Don Mecoy – Jim Stafford's BlogOKC

Looking back at my BlogOKC favs of 2024

EDITOR’S NOTE: In what has become an annual column of its own, I look back over BlogOKC in 2024 and list my 10 favorite posts. Not most popular, but those that meant the most to me. I went back and forth, adding some then eliminating them, because each of them meant something to me. I hope you enjoy browsing the list and clicking on the headlines to read the full post. My list of personal favorites also includes a wonderful guest post by my friend, Don Mecoy. Enjoy!

Major League Baseball Commissioner Rob Manfred said the ‘Golden At-Bat’ is being discussed

Major League Baseball’s terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea

Dec. 11

When I was a young would-be sports writer just out of college working for the Southwest Times Record newspaper in Fort Smith, Ark., my editor sent me out to cover the state small school baseball tournament.

I had not seen much high school baseball through the years, so I was caught by surprise by one particular rule the small schools played by.

It was called the “Courtesy Runner.”

The Bricktown Ballpark scoreboard shows the team’s new name at reveal event.

What’s in a name? Apparently, a lot in OKC Baseball Club rebrand to ‘Comets’ … Or not much

Oct. 28

The Oklahoma City Baseball Club revealed its new name, “Comets,” in a ceremony Saturday evening at the Chickasaw Bricktown Ballpark witnessed by at least a couple thousand enthusiastic fans.

I was among those who showed up for the Big Reveal, so I can attest to the collective cheer that went up when the “Comets” name and logo appeared on the scoreboard screen.

I was not expecting “Comets,” although I’m not sure what I expected. Maybe “Flycatchers,” which my friend Ed Godfrey had predicted as the future team name. Or the “Waving Wheats” or something that related to Oklahoma.

acu group — From left, Scott Kirk, Jim Stafford, Peggy Marler, Ron Hadfield, Corliss Hudson Englert, Brad Englert, Cheryl Mann Bacon

ACU Hall of Fame recognition for my friend Ron Hadfield … and a grand reunion

Oct. 22

Ron Hadfield is a long-time friend who was my student editor on the Abilene Christian University newspaper, The Optimist, in 1977. Ron recently was recognized with a Lifetime Achievement Award at the ACU Athletic Hall of Fame ceremony that I was privileged to attend.

I showed up on ACU’s doorstep in 1976 as a transfer student with a dream to some day become a newspaper sportswriter, but with virtually no writing experience.

Ron likes to tell the story that on the first assignment he sent me out on, I turned in some terrible copy and proudly showed him the quotes I made up.

I deny the accuracy of his memory.

Brady and John — Brady Spencer with his son, John, outside Kansas City’s Union Station during the 2023 NFL draft.

The Populous impact on OKC sports venues & my friend, Brady Spencer

Sept. 17

A recent update in The Oklahoman newspaper on the new OG&E Coliseum under construction at the State Fairgrounds identified it as a venue designed by a firm named “Populous.”

In an even more recent story, I learned that Populous has been hired to design the new $71 million soccer stadium just south of OKC’s Bricktown.

I think I’m noticing a trend.

So, what exactly is Populous?

Solomon walking — Solomon rolls his new backpack up to OKC’s Omni Hotel on Friday morning.

Solomon’s ‘road trip’ to OKC’s Omni Hotel

July 12

This is what happens when his GiGi is out of town on business and Papa is left in charge of entertainment on a Friday for our grandson, Solomon.

So, when it was just us two early Friday, Solomon said he wanted to go on a road trip. He suggested “the beach” and then Branson.

I said we couldn’t do either of those today, but maybe we could drive up to Guthrie and find a place to eat.

Solomon sort of accepted that, but later told me he wanted to go to that “nice Thunder hotel downtown.” All of us had stayed the night at OKC’s Omni Hotel last year when my wife, Paula, was booked there for a convention meeting.

Screenshot — A black ’65 Mustang that looks exactly as I remember the one driven by my Aunt Dee.

The ’65 Mustang was my Aunt Dee’s ride or die

June 28

This is a story of the Ford Mustang. Or, rather, two Ford Mustangs. One of them did not have a happy ending, and I was in it.

If you are hazy on your Ford Mustang history, I’ll catch you up to date a bit. The Mustang was conceived by team at Ford led by Lee Iacocca, who later gained fame as the man who saved Chrysler.

The first Mustang was introduced to the public in April 1964, as the “1964-1/2” Mustang. It was an instant hit. The public fell in love with it because it had a unique, sporty body style compared to what U.S. autos had been, which were cars shaped like boxes and quite unattractive.

My dad was among the millions of Americans who were taken by the Mustang and eventually bought one when he was stationed on the island of Okinawa while in the military. I’ll come back to that.

Apple in 2024: Nobody likes a bully

March 23

I read a magazine article when I was in college in the 1970s about a scrappy startup called Apple Computer, founded by two guys named Steve who built their first computers in the garage at the home of one of the Steves.

I couldn’t get enough of their story; the David-vs.-Goliath way that Apple blazed the personal computer trail that forced the industry behemoth at the time, IBM, to play catchup. Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak were my entrepreneurial heroes.

So, I admit that I am a long-time Apple fanboy and remain one today.

But my fandom has run smack into some ugly reality. Apple is no longer the scrappy industry underdog. In fact, it is one of the world’s largest companies by market value. Yet, it has begun to flex its financial muscles like a bully that nobody likes.

In my hometown, the long decline of a Fort Smith institution

Feb. 22

Here’s a bit of nostalgia for you. When I walked into the Southwest Times Record newsroom for the first time as an employee in 1978, I encountered a bustling community of talented writers, editors and photographers all scrambling to publish local news seven days a week.

The Fort Smith newspaper was a great place to learn the craft as my first job out of college. There are many folks among my former colleagues there whom I will never forget. I worked at the SWTR for five years in a variety of positions before moving to Oklahoma City and working for The Oklahoman for almost a quarter of a century.

So, it’s been disheartening to watch the SWTR decline as a community force over the past few years as the number of subscribers declined and employees were laid off. It’s a situation not unlike that in many other cities across the nation.

Evard and car — Evard Humphrey and his No. 12 super-modified sprint car

Why Evard Humphrey remains a sprint car hero to this child of the ’60s

Feb. 16

Editor’s Note: Don Mecoy is a friend and former colleague at The Oklahoman who retired as the newspaper’s managing editor at the end of 2022. A recent conversation about sports heroes from our youth when Don was a guest on the 3 Old Geezers podcast sparked his memory about a local race car driver fromthe late 1960s. Don wrote this guest blog post about that driver and those memories.

By Don Mecoy

I had my share of sports heroes when I was a kid. Roger Staubach, Lou Brock, Johnny Bench and Joe Washington were among my faves. But my personal hero — and it truly was personal — was a guy you probably never heard of: Evard “Kerfoot” Humphrey.

Evard was the driver of the No. 12 super-modified sprint car that ran every Friday night at State Fair Speedway during my youth in Oklahoma City.

tarps1 — Advertising banners cover the entire upper deck seating area down the first base line of the Bricktown Ballpark.

Fading glory: Bricktown Ballpark needs upper deck rehab

Feb. 2

I was enjoying a summer evening at the Chickasaw Bricktown Ballpark with a friend last year, savoring the crowd, the game and the park’s immaculate green pasture.

Then my eyes landed on the upper deck along the first baseline that extends out into right field. There were no seats or bleachers visible. Only advertising banners draped across each section.

Don’t get me wrong. Oklahoma City has a beautiful ballpark that has retained its attractiveness since it opened in April 1998. However, the tarps do nothing but detract from the ballpark’s charm.

Why Evard Humphrey remains a sprint car hero to this child of the ’60s

Editor’s Note: Don Mecoy is a friend and former colleague at The Oklahoman who retired as the newspaper’s managing editor at the end of 2022. A recent conversation about sports heroes from our youth when Don was a guest on the 3 Old Geezers podcast sparked his memory about a local race car driver from the late 1960s. Don wrote this guest blog post about that driver and those memories.

By Don Mecoy

evard in car — Evard in the Black Magic No. 12 super-modified dirt-track racer.

Evard was the driver of the No. 12 super-modified sprint car that ran every Friday night at State Fair Speedway during my youth in Oklahoma City. My Daddy — a preacher, shade-tree mechanic and race fan — liked Evard, so I did too. Evard won a couple of season championships at State Fair Speedway in the years just before my family moved to OKC in 1967. And he was highly competitive in the first several years we sat in the fourth-corner stands at the beloved dirt track.

Some grainy video of Evard’s “Black Magic” No. 12 is available on YouTube:

I watched Evard win a lot of races, and as I became more knowledgeable about racing, I could see that he was a smooth and cagey driver and a gentleman on the track. He cut other drivers a lot of slack. He didn’t tear up his equipment, or anyone else’s. Unlike most of my other sports heroes, Evard wasn’t a highly paid athlete — he ran a salvage yard.

I was grown and raising a family of my own when I saw Evard’s obituary in The Oklahoman in November of 2007. At the time, I was a writer on the business desk at the newspaper, and we had recently added blogs to our newspaper website. I decided to write a post about Evard. It was brief, but heartfelt.

‘Forty years after the first race I witnessed, I remain a fan of the sport. But there will never be a driver that I pull harder for than I did Evard Humphrey. According to his obituary, Evard was 72 and “loved by all” — even some folks who never met him.’

The day that short item appeared in the paper, my phone started ringing. I heard from Evard’s son-in-law, Terry Doss, who drove the “Black Magic” super-modified car after Evard hung up his racing suit. He thanked me on behalf of the family, and said Evard deserved all the love — not just as a successful driver but as an all-around great guy.

Shane Carson, one of the most successful dirt track racers and promoters to get his start in OKC, called to thank me and to tell me that his cars typically carried the number 12 because of his love for Evard. Others called to echo my feelings of Evard, and share memories of OKC’s wonderful dirt-track venue.

The blog post also drew the attention of Evard’s charming wife, Pat, and she came to the newspaper office to meet me. I told her how I was thrilled sometimes to see Evard walking through the stands, wearing his racing suit, to sit with his family between races or when his car had failed. She told me I should have talked to him; he loved to mix it up with his fans. But for 9-year-old me, he was on a pedestal too high to approach.

She was delighted to flip through our file of her late husband’s photos in our library. A librarian told me all our photos were being digitized and then would be thrown out. Since Evard’s file had already been captured, we gave Patty those old black-and-white memories. That may have been one of my most rewarding moments in journalism.

In researching this article, I learned that Pat passed away last year. She seemed like a joyful person. I hope she enjoyed those photos.

Everd cash — Looks like Evard won the trophy dash. He might even have pulled off the rare “sweep,” winning his heat race, trophy dash and the A feature.

The Best of BlogOKC from 2023

EDITOR’S NOTE: For the third consecutive year, I’ve gone through my year in BlogOKC and pulled the posts that were most meaningful to me as a “best of” column. My favorite may be the one written by my daughter after she saved a roommate’s life in Florida. I was proud of her for jumping in when needed and also proud of her for the way she wrote of the experience. There are also links at the end of this ‘best of’ column that take you to other special blog posts worth reading, including three written as guest posts by friends. The subhead on each favorite blog post is also a link, so you can click through to the actual blog and read it in its entirety, if you choose. WordPress tells me BlogOKC had 7,024 visitors to this point in 2023. I thank you for reading my thoughts.

How to save a life

Sarah Florida — Sarah Stafford poses in her South Florida residence

For the past year and a half, my 24-year-old daughter, Sarah, has worked as a “tech” at drug-and-alcohol rehabilitation centers in South Florida. She is trained in CPR because of the potential for relapse and overdose of recovering addicts. Sarah is a recovering addict herself, and lives in a nearby home occupied by other recovering addicts with house rules that support their road to recovery. It’s not always easy, though. Temptation sometimes leads addicts to relapse with potential deadly consequences. This is Sarah’s story about a recent incident in her home.

Cancelled: Why Dilbert had to go

Cancelled

I went back through my social media history this morning and came across a dozen or more Dilbert comic strips I have posted over the years. If you aren’t familiar with Dilbert, it’s an insightful, often hilarious syndicated comic strip that skewers corporate office life. It features Dilbert, an engineer, his co-worker Wally and the pointy-haired boss, among others. So, it hit me hard when a text over the weekend from a former co-worker at The Oklahoman delivered some devastating news. The paper is cancelling Dilbert, and for all the right reasons.

The Beatles were great storytellers in song

Beatles NY — The Beatles from an early photo as they landed in New York City.

I was introduced to the Beatles in 1964 by my uncle. I was 11 and he was 19 and had purchased the album, ‘Meet the Beatles.’ In my extended family in 1964, buying something as worldly as a secular rock-n-roll record by the Beatles was a pretty bold step. My uncle told me he didn’t care for the music, even if the Beatles were a pop culture phenomenon. So, he gave me the album. Beatlemania washed over me like it did millions of other young Americans. I couldn’t get enough. As I was listening to a Beatles playlist on my iPhone today, it occurred to me what great storytellers, they were.

Chatbot comes alive for OKC audience in demo

Dodd AI3 — Bucky Dodd, Ph.D., founder & CEO of technology firm ClearKinetic, demonstrates an AI Chatbot at a recent OKC meeting.

“If you came here today for answers, I’m sorry, you will probably leave with more questions.” That’s how Bucky Dodd, Ph.D., a long-time educator and CEO of an educational technology startup called ClearKinetic, launched his presentation on Artificial Intelligence last week to a group of association executives at the OKC Convention Center. Dodd obviously follows author Stephen Covey and his 7 habits of a highly effective person. Begin with the end in mind. But Dodd’s presentation was more of a show-and-tell to his audience from the Oklahoma Society of Association Executives. He prompted a Chatbot to actually generate some amazing content for us.

The Walkable City on my mind

Walkable3

I just read Jeff Speck’s “Walkable City: How Downtown Can Save America, One Step at a Time,” and I don’t know where to start with my reaction. Jeff Speck, you might remember, is the urban planner and author who advocates making urban areas pedestrian friendly to encourage both economic development and urban living spaces. He consulted with the City of OKC about 15 years ago that resulted in big changes downtown, especially in the elimination of most one-way streets. I worked downtown in the 1980s, and I can assure you there was little to brag about.

Class Reunion, Party of Two

yearbook ppic — A page of the 1971 Southside High School yearbook, ‘Lifestyles’

I walked into Cattlemen’s Steakhouse a few weeks ago, made my way to a back booth and was greeted by someone I had not seen in 52 years. He was an old high school chum, so it was the ultimate class reunion.

Say it ain’t so

Sellout

I’ve written all of this because, as most people know by now, both Berry and Jenni are leaving the paper. They’re joining a new online venture called The Sellout, Sellout Crowd, or something like that. It should debut later this month, from what I understand. I got wind of Berry’s impending exit about three weeks ago and immediately sent him an email with the subject line “Say It Ain’t So.” Berry responded and said it was so. He said it’s a good thing, not bad, because readers who follow him and Jenni will be able to read their work in a free online newsletter.

A life of divine coincidences

mike magazine — Mike West with magazine opened to classified that advertised Keystone Labels for sale

Was it karma or divine coincidence? I write that because of how I recently met another outstanding couple. Except this time it wasn’t in church; it was at The Joinery restaurant in Bricktown back in October on the occasion of the Sellout Crowd launch party. Sellout Crowd is a new online sports reporting service that launched September 1. As I sat down at a table to consume some complementary food I carried from the buffet line, I found myself across from a couple who were unfamiliar to me. The couple introduced themselves as Mike and Tonia West. And did they have a story of divine coincidence.

3 Old Geezers and the pleasures of podcasting disharmony

Geezers blog — The 3 Old Geezers are (from left) Steve Buck, Ed Godfrey, Jim Stafford

For me, the podcast confirmed that I’m more agile behind a keyboard than with a microphone in my face, while both Steve and Ed have shown the ability to be clever and entertaining on the run. If you haven’t listened yet, I invite you to listen to our latest episode, and then perhaps invest some time in the previous podcasts. We’re all Thunder fans, but take different approaches to our fandom and perceive the team slightly differently. In fact, one Geezer has a tendency to sleep right through some of the games.

The new BRT line is A-OK with me

BRT1 — Our driver poses outside the BRT bus at the Lake Hefner park-and-ride stop along the Northwest Expressway.

The Northwest line is one of at least three BRT routes planned by the city, with two others in the works for the south side and the Northeast corridor. MAPS 4 dollars are paying for the new BRT routes, according to this story from The Oklahoman. Anyway, the bus was clean and new with about 5 people already aboard in the back seating area. I took a seat in the middle, and we headed toward downtown OKC. So, the BRT route gets a big thumbs up from me, even though it doesn’t lend itself to my daily transportation needs.

The OKC origin story of the Dot Race

Dot Race live — The Dot Race as presented on the Texas Rangers scoreboard in the 1980s.

If you frequented the late All Sports Stadium to watch the Oklahoma City 89ers Triple A baseball team play during the 1980s, you probably were a fan of an animated scoreboard feature known as the Dot Race. A form of the Dot Race lives on in the 2020s as between-inning entertainment for the Texas Rangers and other Major League parks around the country. And as time has passed, few people recall that the Dot Race had its beginning as humble, white dots on the 89ers scoreboard in Oklahoma City.

BONUS: Other posts from 2023 to explore:

Flight delay and an airport reunion

For Ed, Cardinals baseball a lifelong addiction (guest post written by Ed Godfrey)

The Wisdom of Linus: Be nice, and always carry a blanket (guest post written by Don Mecoy)

Chicago Woes, Part 2: Cunning as a savage pitted against the wilderness (guest post written by Don Mecoy)

Best of BlogOKC - 1

Chicago woes, part 2: Cunning as a savage pitted against the wilderness

Don Will — Don and Will on the Blue Line before they learned that all their moving plans had turned to dust.

Editor’s Note: Don Mecoy is a friend and former colleague at The Oklahoman who retired as the newspaper’s managing editor at the end of 2022. He shares recent misadventures in Chicago with us in this post.

By Don Mecoy

I love Chicago, even if sometimes it doesn’t love me back.

Hog Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and the Nation’s Freight Handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of the Big Shoulders

Regular readers of Jim’s Blog (“Howdy,” Jim’s extended family!) may recall my last post here about spending a night in Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport.

Undaunted, I returned to the City of Big Shoulders, and again I experienced the peculiar situation of being homeless without being destitute. Perhaps it would be better to say we were “houseless.” This time, it involved my son’s move from one apartment to another that went awry. Like a big shoulder to the solar plexus.

Here’s the setup: My son, Will, had to be out of his West Loop apartment on Sept. 1. He was scheduled to move into his new Printer’s Row apartment in South Loop the very same day. The lease was signed, the elevators were reserved, the movers were contracted and I showed up a few days early to help out with the packing and cleaning and so forth. He had just started a new job and was understandably reluctant to take much time off, and I’m completely unemployed, so I flew up.

The day before the scheduled move, we went to his new building to drop off a big deposit with the landlord and get the key. That’s when we learned that she would not accept an electronic payment despite the fact that she had previously taken a payment in that form. She wanted a cashier’s check and only a cashier’s check. Unfortunately, my son’s banking account is with an online bank, which made it nearly impossible to get what she wanted in short order. Nevertheless, we said we would obtain one that very day and return to get the key. I should mention all of the communication with the landlord was via email; she never provided Will with her phone number even after they met in person during his tour of the apartment and again when they signed the lease.

Will rushed to open an account at a nearby bricks-and-mortar bank and started trying to fund the account. That wasn’t going to get us a cashier’s check in one day, we learned. I started hitting ATMs to get cash. I called my Oklahoma credit union to see if they had any ideas. My friendly neighborhood banker suggested I could purchase a cashier’s check by taking advantage of a shared branching agreement between credit unions. Unfortunately, the nice folks at the Chicago Patrolmen’s Federal Credit Union said that would violate their policies. A teller’s check was the best they could do. And, they said, even if I showed up with cash in hand, they wouldn’t sell me a cashier’s check unless I had an account.

I was about to go to a check-cashing store to see about getting a cash advance on my credit card. But Will told me the landlord had stopped responding, so we pulled the plug after several hours of frantic money-raising efforts.

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen your painted women under the gas lamps luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to kill again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the faces of women and children I have seen the marks of wanton hunger.

In the midst of all this chaos, my phone died. I couldn’t field calls from my credit union, or Will, or my wife back in Oklahoma. It also left me far away from Will’s current apartment without the ability to hail an Uber or catch a bus or train because all of my data and payment methods for those forms of transport were in the dang dead phone. I walked about 6 miles that day. At least the weather was nice.

The upshot is that the landlord said she would “review” all of the emails between her and Will to determine what her next step would be. That night, she wrote to Will that she just didn’t find him trustworthy and believed he wouldn’t pay his rent on time, despite the fact that he has lived in apartments for years and never once was late with his rent. She also disputed his claim that she was leaving him homeless because “your dad lives in Chicago.” That was just one of several problems prompted by communicating solely through email. He offered to pay three months rent in advance, but we never heard from her again.

Boxes — All packed up and nowhere to go.

We were tired and disappointed and angry. But we had a lot of work to do. We had to find storage for all his belongings. We had to contact the movers to make sure they would move those belongings to storage instead of to the new apartment. We had to find someplace to stay for the next few days. And we had to start hunting for a new place for Will to live. And we really needed a beer.

More than once during those troubled days I thought about “The Out-of-Towners,” a 1970 Neil Simon movie starring Jack Lemmon and Sandy Dennis about an Ohio couple’s disastrous trip to New York City. While we weren’t mugged or left penniless, we were subject to forces beyond our control in a big city.

But after all those repeated disappointments, things started looking up. The movers agreed to take in his belongings, and even store them for up to a month for no charge. We secured a hotel room. Will scheduled an apartment tour on Sept. 2, and the new place in Wicker Park was fine. The owners had planned a kitchen renovation, but when they learned that he needed it immediately they agreed to sign a lease the same day and knock a little off the rent. On Sept. 5, he became a resident of the trendy area with lots of shops and restaurants and tree-lined streets of 3-story walk ups.

And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them:
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities;

Apartment — The new place has great morning light.

Now we see what can be done about the landlord. This fiasco cost Will a fair amount of money. He’s paying more in rent. He had to pay for two moves instead of one. He’s out the cost of the hotel room for four nights. We obviously had no kitchen for several days, and that cost extra. I had to extend my planned stay by five days.

But I got to spend a lot of time with Will — always a good thing. I also loved being in Chicago. It’s a great town mostly filled with good folks.

Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
Bareheaded,
Shoveling,
Wrecking,
Planning,
Building, breaking, rebuilding,
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with white teeth,
Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young man laughs,
Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has never lost a battle,
Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse, and under his ribs the heart of the people,
Laughing!
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.

–Carl Sandburg

The wisdom of Linus: Be nice, and always carry a blanket

The floor is about the only place to stretch out at Chicago O’Hare International Airport.

Editor’s Note: Don Mecoy is a friend and former colleague at The Oklahoman who retired as the newspaper’s managing editor at the end of 2022. Don recently experienced the challenge of navigating the commercial airline system when multiple flights were cancelled as he attempted to return to Oklahoma City from Chicago’s O’Hare Airport. He shared his reaction to the experience in this blog post.

By Don Mecoy

I recently got a taste of homelessness. I wasn’t actually without a home, but I temporarily lacked access to some basic needs such as food and a place to sleep. It was a frustrating and instructional experience.

I was homeless the way that Barack Obama is jobless. I was fine.

My situation was the same that millions of Americans find themselves in every year — my flight was cancelled and I was abandoned at a large metropolitan airport. My fellow passengers and I were shooed off our American Airlines plane at about 1 a.m. last Sunday — five hours after the planned departure — and told that we would not be flying from Chicago O’Hare International Airport to Oklahoma City anytime soon. The airline offered little to help us deal with the situation or to appeal to our better nature — $12 food vouchers (all the restaurants and stores were closed until 5 a.m.); no hotel vouchers (there were no rooms available within miles of the airport anyway), and no concrete information on when we might get back to good ol’ OKC.

After a lot of waiting in lines, hand-wringing and watching our flight’s self-designated Chad unload on the helpless, but genial gate attendant, we former passengers got down to the business of making the best of a bad situation.

About a dozen simply checked out, heading off to Ubers and Lyfts to whisk them away to someplace with food and blankets, or perhaps to rent a car and drive the 12 hours to Oklahoma City. I’m not sure; I never saw them again.

I could have done the same and returned to my son’s apartment in the West Loop area of downtown Chicago. But it hardly seemed worth it for a few hours of sleep and a very early return to O’Hare, particularly since I didn’t know what time our flight was. Within a few minutes of our flight being scratched, my American Airlines app showed the next departure for my flight changing from 12:30 a.m. to 3 a.m. to 6 a.m. to 10:40 a.m. The gracious gate attendant said she “hoped” that 10:40 time would hold. It didn’t.

The rest of us started cracking open suitcases and putting on more clothes. It was freezing in the cavernous, empty airport. I once interviewed a guy who helped run what is now called Paycom Center. He told me they crank up the air conditioning long before Thunder games or other big events to account for the body heat and activity of the 18,000 or so people who will fill the arena. Perhaps that’s what the airport folks were doing in anticipation for the next day’s crowds. But the A/C never stopped producing a chilling breeze that was unavoidable everywhere except in the middle of the concourse, and I wasn’t going to sleep on those tiled floors.

There are thousands of pieces of furniture in O’Hare, and just like at every airport, they are designed to be impossible to sleep on. You’ve seen them, essentially long couches, but with stainless steel arms demarcating where each individual should sit. They work fine when you’re waiting for a plane. But when seeking a place to lay your weary head, it makes you ponder why they don’t make those arms movable like the armrests on the planes. It’s needlessly cruel. Of course, cities do the same with park benches and walls to discourage those with no bed from making one in a public place. A bed is a very important thing when you don’t have one. And a blanket.

Meanwhile, directly across from the gate where we waited to secure our food vouchers was American Airline’s Admirals Club, an expansive area for the airline’s most lucrative customers that offers recliners, food and drink, showers and other amenities. I bet they even have blankets in there. It was closed. Here’s a suggestion, American: Give the beleaguered gate attendant a key so she can offer something to abandoned folks like us. What a waste.

Seating in the American Airlines Admirals Club at Chicago O’Hare International Airport.

And lest you think the powers that be at O’Hare are heartless. There is a yoga room in the airport. It closes at 10 p.m. I would have paid good money for one of those yoga mats. Instead, I swiped a floor mat from behind a ticket counter to soften the concrete floor covered with — like every airport I’ve ever been to — the thinnest grade of carpet known to man.

I took my pilfered floor mat and began to build a nest in a semi-isolated place. I draped most of the shirts in my suitcase atop the three shirts I was wearing, rolled up a pair of pants for a pillow and tried to nap. It was futile. After what felt like an hour of trying to get comfortable, I had to get up and move to warm up. I dragged the floor mat to a fellow passenger attempting to sleep on the bare carpet. She was grateful. She had a blanket. Man, a blanket. Luxury!

Another annoyance: At nearly every gate in O’Hare there is a TV. All those TVs play the same loop of programming that includes ads for stores and restaurants in the airport. It also features Conan O’Brien interviewing Kevin Bacon on how the star’s life was changed by the recent emergence of COVID. I looked it up: the interview was taped on April 9, 2020. It was impossible to turn off the TVs, or the sound broadcast through overhead speakers. Believe me, I tried.

So I was tired, hungry, bored, but not really upset. I wasn’t missing a wedding or funeral or graduation back home. I had the wherewithal to simply leave if my health or safety was a real concern. I learned that McDonald’s was going to open at 4 a.m., so I was an hour closer to food. My fellow passengers and I seemed to enjoy strategizing about our situation amid our shared misery.

Among our group was the tallest (6 foot 2), most mature 15-year-old I’ve ever met. He was traveling alone, was not allowed to leave the airport and nevertheless was handling the situation better than 90 percent of his fellow refugees. I met the gaze of another parent, and we shared a look that felt like a silent promise that this kid was going to get home. As the sun rose, I had a conversation with a lady from Moore about our favorite books we had read while on airplanes.

After climbing off the floor around 2:30 a.m. or so, I somehow was able to book an 8:30 a.m. flight on my American Airlines app. I hurried to tell some of my fellow passengers about the discovery, but no one was able to reproduce it. A dozen or more were placed on standby for that flight, and at least four of them — including the gangly 15-year-old — boarded along with me.

Our original flight finally took off at 1:11 p.m., roughly 17 hours after it was scheduled to depart. By that time, I was well fed and sound asleep in my bed. With my blanket.

All in all, it was not a terrible experience. And it drove home a couple of maxims that I long have believed true.

Be nice. It costs nothing, and you might make a friend; perhaps even ease someone’s pain. You don’t really know what struggles anyone is dealing with, so cut folks some slack.

If you see someone carrying a blanket or a piece of foam, or wearing layer upon layer of clothing, or trying to beg, borrow or steal some food, they’re just trying to make the best of a bad situation. Have a heart.

MORE READING: My daughter, Sarah Stafford, had a similar experience that I wrote about in this blog post back in January.