More Pictures from "An Allison Night of Violence"

Joshua still harbors some latent bitterness towards the entire species.

Bait

Joshua: "I look good. LAUREN! Come and see how good I look!"

Don't be fooled by their friendly demeanor. These men are lethal. Literally. No, I'm serious. Really.

An Allison Night of Violence

When I joined the Allison family on August 3, 2002, I was thoroughly initiated into the family as a daugther and sister, and for the first time in my life, I experienced a family with boys! Now, for you to fully appreciate this discovery, I need to give you a bit of background. First of all, I have one little sister and no brothers. Before I married, I had never fired a shotgun or eaten a T-Bone Steak. I couldn't identify a full metal jacket or a "dog food" burrito. I did not realize that bacon bits constituted a perpetual pizza topping. I had never seen a movie staring Jean Claude Van Damme or Chuck Norris nor had I seen any of the Die Hard movies (Gasp). I had never really been camping, and I couldn't start a fire without electricty (and even then, it was only after plugging too many appliances into one outlet). I never owned a dog that weighed more than about eleven pounds. I didn't understand that often male bonding involved destruction of some sort. Even as a tomboy, I was certainly in for a bit of an awakening when I first encountered the Allison brothers.

A family friend once described her little boys and guns: She said that it was no use keeping toy guns out of the family house, because one brother would merely bite his toast into the shape of a gun and use it to shoot his little brother. Joshua and his little brother, Ethan, who is now serving as a Green Beret in the U.S. Army, have definitely had their fair share of adventures, including one recent expedition to try to tackle a pest problem on our farm. For several nights, we heard what sounded like a pack of about a thousand coyotes just outside our fenced yard. Our mighty dachshund, Alvin, even picked a few fights with the coyotes from behind the safety of our chain link fence. Joshua and I felt certain that the pack was merely inching its way closer to our humble abode, spying a delicious weenie dog just on the other side of the fence for those few faithful minutes every evening before coming inside to sleep comfortably on the floor next to our bed. So, the Allison boys concocted a scheme to wipe out the enemy and decided one night to set out to visit the pack with violence.

As the men loaded up enough ammunition to bring down every coyote (and other living thing, for that matter) in the tri-state area, I flippantly inquired about an Oklahoma varmit permit, but I was not really too concerned because I felt confident they would not even encounter a coyote much less fire a shot. The boys optimistically packed skinning knives, and Ethan asked his wife and I to find the telephone number for a local taxidermist. My entire entry way was literally full of army ammunition boxes and gun cases. The boys set out, armed to the gill, and spent the evening sitting on top of an old oil drum in freezing temperatures. Although they insisted that they "heard coyotes in the next section over," they returned without any kill but reported they had a wonderful time visiting out in the freezing darkness.

To tell you the truth, I don't think I have heard the coyotes as much since that fateful evening. My guess is that they took one look at the armed Allison boys through the darkness that night and decided the dachshunds just were not worth the risk.

My Makeshift Green House in the Utility Room

Look closely...Can you see the Green Bean sprout in the center?

Silver Queen Corn....Approximately 2 inches tall

Yellow Summer Squash....Approximately 3.5 inches tall.

Editorial Comment: I look disgusting in these sweats.

Despite the huge grow light and the covered window in rural Creek County, these are vegetables, I repeat, vegetables.

Keeping Things in Perspective...

This past week, I think that I can safely say I had one of my worst weeks in the practice of law. After a miserable day I spent literally obsessing over a negative situation involving a client, I went by the little grocery store here in Bristow to pick up some dinner ingredients and to visit with one of my favorite Bristow ladies who is the proprietor of the grocery store. She smiled at me with heartfelt enthusiasm, as she always does despite working Monday through Saturday often from dawn to dusk in her little retail store, and asked about my day in manner that implied she must have sensed my stress. I told her the truth- that my day had been downright lousy and I felt as if I was at the end of my rope. We somehow started visiting about my garden, and I told her that I had several new sprouts springing up under the grow light in the safety of my utility room. “Lauren, those sprouts are a blessing,” she said, “They are new life.”

As I drove home with my groceries, I could not help but think that I needed to get some perspective on things in a spiritual sense, to rejoice in the wealth of blessings God has bestowed upon me. Just like the little seeds sprouting up in my indoor garden, the Lord’s compassion and kindness is “new every morning.” (Lamentations 3:21-23) . Since that little epiphany, the client situation has been resolved, and the indoor garden is sprouting like crazy! Here are the latest updates:

Currently Sprouted

• 6 of 6 Silver Queen Corn
• 6 of 6 Yellow Summer Squash
• 2 of 3 Celery
• 3 of 3 Zucchini
• 2 of 3 Okra
• 2 of 3 Green Bean

Still Cookin'

• Peppers (All varieties)

Right to Bear Arms

Shortly after we were married, Joshua told me he wanted me to get my “Conceal Carry” permit, an Oklahoma license that would allow me to carry a fully-loaded and concealed handgun in most public areas, including my motor vehicle. I have always been a bit of a tom boy, and I pictured myself plugging some dubious villain that dared to try to steal my purse in some dark alley in Bristow, Oklahoma. Clearly, I was deluded. In some moment of weakness, I allowed my husband to convince me to spend an entire Saturday at a handgun safety course so that I, like many other frightening people in this fine state, can legally carry a loaded handgun. Last Saturday, we loaded into the car with my father-in-laws semi-automatic pistol and over 100 rounds of ammunition, and we departed for gun safety training in a nearby little town. Here are the highlights:
1. That one person: Upon our arrival at the gun safety training course, I immediately identified “that one person.” Every group has one-One person intent on cracking a joke or making a wise remark throughout a presentation like their entire existence is simply premised on finding a forum within which to present some lousy stand-up comedy routine. The whole delivery goes something like this: Presentation begins. Speaker is talking about something somewhat interesting. “That one person” sensing that no one in the room is focused on them interrupts the speaker to make a comment so asinine that the comment is automatically followed by this pregnant pause whereby every nearby listener is thinking, “No, he did not just say that” or “What?” “That one person” cannot exist in the pregnant pause and therefore opts to fill the void by laughing at his own joke which makes everyone else in the room feel awkward. To assuage feelings of awkwardness, every other person in the room gives an obligatory laugh, “Oh, ha, good one.” The remainder of the course is just some twisted variation of that very basic delivery over and over again. Mind you, the course lasted for six hours.
2. Gun Safety for Dummies: I told Joshua that I could teach this six hour course in about thirty minutes. We decided that the State of Oklahoma must mandate the time length because there is simply no other explanation for the length of the course. During this time, we learned several important rules about gun safety from our police officer instructor whom I will affectionately refer to as “Dwayne.” First rule: If someone comes into your home (a/k/a “Your Castle” per Dwayne), they are “bought and paid for,” and if the police question why you plugged the perpetrator with 45 rounds of ammunition, it was simply because “he made me do it.” Second, there are a lot of “unscrupulous lawyers” out there who are looking for a reason to encourage the Courts to infringe upon your Constitutional rights, so you have to refrain from being a vigilante because that is all the good people of this country need is to give “unscrupulous lawyers” another reason to ruin everybody’s fun. At this point in the presentation, Dwayne asked if there were any lawyers in the room. My husband gave me a nudge, and I reluctantly raised my hand. Dwayne spent the rest of the presentation trying to explain away his clever spin on the erosion of 2nd Amendment rights as delineated in our Supreme Court jurisprudence. On a side note, during the entire presentation, Dwayne wrote information on a dry erase board with what he believed to be a yellow dry erase marker. At the conclusion of his presentation, he discovered that it was actually a highlighter, and his lecture notes would never be erased from said dry erase board. Frankly, when you consider that Dwayne is able to legally carry a concealed handgun, “unscrupulous lawyers” do not seem nearly so scary.
3. McDonald’s Lunch and the Dump (Yes, Two Separate Places): During our break, Joshua and I went to McDonald’s given the utter lack of options. I went into the ladies restroom only to discover a pair of attractive patrons exchanging illegal drugs in Ziploc baggies. After my morning, I only hoped they weren’t armed too. After lunch, Dwayne told us he was taking us to “The Range” to practice our shooting. Now, folks, “The Range” was actually the City Dump fresh with mud following a light snow fall the night before. One by one, we marched in mud between old refrigerators, mismatched shoes and shell casings until we reached some wooden stands with paper outlines of human bodies on them. We each shot fifty rounds of ammunition at the human body target, and after target practice, I can honestly say that if a perpetrator comes at me head-on while allowing me at least five seconds to take a deep breath and aim, his right shoulder could be toast. Nonetheless, the “unscrupulous lawyer” and her husband passed with flying colors. We returned to Bristow, Oklahoma, covered in mud and wreaking of gun powder.

Like any good citizen, I am prepared to exercise my Constitutional right with skill, precision, and most importantly, safety. If and only if the need should arise, I, Lauren Allison, am ready and willing to look that perpetrator in the eye and challenge any aggressor: “Being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself a question-Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?”

Prison Break

It's windy on the hill. This past Tuesday, the wind got up to 40 MPH on the hill. I know this, personally, you see, because I spent a few panicked hours trying to pick the front gate lock in my pajamas. When Joshua left for work on Tuesday morning, I walked him out, inadvertently locking the padlock and chain on our front gate. Now, in my defense, the padlock is basically junk...we've been forced to cut our way in before when the lock has frozen and/or rusted. Still, on Tuesday, none of these treacherous conditions existed save the gale force winds. When I was ready to head to the office, I called Joshua: "Honey, do you have any idea where the gate key is?" His reply: "On my keychain." In Broken Arrow. Here is where the facts become somewhat disputed: He claims that I never keep up with anything. Glasses, keys, cell phones, purses-you name it. Based upon my "prior bad acts," he asserts that I probably lost my gate key, but in the same breath, he claimed that he put a copy on my keychain. I, however, contend that, much like I admittedly lose everything, Joshua is cursed with an ADD-like inability to complete a task. My belief is that he set out to put a copy of the key on each keychain. He started the task, affixing one to his own keychain, but then, he became distracted (Perhaps by a video game and/or power tool) and neglected to equally equip his wife. Regardless, I asked him: "Is there any other way I can get out of the gate?" He responded: "Well, you could cut and bend a chain link, but you aren't strong enough to do that."

As innocuous as that sounds, such a statement at least when directed at me consistuted "fighting words." I was going to hack my way out of that gate....even if it was last thing I accomplished in this life. "I'll call you back in 30 minutes if I am not out," I promised. Joshua claimed that I would need "vice grips." I acted liked I agreed with that assessement: "Well, of course." Honestly, I have no idea what "vice grips" are. I thought it was some tool you attached to a work bench that you twisted the bar around to tighten a hold on something. Joshua, however, acted like it was some sort of handheld device so I played along. He mentioned a hack saw and a screwdriver. Whatever. A link had already been cut, and I just needed some of those "pincher" things. As it turns out, Joshua has about a million different variations of "pinchers" in his tool box, some skinny and pointy, some short and fat, some squeezeable, some with a little wheel that tightened the "pincher" mouth. I marched to the gate with several different "pinchers" tucked in my pajama pockets, determined to prove my tool-savvy husband wrong.

About 45 minutes later, I was exhausted and seriously contemplating driving my car through the chain link fence. I even starting surveying the fence, looking for weak points to test almost like an eager-to-escape dog with a shock collar. It seemed that every minute that I was unable to effectuate my escape only escalated my sense of panic. Would I be trapped here all day? Could I carry my laptop on my back and climb over the at least five-foot chain link fence complete with barbed wiring along the top? My friend, Regan, asked why I did not just shoot the lock off with our gun, and thankfully, I did not think of that during my state of emergency. After almost forty-five minutes of trying to bend a very thick chain link, I managed to get it very close. Now, all I needed, in my estimation, was some lubricant. Where would I find lubricant? Yikes. Surely there had to be some "tool" lubricant. I went to the garage and found WD-40. It was a fancy bottle with a strange application device. The bottle indicated it was lubricant. It look several minutes to figure out how to spray said lubricant. I soaked my hands. Now, my hands couldn't grip the tools. I was never going to escape, I thought. Joshua is going to come home and find me, very windblown, and passed out from exhaustion in the front yard. I imagined him standing over me, "Lauren Allison, I told you so." No way, I thought. It was time for Plan B.

Plan B involved calling every person in Bristow I knew, seeking assistance, preferably in the form of really big "pinchers." Before any rescuer arrived, however, I would have to comb through my blonde Diana Ross hair. I called Marylane. I called Regan. Frankly, I probably would have called every person with a 367 prefix to escape the prison yard. Regan informed me that my very sweet neighbor was a maintenance man and might have bolt cutters. I called him immediately, and five minutes later, he effortlessly cut me out. My neighbor is officially my hero.

I collected myself and called Joshua at work. "No problem," I said casually, "I'm out." The evil padlock was officially destroyed, cut by a pair of giant "pinchers." A few days later, I put on my heavy dress coat to head to work in the snow. I jammed my hands into my pockets and pulled out a tiny silver key. I put it on my keychain just for good measure.

Bittersweet Good-bye

Yesterday, Joshua and I went back to our Tulsa home to pack up a few final things and steam-clean the carpets before next Saturday’s open house. We both felt a little funny as we packed up the last boxes from our closets. After all, we came home from our honeymoon to that little white house with the huge magnolia tree in the front yard, and even though the neighborhood seemed to get a little shadier with each passing year, we will always remember that place fondly: the place where we settled into married life, where we planted our first garden and watched our little black weenie dogs chase the tennis ball in the backyard, where I studied for the bar exam, where we watched Dallas Cowboy games on the huge TV in our little living room, where we staged sibling slumber parties and taught our parents to play Nintendo Wii. There is no doubt in my mind that the time was right, but I have to admit that as we locked the doors and headed back to Bristow, it almost feels like it may be the end of an era.

Still, as we flipped through a few old photo albums, we found something that I think confirms that this farm plan may be meant to be. Joshua stumbled across a family history album that I made when I was in the 6th or 7th Grade. He was teasing me about my multi-colored and bubble letter captions for all the pictures when we discovered an oddly familiar drawing. Apparently, I included some stories about favorite family memories, among them, turtle-hunting with my cousins and Grandad at his farm in Bristow. I mentioned “how mad” Grandad was when the turtles ate things in his garden, a funny observation for a 12 year-old since, as an adult, I can imagine him speaking poorly of the turtles under his breath. I included the drawing with the story, but it took Joshua and me a minute to recognize it: It was a drawing of our farm house.

The rest of the album included several pictures of my grandmother, Betty, looking like a young Elizabeth Taylor, my grandfather, Donald, looking dashing in his Marine dress uniform, and plenty of hilarious pictures of my father, my mother and my aunts during puberty and looking, well, sufficiently awkward. We also found plenty of Grandad’s campaign materials, including a bumper sticker, campaign literature, a thank-you note on his State Representative stationery, and plenty of newspaper clippings from the Bristow Record-Citizen and the Mannford Eagle, talking about the campaign and his opponents, including, at least initially, fellow Democrat Stephen Foster, sans moustache, a senior member of our Creek County Bar Association and one of my favorite Bristow lawyers!

Among the items included in my silly album, we discovered a family history questionnaire in Grandad’s hand-writing. I thought it might be a treat for me to type his answers and post them here on the blog so stay tuned….

Without prompting, Mom and Dad arrived around 2:00 PM to help us. I think they knew we would need some inspiration to get the job finished! Dad and Joshua cut and piled limbs while Mom and I finished boxing up some things from the top shelves of our closets. We are essentially out now, save a few things in the backyard shed. We couldn’t have down it without Mom and Dad…and I don’t just mean today! We are so blessed to have wonderful parents.
Besides the album, we found a few other gems, including my first Nintendo Gameboy. It is about as thick as a brick and weighs about five pounds. We decided, given the innovation that is the IPod, we could finally get rid of the Sony Discmans that we haven’t used in years. We even found an old Sony Discman that I had for several years before we married. Joshua apparently had one just like it, and we weren’t sure whether this was his ancient CD player or mine...until we opened it. I found a Boyz II Men CD, and Joshua wanted me to be very explicit on this posting that said CD does not belong to him….allegedly.

Redneck Neighbor

Every neighborhood has one. Maybe it is family that never takes down their Christmas decorations. Maybe it is the family that never mows their lawn or cleans their pool. Maybe it is the old coot that crowds his lawn with yard gnomes. My favorite Redneck Neighbor story is at this website:

http://www.joespc.com/carlos/redneck.htm

Not long after we moved to the farm, our new neighbor put this yard ornament outside his trailer house! Joshua and I have a few questions: (1) Is it white? (2) Is it yellow? (3) Is it a white toilet so filthy it appears to be yellow? (4) Is it just a filthy yellow toilet? Moreover, what is its purpose? Joshua noted its position near the grill and wondered: Is it a grill seat? Your thoughts, go!

Also, in an effort to say good-bye to the old neighborhood, I felt like I should officially document the story of our former Redneck Neighbor. For old times sake, I have included a highlight reel for my blog readers. Enjoy!

First Encounter: I went over one summer afternoon to do some landscaping at our new little white house next door to Crazy Lady, who, at the time, told the realtors she planned to move soon. (As of today, January 13, 2008, plans are still in the works.). I took some hedge-clippers for trimming some bushes, including a disgusting shrub leaning against one side of our house. To be honest, I almost just cut the thing down, thinking that it was already dead and could not be saved. I started trimming off the dead branches when a woman with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth suddenly appeared, screaming in my face about my trimming her tree. I apologized repeatedly, but she berated me with a stream of profanity that would make George Carlin blush. She went back inside her house and emerged with a business card with some name like “Billy Bob Brandenburg, Attorney at Law” (her lawyer) and told me, “I was going to learn a little something about destruction of property.” For the next year, every time Crazy Lady saw Joshua or me in the front yard, she dramatically flipped us off, raising her hand with finger extended in the air over her head or out of her car window. I often spotted this special greeting in my rear view mirror as I left our house. The little shrub, however, made a startling recovery and flowered nicely the following year.

Family Feuds: About once a week, Crazy Lady engaged in screaming, profanity-laced arguments with one or both of her daughters. Typically, these exchanges occurred around 2:00 AM, and occasionally, they ended in our front yard. Some common themes in each argument: Smoking (a necessity), barefoot, short shorts, cottage cheese thighs, profanity, greasy hair, Tweetie Bird tank tops. When we didn’t hear profanity coming from Crazy Lady’s house, we smelled some sickly sweet smell coming from an open bedroom window. Incense? No. Burning Rope? No...

The “Baby-Sitter”: Crazy Lady had two daughters, one in her mid-twenties, the other who enjoyed her 12th-16th years of life during the time we were their neighbors. The latter, I will call Crazy Daughter. About a year or so ago, we started noticing that Crazy Daughter had a boyfriend. He was a skinny, greasy punk who rode a scooter, often appeared shirtless in their front yard around sunrise, and “watched movies” on his laptop sitting on the curb in front of Crazy Lady’s house. Joshua and I averted our eyes many times after we pulled into our driveway to find them literally grinding all over one another in Crazy Lady’s front yard. After this went on for about a year, Crazy Lady knocked on my door and wanted me to talk to a representative from the State of Oklahoma Department of Human Services. She said that she was under investigation by the State and that they alleged she was leaving her children without adequate supervision. She wanted to know if I could vouch that her 19 year-old “baby-sitter” was often at her home, watching her children. “Watching” her children? Hmmmm….I don’t know that that is precisely how one would describe it. I told her I hadn’t really noticed him at her house and probably wouldn’t make a good witness

Family Pets (Warning: Not PETA approved): During the five years we lived in the neighborhood, Crazy Lady, a self-professed animal lover, had numerous “pets.” When the wind came from the right direction, you could smell the feline urine from our driveway. Often at night, Joshua and I would awake the sound of “babies crying” and after a little while, all of Crazy Lady’s 25 cats would have kittens. For Crazy Lady, leash laws did not apply. Food for the “pets” came from the neighbor’s trash, and Bob Barker would have approved of her reproduction management techniques. When the street cats weren’t mating beneath our bedroom window at 3 in the morning or sleeping on top of one another on our front porch, they were eating garbage and depositing feces in our flowerbeds. These little presents were particularly charming on a 101 degree day in August.

After a few years of being overwhelmed by Crazy Lady’s cats, Joshua had enough. He called animal control. They informed him if he purchased a trap ($80), they would pick up the trapped animals at a rate of $20 per cat. Given the pet population at Crazy Lady’s residence, we estimated it might cost more than our house payment to make a dent. Joshua opted instead to visit them with violence: He started with BBs and moved up to pellets when the BBs seemed to have no effect whatsoever on the fat cats, always promising to aim for the behind. Still, through months of popping cats in the behind on a daily basis, his aim improved. The last shot hit a particular specimen directly between the eyes. The animal crawled into our flowerbed (after defecating all over himself….probably just because of the proximity of the flowerbed) the tip of its tail spinning in circles for hours. It rained on the cat. We approached the cat. It never moved. It just licked its lips and stared off into space. I felt a little sick about it, but when the cat finally died after some extended suffering, I think my husband felt avenged.

Crazy Lady also had several dogs during our time together in the neighborhood: 2 completely disgusting mops that we think were probably Pekinese, a Pit Bull terrier (well, obviously), a German Shepherd mix, and whatever neighborhood mutt she welcomed into her litter box house. The last one, however, was probably the saddest pet episode. For several weeks, this black lab mix sat in her front yard and often followed her bare-footed children and grandchildren in and out of her house. In the heat of summer, he panted in the front yard and unloaded every trash can on the street, rummaging through food scraps and leaving unidentifiable bathroom trash in our front yard. Joshua and I started keeping our trash cans in the garage until the last minute, but Crazy Lady never learned her lesson. Her trash was spread throughout her foot-high grass for the entire summer. Shortly thereafter, she talked to me about the “stray” that kept unloading her trash, even though the animal had undeniably been in her house. She told me that she was trying to run off the stray that followed her kids home. The highlight of this episode occurred when Crazy Lady decided she wanted to throw away what had to be one of about 13 sofas she kept in her house. She pulled the high quality item to the curb, and shortly thereafter, it proceeded to rain. The “stray” enjoyed several hours of quality nap time on the sofa in the rain at the curb.

“Home-Schooling”: Throughout the entire time we lived in this neighborhood, Crazy Lady’s children never attended school regularly. I would come home from work for lunch at noon on a Wednesday, and the children would be hitting each other with sticks in the front yard. Crazy Daughter had been in trouble before, having been suspended from school several times for insanity. (Please keep in mind as you are reading this story that DHS never removed these children from Crazy Lady’s care.) Crazy Lady explained the children’s school attendance by saying she was “home-schooling” Crazy Daughter because of behavior problems, including some bipolar episodes that would put Britney Spears to shame. She surmised that her behavior problems could be caused by “eating a lot of spicy Cheetos” because “those things really seem to set her off.”

Juvenile Delinquent: Crazy Daughter constantly ignited Crazy Lady, causing weekly episodes of family drama often culminated by fifteen police cars, an ambulance, and a fire truck (all with sirens blaring and lights flashing) flying down our street at 2 in the morning. One time, the police drug Crazy Daughter out into the middle of the street, pinning her face down on the concrete to handcuff her because it takes several police officers to restrain a feisty 100 lb. thirteen year-old. (Joshua disputes my weight estimate.) After an EMT inexplicitly bandaged up both of her forearms, they sat her in the front seat of a police cruiser. Another neighbor told us she kicked the windshield until it cracked. Still, she returned to her happy family less than 48 hours later. Another time, Crazy Daughter appeared on our front porch during a very cold night, wearing a short sleeve shirt and sobbing that her mother had hit her and locked her out. She wanted to call her boyfriend (A/K/A the baby-sitter). We told her that if she needed medical assistance, we would call the police for her. She sobbed even more. The police arrived. We never heard anything more about it. Joshua and I guessed that we probably saw the police on average at least once per month during the entire time we lived there (5 years), but nothing ever came of any of these law enforcement visits.

Loser Cruiser: Crazy Lady had four vehicles during our time in the neighborhood, each with one common feature: They all had one or more missing windows. The first, a yellow and brown van that never moved and appeared to be crammed with junk; The second, a silver Chevy Malibu promptly repossessed. She also had a relatively new Dodge minivan in good condition. After a while, she stopped driving this one, claiming that she couldn’t afford to tag it. It eventually evolved into a mobile storage unit. Recently, it looked like it had been rear-ended. Seeing as it never leaves the driveway, I can only surmise that she rear-ended herself with her other vehicle, a wood-paneled station wagon Joshua called the “Loser Cruiser.”

Here is why I think my guess about her rear-ending her own van is likely: Every time Crazy Lady left the house, it was like she was running late to her own arraignment-Arms full of junk, trying to light a cigarette, flip-flops, screaming profanity at her children who straggled behind. She always carried a huge QT cup full to the brim with some colorful soda pop. She would climb in her Loser Cruiser, slam the car door, throw it in reverse with her head hanging out of the open window so she could yell profanity at some child she left behind unsupervised at her residence, and then, she would peel out on her bald tires and fly up the street. She always drove angry. If you saw her Loser Cruiser flying down the middle of the street when you were approaching from the opposite direction, you had best just yield or face being hit by an almost certainly uninsured driver.

On my favorite occasion, Crazy Lady started her “leaving the house” act, complete with a 44 ounce QT cup of strawberry soda. Suddenly, I saw it playing out as if in slow motion: She placed her cup on top of the car right over the driver’s side open window. She turned around to scream at her children to get in the Loser Cruiser. She climbed into the car, slammed the car door, threw it in reverse…and you know what happened next. The QT cup fell, hitting the edge of the door, and the lid popped right off, spilling strawberry pop all inside the car and all over Crazy Lady. Now, perhaps I could have flagged her down to warn her about the cup perched precariously atop her vehicle, but after all of the nonsense next door, perhaps a little passive-aggressive behavior on my part was well-deserved.

Financed by a Felon: During an episode of rather poetic irony, Crazy Lady’s attorney (See “First Encounter”) happened to come into the law office where I worked for a conference. While she was sitting in the waiting room, I made my way to the front desk and started a conversation. I finally confessed that I thought she might have represented my neighbor, but when I mentioned Crazy Lady’s name, I saw the color drain from her face. She told me to stay away from Crazy Lady (not a problem), because she had sued her for extorting a significant amount of money from another client. She explained that Crazy Lady used to work in her office as a legal assistant, and during that time, she befriended one of her criminal clients. Apparently, after this client went to prison, the two continued to write letters to each other. The attorney classified their relationship as “sexual” in nature (Sorry, I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.) The attorney stated that she later fired her for stealing money from her business.

Of course, I couldn’t leave well enough alone, and the next opportunity I got, I mentioned to Crazy Lady that I worked at law office. She mentioned that, surprise, she also used to work at a law office. I inquired why she was no longer working at the law office (or at all, for that matter). She explained that she wanted to spend more time with her children, and now, her former boss was suing her for taking money from a client. She stated that she befriended this client who later went to Death Row for murder! (His mug shot, complete with shaved head, appears online). While he was in prison, she said that his mother died and he inherited a significant amount of money. According to Crazy Lady, he gave her some money as a gift that she used to pay off her house (meaning that foreclosure was no longer realistically on my wish list) and buy the Dodge van she couldn’t even afford to tag. She claimed that the client wanted to have a romantic relationship, but she rebuffed his advances (also unlikely since I am not certain that Crazy Lady ever rejected any advances. Instead, she just procreated with each suitor.) After allegedly rejecting him, Crazy Lady explained that he wanted his money back, but she had already spent it. She told me that if I see any “suspicious” vehicles around her house, I should call the police because she was worried that he might have “put a hit on her.” I don’t know how I would have identified a “suspicious” vehicle. I guess if it is missing a window, it must belong next door.

Property Maintenance: Shortly after we moved in, the seller told us that Crazy Lady was preparing to move but needed to finish repairing her kitchen because “it caught fire.” Well, the side of her house did appear black and charred. We later learned that she apparently spent the insurance proceeds from the fire to open a bridal shop premised on the idea that she would make bouquets out of fake flowers (that she probably picked up at the cemetery after Memorial Day) so that the couple could keep their arrangements to decorate their home. Needless to say, this business just never really seemed to catch on. Accordingly, Crazy Lady’s father, who had to be at least 90 years of age, came over to work in the kitchen every day for several months. During this time, Crazy Lady decided to do some spring cleaning. They rented two Gator Containers the size of her driveway and one small dumpster, and I swear they didn’t make a dent. We saw her trash several full length sofas and multiple refrigerators, including one that had been positioned decoratively on her front porch for some time.

In fact, we didn’t realize how much junk she had until we started to remove some of the shrubbery against our shared fence in our backyard. The previous owners had really let the shrubs grow out into the yard-We couldn’t even see her backyard. In a fit of utter foolishness, we decided to use some 24D (brush killer) to just wipe out the mess growing on our fence. We sprayed and then a few days later, we looked into her backyard and recognized why the previous owners opted for out-of-control shrubbery in lieu of our new view. We saw waste- high grass, three full sheds packed to the ceiling with junk, a broken basket ball goal, several garbage bags full of smelly clothing, an old overgrown garden surrounded by chicken wire, several mangled swing sets, multiple refrigerator/freezer units, etc. The removal of the shrubbery also created another problem: We now had no barrier for the swarm of mosquitoes living in old flower pots full of stagnant water in her backyard. Frankly, after the shrub removal, it is a wonder that nobody ever caught West Nile in our backyard.

During the spring and summer, Crazy Lady devoted herself to forcing her children to mow the front yard twice during those seasons whether it needed it or not. As you might imagine, this decision certainly helped the aforementioned insect problem. With all this high and dry grass, Crazy Lady then failed to pay her water and trash bill, and she spent evenings for several weeks burning all of her trash in the backyard.

Good-bye Crazy Lady: We took some ice cream over to Crazy Lady’s children while we were moving to the farm. We said good-bye, and she mentioned that the neighborhood had really gone downhill over the past few years. She said that she was thinking about moving herself and told me that she had some friends in Canada. Crazy Daughter, she said, wanted the family to move to Alaska for a fresh start. As much as we would love to make Crazy Lady and her slew of children and grandchildren official residents (and social service recipients) of Canada, I think that as long as they don’t decide to move to Bristow, we can happily and genuinely wish them the best in all of their future endeavors.

Looking for Farm Equipment?

Is it a van?

Is it a truck?

I think it's a tran.

For an Oklahoman, the only thing an F5 means is that you are going to need a panoramic lens

As of this very moment, Windsock Six is reporting that Creek County is in the middle of a Tornado Watch. Clearly, Joshua and I, both native Oklahomans, are gripped with panic. Windsock Six claims that a severe thunderstorm warning is currently in place for many of the areas surrounding Muskogee, and based upon the red lightning show currently taking place on the horizon, we are inclined to believe this report could be accurate. The only thing for certain, however, is that the weathermen will certainly track this little disturbance until somebody sees a wall cloud in Memphis. Hey Aunt June, call me when it starts raining in North Carolina-I bet Jon Slater will still be interrupting the morning highlights of the LSU rout of Ohio State to keep us up to date on the latest breaking weather developments.

Hey Emily, Who the Heck is Tara? :)

"Do you mean to tell me, Katie Scarlett O'Hara, that Tara, that land doesn't mean anything to you? Why, land's the only thing in the world worth working for, worth fighting for, worth dying for, because it's the only thing that lasts."

Welcome to The Bristow Blog!

Karibu!

Welcome to The Bristow Blog at http://karibubristow.blogspot.com! This past year, my family had the opportunity to purchase my grandfather’s farm in Bristow, Oklahoma, a red brick house surrounded by approximately 240 acres of family-owned land located about seven miles from my small town law practice. Following my grandfather’s passing, his house remained in need of some repairs, its white paint exposed to the elements atop the hill and the structure and its surrounding yard neglected by its subsequent owner. When we were presented with the opportunity to re-acquire the property, the property seemed only a shadow of its former self, no longer the dream home my grandmother envisioned but enjoyed for only a brief time before her passing. Even though it probably did not make much sense to friends and family, we made an emotional purchase and committed our family to the resurrection of the site for financial growth and fellowship for our family and fellow brothers and sisters in Christ.

Although our family lived in Broken Arrow during my life, my father has remained deeply connected to his hometown, Bristow, Oklahoma, and the family farm, located about seven miles north on Oklahoma Highway 48. After living in the farm house for about only about a month, my husband and I have likewise gained an appreciation for this special place. We moved to the farm from mid-town Tulsa where traffic, sirens, and felonious neighbors distracted us from the beauty of God’s creation. Since we moved, I have seen the sun rise almost every morning. The sunsets are equally magnificent. I have never seen so many stars in my entire life. I hear my wind chimes and feel the breeze on the hill. Today, we watched a red-tailed hawk peruse the property, gliding casually just underneath the clouds.

Life in the county, however, will certainly not always be quite so poetic. Spring is undoubtedly on its way when we will spend every free moment mowing, weed-eating, painting, and planting in the Oklahoma sun. This weblog is intended to chronicle our little labor of love and keep our family posted on new developments at our farm and in the surrounding metropolis of Bristow, Oklahoma. Read, enjoy, and post your comments!