My Little Piece of Heaven
by Mary KingI was born in 1958, when Stockyards City--an old cowboy town in Oklahoma--had “almost” completed its transformation. It still had the taste and feel of the Old West written all over it. Cowboys roamed the streets looking for fun or a game of chance--which wasn’t hard to find. It wasn’t unusual for a business to change hands from a roll of the dice. (In fact, Mike Fry lost the Cattleman’s restaurant just that way to Gene Wade.) Can you imagine the long table with its green velvet cover, the numbers set in black and red as the dice roll? The silence is deafening as they come to a stop. “Snake eyes,” you lose.
Stockman’s was just such a place. I was eight when Dad put me on the long, shiny bar and said, “Let’s see the hula, Punkin.” There I stood in overalls and boots. My arms wiggled from one side to the other, and my boots made a tapping sound as I walked the bar. The owner, Beverly, was a friend of my dad’s. Dad liked to play the numbers, but dominos was his favorite. I sat by him as he stacked them in a row. Cigarette smoke rose as the players concentrated on the game. Motionless, they eyed one another as if to read the hands in their eyes. They looked like gunfighters who had squared off, waiting for the final shot--buzzards waiting for prey to die. Round and round it went, back and forth, ‘till you heard, “it’s mine,” and someone grabbed the pot only to start over again. Dad lost a hand or two before we headed home.
Back then everybody waved as we went by, even though we were surrounded by the haze of dirt in the air and the smell of stockyards when the wind was right (or wrong, depending on how you looked at it). They always opened the incinerator vents on Fridays. The smell of burnt hooves and hides filtered into the air--death in the breeze. Even with the smell, Fridays were my favorite days. I came home from school, ate dinner, and Dad took me to the Coliseum for the wrestling matches. They always started the same. The announcer yelled, “And now, your heavyweight champion, Rick Flair,” and Flair strutted into the ring with his flashy red robe and shiny gold rhinestones. Then the announcer revved up the crowd: “And the challenger, the masked man himself, Bolo!” (Bolo’s fat belly always hung over his too-small, bright red trunks.) The bell rang, and they threw each other over and over. The one who tired first usually lost. We watched all the matches, which were fun, but what I enjoyed most was watching my dad. He sat on the edge of the seat and swung a right hook when they did. Then he hooted and hollered and elbow jabbed. It was amusing to watch.
After the match, we started for home--smelling the smoke and stale beer from the bars. Music blared from the juke boxes: Conway Twitty, Loretta Lynn, and George Jones. In some bars, live bands played the latest music rave. If you listened closely, you heard bells and whistles from the slots--clicking of the roulette wheel as the money flowed like crazy. The bars and dance halls were full to the brim. Fights were normal. In fact, stepping over the losers as you walked was just the way things were.
Dad helped Billy, owner of “The Gas Station,” close up on Fridays after the wrestling matches. I got a Coke from the ice chest while Dad helped Billy clear out the drunks. It was funny how the little drunks came in and either asked for “green label” or a certain pack of cigarettes that didn’t exactly fit the description. Then Billy took them to the back. They came out with either a bottle of Jack Daniels, Old Crow, or Jim Beam in pints or fifths. Billy had a gambling table in the back for the high rollers who couldn’t play at the Cattleman’s. Sometimes, just after dark, the girls arrived with contraband cigarettes they’d stolen earlier from a store. Dad told me every Friday, “I don’t want you doing anything you’ve seen here because ladies don’t do those kinds of things and get treated right.” To that I said, “Yes sir.” Then, he finished up, cashed out, and we left for home.
Little Joe’s was a favorite place to go on Saturdays. Joe made one-of-a-kind leather footwear. He measured feet, cut patterns, and pounded leather. Then he sewed and pounded to make the right curve or seam in the material. When he tooled a design into the leather--like a rooster, a horse, or whatever you wanted--they were beautiful. Dad bought me a pair every spring or had my old ones resoled and heeled. Joe always said, “I made yours especially for good girls.” He was a good friend, even after Dad died.
On Saturdays Mom took me to the Salvation Army, because I outgrew my clothes so fast. She always bought me dresses with frills and petticoats, which “mysteriously” disappeared before I ever had to wear them. Sometimes, she bought me last year’s Halloween costumes. She always bought me something.
After the Salvation Army, we walked down to the Baptist Mission. There, I got to ride the merry-go-round and swing for a little while. As long as we listened to the traveling preacher for an hour, there were clothes and food for the needy. Doc Wilson was a dentist who came twice a month and did business for free. He was a good doctor, but rough as a corn cob. I was about seven the first time Mom took me. He pulled a tooth that was as stubborn as I was. He used a chisel and a hammer and broke it into four pieces just to get it out. Scared me plenty, but thanks to numbing it wasn’t too bad. I felt my jaw shake when he hit the chisel against it, and the grinding came as he pulled each piece from its little nest. I made it out of there swearing to never go back again, but Mom always took me back.
About twice a week Dad forgot to come home to eat before he went gallivanting with the ladies. So, Mom sent me to find him; I knew where to go. He was either at the Stockman’s or the Blue Moon Hotel with Donna or one of the other girls. I checked the bar first, listened to music, and watched everyone dance while I drank a Coke. Dad was a ladies man, always had one or two on a good night. Mom said, “This way, he don’t bother me. Makes him appreciate what he’s got at home.” Dad was a thirsty sort for the ladies. He told me, “Mary, there’s nothing better than a cold glass of beer and a hot woman to make a man weak in the knees and thirsty for more.” After he was through with his business, he came downstairs and gave me a squeeze. Then we went home.When a storm got to brewing, Dad loaded us up to go downtown. He was afraid of storms, but, for me, it was my favorite time. I inhaled the smell of rain and watched it mingle with the dirt as little whirlwinds formed. The sky turned a midnight black, and the lightning danced across the sky like a huge fireworks display. Then there was a loud boom, like a giant water balloon popped, and the rain poured. It came down in sheets so hard I couldn’t see five feet in front of my nose. Sometimes the wind just stopped, and it got so still I heard silence come over me. I froze in the truck in hopes of not causing any ripples on the air or getting caught in any unexpected tornados. I always thought God made storms at night so the cattle wouldn’t spook and run crazy through town. Then again, like me, He may have liked the fireworks show, too.
About six years ago, I went back to visit. I sat there in awe of the progress that had befallen my little piece of heaven. The sounds of livestock moving through town are only whispers on the wind! But, if you listen real close, you can hear the sounds of the past as they mingle and whirl with the sounds of the present. People come and go. Cowboy boots, spurs, and music fill the air as I pass rustic bars and hotels. The parties start again, and the never-ending chain of events move by slowly. The iconic bull’s head, which hangs above the gate, smiles down on me as I watch cops clear the streets of misfits. Progress has left its thumbprint on Stockyards City, but it will always be home to me.