The Question of Santa

by Phil Truman

Doing a little departure from my usual post for the sake of the season's spirit. Hope you enjoy this small Christmas tarry.

Last month I introduced you to White Oxley, a minor character from two of my novels, and possibly one of my alter egos. He's back here again this month.

White is an old codger who has taken on life as best he can. Sometimes it's joyful, sometimes it's painful, most times it's a puzzle. But, like a lot of American heartlanders, he has the strength of character to get through whatever comes his way. His priorities have always been God, family, country.

Now in his elder years, White considers it his mission to pass on the values he has gained to the generations after him. Here's one such episode:


"Is Santa real, Gramp?"

The boy's gramp, White Oxley, drove on quietly for a few seconds, trying to decide what tack to take with this question. It was one of those a child asks whose answer would become a defining moment in that young life. Most parents preferred to put off answering such questions. White could think of three: Is Santa real? Is the Tooth Fairy real? and What is sex? White had to be careful how he answered.

They were headed over to Tulsa. Jakey had spent the night with them out at the farm, as was his habit on Fridays. The boy's grandmother needed to do some Christmas shopping, so they'd all piled into the pickup to make a day of it.

"Why you asking a question like that?" It was a stall tactic. White looked over at his wife in a silent plea for help. She smiled and winked, but said nothing. She always did this to him, taking delight in letting him dig a big hole before she came to pull him out.

"Sammy Botts told us Santa's all fake," Jakey answered. "That grown-ups made him up. That parents are the ones who put presents under the tree on Christmas Eve."

Jakey was in the first grade, the toughest of all school years: the start of reading and writing, math, homework, and no front teeth. Also, some know-it-all older kid usually came around to break the news about Santa and such to the last of the innocents.

"Edie Jean started crying when Sammy said that," the boy continued. "And started pounding on him, until Miss Birney stopped her."

"Well now, why'd Edie Jean do that?" White asked, still hoping to divert the subject.

"She said she asked Santa to give her daddy a ride home on Christmas Eve. He's in the Army fighting bad guys somewhere far off," Jakey spoke it as a matter-of-fact.

"Well…" White said. He sighed and looked to his wife again, but she'd turned her face toward the

window, studying the passing countryside. White figured she was thinking about her brother Ben and that sad and empty Christmas back in '68.

"Is he, Gramp?" the boy implored again.

"What do you think, son?" White asked.

"I think he's real," Jakey said, nodding.

"Well, there you go," his gramp said. "As long as that's what you believe, then he is. Believin' is a powerful thing."

White glanced over at the boy. Jakey looked thoughtful, so White continued.

"Sammy Botts just ain't got all his facts. Parents do put some of them presents out on Christmas Eve, but that's only because Santa asks folks to help out. You see, there's a whole lot more kids nowadays compared to when I was a kid. It's just more easier for Santa to get it all did that way before Christmas morning.

"So you tell Sammy he's got it wrong. That if he was to believe Santa's out there, like you, then by damn, he'd be out there; if he don't, he won't.

"White!" his wife said with that admonishing tone she used when he swore.

White went on. "Seems to me, though, life'd be a whole lot more fun if you was to believe in Santa Claus."

"Yeah," Jakey said starting to smile.

"One more thing," White said. "Monday morning I want you to go up to Edie Jean, and tell her this. Tell her it come from your gramp who happens to know Santa personally.

"You tell her that Santa will try his da…his goldurned best to pick up her daddy and bring him home, but that it ain't entirely up to Santa. You see, a soldier ain't likely to leave his buddies behind if they need his help. Could be her daddy won't be able to make that rendezvous with Santa. But if he don't, it won't be because he don't love his baby girl. No sir, jist the opposite. He loves her so dang much he's willing to stay over there to take care of those bad guys so's to keep her safe back home; to make sure she has a happy and peaceful Christmas.

"You tell Edie Jean, she needs to believe, too, and that the day is comin' when her daddy will be home."

"Okay," the boy said. 

White wheeled the pickup into the mall parking lot. "You think Santa is still here?" Jakey asked. "'Cause I want to go see him again."

"Why, I believe he is," his gramp answered.

White looked at his wife and winked. She touched a tissue to her eye and blew him a kiss.

You can read more about White Oxley in Phil's novel GAME, an American Novel, an Amazon #1 best-seller in sports fiction. White also plays a part in Phil's other best-selling novel  Legends of Tsalagee, a rollicking tale of mystery and adventure in a small town. Truman's third novel, Red Lands Outlaw, the Ballad of Henry Starr, is an award-winning historical western about the life and times of an Oklahoma outlaw.  His western short story “Last Will for an Outlaw” appears in LaFrontera Publishing’s anthology, Dead or Alive, released June 2013.

Phil's website is http://philtrumanink.com/ 
   

Tyson the Cowardly Chicken

I'm taking a slight departure the next couple months from my usual posts; a swing into something just for fun, sumpin easy-going heading into the holidays; hoping for a few smiles, maybe a chuckle or two. Figure we all could use a little of that. 

Thought I'd share some vignettes from the life of White Oxley, a minor character in two of my novels. In this post, because the topic deals with a chicken, not a turkey, we'll say it has a pre-Thanksgiving flavor, so to speak.

Let me tell you a little about White. He's country AND western, laying claim to both titles as a farmer and small-time rancher, and by virtue of having lived his entire 68 years in Oklahoma. For the past fifty years, he has owned and worked a few acres of land near the small town of Tsalagee where he grows mainly soybeans and corn, and runs a few head of cattle. And, of course, he has the requisite yard of chickens.

White doesn't have much formal education, but does own an innate, resident wisdom born from a lifetime of hard work, hard times, and life experiences both sublime and tragic. Like all of us, White struggles with life and all its confounding vagaries, but the best thing about him is that he never takes himself too seriously.

I've always liked White, maybe because I see a little more of myself in him than I care to admit, excluding the wise part. Here's one of his stories:

White Oxley had purchased the rooster at a discount.

"Well, there is one I can let go for half price," the chicken fella said.

He'd made the trip to the Siloam Springs hatchery to find a replacement for his main rooster who'd fallen victim to a coyote. White hadn't been surprised after it happened. The old boy was past ten and apparently didn't see very well. He'd guessed the cock mistook the coyote for one of his dogs. Most likely Stumpy, who had somewhat of a coyote appearance, and liked to wander around the chicken yard looking for misplaced or un-attended eggs.

Unfortunately, King George–that was the departed rooster's name–had come to tolerate Stumpy, probably because his repeated floggings of the dog didn't seem to deter the mutt's trespassing; and with the rooster's advancing years, apparently keeping up the chicken yard marshaling came to be more trouble than it was worth.

Funny, though, that old George couldn't tell the difference between a coyote and Stumpy, as the dog had only three and a half legs, and moved about with a pronounced hop. On the other hand, chickens weren't known for their intelligence.

There was a young cockerel in White's flock, but he wasn't quite up to speed for taking on the responsibilities of Head Rooster, hence White made the buying trip to Arkansas.

Oxley eyed the chicken man suspiciously. He'd told him coming in he didn't want no dang high dollar rooster, and had turned down the first two prospects. "Why half price?" White asked.

The fowl in question didn't look like a half-price rooster. He sported a high comb and long bright red wattles. Head and neck feathers shined a reddish-golden; his body and leg feathers glinted in mottled blue and rust and green; those off his back flowed from burgundy to red to orange; his tail feathers sprung high in black and blue-green arches. He was sure enough a handsome bird, and seemed to know it; strutting about the large cage, his head high, his beak slightly opened, his red eyes wide and fierce.

"He ain't much of a crower," the chicken seller said. "Sounds sorta like a tornado siren with laryngitis."

White nodded. "What else?" he asked.

The man sighed and crossed his arms on his chest trying to decide the best way to say it. "There's some signs that this feller ain't very aggressive, you know, with the ladies."

"Whadda you mean?"

 "I mean he has a tendency to get henpecked."

White took off his crumpled straw hat and scratched the top of his head. He studied the rooster in silence. "Well…" he said presently. "For the price I reckon I can live with that."

"Great!" the man said. "I'll go write him up." And hurried off toward his office.

After the fella got out of earshot, White turned to the caged rooster and muttered, "Henpecked, huh? Guess I know how that feels."

Back at the farm, White was about to release the new rooster into the chicken yard when his grandson came running up. The boy was smart like his momma and ornery like his gramp. That made him White's favorite.

"Hey, Gramp," the boy said excitedly. "Who's this?" He jumped up onto the pickup's lowered tailgate peering into the cage.

"Ain't give him a name yet. Thought you might have one."

"Let's call him Tyson."

"Like the fighter?" White asked.

"Who?"

"You know, the boxer," White answered. The boy gave his gramp a puzzled look. "Before your time, I guess," said White.

"No, I meant like the chicken brand mom buys at the store."

White grinned and nodded. "Seems about right." He opened the cage door and prodded the rooster out. "Welcome to your new harem, Tyson."

The rooster alit with some squawking, gathered himself, ruffled his feathers out some, did a little preening, then looked about. The group of hens gathered across the yard looking back at Tyson, muttering amongst themselves. The rooster raised his head high, puffed out his breast and strutted toward them.

A fat old hen, white with brown neck feathers who they called Maybelline, walked out from the group and stopped in front of Tyson, cocking her head left, then right. The rooster threw back his head to crow, but only a scratchy screech came out. He stuck out his left wing, lowered his head and started waltzing in a circle in front of the hen, then put the right wing out and circled back, describing a figure eight. The big hen watched him for several seconds clucking a few comments during the dance. In the middle of Tyson's third circuit, Maybelline walked over and pecked him soundly on top of his head. Tyson squawked moving back a step or two, then turned and fled to a far corner of the yard, flapping atop a fence post.

"How much you pay for that rooster, Gramp?" the boy asked.

At Sunday dinner the next day , White would reflect that, though tasty, Tyson was the most expensive fried chicken he'd ever et, even at half price.

You can read more about White Oxley in Phil's novel Legends of Tsalagee. He has authored three of what he calls, “Oklahoma-centric” novels.  Red Lands Outlaw, the Ballad of Henry Starr,  a historical western about the life and times of an Oklahoma outlaw, was a 2013 Peacemaker Award nominee and finalist for the 2013 Will Rogers Medallion for Western Fiction. His novel GAME, an American Novel is a sports inspirational about small town schoolboy football. Legends of Tsalagee weaves a tale of mystery and adventure in a small town. His western short story “Last Will for an Outlaw” appears in LaFrontera Publishing’s anthology, Dead or Alive, released June 2013.

Phil's website is http://philtrumanink.com/ 
   

Starrs in The Nations

Two questions seem to regularly come up about my novel Red Lands Outlaw, the Ballad of Henry Starr: How did I come to write about Henry Starr? Was he related to Belle Starr?

Henry Starr, 1919

The answers to both questions go back to the writing of my second novel Legends of Tsalagee, a mystery/adventure set in present day Oklahoma. The story revolves around the hunt for the Lost Treasure of Belle Starr, something I thought I’d invented. But when I started reading up on Belle for some of the back story, I discovered there actually is a legend about the outlaw stashing loot in a cave somewhere in eastern Oklahoma. So far as I know, that treasure hasn’t been found.

My Belle Starr research also led me, coincidentally, to Henry who was an accomplished and notorious Oklahoma outlaw in his own right, both in the I.T. and early statehood years. Amicable to a fault, Henry never wanted to hurt anybody or trouble them much, as long as they didn’t interfere with his business at hand, which was mainly robbing banks. His exploits fascinated me, so I decided a novel about this handsome, charming, and good-natured bandit would be a fun project. In Legends of Tsalagee I put him in as a minor character.

Belle Starr, 1887

Belle and Henry weren’t related; not by blood, anyway.  The widow Belle Reed, the former Myra Maybelle Shirley from Missouri, married Sam Starr, a Cherokee bad man. One of Sam’s seven brothers was George “Hop” Starr, Henry’s father. It’s said Henry didn’t much care for Belle, and hotly denied any kinship. That’s not surprising as Belle Starr was not the glamorous "outlaw queen" the entertainment world would later design. She was mean, ruthless, and brutal; maybe even cold-blooded. Belle was murdered, shot in the back two days short of her 41^st birthday. The law never found her killer. My guess, it probably wasn’t a priority, although a long list of suspects existed, including her own son.

This excerpt is from Legends of Tsalagee. In the story Belle Starr’s son, Ed Reed, knew he’d be a prime suspect in his mother’s murder as he’d more than once publicly threatened to kill her. Paranoid with this knowledge, he’d split his ma’s stash of loot with his sister Pearl, and lit out with his half from the homestead at Younger’s Bend on the Canadian. He traveled northeast deep into the Cherokee Nation, I.T. Here, he comes face-to-face with young Henry Starr, a surly fourteen-year-old.

Ed heard the sound of a round being levered into the firing chamber of a Winchester, but the late afternoon sun came from the same direction, so he couldn’t see who held the rifle. He pulled up on his reins and lifted his left hand. His right hand slid cautiously toward the holstered Colt at his waist.

“Name’s Ed Reed,” he said loudly into the glaring sun. “I come up from around Eufaula looking for some of my ma’s kin.” 

Ed waited for several long seconds before he got a response.“Who’s your ma’s kin?” The voice sounded like that of a boy.

“She was married to Sam Starr. Her name is Belle Starr.”

More time slipped by in silence. Finally, the boy voice said, “Sam Starr was my uncle. I know who Belle Starr is, but she ain’t kin. She just married my uncle. I don’t like her much.”

“Well then, you’ll be happy to know she’s dead,” Ed said. “She was shot in the back and kilt yesterday. I had to hightail it out of there, because the sheriff is thinking I was the one who shot her.”

“Well, did ya?”

“Does it matter?” 

“Not to me, it don’t.” The boy walked around to the left side of Ed’s horse out of the sun’s glare. He pointed his rifle at Ed from about ten feet away. Ed took the boy to be about fourteen or fifteen.

“Your folks got a place around here?” Ed asked. He still kept his left hand in the air, and his right on his pistol handle. The boy didn’t say anything. He just kept his rifle leveled at Ed’s chest.

"’Cause I sure could use a hot meal. I been riding and pulling this mule since sunup. And I ain’t stopped to eat all day. My horse and mule could use a rest, too.” 

The silent stare continued from the boy. “Of course, I’d be willing to pay your folks for their trouble,” Ed added. He smiled trying to show he meant to be friendly.

“You got money?” the boy asked. 

The smile melted a little on Ed’s face and he moved his right hand back to grip his pistol. “Some,” he said. He was thinking he could slide off his horse to his right, draw his pistol, and fire at the boy under the horse’s neck. His horse might take a slug, but under the circumstances, it was his best chance. He was seconds away from putting that plan into action, when a man’s voice came from the trees.

“Henry!”

 Phil Truman has authored three of what he calls, “Oklahoma-centric” novels. His first, GAME, an American Novel is a sports inspirational about the intensity and weightiness of schoolboy football. Legends of Tsalagee weaves a tale of mystery, adventure, and romance in a small town. A #1 Bestselling Western on Amazon, Red Lands Outlaw, the Ballad of Henry Starr is Phil’s first foray into the western genre in this historical novel about the life and times of an Oklahoma outlaw. He has won numerous awards for his short fiction, and his western short story “Last Will for an Outlaw” will appear in LaFrontera’s anthology, Dead or Alive, due to be released June 2013.

Phil’s website is: http://philtrumanink.com/