Fort Smith – Jim Stafford's BlogOKC

Theodora’s Elegante Wigs thrives amid generational ch-ch-changes

Linda (Faubus) Lewis is surrounded by wig-covered mannequin heads at her Theodora’s Elegante Wigs shop.

When I saw the ‘Theodora’s Wigs” sign as I was driving past in Fort Smith, Ark., this week, it took me back more than 55 years into an earlier life. So, I veered off Towson Ave., into the Phoenix retail center lot and parked outside the wig shot.

No, I wasn’t there to find some faux hair to cover my chrome dome.

Let me explain the back story.

In the fall of 1970, I was a senior at Southside High School in Fort Smith and worked at a small retail shop called Tom’s Levi’s in what was then known as the Phoenix Village Shopping Center. It was next door to Theodora’s Elegante Wigs.

Our shops were connected by a back hallway, so I became friends with Theodora’s owners, Thelma Faubus and her daughter, Linda. They were positive and upbeat and kind to this 17-year-old kid with little retail experience or maturity.

I worked at that shop until 1972, then went on to college and a newspaper career that eventually brought me to OKC. But my parents continued to live in Fort Smith, and that’s why I was in town this week, celebrating my widowed mom’s 92nd birthday.

Over the vast expanse of years, I’ve seen many changes to the Phoenix Village Shopping Center where Theodora’s is located and I once worked. One whole portion of the strip center across the parking lot from the wig shop was torn down. A grocery store on the west end of the center is long gone. The adjacent Phoenix Village Mall shut down and now is used as call center space by various companies. The center’s original developers died and ownership groups changed. The name of the strip center was shortened to just Phoenix Center.

Through it all, Theodora’s Elegante Wigs stayed in business, holding down the same tiny retail space it’s had since 1967.

That drew me in on this November day. When I parked and walked through Theodora’s door, there was Linda Faubus seated behind the counter. She is now Linda Lewis and she runs the shop as the sole owner in the wake of her mother’s passing a few years ago.

“Linda Faubus!” I said as I entered. “I’m Jim Stafford.”

She jumped up and gave me a big hug. I told her I was there to find out how the shop had stayed in business across all those years and amid changes the retail environment.

We were surrounded by mannequin heads covered by wigs of various colors and lengths. The shop looked almost exactly as I remembered from more than 50 years ago. Along with her late mother, Linda has owned the shop since 1967.

“How have you kept this shop going for almost 60 years,” I asked. “You’ve outlasted virtually ever business that was here in the 1970s and outlived most of their owners. What’s your secret to the longevity of your business?”

“it’s from making a lot of friends, being good to people and quality and service,” Linda said. “They like to come in here.”

Many longtime, loyal customers were drawn to the shop by her mother, Thelma, she said. I could see that because Thelma was such an upbeat personality and treated everyone with what you might call Southern charm.

Thelma passed away in 2016 at the age of 97.

“Everybody loved her, and that’s how you build a business” Linda said. “She was my role model and was a very attractive lady. You have to build on customer service and how you treat people.”

I looked around the shop. I wanted to know how business is in 2025. Linda has modernized enough to have a presence on Facebook.

“We’re busier now than we’ve ever been,” she said. “We have customers from all over, Oklahoma City, Little Rock, Fayetteville, Bella Vista. I can’t tell you how many people come in from Springdale.”

Who knew there was such a demand for wigs?

“There aren’t that many wig shops any more,” Linda said. “And people love to come in and try them on.”

The exterior to Theodora’s Elegante Wigs in Fort Smith, Ark.

Next door to the wig shop, in the space that Tom’s Levi’s once occupied, is a bridal shop.

“I can’t tell you have many businesses have been in that space,” she said. “A stereo shop, a business called The Gentry Shop and even a doll shop.”

With that, we said our goodbyes and I headed back to my car and on to OKC. One last glance at the Theodora’s Wigs sign as I drove away.

It seems that everything in this world has changed over the past 55 years, except Theodora’s Elegante Wigs. And that made me smile as I pulled back on to Towson Ave.

Not just a survivor, but a thriving business in a completely different generation.

Well done Linda (and Thelma).

Drivers beware, speed traps live on

What comes to mind when you see the words ‘speed trap?’ Barney Fife, perhaps?

Yeah, you know what they are. A cop car parked behind a sign or tree just off the highway, typically at the edge of a small town in an area where speed limit suddenly drops from say, 65 mph to 45.

Gotcha!

Way back in the olden days when I was in college driving from Abilene, Texas, back home to Fort Smith, Ark., I learned to be extra cautious when I drove through Stringtown, OK.

Stringtown was notorious for handing out speeding tickets to drivers passing through town on U.S. 69 and unaware that speed limit changed abruptly. It already had a reputation as a speed trap, and my dad warned me about it before I made my first trip.

By 2014, most everyone who didn’t hail from Stringtown had had enough. It was revealed that 76 percent of the town’s revenue — $483,000 in 2013 — was generated by traffic tickets, far more than the 50 percent cap set by the state legislature.

So, the Oklahoma Department of Public Safety announced that Stringtown police officers no longer could enforce traffic laws on state and federal highways.

Turns out that Stringtown was a repeat offender. It also drew state sanctions in the 1980s, three decades before the latest action. Read about it in this 2014 article from The Oklahoman.

But speed traps live on today in other communities across the state.

I drove through one in Muldrow, OK, just this past weekend. I saw a Muldrow police SUV hidden behind some barrels in the median of I-40 shortly before 7 am on Sunday.

Yes, Muldrow city officers were patrolling the Interstate! Maybe a quarter mile of I-40 goes through Muldrow city limits, which apparently gives their officers the right to patrol that stretch and hand out traffic tickets to protect their citizens.

I wasn’t even aware that stretch of I-40 was within the city limits of the city of Muldrow because it looks like a fairly rural area. Fortunately, I did not get pulled over — this time.

But the fact that he was out there monitoring traffic before sunup along the short stretch of Interstate that passed through the city limits really irked me.

So, I called the Muldrow Police Department on Monday to ask if they patrol the Interstate and why.

“Yes, because it is part of our city limits,” I was told.

OK, my next question was “does the city have an agreement with the state that allows it to patrol the Interstate in place of Highway Patrol?”

“I have no idea,” she said. “You will have to ask someone else that question.”

I’ve read that the state has to authorize communities to patrol state and federal highways that pass through their city limits, although I wasn’t sure that’s accurate. So I looked it up.

Here’s what I found in an online search of Oklahoma law:

“The Commissioner may designate any portion of the National System of Interstate and Defense Highways, and those portions of the federal-aid primary highways and the state highway system which are located within the boundaries of and on the outskirts of a municipality for special traffic-related enforcement by the Oklahoma Highway Patrol Division and issue a written notice to any other law enforcement agency affected thereby. Upon receipt of such notice, the affected law enforcement agency shall not regulate traffic nor enforce traffic-related statutes or ordinances upon such designated portion of the National System of Interstate and Defense Highways or such designated portions of the federal-aid primary highways and the state highway system without prior coordination and written approval of the Commissioner.”

I’ll translate: The state highway commissioner can forbid municipalities from enforcing traffic laws on state and federal highways.

Muldrow’s next door neighbors in Roland also patrol their stretch of I-40, according to my friend and lifelong Roland resident Frank Day. In fact, I found this story about Roland’s well deserved speed trap reputation from a 1999 edition of The Oklahoman.

Reddit users provided many more known speed traps. “Asher, Big Cabin, Savanah, Calera… really any small town with a highway through it,” offered a user who goes by FakeMikeMorgan.

Anyway, small town speed traps always remind me of Deputy Barney Fife and his “Checkpoint Chickie” speed trap in Mayberry on The Andy Griffith Show back in the day. Watch a clip below.

I’m asking readers to submit their least favorite speed traps from around Oklahoma — and beyond. I’ll add them to this post and we can compile a list to help our fellow travelers in the future.

Consider it a service, like flashing your lights at ongoing vehicles after you pass a cop-in-waiting.

You’re welcome.

Here a speed trap contribution from Inona Harness via her son, Casey. Waukomis, OK, which is due south of Enid. Thank you, Inona!

Frank Day’s labor of love honors the ‘dying art’ of quilting

Frank Day works on a hand-stitched quilt, accompanied by one of his favorite pets.

Let me tell you about my friend Frank Day of Roland, OK, whom I have known since approximately 1971 when we both worked for Hunt’s Department Store in Fort Smith, Ark.

Frank was a recent graduate of Northeastern State University in Tahlequah and I was a senior at Southside High School.

Over the years, we drank gallons of coffee together, ran trot lines at 2 am in the Arkansas River and stalked raccoons in the middle of the night in the Paw Paw Bottoms, among other adventures.

But life took me to Oklahoma City in 1983 for a job with The Daily Oklahoman newspaper, so we haven’t seen a lot of each other in the intervening years.

Today Frank is 75 years old and retired after more than two decades as fleet sales manager for Fort Smith’s Randall Ford. I think he can best be described in 2025 as a one-man quilting bee.

What?

That’s right. Frank Day began hand-stitching beautiful quilts over two decades ago, and continues his quilting avocation today.

Frank, I thought I knew you.

There goes my image of the typical quilter as someone’s grandmother.

Turns out that quilting is something Frank learned as a child from his mother, Dortha Day and turned it into an ongoing hobby many decades later.

“When I grew up, Mother was quilting all the time,” Frank told me. “She belonged to a quilting club, a bunch of women who got together at someone’s house and could finish a quilt in one day. I grew up watching her, and she showed me how to do it.”

Frank’s wife of more than 50 years, Vicki, added her perspective.

“Frank’s mother Dortha always had a quilt rack on the ceiling,” Vicki said. “I remember Granny, everyone called her Granny, quilting on the old quilting frames and singing hymns. When the grandchildren came along they would all play under the quilt frame.”

However, Frank had never made a quilt until his first grandchild was born more than 20 years ago. He produced his first quilt for grandson, Trevor, and has continued quilting through the years.

“I said I’m going to get some material and make a quilt,” Frank said of that first attempt. “Vicki said ‘you don’t know how.’ I said, ‘you watch me.’ I got the material and sat down and started sewing. And I got it done.”

That first quilt led into one for each grandchild, then special quilts for relatives and friends. Sometimes he makes them for folks who’ve had a stretch of bad health or difficult life situation, like a former coworker at Randall Ford to whom he presented a quilt.

“She started crying, but it was because she was happy to get it,” Frank said.

A quilt is not made in a day. Or a week. It might require more than a month of work for a solo quilter like Frank Day.

“From start to finish, if it’s a king-sized quilt, you have about 250 hours in it,” he said. “That’s cutting the material out — I hand sew everything, nothing is made on a machine. I hand stitch it, get the backing for it, get the lining for it and put the blocks on top.”

Did you catch that … 250 hours for a single quilt. That’s 6-1/4 40-hour working weeks of quietly sitting alone stitching blocks of material together into what can be a beautiful pattern.

My own grandmother was a quilter, and I recall she had a large wooden frame that she let down from the ceiling that helped her make her quilts.

Frank uses a ‘hoop’ that he holds in his lap as he quilts. Usually, one of his favorite dogs is sitting nearby or even on his lap as he quietly works.

Although he hasn’t made quilts to sell, Frank told me that comparable hand-made quilts can be priced at $1,800-$2,500 because of all the time required to produce one.

“It’s very time consuming, and most people don’t have the patience for it,” he said.

I learned that Frank was a quilter after Vicki posted some pictures of beautiful quilts on Facebook and I complimented her on her quilting talent. She corrected me and said it was all Frank.

“When Frank made his first quilt before Trevor, our first grandchild, was born, we had been married for 30 years and he never made one before,” Vicki said. “I asked him why he never made one before and his answer was “I never had a reason to make one.”

“Frank’s quilting has bloomed over the years. He made one for our son, Paul, as a wedding gift and then for our daughter Jenny. He made one out of cancer warrior scarves that Ford gave to dealerships for Breast Cancer Awareness.”

Each quilt is made with a purpose.

“Frank had a good friend, Dudley Sparkman, who was the best man and friend you could ask for,” Vicki said. “Sadly, he had a massive heart attack on his 50th birthday and passed around two weeks later. Tina Sparkman, Dudley’s wife, asked Frank if he would make a lap quilt out of some of his shirts. That was probably one of the hardest quilts he ever made because on the friendship they shared.”

Quilters like Frank Day who make the time to sit and hand-stitch a beautiful design are a rarity in 2025. Today, most quilts are machine stitched.

Frank calls hand-made quilting a “dying art” that he’s keeping alive in his corner of the world. Currently, he’s working on a quilt for Vicki as he recovers from a recent knee-replacement surgery.

“It’s helped me keep my sanity when I’ve had to sit for long stretches as I recovered from knee surgery that put me down,” he said. “I’ve finished one and got close to half of another one put together.”

It’s one stitch after another after another for a quilter like Frank Day. That translates into hundreds of hours to produce just one quilt.
It’s a marathon, not a sprint.

Frank has run that marathon for more than two decades.

And that’s why I describe him as the ultimate one-man quilting bee.

BONUS CONTENT:

I asked ChatGPT to explain the concept of a “Quilting Bee” to me. Here’s what it told me:

A quilting bee is a social gathering where a group of people—traditionally women—come together to work on quilting projects, usually a large quilt, while also enjoying conversation and community.

Key Features:

– Collaboration: Multiple people contribute to making one quilt. Often, the quilt top is pieced together ahead of time, and the bee focuses on quilting (stitching the layers together).
– Social aspect: It’s as much about socializing and bonding as it is about the sewing. These gatherings were historically important social events, especially in rural communities.
– Tradition: Quilting bees have roots in 18th and 19th century America, when they served as a practical and communal way to create bedding before mass production.
– Modern bees: Today, quilting bees still exist, though they might be less formal or might happen in quilting guilds, workshops, or even online.
Think of a quilting bee as a mix of a sewing circle, a social event, and a creative collaboration.

34 years later, article stirs memories of Arkansas’ stunning exit from SWC

Fort Smith Etc. magazine cover from 1991

Almost 34 years ago, a friend and former coworker at the Southwest Times Record in Fort Smith, Ark., hit me up with a request.

Patti had left the paper to become editor of a new local magazine called Fort Smith Etc. She asked me to write an article on the University of Arkansas’ stunning move from the now late Southwest Conference to the the rival Southeast Conference.

Arkansas announced in August 1990 that it was switching conferences, and actually made the move the following year.

The unexpected conference divorce set off shockwaves among major conferences and ushered in what has become an era of constant realignment. By 1995, the SWC was no more, with most members welcomed into the Big Eight, now known as the Big 12.

Anyway, I wrote a pretty snarky — for me — 800-word piece for the magazine that listed all the things the Razorbacks would not miss from the SWC. It was published in the Nov./Dec. 1991 edition of Fort Smith Etc. magazine.

So, why am I writing about this now when I hadn’t given the article a thought for the last 30 years or so?

Turns out a high school friend of mine and Fort Smith native I’ll call ‘Will’ discovered he had digitized copy of the article on his personal computer. Will, who also had written for the magazine, emailed it to me. Thanks, Will!

After reading what I wrote more than three decades ago, I’m still proud of how it turned out and the fact that it is still relevant today in this era of conference reshuffling.

There are a couple of references to now departed venues like Barnhill and Reunion arenas (and misplaced campus locations for the universities of Alabama and Mississippi), but it’s not too dated, I think.

With all that said, I’m reprinting the article here in BlogOKC. Hope you enjoy this trip down memory lane.

Signed, sealed & delivered to the SEC

Mac Davis, the curly-haired crooner with the West Texas drawl, probably said it best for University of Arkansas fans when he sang something like “Happiness is the state of Texas in my rear view mirror.”

That was the theme when 10,000 or so Hog-callers began their final caravan across the Red River and out of the Lone State after the Southwest Conference basketball tournament last March. The Razorbacks had bid adieu to their SWC step-brothers with an astounding thrashing of the Texas Longhorns for the tournament championship, and along with the Razorback women’s team, hauled away every basketball prize the league had to offer.

When it was over, they called the Hogs in Dallas one final time, took the “Barnhill South” sign down from in front of Reunion Arena and began the pilgrimage back to the Ozarks. The last one out should have stopped and burned the bridge that spanned the Red River.

Without a glance in the rear view mirror, Razorback basketball fans got out the map and charted Knoxville and Birmingham and Jackson and all the Southeast Conference stops in between. The SEC, a conference that already featured teams in seven states, threw open the doors to Arkansas with a great big “Welcome.”

In Texas, the resentment of any Arkansas’ SWC success ran deep in such holes-in-the-prairie as Waco and Lubbock. The Razorbacks own a legacy of SWC success that can’t be exorcised from the conference record book. You can look it up.

Nevertheless, despite 76 years of SWC membership (Arkansas was a charter member), Arkansas forever remained an outsider who annually crashed a party that should have been a Texas-only affair.

Well, it is now. The SWC is reduced to eight Texas schools, any six of whom would be welcomed this very minute into the Trans-America Conference or the American South.

If there were any tears, they were those shed by Dallas merchants, who may have been the only people inTexas who realized from where the success of the SWC basketball tournament came.

Arkansas now has been signed, sealed and delivered to the Southeast Conference and there should be no nostalgic or sympathetic thoughts for the conference left behind in Texas.

Unsure? I offer ten reasons never to never look back at the SWC:

1. Average attendance at SouthwestConference basketball games in 1990-91 was 3,963. The SEC averaged 11,585.

2. Mississippi, with an average of 3,949, was the Southeast Conference’s poorest draw in basketball in 1990-’91. Texas Tech (2,465), TCU (3,868), SMU (2,938), Rice (2,873) and Houston (3,387) all had lower attendance averages.

3. Average attendance at Southwest Conference football games in 1990 was 39,382. The SEC averaged 63,870.

4. Southwest Conference teams were forced to play a limited football schedule for two seasons because one conference member, SMU, was given the “death penalty” by the NCAA; no SEC school has ever drawn the “death penalty.”

5. The Cotton Bowl is played in an open-air stadium, often in some of the most brutal weather Texas has to offer on New Year’s Day; the Sugar Bowl, played in the New Orleans SuperDome, is never threatened by the weather.

6. Southeast Conference football games are broadcast nationally over the Turner Broadcasting System cable network. SWC games are broadcast throughout Texas on something known as the “Raycom Sports Network.”

7. Arkansas will never have to face Southwest Conference officials when playing a Southeastern Conference game.

8. Texas A&M, a school full of traditions, features an all-male corps of cheerleaders.

9. There is no horror movie titled “The Tennessee Chainsaw Massacre”

10. Few natives from any Southeastern Conference state answer to the name of “Tex.”

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.

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

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 a team at Ford led by Lee Iacocca, who later gained fame as the man who saved Chrysler.

Purchasing a brand new Mustang off the showroom floor in 1964-65 would set you back $2,400, according to cars.com. Today, those antique vehicles bring from $16,000 for the coupe to $33,000 for the fastback model.

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.

Anyway, the Mustang was beloved by my dad and so many others because it had a long nose, short rear end and distinctive grill and tail lights. Eventually, it came in a 2-door coupe, convertible and the incredibly popular fast-back.

I’m writing about the Mustang because my 5 year-old grandson, Solomon, and I discovered a show on the Roku channel called “Counting Cars,” which follows a shop in Las Vegas that rehabs older vehicles and turns them into showpieces.

We streamed an episode this morning in which the shop refurbished a ’65 Mustang and turned it into a perfect candy apple-red rendition of how it must have looked on the showroom floor in 1965. Solomon could not get enough, running through the house to get his grandmother to come in and see the beautiful car.

So, two Mustang stories.

When I was a senior in high school, I lived with my aunt and uncle in Fort Smith, Ark. My aunt Dee drove a black ’65 Mustang and was so in love with the car that she told everyone she would never drive another. Its compact size made it easy for her to maneuver on the road.

Fast forward to roughly 1980, when I was a young sports reporter at the Southwest Times Record, which had its offices and newsroom in downtown Fort Smith.

One day, as I stepped out of the building onto the sidewalk, my uncle, L.R. Mendenhall, drove up and parked Aunt Dee’s Mustang right outside the SWTR’s door along Rogers Ave.

At virtually the same moment, Leroy Fry, who was the newspaper’s managing editor, walked out of the building and spotted the Mustang. I introduced my Uncle “Blue Eyes” (as he was known to our family) to Leroy. The editor told him that he had to have that Mustang and how much would my uncle sell it to him for.

“It’s not for sale,” Blue Eyes told him. “It’s my wife’s car and she says it’s the only one she will ever drive.”

End of story.

That black Mustang was my Aunt Dee’s ride or die, and I’m pretty sure when she died in roughly 2000 that the car was still in her family’s possession.

My second Mustang story involved the 1967 Mustang my dad bought while on Okinawa. He was in the Army, so our whole family lived on the island. This was in 1968 when I was 15 years old.

Dad loved his Mustang, which was painted in a sort of burnt-orange color, and drove it every day to work. He was a hot GI in a hot vehicle.

I wanted to drive it, too, and begged him to let me get behind the wheel. So one weekend he asked the son of a family friend who was about 19 years old to drive me and the Mustang to an abandoned Japanese airstrip where I could drive it and stay out of harm’s way.

I remember driving back and forth on the airstrip multiple times and getting a feel for the car. Then we decided to head back to the military base where our families lived. I moved over to the passenger side, and the older kid (can’t think of his name now) took the wheel.

We drove off the airstrip and back onto the rural two-lane road that was adjacent to a field of sugar cane. My young driving instructor said, “let’s see what this car can do,” and gunned it.

I’m not sure how fast the car was traveling, but we roared down that rural road until my driver suddenly realized there was a 90-degree turn at the end and started screaming that we weren’t going to make it.

We didn’t.

The car flew off the end of the road at the hairpin curve, hit hard in the sugar cane field and landed on its side. Neither one of us had buckled our seatbelt (hey, this was the ’60s), but we were mostly uninjured. My friend cut his hand on the steering wheel when the padding came off.

We climbed out of the driver’s side, which was facing the sky and then tried to figure out how to contact our parents in this era before the cellphone was a gleam in anyone’s eye.

There was a military installation about a half mile away, so we walked to it, told the guards at the security gate what happened, and they let us call our parents. Of course, we told them exactly how it happened.

The car looked OK to me, but had to be towed to a shop somewhere on the island. Turns out the frame was bent and the insurance company declared it a total loss.

My dad was heartbroken, of course. But the fact that we were unhurt took some of the steam out.

He never owned another Mustang.

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.

We both graduated in 1971 from Southside High School in Fort Smith, Ark. I was astounded by how much he still resembled his youthful high school self, despite now being 70 years old.

I have not aged as gracefully.

Turns out, my friend, whom I will call “Will,” was driving from New Mexico to Fort Smith to visit our home town for a few days. So, he contacted me to see if I would be up for a reunion as he passed through.

Would I? Of course!

We spent a wonderful hour and a half at a back booth catching up on our lives, families and reminiscing about days long past.

The real story is how Will found me. He told me he stumbled across this blog as he was searching for some high school classmates he had not seen in years. After reading a few BlogOKC posts, he decided to reach out, although he has no social media presence at all.

So his wife looked me up and discovered my Twitter profile. She sent me a direct message asking if I would be interested in meeting Will when he was passing through OKC.

I’ve thought of Will often over the years. He was from a well established Fort Smith family and had gone to public schools there since first grade. I moved into the school district my sophomore year only because my dad was in the Army and his military assignments took us as a family around the world. We came to Fort Smith when Dad went to Vietnam in 1969.

Being a ‘move-in’ with no local history in an old Southern town like Fort Smith was a big challenge for me. Making friends, eating lunch in the cafeteria, having a social life after school.

For some reason, Will sort of took me in. We played basketball on his driveway and connected in classes. As I recall, he was a member of the National Honor Society, wrote a column for the student newspaper and was on the Student Council, among many other school activities.

By contrast, I was sort of the Invisible Man at Southside. I had only heard of the National Honor Society, but had a secret dream to become a newspaper reporter some day. So, we had that in common.

Anyway, Will showed kindness and attention to me. After high school, he went on to college, eventually earning a master’s degree, moving to a distant state and working for social change.

I wandered aimlessly for a few years before gaining some direction by attending Abilene Christian University and earning a journalism degree. My secret dream actually came true.

Since I have never attended a single high school class reunion, I lost touch with Will along with the rest of my senior classmates.

Then he called.

There’s a lot of space to fill and life to live in 52 years. But reconnecting with my old classmate was the feel good event of the summer for me.

So good to see you, Will.

The teacher who nurtured a high school dreamer

TO editing — In a 1971 yearbook photo, Tom Oliver is shown editing students’ work as yearbook/newspaper advisor

As do a lot of communities around the country, someone from my hometown maintains a Facebook group called “If You Ever Lived in Fort Smith, Arkansas.”

I’m not on the Group’s page often, but it’s fun to occasionally scroll through and see what people are talking about.

Certain topics dominate the Fort Smith page: Dragging Grand Ave. in the ’70s … Enjoying a giant Worldburger of the past … and remembering stores like Hunt’s and The Boston Store that were once shopping mainstays.

About five years ago, a fellow Southside High School grad, Eddie Weller, posted about favorite Fort Smith teachers he recalled. Because I’m an Army brat, I only attended school in Fort Smith for three years.

But there was one teacher that certainly had an impact on my future. His name was Tom Oliver.

Mr. Oliver taught Journalism at Southside. I took Mr. Oliver’s class as a senior because I had a far-fetched dream of some day being a newspaper reporter.

So, I posted on the Facebook Group about Mr. Oliver being a memorable teacher, and it was like a call-and-response for a conversation that began five years ago and continues to stir memories today.

Here are some selected memories of Tom Oliver by his former students (Mr. Oliver died in the early 1990s, so it’s too bad he’s no longer around to read what his former students say.).

My original comment:

“My journalism teacher at Southside, Tom Oliver. Showed a lot of patience to a wanna be who had few skills in HS. I ended up making a career out of newspapers, so thanks to Mr. Oliver for encouraging me.”

Response from Eddie Weller:

“TO” as we called Mr. Oliver (but not to his face . . . ) … He did have patience. I remember senior year we rotated a column among the editorial board. I wrote a semi-funny one (tried to be humorous) for my first try. I used a phrase to get a chuckle that he asked me if I should use. He let me decide. He explained he was not sure my parents, for instance, would understand why I used the phrase. That was thoughtful on his part as a teacher. It made me really think — even a small phrase could make or break a mood you were trying to set. And “Ye Olde Pub” (the publications/journalism room for the uninitiated) was always a great place to be. He gave great freedom to the newspaper staff, yet knew when to reel it in. Truly an amazing teacher!”

From Sandra Curtis Kaundart:

“Tom Oliver, my mentor, was the greatest teacher ever!
… I majored in journalism because of him, worked at a couple of small papers, later did my practice teaching with him, and ended up teaching journalism and English for 31 years.”

From Scott Carty:

“Tom Oliver was one of my heroes. i found one of his old yearbook pictures in the storage room and put mirror-headed thumbtacks thru his eyes and labeled it EltonTom. Made him smile.”

From Jim Morris:

“I had too much fun in his class. Just ask Scott Carty”

From David Yarbrough:
“Tom Oliver didn’t do a lot of chalkboard teaching. He picked leaders (editors) and let those students fill their roles assigning stories and photos. He let them do the editing and design of the paper. Only occasionally did he make a quite suggestion. In the real world, you could compare him to a hand-off publisher who trusted his staff. He also encouraged students to explore all kinds of arts and studies. He took staffers to state and national conferences to open horizons.”

My own story isn’t anything spectacular. The student newspaper had a regular “Newsmakers” column of one-paragraph stories (emulating, I believe, a popular Page 1A “In the News” feature in the Arkansas Gazette), and I was assigned to write a Newsmaker item for each issue of the paper.

Did I tell you that I was terrible as a cub reporter? That one-paragraph Newsmaker assignment might as well have been a 10-page term paper.

But I managed to scrape something together for each edition, and Mr. Oliver gently edited my effort. Like all of my favorite teachers and professors over the years, he showed tremendous patience with me.

I remember Tom Oliver as being fairly young at the time and in tune with popular culture. His was a class that I looked forward to attending every single day. Similar to my favorite college professor, who also taught journalism.

I can’t tell you exactly what clicked for me, except perhaps the camaraderie of being around others that had an interest in journalism. Oh, and the thrill of seeing something you wrote in print.

In a touch of irony, years later, I served as Sports Editor of the Southwest Times Record in Fort Smith. Mr. Oliver worked part time for me on the Sport Desk on Friday nights during football season, helping us gather scores and write short summaries.

Mr. Oliver actually remembered me from my not-so-memorable one-year stint in his high school journalism class. He told me he was surprised that I pursued a newspaper career because he wasn’t sure that I had the interest as a student.

I guess my candle didn’t burn too brightly in high school. But I did have a dream.

Thank you, Tom Oliver, for being an encouraging teacher and not steering me away from the far-fetched dream of the 17-year-old me.

Tom Oliver yearbook — Tom Oliver’s (second from left) 1971 Southside High School yearbook photo

Saving Christmas, 1983 version

As I looked out over the frozen tundra that was northwest OKC at 5 degrees this morning, I thought of another holiday season that was disrupted by bitter weather.

Back in 1983, I had just moved to Oklahoma City to work at The Daily Oklahoman newspaper. My folks lived in Fort Smith, Ark., roughly 200 miles to the east.

Anyway, as the newbie on the Sports staff at the paper, I would only get Christmas off if the holiday fell on my normal day off.

It did not, which meant that I had to drive over to Fort Smith a few days before the holiday to celebrate with my family, then drive back to work Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

As I was preparing to leave town on roughly Dec. 18 or Dec. 19 (the dates are hazy now), a massive outbreak of Polar air settled over Oklahoma and brought sleet and snow with it.

The Polar air covered much of the continental U.S., and I recall stories about frozen underground water mains bursting as far south as Houston. Here’s a good read from the Farmers’ Almanac about the Christmas storm of 1983.

It was apparent the roads were going to be awful, so I even checked the bus schedule to Fort Smith. I called the bus station and they told me that all bus departures were canceled.

OKC temps 1983 So, I called my dad and asked him what he thought.

“Come on over,” he said. “It can’t be that bad.”

It was.

I managed to make it with no trouble to Henryetta, OK. But about 5 miles east of there, as I was climbing a fairly steep hill, my car began to fishtail and swung around 90 degrees. It went off I-40 backwards and into a snow-filled ditch.

Oh, great. These were days before we could even conceive of having a phone in our cars. How was I going to contact anyone?

As I walked up the steep shoulder to the road, a young man in a Camaro pulled over and asked if he could help. I asked him if he would call a wrecker in the next town.

He looked down at my car in the ditch and said, “I think you can drive out of this. The ditch flattens out at the bottom of the hill and you should be able to drive onto the highway. I’ll wait until I see if you can get out.”

I got back in my car, eased down the hill, made it to the flat part, and, like magic, drove right back onto the highway.

I never got to thank the Good Samaritan.

But the road was so ice covered that I drove no faster than 30 mph the remaining 85 miles to Fort Smith.

So, my trip took hours longer than expected. My parents were greatly relieved when I finally pulled up, but I was angry at my dad because he urged me to make the challenging drive.

A better mood took over, and we celebrated the holidays as a family.

There was still plenty of ice and snow to negotiate on the trip back to OKC, but I made sure I kept it on the road this time. I arrived safely back into town and made it to work my holiday shifts on time.

So, thank you, Mr. Good Samaritan, for saving Christmas in 1983.

The press credential: A story

Weldon ticket — Ticket printed in Fort Smith, Ark., to 1934 college football game

My friend Mike Burrows in Denver finds and sends out all sorts of sport-related photos and news stories he comes across.

Mike and I worked together at the Southwest Times Record in Fort Smith back in the late ’70s. Today, he is retired from the Denver Post, and I’m retired from The Oklahoman.

Anyway, this morning Mike sent out a photo of a ticket to an Alabama-Mississippi State football game from back in 1934. What caught my eye was the name of the Fort Smith company that printed the ticket, which was in small type at the very bottom.

The ticket and the name of the printing company brought back a vivid memory from my SWTR days.

One day in roughly 1982, the paper’s editor, Jack Moseley, abruptly called me into his office and shut the door behind me. I was the paper’s Sports Editor at the time.

“Did you give someone a press credential to a recent baseball game in Houston between the Astros and St. Louis Cardinals?” he asked.

Why, no I didn’t. Why?

Turns out that someone with a press credential from the SWTR showed up in the press box and disrupted a radio broadcast at the Cardinals-Astros game in the Astrodome.

Apparently, the SWTR “reporter” helped himself to the free beer served to reporters. And overindulged, to be nice.

Then he decided he wanted to meet Cardinals announcers Jack Buck and Mike Shannon.

So, he wandered around the press box level until he found a door that led into the radio booth from which the St. Louis announcers were calling the game.

The “reporter” burst into the room unannounced and caused a commotion. During the game. While Buck and Shannon were attempting to call it.

Needless to say, security was called and the guy was escorted out of the stadium. Astros officials called Moseley demanding to know why he sent this guy to cover the game.

That’s when Moseley summoned me into his office.

Since neither of us knew what happened, an investigation began and soon revealed the SWTR “reporter” actually worked at the Fort Smith firm that printed the press credential. He merely added his own (real) name on the credential and showed up at the Astrodome.

Comedy ensued, I suppose.

It’s a funny story today, but there was nothing funny to me about this cringeworthy story 40 years ago.