We used to play on the rocks across the river when the floodgates were holding the water back. When the dam whistle blew, everyone knew to clear off. This is one of the few places from my childhood that have remained virtually untouched by development or beautification or bought by private owners and fenced off. There are places we need to leave alone, where the mud should be allowed to suck around your ankles, the danger of rock-climbing continued, and the trees unassaulted by power companies. Continue reading
When my family moved to town in the 70’s, my sisters, brother, and I frequented this park, which was several blocks from our house. As far as I remember, it was always in a state of disrepair–bathrooms broken, grass always too high, weedy, broken playground equipment. We loved it. Everything is so safe nowadays.
This cemetery is just down the road from the Rural Oklahoma Museum of Poetry and my home. Many kinfolk are buried here. The poem “buried” at this site is about a girl, a friend of my grandmother’s when she was young, who died at the age of fifteen. You can see a brief photostory-video about her that I put together years ago.