It’s all about perspective

I met an interesting woman this week. She’s had an internship at the hospital where I work and will receive a Master’s degree in Health Administration from the University of Oklahoma next May. I spoke with her about my field, health care compliance, and we really hit it off. So much so, that during our conversation I learned a lot about her…

Compliance is probably going to be her career choice. She did her undergrad work at OU. She’s not a numbers person. She’s from a small town near Tulsa. Lives in Oklahoma City. Works full time on the OU campus. Her brother, sister-in-law and baby niece/goddaughter live in Tulsa. Her parents live in Houston. She hates Houston. She said “thank you” once to a woman there who looked at her funny and asked, “You’re not from around here, are you?” She loves Oklahoma. Loves being an Okie. Never wants to live anywhere else. Ever.

∞

She just went on and on (and on) about Oklahoma. My tiny office was quickly shrinking, and there was no escape. My head was spinning, my ears were bleeding, and my brain was on the verge of shutting down.

Then I had an epiphany: She’s the Oklahoma version of me!

Suddenly she was the same charming person I’d met an hour earlier, a kindred spirit, and I was sad to have to hand her off to the risk management people.

∞

It’s all about perspective, and I’m grateful for the reminder.

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When it comes to elected officials, I’m kind of an if-you-didn’t-vote-then-don’t-gripe girl.

Oklahomans went to the polls this week to vote in state and local races. Well some went to the polls. Most did not. And in a time when it seems that, overall, fewer and fewer Americans care to, or bother to, vote, I think that Oklahoma is hurting itself.

Oklahoma’s presidential primary election was held in early February, and the state and local primary election was this week. The run-off election, required by some of this week’s results is scheduled for late August. And then it will be back to the polls on the first Tuesday in November.

Though deciding who will get your vote may not be easy, voting is. But it takes time and effort. And I think Oklahoma’s system is self-defeating. In my county, Cleveland County, there was record voting in February. Not surprising, when you consider the office. And then voting totals were way down this week. I’m not going to address the run-off, other to say that it’s necessary. And come November, I hope that there is a record turnout. But four elections in one year are a lot, and I think that things like that add to the apathy.

Is it not common sense to have all primary races on the same day so that all of the races benefit from a good turnout?

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My husband and I find ourselves in a quandary regarding our ten-month-old daughter. We do speak English, and I know some Spanish. Our concern is: How do we teach Samantha that Sarcasm is actually our native language when she doesn’t know what that is?

And when I say that sarcasm is our native language, I mean that we are fluent in it and often have difficulty with Sarcasm-to-English translations for non-Sarcasm speakers. And it’s not just my husband and me. I mean, have you met my brother? Of course, being an excellent aunt, I’ve already advised my nephews Jackson and Sutton Hawk that our family members are Sarcastic natives and, as such, speak Sarcasm. I don’t think they fully understand, but I’m sure that they’re learning with each passing day.

∞

So I guess we’re getting ahead of ourselves (and Samantha) and shouldn’t worry. As Sam’s daycare provider teaches her English, and we teacher her Sarcasm, she also learn about the two cultures and languages. And in the mean time… Hey, my baby will be bilingual!

It’s a Texas thing

One day shortly after we moved to Oklahoma, one of my new co-workers was telling Arkansas jokes, and I asked him, “Is that what Oklahomans do— make fun of Arkansas?”

He told me yes and asked, “Who do Texans make fun of, New Mexico?”

“No,” I answered.

“Louisiana?” he asked.

“No,” I told him, “Oklahoma is the joke in Texas.” He thought I was joking until I shared this little gem with him: Why doesn’t Texas fall into the Gulf of Mexico? Because Oklahoma sucks.

∞

Not the best or most tasteful joke, and in all fairness, it’s the only Oklahoma joke I know that isn’t some recycled Aggie joke. But it’s a goodie.

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I live in Moore, OK. Heard of it? You may have. After all, its home of “the world’s largest luxury theater.” It is Toby Keith’s hometown. It was the site of the biggest F5 tornado in history.

Yeah, that’s where I live.

Of course, living in Moore is our choice, and it works well for us: My husband works in Oklahoma City, and my job is in Norman, and Moore is right in the middle. Still, you may be wondering why I live here if I don’t like it.

I do like it, and like I mentioned a few weeks ago, we are thriving here. But I don’t love it. It’s not Texas.

My heart is in Texas.

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My husband and I have t-shirts that I ordered off the Internet after seeing a woman wearing one in Home Depot just after we moved here a few years ago.

Each shirt is a plain, pretty much ordinary white t-shirt with a blue oval where a pocket would be if it had one. Inside the oval reads, “Texas” and “The Lone Star State.” The back of the shirt has a red, blue, black and gold-lettered phrase which is punctuated by the Lone Star Flag. The phrase reads, “It’s a Texas Thing – Y’all wouldn’t understand.”

∞

Pretty much says it all, doesn’t it?

Full of memories

My family’s fishing cabin, located between Creede and Lake City, Colorado was stuffed to the gills during our recent vacation. I was so fortunate to spend a week and a-half with not only my husband Cal and nine-month-old daughter Samantha, but my brother and sister-in-law, Chris and Sharon, and their two sons, Jackson and Sutton, as well. And though it hurt my heart at times to be there without my parents, I think the seven of us started to make the place our own.

And that’s no small job. The cabin was purchased by my grandfather, Morris Higley, decades ago, and my mom, Clemi Blackburn, had it for the past 20-something years. It is full of memories and their mementos: the knife my Poppy always used to clean his fish; a window sill decorated with small fish and such that my Grandma, Carol Higley, painted; a 1930s photograph of my grandparents and great-grandmother Bibi Amacker; Howard’s Beauty, a wood-burning stove (and the only stove there!); a kitchen table, handmade by my great-uncle Dale Higley; an ashtray bearing the name of Alec Saied’s old motel; a Texas quilt Chris and Sharon gave to Mom one Christmas; fishing lures and flies belonging to Poppy and Dad; an electric clock with a pendulum that wheezes as it swings; a buck and doe, mounted, hug over the fireplace, and affectionately referred to as Morris and Carol. And there’s much, much more.

∞

Cal, Chris, Sharon, and I have planned some changes to the cabin. Some are pretty major, like replacing the kitchen floor; some are less major but very important, like a shower head for the tub; and others are not at all major, like eventually taking three more Texas quilts up, so each bed will have one.

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But there’s one thing I absolutely will not change: the hook at Headquarters, where the cabin keys hang when we aren’t there. The name tag always read “Higley” while Poppy had the cabin, and when Mom took it over, she wouldn’t let the caretakers take “Higley” down. So they put “Blackburn” above “Higley” for Mom.

When I arrived to sign in and pick up the keys, one of the caretakers told me this story of the names over the key hook. And then she showed me that, because I am my mother’s daughter, she had added “Stone” above the other family names. It was so very touching.

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I think my daughter Sam is going to be a mountain girl. I can hardly wait until she can fish and hike and skip rocks on the lakes, just like her big cousin Jack. Of course, she can’t even walk yet, and Sutton will learn those things before her, but Sutton and Jack will be excellent teachers and guides for her! The three of them really seem to have a mutual admiration society. Those three children love each other like crazy.

∞

That’s how I feel about every person who was at the cabin. I love them like crazy. I have a wonderful husband, who is a good man. I’m madly in love with my baby. My crazy brother is just… Well, I honestly don’t know what I’d do without him. Jack and Sutton are the children I thought I’d never have; they’re my godsons, and pure joy.

And Sharon? Well, there is absolutely no one better than Sharon. She is lovely. And tolerant. She loves unconditionally and whole-heartedly. She doesn’t judge. She’s Sharon.

I want to be more like her when I grow up.

That perfect combination

My uncle recently emailed an article to me from the Austin American-Statesman’s website with the message, “This sounds like you!!” The headline read, “Displaced Texan gets food fix on Tex-Mex benders.” My first, and ever so mildly self-centered, thought -- before I even opened the email to link to the article -- was:

Aw man, the Austin paper already has a “Displaced

Texan” column? But my brother suggested that

title to me… It’s special! It’s me! It’s mine! Ooh,

wonder if they’ve copyrighted it.

Then I took a moment to read the piece and learned that there was nothing to worry about.

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The article’s displaced Texan is a man who relocated to Florida five years ago and, in that time, has found no decent Tex-Mex food there. So a couple of times a year he and his wife fly to Texas, drive a rental car around the Hill Country, and spend two days eating nothing but Mexican food morning, noon, and night. Then they stock up on Tex-Mex staples which they cannot find in Naples, Fla., like Rotel and marinated fajita meat, and they head back home. The price tag? About $800 per trip.

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I can totally relate to his love of Mexican food, though his plight is not mine, since I am fortunate to have moved to someplace where the Mexican food is good. (Well, a lot of it is good. There is this strange phenomenon of Oklahoma restaurants serving this yellow ick referred to as “cheese sauce” that’s not nearly as good -- and I use that term loosely! -- as the canned nacho cheese that you get on concession stand nachos. This yellow ick is not queso. As far as I can tell, it’s not Mexican. And it sure isn’t cheese! It’s this slick, slimy gunk that ought to be outlawed. But it comes with the chips and salsa here, and so is accepted by the natives. Go figure.) So the displaced Texan and his wife are perfectly happy to prepare their own Tex-Mex, and they equip themselves with the cuisine’s basics while in Texas. But my unfortunate Florida counterpart can’t even find a can of Rotel tomatoes in the grocery store?!?!?!!! That, friends, is a travesty. I mean, what do they put in the Velveeta?

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And no, I do not believe that all Mexican food in Texas, or anywhere, is good. Some of it is great. Some of it is craptastic. And some of it is just bad.

Of course, good Mexican food, like a lot of things, is subjective. But when you find that perfect combination of peppers and other ingredients… oh yeah.

After all, there’s not much worse than a Tex-Mex restaurant that can’t make a decent enchilada or that uses ketchup as its salsa’s primary ingredient. Unless you count the yellow ick.

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So how many of you who don’t know me, think, because my name is Shawn, that I’m a guy? Nope. It’s something my family has done for a while: give typically boy names to their daughters. I’m Shawn; my mother was Carol Clem; and my great-grandmother was William. I liked the tradition and tried like crazy to convince my husband to agree to name our daughter after my brother. He finally agreed, but only if the boy name came last. So, Samantha Grace Christopher is the continuation of the tradition.

I’ll tell you about her sometime.