philosophy or beliefs, and nobody asked for my opinions. But I’m going to tell you anyway. After all, as a native Oklahoman, it’s firmly imbedded in my genes.

I am a storyteller.

Just for Fun

The First Kiss

Iwas in second grade and I was in love.

Her name was Debbie. She had long black hair, sparkling blue eyes, and a smile that made me wilt. During recess, when I was certain she wasn’t looking, I would sneak peeks at her. She was no doubt the cutest thing I had ever seen.

When I grew older, I learned if one thought a girl was someone you’d like to get to know, you found some way to strike up a conversation. It didn’t take many sentences to figure out whether or not she was interested.

But now, at the ripe old age of seven, I wouldn’t dare talk with a girl. No way. Girls were mysterious creatures who made most boys my age, well, extremely nervous. They were just different than us guys, very different.

Boys like to rough it up with wrestling matches, the occasional fight and soccer games, during which your kicks more times than not ended up on the shins of your opponents rather than the ball itself. We liked to play war, go out fishing for crawdads, and play baseball and football. If it was sweaty and dirty, we liked it.

Girls lived in a world apart. They liked totally different things — that is, except for the tomboy who would hang around with the guys every now and then. Sometimes, during recess, we would intermingle by playing tetherball and games such as Red Rover, Blind Man’s Bluff, Red Light/Green Light and Simon Says. Mostly, though, girls preferred to jump rope, play house, hopscotch and jacks. They washed their hands a lot and made sure their fingernails were trimmed and clean. They were different, really different.

Take the classroom.

When I was a young pup there were almost no male grade school teachers, and girls were always selected to be the Teacher’s Pet, a label no self-respecting boy wanted. You didn’t dare be the one who did things over and over again for the teacher. Occasionally was one thing, but never repeatedly.

Besides that, it was completely irritating that girls would, without fail, be some of the best students in the class, and seemed to always know the answers to the toughest questions. I figured they were smarter because when they weren’t in school, they didn’t have anything else to do but study and play with their Barbie and Ken dolls. We guys had too much hanging around to do.

Now there were some, and I’m afraid that included me, who actually did their homework. But that was not the primary reason for our existence; girls had a lot more time on their hands, and they could hit the books and make the boys look stupid as the other girls in the class snickered.

As a young boy, I knew Debbie was a girl and was different than my guy pals, but she was just plain interesting. I couldn’t help but think about her.

I began to think of ways to draw her attention to me without actually having to talk to her. I knew if I tried to chat with her, though, I would stutter and stammer and sound like an idiot. Besides that, I couldn’t imagine looking directly into those bright blue eyes.

While the teacher would be droning on and on in class, with my chin in my hands, my mind drifted off to thoughts of Debbie . . .

I saw her walking to school, laughing and talking with her friends, when a mean bully named Spike ran up to her, pulled her books from her arms and threw them to the ground, just to be mean. Debbie began to cry, but, much to her surprise, a trumpet sounded, and from nowhere I appeared on the scene.

After picking up her books and handing them to her, I turned to him and warned, Spike, you leave her alone!

He leered at me and showed me his knuckles. Make me!

It was high time someone taught him a lesson.

The fists started flying, and before long we were rolling around on the ground in a cloud of dust, still slugging it out. Word got out quickly, and soon a crowd of my classmates gathered round, oohing and aahing at the best fight they had seen in their young lives.

After I busted him in the gut a couple of times, though, Spike ran out of steam. Thoroughly defeated, he began crying and slithered away from my fists of fury. As he ran for his life, at his retreating back I yelled:

Don’t you ever bother her again, you no-good son-of-a-gun, or you’ll have to deal with me!

Good had once again triumphed over evil.

As I dusted off my clothes, all of my fellow students began to applaud, and Debbie came running up to me with the look of love and admiration written all over her adorable face. She took my hands, pulled me close to her and said, My hero!

Aw, Debbie, it was no big deal.

Oh, no, you’re the bravest! she said as she smiled, light flashing off her perfect teeth.

I had a big grin on my face as I shook myself from my reverie and tried to listen to the teacher as she continued to babble on and on about how Abraham Lincoln had saved the nation.

Sigh . . .

How could I listen to such drivel when there was Debbie and fighting to think about? Then I thought about when Hoss from the TV show, Bonanza, got in a fight with the bad guys.

Every Sunday evening my family and I gathered in front of the television set and watched the latest adventures of the Cartwright family. We sat in rapt attention as the familiar tune struck up along with the map of the Ponderosa Ranch. The map then burst into flames, revealing the four main characters, Ben, Adam, Hoss and Little Joe, riding their splendid horses right up to the camera.

Almost every show had a fist fight, and after seeing darn near every episode, it was clear to me that no one could throw a punch like Hoss. He was a softie most of the time, but when his button got pushed, he could beat up ten outlaws at once. Hoss was my hero.

I was in a real quandary over Debbie.

What to do?

I thought about it for weeks. One day, in a flash of inspiration, it hit me: I would kiss her. Oh, God — it made me nervous even to think about it — but isn’t that the American way?

I had seen tons of movies showing men and women smooching up a storm. I mostly hated watching those embarrassing scenes, yet, for this time and place it seemed like the right thing to do.

Why not?

Okay, now that was decided, the big question was:

How do I kiss her without actually having to speak with her?

This was a tough one, and before too long I came up with the answer. One day, when the playground was crowded, I would sneak up on her and give her a little peck on the cheek. She would never know who did it, and I could slink away without having to say a word.

What a brilliant idea!

While I was quite pleased with myself, I wondered: Can I pull it off?

I waited for months for the right opportunity. Finally it came. One spring day there was a group of us kids — tightly packed, much like a can of sardines — in the corner of the playground. With all sorts of screaming and tussling going on all around, I crept up behind her and gave her a tiny kiss on the cheek. I saw her gasp and open her mouth in surprise, and before she could turn around, I had disappeared back into the crowd — my heart thumping wildly in my chest.

As I lurked in the background I heard her saying to her friends, Someone kissed me! Did anyone one see who it was? They all shook their heads. My subterfuge was successful, but I was also smart enough to know never to try that sort of thing again.

Now as I think back on that moment, I realize how confusing the opposite sex is when you are young and tender. You know there is something that draws you, but it’s confusing and scary and exciting, all at the same time.

There is definitely a palpable sweetness and innocence to the crushes and puppy love of childhood, and soon enough, in the years to come, the interaction between men and women can, and oftentimes does, become much more complicated. Dating is often followed by marriage, which may lead to children, divorce and all the associated mental and emotional baggage that invariably comes.

But for most of us in our early years, it was simple and sweet.

Much like an innocent kiss on the cheek.

Varmints

For a number of years I lived in the middle of the sticks with my three daughters, Sarah, Megan and Hillary, on nine wooded acres in rural Oklahoma. It didn’t take long to discover how wild that area was, even being only a handful of miles outside of the town of Guthrie. I would learn that, at least as far as nature was concerned, What you greet, you eat.

I loved raising chickens — not for meat, as I (most of the time) subsisted on a lacto-ovo vegetarian diet. I went through all the hassle of raising fowl because I savored a good ol’ country egg. The shell was thicker and the yolk was so bright yellow it seemed surreal. And even more important, the flavor was indescribably better than the store-bought varieties. When I ate one, I said to myself, "Now that’s an egg!"

In the 1990s, there wasn’t the ready availability of cage-free or organic eggs; you had a choice of buying into the cruelty of commercial egg production or raising your own chickens.

I chose the latter.

When my chicken coop was constructed, I thought that nothing could penetrate the impermeable shell placed around my beloved fowl. A six foot high protective fence was built for the chicken yard, which extended a foot deep into the earth, and the base was boarded for security. Alcatraz didn’t have anything on my coop; nothing was getting in, and nothing was getting out.

I was feeling pretty smug about the whole operation until my flock began to diminish — one by one. Nothing was worse than happily sauntering up to the coop to check for eggs and finding your favorite chicken dead, crumpled up in a mangled heap with feathers strewn in all directions. I began to realize that having a chicken coop in the country was like having a candy store in the midst of a bunch of sugar-craved kids.

You’re just asking for trouble.

My father had a different way of putting it. He said,