One of my most vivid childhood memories is Sunday lunch at my uncle Henry's ranch/farm and dairy in southwest Oklahoma. It was located pretty much in the middle of no where. Waurika, the nearest place to buy staples was three miles north on a straight red clay road. When it rained you could not go to town until the milk truck or mail man drove by and set ruts for you to follow. After it dried, you then had to avoid the ruts for fear of turning over the truck. My grandparents lived a mile north of uncle Henry on their farm. Aunt Ople was a hard working country wife and she and my uncle worked from 4:00 AM in the morning until 8:00 PM every day, milking twice, caring for a large number of chickens, cotton farming, truck gardening and raising beef cattle. He died at the age of 49 of a heart attack. Life there was never the same after he died. It took away a part of me that could not be replaced; even to this day.

Every day was the same except for Sunday. My uncle never would darken the door of a church, but my aunt went to the rural community of Irving where there was a very small Baptist church. That was all that was left of a rural community that at one time had a school, shops and houses. It was probably 4 miles over the red clay roads and half way to Red River where my uncle raised grain, cotton, watermelons, cantaloupe and okra on a bottom land farm. As a child, it seemed like an endless road. Church was short, a few songs sung badly, a young visiting seminary student telling everyone they were going to hell, and after tea, coffee, punch and some sweets before everyone went back to work on their farms.

Aunt Opel would come home and prepare Sunday lunch which consisted of ranch beef raised on a ground corn and sorghum my uncle grew and ground in the barn shed, fresh vegetables or canned ones in winter and a cobbler or fruit pie. I especially remember large slabs of chicken fired steak with its fat yellow from the corn the steer was fed. The vegetables always included corn on the cob and peas. Sometime there was a salad and always sliced tomatoes. There was also homemade bread and butter my aunt made. Who ever was there sat at a long table in the living room and in the summer the hot wind came in the windows behind you. In winter, you froze while trying to eat as the house had little heat; only a single floor furnace. Since my aunt only had a tiny post WW II fridge with a one foot square freezer hanging inside, there was not much room to set aside leftovers. She simply placed a clean cotton cloth over the table to keep the flies off and left the food there. In the evening after milking, we ate what was left and any leftovers were given to the dogs.

You bathed on Sunday night. The gravity water tank filled by a wind mill pump offered a very limited water supply. The ritual was to light the water heater and after an hour of so there was just enough water to get wet with in the tub. In sequence, all that were there bathed in the same water; kids last. They had a lot of water in the dairy barn and I never could understand why it was not tied to the house.

I looked forward to every visit to that farm, and my grandparent's farm nearby. I learned to drive there in a 1952 Chevy pickup with a gear shift on the steering column and learned about life in many other ways. You never needed shoes and it was the most perfect place to be a kid.

It is funny what you remember from your childhood. Kids that grow up in the city are disadvantaged in that regard. Rich rural memories will not be part of their life story. On another day, I will share some more about this place and the relatives that made it special to me. It was a place shaped by the weather; the wind, heat and cold that affected in every way the families that barely got by, but lived a good life.