by Norma Jean Young
Tomorrow (April 14, 2005) will be the 70 th anniversary of Black Sunday. There is no use reminding people as old as I am what happened on that date.
Many years ago when I was 14 years old (about the time the earth cooled), I visited an aunt and uncle in New York City for the summer and they brought me home. My uncle was a history expert, and as a consequence we stopped at every place of historical significance all the way back to Oklahoma. One location that stands out in my mind was Monticello, the home of Thomas Jefferson. Memories of that beautiful place were brought back this week when I was reading a book that mentioned Monticello.
Just above the front door of the place is a clock (invented by Jefferson) that gives the time and day of the week. But the great man made a slight error in his calculations. There was not room for the pulley system to register all the days of the week. So he cut a hole in the floor to the basement, and each Friday the weight lowered through the hole in order to indicate that it was Friday or Saturday. The weight then lifted again on Sunday morning when the clock was wound, and they were ready for another week.
That fellow Jefferson was sharp. A new nickel this year will have his face on it.
Last week I received the April copy of Car and Driver from my friend, Virgil Huston, who grew up in Cimarron County and now lives at Aiken, SC. He did not send the magazine to me to make me happy. He knew what some of my murderous thoughts would be when I read the article, “Pumpkin Rollers”, about the Oklahoma Panhandle. The writer of the article is John Phillips, an editor at large of the publication. Remember that name, so if you ever run into him, beat him to a pulp!
In the first place, I can't imagine where he got the term “Pumpkin Rollers”. I have never heard that term used for anyone in this area. He spent several paragraphs emphasizing how small the populations are in the various towns. He reported that the Panhandle is “as alien and uncharted as Neptune”, and “Life for the pumpkin rollers was and is a festival of filth, a dour daily thicket of dust, disease, depression, and death.”
I wish I had my hands around that miserable guy's throat!
There are five and one-half pages of that kind of junk. I don't want to have to read it again to report more of his ravings. If you subscribe to the magazine, write to them at 2002 Hogback Road, (isn't that a lovely name?) Ann Arbor, Michigan, 48105. Cancel your subscription and demand the money back for the remainder of your subscription.
Boise City News