The Summer of 1972
I was just thirteen years old, and it was the end of what had been a fairytale childhood. Everything was changing. I was growing into adolescence, my sister was getting married at the end of summer, and Dad was frolicking with an old high school flame.
We lived on the outskirts of a small, sleepy resort town in northeastern Oklahoma. I spent my summer break fishing, exploring the woods around our house, and playing with a neighborhood kid that I found somewhat annoying. Every time I suggested something for us to do, he had to get permission from his “mommy.” People thought my Mother was overprotective, but I never had to get permission to play catch in the front yard. He did. Usually I just yelled in the front door, “Mom, I’m going for a bike ride with Gary.” She would yell back for me to be home by supper. He had to go ask his mother, who would then ask exactly where we were going, how long we would be gone, and what we planned to do. When I diverted from the filed and approved travel plan, he complained. This was the era before helicopter parenting was the norm.
I somehow adopted my Dad’s entrepreneurial spirit. I had the bright idea one day early in the summer that I could make a lot of money mowing neighborhood lawns. Ours was an isolated neighborhood occupied by mostly older and retired people. Gary’s family was the only family with children. I noticed one day an older neighbor huffing behind his lawn mower. That night I asked Dad to “give” me the money to buy a lawn mower. He smiled, “I won’t ‘give’ you the money, but I’ll loan you the money, which you can pay back by mowing our lawn for the rest of the summer. You have to be responsible for gas, oil, and maintenance.”
I was convinced I was about to become the next Andrew Carnegie. Oklahoma summers are hot, hellishly hot, and our neighborhood was built on a hillside overlooking Grand Lake, one of Oklahoma’s many reservoirs. The terrain was rocky and uneven. The neighbors were happy to hand over their lawn care to me. After a few weeks I understood why. By the end of summer my new lawn mower was scrap, and I had used every cent of profit keeping it operational. The only thing I had gained was a keen understanding of the concept of hard work.
When I wasn’t mowing lawns or playing with Gary, I rode my bike around the neighborhood and extended countryside handing out McGovern for President flyers. I had no love for President Nixon. One night Dad asked me why I supported McGovern. I explained that I was, at the young age of thirteen, convinced that Nixon was a liar and a scoundrel. Like many young people, I thought the Vietnam War was wrong and should come to an end. I agreed with McGovern’s support for the Equal Rights Amendment and most of everything else he advocated. Dad asked me how I came to these convictions, and I explained that I had listened to the news, read newspaper articles, and read McGovern’s platform statements. Dad smiled and said, “I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t made this decision without thinking it through. Don’t ever let anyone tell you how to think.”
Aside from the old high school sweetheart, Dad had other secrets. Our house sat on a slope that went down to an inlet on Grand Lake. One day my sister noticed two men in a bass boat fishing just off our shore. She commented that she had seen these same men fishing out there every day for the past week. Mom said, “I suppose they just found a nice fishing spot. Let’s go to Tulsa today to look at wedding gowns.”
I began to notice those same two men fishing at the same spot every day. Sometimes I fished on the shore and even waved at them. Occasionally they waved back, but usually stayed rather aloof. I didn’t pay much more attention to them. Many years later Dad told us who they were and why they were there. They were F. B. I. agents, and they had been there to protect us.
Dad was the general manager of the largest resort in the region. It had two championship golf courses, several restaurants, a marina, airport, condos, and all the amenities people would expect from such a place. It was a sprawling complex and had room and plans to grow. This was in the era long before Indian casinos, and gambling was taboo throughout most of the country.
The mob in Kansas City, which was less than two hundred miles away, thought Grand Lake was a prime location for operational expansion. In their due diligence they bought several local politicians and some law enforcement. They set up a small gambling operation in town, probably as a trial operation to see if they could get away with it.
When the mobsters were sure enough of themselves, they approached Dad. They scheduled a meeting with him to “suggest” that he allow gambling and prostitution operations at the resort. Dad’s immediate reaction was to contact an old friend at the F. B. I. Dad always had “old friends” like that when he needed a favor. The favor this time was to keep the mob out of his resort and to kick them out of northeastern Oklahoma. Dad wore a wire for his next several meetings with mob representatives. The end result was the arrest and conviction of several politicians and the ultimate expulsion of the mob from our little corner of Oklahoma.
By the end of summer the men in the fishing boat were gone. My sister’s wedding took place in August, and shortly thereafter Dad moved out to pursue a relationship with his tramp. Everything changed, and at some point along the way I had found the need to begin scraping fuzz off my cheek with a sharp piece of steel.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
We lived on the outskirts of a small, sleepy resort town in northeastern Oklahoma. I spent my summer break fishing, exploring the woods around our house, and playing with a neighborhood kid that I found somewhat annoying. Every time I suggested something for us to do, he had to get permission from his “mommy.” People thought my Mother was overprotective, but I never had to get permission to play catch in the front yard. He did. Usually I just yelled in the front door, “Mom, I’m going for a bike ride with Gary.” She would yell back for me to be home by supper. He had to go ask his mother, who would then ask exactly where we were going, how long we would be gone, and what we planned to do. When I diverted from the filed and approved travel plan, he complained. This was the era before helicopter parenting was the norm.
I somehow adopted my Dad’s entrepreneurial spirit. I had the bright idea one day early in the summer that I could make a lot of money mowing neighborhood lawns. Ours was an isolated neighborhood occupied by mostly older and retired people. Gary’s family was the only family with children. I noticed one day an older neighbor huffing behind his lawn mower. That night I asked Dad to “give” me the money to buy a lawn mower. He smiled, “I won’t ‘give’ you the money, but I’ll loan you the money, which you can pay back by mowing our lawn for the rest of the summer. You have to be responsible for gas, oil, and maintenance.”
I was convinced I was about to become the next Andrew Carnegie. Oklahoma summers are hot, hellishly hot, and our neighborhood was built on a hillside overlooking Grand Lake, one of Oklahoma’s many reservoirs. The terrain was rocky and uneven. The neighbors were happy to hand over their lawn care to me. After a few weeks I understood why. By the end of summer my new lawn mower was scrap, and I had used every cent of profit keeping it operational. The only thing I had gained was a keen understanding of the concept of hard work.
When I wasn’t mowing lawns or playing with Gary, I rode my bike around the neighborhood and extended countryside handing out McGovern for President flyers. I had no love for President Nixon. One night Dad asked me why I supported McGovern. I explained that I was, at the young age of thirteen, convinced that Nixon was a liar and a scoundrel. Like many young people, I thought the Vietnam War was wrong and should come to an end. I agreed with McGovern’s support for the Equal Rights Amendment and most of everything else he advocated. Dad asked me how I came to these convictions, and I explained that I had listened to the news, read newspaper articles, and read McGovern’s platform statements. Dad smiled and said, “I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t made this decision without thinking it through. Don’t ever let anyone tell you how to think.”
Aside from the old high school sweetheart, Dad had other secrets. Our house sat on a slope that went down to an inlet on Grand Lake. One day my sister noticed two men in a bass boat fishing just off our shore. She commented that she had seen these same men fishing out there every day for the past week. Mom said, “I suppose they just found a nice fishing spot. Let’s go to Tulsa today to look at wedding gowns.”
I began to notice those same two men fishing at the same spot every day. Sometimes I fished on the shore and even waved at them. Occasionally they waved back, but usually stayed rather aloof. I didn’t pay much more attention to them. Many years later Dad told us who they were and why they were there. They were F. B. I. agents, and they had been there to protect us.
Dad was the general manager of the largest resort in the region. It had two championship golf courses, several restaurants, a marina, airport, condos, and all the amenities people would expect from such a place. It was a sprawling complex and had room and plans to grow. This was in the era long before Indian casinos, and gambling was taboo throughout most of the country.
The mob in Kansas City, which was less than two hundred miles away, thought Grand Lake was a prime location for operational expansion. In their due diligence they bought several local politicians and some law enforcement. They set up a small gambling operation in town, probably as a trial operation to see if they could get away with it.
When the mobsters were sure enough of themselves, they approached Dad. They scheduled a meeting with him to “suggest” that he allow gambling and prostitution operations at the resort. Dad’s immediate reaction was to contact an old friend at the F. B. I. Dad always had “old friends” like that when he needed a favor. The favor this time was to keep the mob out of his resort and to kick them out of northeastern Oklahoma. Dad wore a wire for his next several meetings with mob representatives. The end result was the arrest and conviction of several politicians and the ultimate expulsion of the mob from our little corner of Oklahoma.
By the end of summer the men in the fishing boat were gone. My sister’s wedding took place in August, and shortly thereafter Dad moved out to pursue a relationship with his tramp. Everything changed, and at some point along the way I had found the need to begin scraping fuzz off my cheek with a sharp piece of steel.
https://www.bluewatertales.com
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