I was a new kid in 5th grade at Patrick Henry. This would have been 1966.
Graffiti as an art was in its infancy back then. Some nameless miscreant tagged the short brick wall around the school’s traffic oval with a single word in black spray paint.
“Bosom.”
Perhaps the most wholesome graffiti ever. Chaste, even.
For some reason the my Dad thought the graffiti was funny. For the next 30 years, he would call the school “Patrick Bosom” as often as not.
Silly Facebook deleted Clint’s post — twice! He sent emails to everyone, but in case you haven’t seen the photo booth pics, follow the link below. ProTip: If you zoom in, you can read many of the name tags.
What to say about my old friend Wyatt?
Wyatt hated Facebook, so I’m not posting this there. He would be horrified at the teardrop emojis and the praying hands. He recoiled at being the center of so much attention.
Wyatt was the middle son of Dr. Carl and Maggie Morgan. Dr. Morgan was “the Dean of Tulsa’s anesthesiologists” as we used to wisecrack, but it was really no joke. The Morgan boys had wonderful, loving parents. Wyatt once told me that when he was a toddler he wore leg braces for some affliction; Maggie exercised his little legs endlessly. As a teenager, Wyatt had tremendous jumping ability which translated into success in basketball and later in track as a hurdler. He was proud of the fact that his high school standard in the high hurdles stood for many years.
Wyatt majored in business at Oklahoma State, and later earned an MBA from the University of Tulsa. For several years he was a petroleum landman in Denver for Amerada Hess; he covered North Dakota for them long before the Bakken Shale became a thing. He tried selling insurance for a while before he moved on to selling cars.
Wyatt would sell cars at Lexus of Tulsa for the rest of his career. He was an effective salesman who could talk to anyone. He believed deeply in his product. He knew what his customers wanted and he treated them the way they expected to be treated. Early on, he sold a lot of Lexus cars (as he always called them) to WalMart executives in Bentonville, before there was a Lexus dealer in Northwest Arkansas. Wyatt would shuttle their cars to them because his buyers deserved that kind of service. Of course, he had many repeat customers from his contacts in the Tulsa community. That in turn led to many referral customers.
[Hmm. Service. That’s a theme.]
Wyatt once told me that his bosses complained that he did not sell enough used cars. Wyatt sold so many new Lexus cars that the trade-ins would accumulate on the lot and create a problem for the used car manager. A car dealership makes a lot of its money efficiently turning its used car inventory, but Wyatt’s passion was selling the best cars in the world to the best customers in the world.
Wyatt never married. He was a devoted son, and after Dr. Morgan died, Wyatt cared for Maggie. She lived through several years of declining health at the facility once known as Methodist Manor. Wyatt visited her several times a week. Maggie died on New Year’s Day 2023. Wyatt was unable to attend her funeral because of COVID. I’m sure it affected him deeply.
Wyatt would devote the remainder of his life to serving the homeless in the Tulsa community, both through his home church, Boston Avenue United Methodist Church, and Vernon AME Church on Tulsa’s northside. He’d pick up day old bread and pastries from Panera Bread, and uneaten pizzas from CiCi’s.
Wyatt was also a devoted friend to our friends Jeff and Scott, both of whom died way too soon. Even though his knees were killing him, Wyatt would make his way to their graves as often as he could to leave a pebble of remembrance on their and their parents’ graves.
Devotion. Service. Loyalty. Quite an example you set, buddy. Now rest in peace.
At Edison Junior High, our 7th grade Metals Shop teacher was Mr. Connor, a strict disciplinarian. At the end of the year, Mr. Connor was promoted to Dean of Boys, the primary job for administering corporal punishment to miscreants.
That fall, he was replaced by Mr. Whitaker, fresh out of Northeastern in Tahlequah. He taught five sections a day of Metals Shop. In 8th grade 29 other miscreants and I were assigned shop first period, so it was also our homeroom.
Mr. Whitaker had a terminal case of “don’t give a ****”.
Thirty 13-year-old boys were given free run of the shop, essentially a small-scale metal fabrication facility. Most of us had a year of metals and wood shop under our belts, where we were taught beginning level projects focusing on simple plans and safe tool use. By contrast, Mr. Whitaker’s style was “free form” — like a mashup of Montessori method on a shop floor. Mr. Whitaker told us our assignment was to build something — anything — of our own choice.
One kid, a notorious hoodlum, had the idea to craft a set of brass knuckles. Mr. Whitaker’s only question: Did he plan to bend them out of bar stock or cast them?
Another kid planned to turn a working mini-cannon on a lathe. Mr. Whitaker didn’t give a ****.
No consideration was given to economic use of materials. At the end of the nine weeks all the bar stock was twisted like pretzels.
Even less consideration was given to safety. Drill presses, lathes, hacksaws, cutting blades, a welding machine, soldering irons, and a blast furnace — what could possibly go wrong?
Six weeks in, all 8th graders were given a standardized test in their homeroom class. Mr. Whitaker refused to proctor it beyond insuring there was an adequate supply of No. 2 pencils. Let’s just say the test became a community project. Mr. Whitaker simply did not give a ****.
It would not be an exaggeration to say that of the 31 people in the classroom, Mr. Whitaker was not among the top 10 in maturity. Thirty of us were 8th grade boys, mind you.
First day of the second nine weeks, we had a new permanent teacher for Metals Shop. About that time our English teacher assigned a novel, Lord of the Flies. Suddenly our 8th grade Metals Shop experience started to make some sense.
We never heard from Mr. Whitaker again.
Everyone at Edison knew Coach Haney. He was the Head Coach of a successful basketball program, and as I recall he was an Assistant JV Football Coach.
Football was my sport, by default, because I sucked at everything else. After football season ended, the “6th hour boys” were expected to at least make an effort to try out for a winter sport. Swimming? Get real. Wrestling? I feared getting my ass kicked by a real wrestler. And I’d never played basketball. I searched frantically for alternatives.
One morning before school I caught Coach Haney and asked if he needed any basketball trainers. Mike Hollifield and David Pitcher were already varsity trainers, but Coach Haney said I could help out with the junior varsity team.
Through that experience, I learned Life Skills like counting towels, sweeping floors, keeping a basketball scorebook, and running the electronic scoreboard. I also became Edison’s King of Popcorn, which we sold at basketball games and wrestling matches. Fifteen cents a bag. The worst part of the job was the dad jokes: “Eating up all the profits, eh?”
One afternoon Coach Haney was in a bind; he needed someone to keep score at a tournament game. I couldn’t, but to my amazement I found a volunteer within a few minutes. I can still remember Coach Haney’s response when I told him: “You’re a good man, Maley! I’m going to give you a varsity letter!” And he did. Not a huge deal in the scheme of things, but his small gesture made an impact on me, one that I remember 50 years later.
Coach Haney was, what, 5’3″ in slippers? But he was a giant in terms of his impact on the lives of young men.
Much of my mid-to-late adolescence was frittered away cruising with my buddies in Tulsa’s Southside, an area which during my extended abscence came to be known as “Midtown”, at least by Google Maps and real estate agents. (When my family moved to Tulsa in 1966, 51st Street was a two lane strip through the woods on the edge of town; remember Pickles? The Edison school district will ever be “the Southside”, at least in my memory.)
Bell’s Amusement Park was a frequent hangout for our group of dateless miscreants, mainly because admission was free and gasoline had become expensive. One pastime was to try to cheat the Ske-Ball machine out of tickets that could only be redeemed for cheap trinkets. Once we were caught red-handed by a Bell’s goon, our now gone-but-not-forgotten classmate Phil Hensley: “Your tickets are no good,” he informed us with finality.
Rats! Busted by The Man! (Although I’m fairly certain the statute of limitations has run on our criminal enterprise, I shall not name my co-conspirators, even though two of them have gone ahead of us to a reward that even Bob Bell couldn’t offer. Ava shalom.)
Bell’s occupied real estate on Tulsa’s Fairgounds next to the IPE Building. (The last International Petroleum Exposition was held there in 1973, IIRC. After that, Tulsa lost credible claim to the title “Oil Capitol of the World”, although front-bumper license plates paraded the boast for years after. Bell’s is history, too.)
Down the street the iconic Golden Driller held sentry over the IPE Building’s main entrance, a Tulsa landmark and stoic reminder of Tulsa’s pre-OPEC glory days.
One of our rituals, as we rolled down 21st Street past the light at Pittsburg Ave.: someone in the car would crack wise, “The Golden Driller has no drill,” more a genuflection than a joke.
Forty-five years later, the Tulsa World brings this article, which prompted this reminiscence:
Here’s hoping that long-overdue ‘enhancement’ helps the gender-ambiguous Driller cut a more macho profile, if you catch my drift. Good luck on your transition, old buddy.
1977, maybe? During a semester break, a gang of us, mostly Edison classmates, met at a small club in a strip mall in east Tulsa. Word had gotten around town that hometown hero Dwight Twilley would be playing an unannounced show.
But Twilley would play after the regularly scheduled out-of-town act, The Autumn People. I think it was a power trio: Spinal Tap minus the talent. All I remember was leather fringe and hair and loud music. And a very bored, impatient audience.
At the end of their set, it was dead. Silent. Then after about five seconds, Walt Kleinecke stood up, clapped three times and gave the Autumn People a very derisive cheer: “Rock and roll!! Woo!!”
It was the only noise in the place except pinball machines and clinking beer glasses.
Autumn People: “Alriiiiight, Tulsa! You want more?!”
Not no, but hell no.
We got the obligatory rock encore anyway.
At the end, in the Big Finale, the Autumn People unleashed some kind of pyrotechnics. Imagine setting off fireworks in a small, low-ceiling strip mall. It’s a miracle the acoustic ceiling tiles didn’t catch fire, but the tiny venue filled with that acrid stage-smoke that makes your lungs burn.
No contest. The Autumn People. The absolute worst.
Sorry I don’t remember who else was there, but Walt’s solo standing-O was unforgettable.
The Friday before Election Day 1972, the Nixon campaign scheduled a last-minute whistle stop rally in a huge hangar at the Tulsa airport. It was our junior year; school let out early, so I hitched a ride home (I thought). My friends thought it would be a great idea to go see the President. Super, I says.
The problem was, the rally was in the late afternoon. Our last football game of the season was that night.
The crowd at the airport was huge. We had to park two miles away and walk to the hangar.
Nov. 3, 1972 – A crowd of 20,000 greeted President Nixon in Tulsa. A huge traffic jam prevented an estimated 10,000 more people from reaching Tulsa International Airport, where he spoke …
In his speech, Nixon promised “a peace with honor” in Vietnam.
A small group of George McGovern supporters attempted to interrupt the speech with chants of “no more Nixon” and “Watergate.” Nixon supporters tried to drown them out with their own chants of “four more years” and the combined noise kept many from hearing the president’s speech.
In the election a few days later, Nixon defeated Sen. McGovern in a landslide. He also carried all 77 counties in Oklahoma by a margin of more than half a million votes …
Being short is a big disadvantage in a large crowd, and it seemed like I was surrounded by a basketball team. To top it off, the place had the acoustics of … well, an airplane hangar.
Never laid eyes on the S.O.B. Never heard a word he said.
Not only that, the rally didn’t matter one whit. The next Tuesday, the Nixon/Agnew ticket rolled to a historic landslide. Before three years passed, both men had resigned in disgrace.
In the football game the night of the rally, we got our asses kicked in a game we should have won. I got on the field for exactly one play, during which I got kicked in the ankle. By the end of the game it looked like a misshapen eggplant.
To this day, I don’t like crowds, I don’t trust politicians, and I’m glad I was never a fanboy.
by Peter Robertson
I’m 61 years old and convinced I know everything worth knowing. But assuming any self improvement is still possible, I want to be more like Claudette Rogers.
Claudette found a lump on her back, and began to document it on her Facebook page in the same even tones (and with pictures!) that she wrote about that evil, man-eating, thorn-encrusted plant she bought. I want to be more like Claudette.
The lump became more serious, but Claudette didn’t flinch: her posts remained brutally honest and without a hint of self-pity. I want to be more like Claudette.
Claudette over the past several months has called upon reserves of inner strength that beggar description. She, and her alter ego Dot, have kept their senses of humor when lesser people would have seen theirs fail. I want to be more like Claudette.
We spend our lifetimes building relationships with friends and family that are among the most important parts of human existence, yet many of us have trouble calling upon those relationships to ask for or accept help when it is offered. Claudette recognized when she could use help, and accepted it so that she could conserve her physical and emotional energy for the battle that really matters. I want to be more like Claudette.
Our bodies fail us as certainly as the seasons turn. Not a one of us can escape that truth. On my slow march to the grave, I noticed arthritis starting over a decade ago. Type two diabetes showed up five years ago, though it’s well controlled with medication. A skin cancer four years ago was little more than an annoyance. Four additional ones a couple of months ago, including a melanoma, were a little more sobering. Through it all, as my family can attest, I have whined and cried about each new malady like a mewling baby. I want to be more like Claudette.
Adversity doesn’t build character. It reveals it. Claudette’s struggle has cast a light on her extraordinary character. The six decades of my life have been blessed with ridiculously few things to complain of. When the troubles come to me, as they come to us all, I want to be more like Claudette.
June 24, 2017
I’m taking the liberty of cross-posting Peter Robertson’s beautiful tribute to our dear classmate, who passed into eternity on Saturday after a long battle with cancer. Well done, Pete. Well done, Claudette. Steve
Claudette’s obituary in the Tulsa World, July 13, 2017.
Dina TenZythoff was Edison Jr. High’s French teacher. Learning French played hell on my spelling in English, but Mme. Tenzythoff’s old-school teaching method helped me understand concepts of grammar (e.g., “le subjonctif”) better than I would have in English class, were I to understand them at all.
On the rare occasion I attempt speaking a little French with my friends who grew up hearing/speaking Cajun French, they wonder why my pronunciation is inflected with Dutch.
I have only this to add: “Je voudrais du jambon, une salade … et une pâtisserie!” R.I.P. Mme. TenZythoff.
 | Cheryl Baer on Wyatt C. Morgan |
 | Richard Labarthe on Wyatt C. Morgan |
| Julie Price Davidson on Wyatt C. Morgan | |
 | Stephanie Morgan on Wyatt C. Morgan |
 | Steve Maley on Wyatt C. Morgan |
Tulsa Edison Class of 1974 Reunion Weblog 