You could see how it happened. That was the easy part – the four-way highway intersection, the Stop sign ignored or dared.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
HUGO, Okla. – Three Rattan High School students were killed Tuesday afternoon when the pickup in which they were riding was in collision with a loaded gravel truck, Oklahoma Highway Patrol officers said Wednesday morning.
The students killed were identified as Timothy G. Dawson, 17; Kimberly J. Smith, 16; and Melissa A. Allen, 16. All were from Rattan, said Highway Patrol officer Gaylon Jeffords. Dawson was a senior at Rattan High School, while Smith and Allen were juniors.
Jeffords said the accident occurred when a 1998 Ford Ranger pickup, driven by Dawson, heading west on East 1960 Road, apparently ran a stop sign at the intersection with Oklahoma Highway 147. The Ranger was in collision with a northbound Chambers Co. Gravel Co. truck, driven by Billy F. Boyd, 37, of Hugo.
Boyd, who was injured in the accident, was treated and released from Choctaw Memorial Hospital.
Funeral services for Dawson, Smith and Allen are pending with Loman Funeral Home in Hugo.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
And there you have it. A boy driving a pickup with two friends from school, a warm afternoon, and … What? He didn’t see the stop sign? He didn’t know the stop sign was there? He wasn’t paying attention?
Here’s what the accident location looked like: A normal paved intersection, stop sign east and west. Trees a distance from the highway, but not presenting visibility limitations.
Two days after the wreck, the intersection showed skid marks in the northbound lane, slightly angled to the west, indicating the driver of the gravel truck had a split second on the brakes before impact, and the same split second to try to turn the fully loaded truck. Both actions were purely reaction, of course. The truck probably was going 55 mph or more, given the terrain at the site. There was no way the truck would miss the Ranger pickup, no matter what the driver tried to do.
The area northwest of the intersection was sand, with short pine trees beyond. Thursday after the wreck, the sand had a plowed appearance, probably from remains of the Ranger pushed across the sand and toward the trees. The trees were blackened from a fire. Trooper Jeffords had not mentioned a fire, but a fire was logical, given the mass of the gravel truck smashing into and through the small pickup, crushing the pickup, rending it into small pieces, splitting the gas tank and the fuel spilling.
You have to figure the pickup was not dawdling, but traveling at least the speed limit – 60 mph. My two years’ experience with Oklahoma drivers was this: My pickup, the one with Texas plates, was the only one doing the speed limit; every Oklahoma-plated car or truck either rode my bumper or passed me at the first opportunity. You know the gravel truck didn’t dawdle. Gravel trucks went as fast, and were as dangerous, as log trucks. Most drivers of gravel trucks paid little attention to speed limits. Fifteen mph over was normal.
Not that it would have mattered how much over the speed limit the gravel truck was going when it hit the Ranger. The gross weight of the gravel truck was what, 50,000 pounds, 60,000 pounds? Or more?
The wreck was a matter of timing. For the broadside impact, both the pickup and the gravel truck had to be traveling at a specific speed, relative to each other.
You can get into the luck or fate aspect of the incident, but that does no good. It happened. The why …
Maybe the driver didn’t see the stop sign? I drove east on 1960 Road, the same road on which Dawson drove west. The terrain was level. No trees obstructed visibility of traffic on Highway 147. At more than one-third mile the stop sign was visible right of the road.
It happened. That’s all. Nothing else is explanation.
I headed back south on Highway 147. Thoughts of the gravel truck and the pickup had been my entire focus for thirty minutes or so -- images of the pickup entering the intersection, the gravel truck almost at the same place on the road, and everybody involved suddenly … Realizes what is about to happen? I don’t know. Sometimes the mind is not that quick.
A gravel truck turned in front of me, 50 yards away, a right turn into a quarry, plenty of room.
I flinched.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
The wreck happened in 1999. I did not write this then because the three high school students were too newly dead. Relatives and friends tend to anger when you write a story concerning people who die young and your focus is not what great kids they were.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Monday, July 11, 2011
Kinetic this, dude
Nobody really gives a rat’s patooie about the US bombing a little snot out of Libya. It’s not like a Republican president ordered/approved the air strikes and cruise missiles.
For one thing, the Democratic president said, Americans are not in any real danger. “Obama has also argued that the conflict does not count as ‘hostilities’ because Gaddafi’s forces are so battered that they pose little threat to American air crews.”
Let me tell you how many bullets it takes to bring down a modern multi-million-dollar airplane: Hold up one finger. Thank you.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/politics/obama-dismisses-congressional-criticism-of-libya-action-as-politics/2011/06/29/AGLw1xqH_story.html
From nine days ago: “Air Force and Navy aircraft are still flying hundreds of strike missions over Libya despite the Obama administration’s claim that American forces are playing only a limited support role in the NATO operation.
“An Africa Command (AFRICOM) spokeswoman confirmed Wednesday that since NATO’s Operation Unified Protector (OUP) took over from the American-led Operation Odyssey Dawn on March 31, the U.S. military has flown hundreds of strike sorties. Previously, Washington had claimed that it was mostly providing intelligence, surveillance and reconnaissance (ISR) and tanker support to NATO forces operating over Libya.”
http://www.airforcetimes.com/news/2011/06/defense-africom-air-force-navy-flying-libya-missions-063011/
But then there is administrationspeak: "’The US role is one of support,’ the official said, ‘and the kinetic pieces of that are intermittent.’"
http://www.mudvillegazette.com/034341.html
“Kinetic pieces” is a new phrase to describe bombs falling from American aircraft.
For one thing, the Democratic president said, Americans are not in any real danger. “Obama has also argued that the conflict does not count as ‘hostilities’ because Gaddafi’s forces are so battered that they pose little threat to American air crews.”
Let me tell you how many bullets it takes to bring down a modern multi-million-dollar airplane: Hold up one finger. Thank you.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/politics/obama-dismisses-congressional-criticism-of-libya-action-as-politics/2011/06/29/AGLw1xqH_story.html
From nine days ago: “Air Force and Navy aircraft are still flying hundreds of strike missions over Libya despite the Obama administration’s claim that American forces are playing only a limited support role in the NATO operation.
“An Africa Command (AFRICOM) spokeswoman confirmed Wednesday that since NATO’s Operation Unified Protector (OUP) took over from the American-led Operation Odyssey Dawn on March 31, the U.S. military has flown hundreds of strike sorties. Previously, Washington had claimed that it was mostly providing intelligence, surveillance and reconnaissance (ISR) and tanker support to NATO forces operating over Libya.”
http://www.airforcetimes.com/news/2011/06/defense-africom-air-force-navy-flying-libya-missions-063011/
But then there is administrationspeak: "’The US role is one of support,’ the official said, ‘and the kinetic pieces of that are intermittent.’"
http://www.mudvillegazette.com/034341.html
“Kinetic pieces” is a new phrase to describe bombs falling from American aircraft.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Why Larry moved to Texas
A couple of years ago I was visiting Larry, my best friend in high school and 1967 participant in the Greater Southeast Asia War Games, 9th Infantry Division. Larry was born in Alabama and spent his first 12 years there. During the visit, Larry said, “Did I ever tell you why we came to Texas?” I said he had not.
Preface to story: Larry’s father, Grady, and my father worked at the steel mill in Lone Star. Grady previously worked at a steel mill in Alabama.
Story: One day at the mill in Lone Star, two men came up to Grady. One said, “We were just wondering. What’d you get run out of Alabama for?” Grady said, “What? What’re you talking about?” The other man said, “Well, everybody we know here from Alabama got run out for something or the other. We just wondered why you got run out.”
At the Alabama mill, Grady ran the overhead crane in the blast furnace, moving the big bucket up or down the mill as required. When the bucket was in its proper place, Grady moved the crane out of the way. For some reason, Grady’s foreman had it in for him. He would say to Grady, “I know what’s going on. You’re sleeping in that crane. One of these days I’m going to crawl out there and catch you sleeping.” Grady reminded the foreman that it would be a dangerous thing, crawling along a beam, and who knows what might happen.
One night at dinner the foreman was really on Grady, again saying he knew Grady was sleeping in the crane and he would catch Grady and have him fired. After shift was over, the foreman followed Grady into the change house, again repeating his intentions. He was behind Grady at one point, and Grady turned around and gave the foreman a knuckle sandwich -- laid him out. Grady then got in his car and went home. When he got there, he told his wife, “You know, some people used to work here been writing, telling me I ought to go work at that mill in Texas.” Mrs. Grady was an un-Reconstructed Southerner of the highest degree, and she had no plans to live outside Alabama, which was the pride of the South and keeper of things anti-Yankee.
Then Grady said, “In the morning there’s liable to be people looking for me. You tell them I said I was going Up North to De-troit, see could I get a job in a car factory.” Mrs. Grady said she would do as her husband said. Grady then packed a few clothes and left.
Next morning, two deputy sheriffs showed up, with a warrant for Grady’s arrest for assault. Mrs. Grady told them what Grady had said. The deputies left.
Three days later, Grady returned, and that night the family packed what they could in the car – Mr. and Mrs. Grady and four boys -- and headed for Texas.
Way back when, this kind of story was repeated over and over, people leaving wherever they were, often with cause, and heading for Texas. They still are.
Preface to story: Larry’s father, Grady, and my father worked at the steel mill in Lone Star. Grady previously worked at a steel mill in Alabama.
Story: One day at the mill in Lone Star, two men came up to Grady. One said, “We were just wondering. What’d you get run out of Alabama for?” Grady said, “What? What’re you talking about?” The other man said, “Well, everybody we know here from Alabama got run out for something or the other. We just wondered why you got run out.”
At the Alabama mill, Grady ran the overhead crane in the blast furnace, moving the big bucket up or down the mill as required. When the bucket was in its proper place, Grady moved the crane out of the way. For some reason, Grady’s foreman had it in for him. He would say to Grady, “I know what’s going on. You’re sleeping in that crane. One of these days I’m going to crawl out there and catch you sleeping.” Grady reminded the foreman that it would be a dangerous thing, crawling along a beam, and who knows what might happen.
One night at dinner the foreman was really on Grady, again saying he knew Grady was sleeping in the crane and he would catch Grady and have him fired. After shift was over, the foreman followed Grady into the change house, again repeating his intentions. He was behind Grady at one point, and Grady turned around and gave the foreman a knuckle sandwich -- laid him out. Grady then got in his car and went home. When he got there, he told his wife, “You know, some people used to work here been writing, telling me I ought to go work at that mill in Texas.” Mrs. Grady was an un-Reconstructed Southerner of the highest degree, and she had no plans to live outside Alabama, which was the pride of the South and keeper of things anti-Yankee.
Then Grady said, “In the morning there’s liable to be people looking for me. You tell them I said I was going Up North to De-troit, see could I get a job in a car factory.” Mrs. Grady said she would do as her husband said. Grady then packed a few clothes and left.
Next morning, two deputy sheriffs showed up, with a warrant for Grady’s arrest for assault. Mrs. Grady told them what Grady had said. The deputies left.
Three days later, Grady returned, and that night the family packed what they could in the car – Mr. and Mrs. Grady and four boys -- and headed for Texas.
Way back when, this kind of story was repeated over and over, people leaving wherever they were, often with cause, and heading for Texas. They still are.
Monday, June 27, 2011
The Box Had No Label
(Written some years after a visit to the Wall.)
There is a strange silence about the Wall, as though fifty-eight thousand souls gather there, asking for the silence. You would think the names would rage against their fate. Perhaps they know a peace we cannot yet comprehend.
I walked slowly along the paved path in front of the Wall. I wasn’t after a particular name, not even really looking at the Wall, I didn’t think, just taking in the whole thing.
The Wall is black, shiny black, and it reflects faces that stare at the names. I saw my face, but looked away.
People leave things there — medals, old jungle boots worn down to bare leather, books of poetry, notes, a teddy bear.
A teddy bear. I didn’t look long at the teddy bear, because I saw a boy’s mother cleaning out a closet or a room where things of the past lay for more than thirty years. I saw the boy’s mother open a box. The box had no label. Perhaps the boy’s mother didn’t want to remember what was inside the box. But she opened the box, and she saw the teddy bear and she fell onto the box, clutching the bear as tightly as she had clutched her son. And she cried.
The bear was her baby’s companion. The bear kept away monsters of the night. The boy slept with his bear, toddled to breakfast or off to bed or around the house, hugging the bear or holding it by an arm. Every day the boy told his mother what he and the bear had done, the places they had gone, the good people they met. And when the mother rocked her baby to sleep, the boy held his bear, his eyes closing slowly. The boy fought sleep, just as he would later fight death.
The bear waited a long time. He had nothing to do in the box. There were no monsters in the box, no frightful things to guard against,. No boy to protect.
The mother found the bear, and she took the bear to her son. She did not take the bear to some cemetery filled with strangers, but to the place where her son is, among friends. There, where his boy is, the bear can rest. All the monsters are gone now, and the bear can sleep again with his boy. The boy understands. So do his fifty-eight thousand friends. More than anyone else, more than the boys’ mother, fifty-eight thousand friends understand.
I saw the teddy bear, and I walked away quickly. I walked away quickly because my children had teddy bears.
There is a strange silence about the Wall, as though fifty-eight thousand souls gather there, asking for the silence. You would think the names would rage against their fate. Perhaps they know a peace we cannot yet comprehend.
I walked slowly along the paved path in front of the Wall. I wasn’t after a particular name, not even really looking at the Wall, I didn’t think, just taking in the whole thing.
The Wall is black, shiny black, and it reflects faces that stare at the names. I saw my face, but looked away.
People leave things there — medals, old jungle boots worn down to bare leather, books of poetry, notes, a teddy bear.
A teddy bear. I didn’t look long at the teddy bear, because I saw a boy’s mother cleaning out a closet or a room where things of the past lay for more than thirty years. I saw the boy’s mother open a box. The box had no label. Perhaps the boy’s mother didn’t want to remember what was inside the box. But she opened the box, and she saw the teddy bear and she fell onto the box, clutching the bear as tightly as she had clutched her son. And she cried.
The bear was her baby’s companion. The bear kept away monsters of the night. The boy slept with his bear, toddled to breakfast or off to bed or around the house, hugging the bear or holding it by an arm. Every day the boy told his mother what he and the bear had done, the places they had gone, the good people they met. And when the mother rocked her baby to sleep, the boy held his bear, his eyes closing slowly. The boy fought sleep, just as he would later fight death.
The bear waited a long time. He had nothing to do in the box. There were no monsters in the box, no frightful things to guard against,. No boy to protect.
The mother found the bear, and she took the bear to her son. She did not take the bear to some cemetery filled with strangers, but to the place where her son is, among friends. There, where his boy is, the bear can rest. All the monsters are gone now, and the bear can sleep again with his boy. The boy understands. So do his fifty-eight thousand friends. More than anyone else, more than the boys’ mother, fifty-eight thousand friends understand.
I saw the teddy bear, and I walked away quickly. I walked away quickly because my children had teddy bears.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Strange dream
I am sitting in the dugout of a Triple-A baseball team, talking with players and coaches and I hear on the PA: “Managing today is (garbled, but my name in the dream)."
I turn to the manager. “What?”
He said, “You’re managing today.”
“Me? Why?”
The manager had been thrown out.
“How can you have been thrown out? There hasn’t been a meeting at home plate!” For whatever reason, he had been tossed.
So I am struggling with the lineup card; I don’t know the players. Somebody hands me yesterday’s lineup card. The manager says, “You don’t want *** hitting leadoff.”
The dream shifts to another inning. The usual starting catcher is standing in front of me. He is not in uniform. I say, “Where TF have you been?”
“The judge sent me to jail.”
“What? Why?”
“I got arrested for running away from the orphanage.”
“What? How could you be in an orphanage?”
“You know.”
“No,” I say. “I don’t know. Anyway, go get in uniform.”
As he turns to leave, I say, “What’s the judge’s name and number?”
“You know.”
“No, I don’t. Go get in uniform.” Somebody on the bench tells me the catcher is 16.
“How can we have signed a 16-year-old?” I ask. Then: “Well, when we win the pennant, especially when we’re in the series against the International League, that judge will look foolish.”
I then tell the players about my aneurysm, of the surgery (doctors slicing my face from above the hairline to below the top of my ear, peeling back the skin, using a doorknob cutter to cut a hole in my skull, repair, putting the skull plug in place, waterproofing it, using wire to hold the plug in place, stapling together the incision flaps).
I say, “Most people when I tell them that, say, ‘God must have a plan for you.’ I say that if he does, I don’t know what it is. So maybe God’s plan is for me to manage this team, and if that is the plan, then I’ll do it to the best of my ability.”
Woke up.
I turn to the manager. “What?”
He said, “You’re managing today.”
“Me? Why?”
The manager had been thrown out.
“How can you have been thrown out? There hasn’t been a meeting at home plate!” For whatever reason, he had been tossed.
So I am struggling with the lineup card; I don’t know the players. Somebody hands me yesterday’s lineup card. The manager says, “You don’t want *** hitting leadoff.”
The dream shifts to another inning. The usual starting catcher is standing in front of me. He is not in uniform. I say, “Where TF have you been?”
“The judge sent me to jail.”
“What? Why?”
“I got arrested for running away from the orphanage.”
“What? How could you be in an orphanage?”
“You know.”
“No,” I say. “I don’t know. Anyway, go get in uniform.”
As he turns to leave, I say, “What’s the judge’s name and number?”
“You know.”
“No, I don’t. Go get in uniform.” Somebody on the bench tells me the catcher is 16.
“How can we have signed a 16-year-old?” I ask. Then: “Well, when we win the pennant, especially when we’re in the series against the International League, that judge will look foolish.”
I then tell the players about my aneurysm, of the surgery (doctors slicing my face from above the hairline to below the top of my ear, peeling back the skin, using a doorknob cutter to cut a hole in my skull
I say, “Most people when I tell them that, say, ‘God must have a plan for you.’ I say that if he does, I don’t know what it is. So maybe God’s plan is for me to manage this team, and if that is the plan, then I’ll do it to the best of my ability.”
Woke up.
Monday, June 13, 2011
A stop on the journey
The porch at God’s house goes all the way around.
God sits out there of an afternoon,
After work,
Drinking sweet tea from a tall glass
With ice in the glass -- the proper way
To drink sweet tea.
He has a pitcher of tea on a square table,
Wood of the table fitting just so,
Squared off, sawed just right and planed smooth,
Finishing nails so small you almost can’t see them.
God thought about having the carpenter
Make the wood tongue and groove,
But then decided he liked the look of more simple
Lines.
God sits on the sunset side of the house.
He likes sunsets; indeed, God believes sunsets
Among his best creations. He is sometimes
Amused at painters and photographers
Who try to capture true sunset colors.
They are never successful,
But God created in them a need to try.
He is pleased when their pastel blue,
Red, orange, pink or purple
Come close to what he created.
They can’t get it right, but they keep trying.
God sometimes has breakfast at a table
On the sunrise side of the porch –
Eggs, grits, biscuits, strong coffee,
Butter, a different jelly each morning,
A glass of water and a glass of juice –
Orange, tomato, apple, grape.
Each is always in season.
God has eggs fried hard, over easy, scrambled,
Boiled. Sometimes he has whole eggs, sometimes
Just the whites, sometimes one whole and one just
The white.
Sometimes, too, he has toast instead of biscuits,
Bagels with cream cheese, or jelly made with real fruit.
He likes waffles, too, and pancakes.
God works in his vegetable garden during the day,
Half a day hoeing after planting,
The other half with flowers and shrubs, pulling grass
And any weeds brave enough to try.
Dirt in both gardens is dark, with manure
Worked into the soil. Goats and horses,
Sheep and cattle provide loads for the
Large wheelbarrow. Combining the various kinds
Produces the best results. God considered using
Elephant manure, but his two elephants produced
Too much. Once a week God goes into the elephant pasture
And levels the piles, spreads everything around.
Used to, God got lots of volunteer work in the gardens
And in the pastures. These days, not as many people
Come by. God thought about taking an ad in the papers,
“Workers needed in the garden. Meals furnished.”
But, he decided to let things go as they had for years.
If enough people come by, that’s good. And if not …
Well, that’s OK, too.
People have a lot more to do these days.
God has a nice garden, regardless if people see it.
And the view from the porch is indescribable.
--Bob Merriman, 13 June 2011
God sits out there of an afternoon,
After work,
Drinking sweet tea from a tall glass
With ice in the glass -- the proper way
To drink sweet tea.
He has a pitcher of tea on a square table,
Wood of the table fitting just so,
Squared off, sawed just right and planed smooth,
Finishing nails so small you almost can’t see them.
God thought about having the carpenter
Make the wood tongue and groove,
But then decided he liked the look of more simple
Lines.
God sits on the sunset side of the house.
He likes sunsets; indeed, God believes sunsets
Among his best creations. He is sometimes
Amused at painters and photographers
Who try to capture true sunset colors.
They are never successful,
But God created in them a need to try.
He is pleased when their pastel blue,
Red, orange, pink or purple
Come close to what he created.
They can’t get it right, but they keep trying.
God sometimes has breakfast at a table
On the sunrise side of the porch –
Eggs, grits, biscuits, strong coffee,
Butter, a different jelly each morning,
A glass of water and a glass of juice –
Orange, tomato, apple, grape.
Each is always in season.
God has eggs fried hard, over easy, scrambled,
Boiled. Sometimes he has whole eggs, sometimes
Just the whites, sometimes one whole and one just
The white.
Sometimes, too, he has toast instead of biscuits,
Bagels with cream cheese, or jelly made with real fruit.
He likes waffles, too, and pancakes.
God works in his vegetable garden during the day,
Half a day hoeing after planting,
The other half with flowers and shrubs, pulling grass
And any weeds brave enough to try.
Dirt in both gardens is dark, with manure
Worked into the soil. Goats and horses,
Sheep and cattle provide loads for the
Large wheelbarrow. Combining the various kinds
Produces the best results. God considered using
Elephant manure, but his two elephants produced
Too much. Once a week God goes into the elephant pasture
And levels the piles, spreads everything around.
Used to, God got lots of volunteer work in the gardens
And in the pastures. These days, not as many people
Come by. God thought about taking an ad in the papers,
“Workers needed in the garden. Meals furnished.”
But, he decided to let things go as they had for years.
If enough people come by, that’s good. And if not …
Well, that’s OK, too.
People have a lot more to do these days.
God has a nice garden, regardless if people see it.
And the view from the porch is indescribable.
--Bob Merriman, 13 June 2011
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Stupid Republican women
Remember when Sarah Palin got stupid in a speech not long after the November 2010 elections, when she told a Tea Party gathering not to celebrate too soon, because this isn’t 1773 and a whole bunch of liberals LOL’d because OMG, she doesn’t know when the American Revolution started, but other people actually checked history and it turns out the Boston Tea Party was in 1773, which is what Palin was talking about in the first place?
And remember the video from a debate at a college in the 2010 elections when another Republican woman asked, “Where exactly is separation of church and state in the Constitution?” and you can hear college students saying “Oh my god! She doesn’t know!” when in reality the college students need more education and many of us knew exactly what the candidate meant, because separation of church and state is not in the Constitution?
Oh, those stupid Republican women.
And remember the video from a debate at a college in the 2010 elections when another Republican woman asked, “Where exactly is separation of church and state in the Constitution?” and you can hear college students saying “Oh my god! She doesn’t know!” when in reality the college students need more education and many of us knew exactly what the candidate meant, because separation of church and state is not in the Constitution?
Oh, those stupid Republican women.
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