This is the last working day of 2007 and for me, I didn't feel like getting out of bed.  It snowed here again last night, a clumpy, wet snow that had mostly already melted when I opened my window this morning.  The window framed a listless landscape of mostly black and white, all color seemingly lost to the inevitable onset of winter, and Mother Nature's cold breath blowing from the ice caps at the top of the world.

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Lustful moments frozen in meaningless time

lodged neath icy borders of meaningful rime

have thus our lost fantasies frought

banned from our hearts but not from our thoughts

Wilder-2007

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Christmas Day, It was 64 degrees in Edmond.  Today, as I hear Patch barking in the back yard, I gaze out the window and notice that it is snowing, the ground already white.

Growing up in the warmer and more predicable climes of Louisiana, it took me a while to get used to the rapid weather changes we have here in Oklahoma.  Those of us that live here joke about it but to our State's weather predictors it must be a nightmare.

They don't wake up in a cold lather worrying about it, though because they are usually already awake, chasing tornados and wild storms, and reporting their impending paths to frightened Okies.

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Downtown OKC has a very special attraction, the Crystal Bridge.  The CB overlooks a beautiful lagoon with several smaller bridges that cross.  Ducks, and various waterfowl abound.

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Last April’s Oklahoma City’s Arts Festival – The Food Court

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Here is a scene from Oklahoma’s recent ice storm, slightly romanticized.

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I awoke this morning to learn that my family and I were not the only ones affected by Oklahoma Ice Storm 2007.  Tonight, 618,000 people are without electric power, hotels and motels filled to capacity.  I drove through much of Oklahoma City today and was surprised at the damage I observed.  Branches from broken trees littered yards and roadways.  What's in store?  A major winter snow storm this Friday.  Okies are tough but it's cold so please say a little prayer for Oklahoma.

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3          cups sugar
3/4       cup milk
3/4       teaspoon vanilla
2          tablespoons butter
2 1/2    cups pecans

Place 2 cups of sugar and milk in a large saucepane.  Cook slowly.  At the same time put other cup of sugar in another saucepan on low heat; stir until melted.  Pour melted sugar slowly into the milk and sugar that should be ready to boil, mixing while adding.  Cook slowly until a firm ball will form when dropped into cold water.  Remove from heat.  Add vanilla and butter and beat until mixture begins to thicken.  Stir in pecans.  Grease counter top with cooking oil and cover with wax paper.  Drop batter by small spoonfuls onto wax paper.  Pralines will set immediately and will come up easily without breaking.

Makes 2 1/2 dozen

Recipe courtesy of Carrie F. Cade in Louisiana Entertains - a complete menu cookbook

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2 cups sugar
1 cup water
16 sprigs mint
4 pounds finely crushed ice
8 1 1/2 jiggers bourbon

Confectioners's sugar and mint for garnish

Mix sugar and water; bring to a boil, stirring. Cool. Place 2 sprigs of mint in each glass; crush to release mint flavor. Add 2 ounces of the sugar syrup, stirring gently. Fill glass with ice. Add 1 jigger of whiskey. Stir until glass frosts. Top with sprig of mint and sprinkling of powdered sugar.

Recipe courtesy of Wilbert Martin in Louisiana Entertains - a complete menu cookbook

I encountered this interesting sign while driving along a lonely country road in Caddo Parish, Louisiana, about a hundred yards from the Cass County, Texas border.

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I awoke two days ago to a beautiful hazy sky.  Here is a pic that I took, and slightly romanticized.

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My pug pup Princess is playing under my feet as I pen these words, and Dusty is playing on my CD player. Yes, and I have had a glass or two of wine.

Outside, the weather is cold, rainy and gloomy. I wish that I could tell you that I have a fire ablaze in the fireplace but I don’t. “This is the first humidity we have had in days,” Marilyn says. “I’m not spoiling it with a fire.”

Hey, life is filled with trade offs.

Anyway, I’m listening to Dusty, a woman with the greatest voice that ever was. She just covered a Young Rascals song “How Can I Be Sure,” and it was better than the original. Now, she is singing Tupelo Honey. Hey, there isn’t a singer greater than Van Morrison, but Dusty equals the legend.

My old brain has pretty much atrophied, but Miss Springfield’s words herald memories, rich memories. She is singing “I Think it’s going to Rain Today.”

Dusty’s words are beautiful. They return me to an earlier time. I think I’m going to cry today.

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I wasn’t born yet on this date in 1941, but those alive at the time remember vividly the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Franklin Roosevelt called it “the day that will live in infamy.”

The “Greatest Generation” gave up its beliefs in isolationism and quickly rose to the occasion. What ensued was the greatest war ever fought in the history of this world.

Today is Pearl Harbor Day and I beg those of you like me - those not around during World War II - to remember your parent’s, and your grandparent’s sacrifices because, truly, without them you would now be living in a third-world country, praying to a strange God and enduring the tyranny of an unsympathetic ruler. Remember their bravery.

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I just finished watching a frustrating day of college football where the top two teams in the nation bit the dust.  Does college football need a playoff?  Hello!!  For those of you that care, here is the Wilder Final Football Poll, at least the top five:

1. Arkansas
2. ULM
3. Appalachian State
4. Pittsburg
5. Texas Tech

Discarded Commode

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Traveling west on Route 66, about a quarter of the way between Bethany and Yukon, Oklahoma, you will reach a bridge crossing the North Canadian River. To your left is Lake Overholser, one of Oklahoma City’s manmade lakes that supply water to the people of Oklahoma County. Once, on the south corner of Route 66, just before crossing the bridge, was a place like no other. It was a honky-tonk bar the locals knew as Pauline’s Bait and Tackle Shop.

Pauline, a crusty old woman, and her daughter ran the combination bar, restaurant and bait shop (yes, you could buy minnows outside the restaurant).. The old wood-framed building sat alone in an otherwise vacant lot. On weekends, cars, pickups, Harleys and horses populated the unpaved, often muddy parking lot.

The single-storied building sat on cinder blocks. When you entered, from the front or side door, you were instantly taken aback by bare wooden rafters decorated with stuffed ducks, other birds and animals, all dusty and musty with age. There wasn’t a rug in the place. It was all bare, unpainted wood - old wood, including the floor.

Country swing bands often played live music on weekends, catering to hundreds of sweaty dancers - I don’t recall that Pauline’s had air conditioning. You haven’t lived until you’ve eaten a hamburger and drank a longneck at Pauline’s.

Alas, Pauline’s is gone, razed to make way for a strip center that never materialized. Only memories remain of a place unique in a world Wal-Mart’s, Outback’s and Barnes and Noble’s.

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For every hero or heroine that has won a medal in the service of their country, there are tens of thousands of others that also served and are no less patriotic.  My brother and I were both in the Army during the Vietnam War.  My Dad was in World War II, in Germany and France.  When the war broke out, my Aunt Carmol joined the Marines and served throughout the conflict.  None of us were heroes but we were there and proud to serve.

So many people served their nation without fanfare, often never receiving a single thank you.  Many have never talked about their experiences, even to their family.  Aunt Carmol is dead now, and Dad has Alzheimer’s.  I wonder, how many stories are left untold and how many sacrifices went unheralded, even unnoticed.  To these people, to everyone of you out there, I say THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart.

This is not something that I just thought of.  Here is an excerpt from my novel PRAIRIE SUNSET.  High in the Ouachita Mountains of central Arkansas, an old man with a heart condition is prompted to tell a story about the war that he has kept hidden inside himself his entire life.

EXCERPT FROM PRAIRIE SUNSET

Comforting darkness, piquant chili and pacifying effect of strong beer combined to loosen their tongues. Coaxed by Attie, Lillie Mae and especially Hulk, John told several amusing vignettes from his youth."

            Hulk finally said, "Were you in the war, John?"

            After hesitating a moment, he said, "Yes, I was."

            "Well tell us a war story," Hulk goaded.

            Poignant memories flooded John's mind and he smiled sadly, unconsciously grinding his toe against an empty cardboard carton in front of him.

            Hulk prompted, "We're you in the Battle of the Bulge?"

            Waves of nostalgia crested John's mental bow and he said, "Wasn't supposed to be, but I was."

            "Please, John," Lillie Mae said. "Tell us."

            John did, beginning slowly, and then warming to the tale. "The Bulge was Hitler's last attempt to turn back the advancing Allies," he said. "For a month and a half the Battle lasted, called the 'Bulge' because Germans failed to break through the line, only succeeding in bending it. I was a radioman in the signal corps, too young to serve but I had lied about my age and joined anyway. One night an old colonel appeared at the communications tent, needing to relay a message to Patton. Since we were out of direct radio communication with the main force he decided to deliver it in person. He conscripted me to drive the jeep for him.

            "The night turned bitterly cold. Snow had fallen for days, piled high on both sides of the road. Continuing night and day the line of battle had spread out many miles, constantly moving, like an angry sidewinder. When sun came up the following morning, we realized we had somehow crossed the enemy line.

            "Germans, besides many other things, were excellent soldiers. We found ourselves caught, along with an advancing column of American infantrymen, in a crossfire ambush. Fresh from the States, our boys were young, mostly teenagers, barely out of diapers, and none had ever seen a German, much less been under fire.

            "Finding yourself caught in the middle of a fire fight is like walking a railroad track at night. Hearing the loud blast of a whistle behind you, you turn and stare into the lights of the monstrosity, twenty feet away, and bearing down on you - the remains of your best friend already chewed up beneath its wheels.

            "When the attack began, the noise was frightening and extreme - beyond imagination for the uninitiated. Along with gunfire and violent explosions, steel, dirt and stone whistled randomly around our heads. When our inexperienced boys dropped their rifles and ran for cover, German marksmen began dropping them in their tracks. Blood was running in the ditches, staining the snow crimson, when we reached the center of the column. Unarmed, the old colonel jumped from the jeep and ran directly into the path of the retreating GI's."

            "Thrusting rifle after rifle back into the hands of those child soldiers, he admonished them to hold their ground. Around us, the battlefield was alive with explosions, hot lead and  the mortally wounded, screaming for help. A mortar round exploded near the jeep, spraying me with dirt and shrapnel. When I wiped my face, the blood on my hand was not my own.

            "Any one of a hundred Hun marksmen could have dropped the colonel. None did. Maybe they were awed by his bravery and coolness under fire. Maybe a higher force was protecting him.  With confused soldiers dying all around him, he coursed the length of that bloody road, exhorting them to turn and fight. One-by-one their youth dissolved in a mire of smoke and torn flesh, and they became men in the hot cauldron of battle. They did turn and fight, hanging on until reinforcements arrived."

            John grew silent and Attie squeezed his hand, feeling the intensity of his pain. Finally he chuckled and it drew into a hoarse laugh.

            "Know what's funny?" John's rapt audience shook their head without answering. "I remember the Colonel as old, but he was probably no more than forty. Thirty-five years younger than I am now and I still think of him as an old man. I can't remember his name and I don't suppose you'll ever read about him in any history book, but he did as much as anyone to defeat the Nazis."

            Suddenly aware of frogs, crickets and distant owls, John realized no on had spoken for an interminable period. When she saw he had finished the story, Lillie Mae put her arms around his shoulder like a mother comforting a child. Hulk remained silent, torn by his own conflicting emotions.

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The oil boom and ensuing oil bust of the late 70s and 80s is long past and seems almost like a dream to me now.  I can recount stories about the era for hours, some of them funny and some of them sad and I still chuckle about one that happened to me and my then wife Anne.

Anne was an oil and gas accountant – a damn good oil and gas accountant.  She and I formed a small oil company and began drilling wells.  I love oil business, but Anne was passionate about it.  She poured her heart and soul into our company (and I suppose so did I).

Caught up inextricably in the bust, we both fought with every sinew of our beings to save our floundering company.  We set out on a quest for a “white knight,” or at least a friendly banker.  Alas, we found neither but we had a few adventures along the way.

I have often heard that people that live together for a long time begin to look alike.  If this is true then Anne and I were identical twins.  Why, because we were together twenty-four hours every day.  Hey, and we both had reddish-blonde hair.

Anne and I traveled the country looking for a friendly banker to bow up our company, suddenly needy with Oklahoma banks and companies crashing right and left.  We thought we had found a home with a bank in Los Angeles.  On a trip there, we pitched our company, and our souls.  The banker, a large man with long hippy hair, a longish beard and John Lennon glasses, listened to our impassioned plea with a happy Santa Claus smile on his round face.

“I’m curious,” he said when we finished our presentation.  “How did a brother and sister happen to start an oil company together?”

Neither Anne nor I had a good reply and it didn’t really matter as his inane remark gave us the answer to the question we had just spent an hour asking.

We never found our white knight, or our friendly banker.  Like so many companies during the 80s oil bust, we went belly up.  Yes, the bust is long past and seems almost like a dream to me now.  Some of the stories were funny but many, so many, I keep buried deep in my heart – until moments such as now when they come bubbling up painfully to a surface still frothy with crushed emotion.

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Eric and Anne – 1982

Please check out my new book trailer video.  Thanks, Eric

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e15ePGVK26s

Earlier this year I had the honor to appear on Brent Weber’s Fox 25 morning show to plug my book Big Easy.  Brent is an affable and intelligent man, and put me instantly at ease.  I realized that he is talented but didn’t know that he is also an accomplished actor until I received this recent email:

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There is a new review of Just East of Eden on the website Bookpleasures.com.  There is also and interview with Eric Wilder on the website.  Please check it out.

http://www.bookpleasures.com/Lore2/idx/0/3072/article/Just_East_of_Eden_Tales_From_The_Blog.html

http://www.bookpleasures.com/Lore2/idx/0/3074/article/A_Conversation_With_Eric_Wilder_Author_of_Just_East_of_Eden_Tales_From_The_Blog.html

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Edmond, OK (Gondwana Press) October 19, 2007 -- Gondwana Press LLC announces the release of Eric Wilder’s newest book Just East of Eden.  What do chicken sacrifices, oil wells and black panthers have in common?  They are all storylines from Wilder’s prolific imagination that are highlighted in his latest outing.

Just East of Eden is a hybrid page-turner based on the author’s popular story blog by the same name.  Wilder transports his readers on a rapid-fire journey between misty waterfalls in the Ouachita Mountains, steamy brothels in Vietnam, and a setting sunset amid filigree ironwork in the heart of the French Quarter - the ultimate destination located somewhere between reality and your wildest fantasy.

Author of Big Easy, a murder mystery set in post-Katrina New Orleans, Wilder has also penned Murder Etouffee, Prairie Sunset and A Gathering of Diamonds.  Heather Froeschl of Quilldipper.com says, “The natural course of events is to take the blog and publish parts of it for those who still like to feel the pages turn beneath their fingers and breathe the scent of ink and paper. Eric Wilder has done this with his newest book, “Just East of Eden,” and I am delighted.”

About author

Native of Louisiana, Eric Wilder now lives and writes in Edmond, Oklahoma.  The author of seven other books, he is also a geologist and noted energy expert.

About Gondwana Press

Founded in 2006, Gondwana Press LLC is a regional publisher seeking to expand the bounds of both knowledge and entertainment.

Here is an artistic rendition of rustic Caddo Lake with its algae-green water lying beneath shading cypresses.

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My Tulsa friend Mick is launching a new mag.  Lurid, yes.  Entertaining, absolutely. Here is his first cover.

While it is true that the eighties oil bust adversely affected every oil hub in the United States, Oklahoma City maintains a unique position in the episode because it was the location of the infamous Penn Square Bank debacle.

Penn Square Bank occupied a stand-alone building in the parking lot of the Penn Square Mall, still located in the northwest corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and Northwest Expressway.  During the go go days of the last oil boom, officers of this bank began making oil and gas loans, then selling the paper to eager upstream banks like Continental Illinois.  The problem was, many of these loans were secured by little more than a “lick and a promise.”

One story that has circulated for years now involves an oil company that borrowed millions of dollars to purchase drilling rigs.  Auditors, attempting to account for the bank’s collateral after the company went bust, learned that Rig 13 (I don’t know if this is the actual number) was really a Lear Jet.  Clients, supposedly with little or know oil experience, could get a million dollar loan with only a signature and the promise of drilling a few oil wells.

Many nouveau operators purchased jet planes, helicopters, luxury vehicles and lavish offices and lifestyles with the seed money they borrowed from Penn Square Bank, and then parlayed into millions more with money raised from largely unsophisticated investors.  It is safe to say that most of these investors had little more than a “lick or a promise” of ever seeing any return from their investment.

While drilling a well in western Oklahoma, one company encountered a large pocket of natural gas.  The well blew out and the gas ignited in a huge burst of flame.  Instead of worrying about the raging fire and its ensuing consequences, the company chartered a commercial jet and flew a planeload of investors and various company people to the blowout site.  There they had tents erected, catered barbecue and beer, and a band to entertain everyone at an elaborate blowout party, ostensibly to raise even more money. 

Elaborate parties were the norm during the last oil boom.  Christmas parties hosted by operators and service companies boasted hundreds of guests, all enjoying free food, drink and entertainment.  I attended one oil company party where Mel Tillis and the Oakridge Boys were flown in by jet helicopter to entertain for an hour or so.  One of the Penn Square loan officers was there, dressed in an Alpine costume complete with hat, shorts and lederhosen.  The party took place on a farm near Edmond, the cars and party-goers so thick that they blocked the adjacent county road for hours.

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It’s early October, misty rain falling from a darkened sky – a continuation of Oklahoma’s soggiest spring ever.  Summer wasn’t quite as hot this year and there didn’t seem to be as much wind as usual.  There were fewer tornadoes.  One other thing was different.  My magic moonflowers, so prolific these past few years, never bloomed at all.  Last year, I often counted as many as seventy blooms in a single night; but this year, not a single one.

The days are still warm, unseasonably warm.  Still I know that the first freeze is not far away.  The long days of summer will soon give way to long winter nights.  As they do, I will revel in the falling snows, icy rime coating the window panes, and the chilly blast of wintry air when I walk to my car in the morning. 

Yes, I’ll enjoy the change of seasons, but next July I’ll see a magic moonflower bloom again in my garden, even if I have to go to Home Depot and buy one!

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Here is another Caddo Lake pic.

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I don’t like beating dead horses.  Still, if you’re not quite gone and if you’ll stand up to at least a few more swats, I need to say a couple  more words about Dusty Springfield’s gorgeous voice.  I’m listening again to the songs that I downloaded from Yahoo a few days ago.  Hey, I’m blown away!  This woman has the voice of an angel and I’m not exaggerating.  Please check her out, but forget her top ten hits and go for some of her covers.  I’m telling you, you won’t be disappointed.

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Here are some more Caddo Lake pics.

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My Aunt Dot who is a wonderful cook shared this recipe with me.  It originated from my Uncle Bertrand’s mother Anna.

Pork Chops, English Peas & Tomatoes with Steamed Rice 

 By:     Anna Pourteau
Serving Size:     4    

Amount     Measure     Ingredient     Preparation Method
4     each     Pork Chops - Center Cut    
1/4     cup     canola or olive oil    
1     14.5 oz     diced tomatoes    
1     15 oz     Leseur English Peas, undrained    
1     15 oz     chicken broth (fat free)    
1/2     medium     onion     chopped
2     stalks     celery      chopped
2     cloves     garlic     minced
1/2     cup     green bell pepper     chopped
1/2     cup     red bell pepper     chopped
1/2     teaspoon     Sweet Basil    
2     teaspoons     Parsley    
1/2     teaspoon     Oregano    
1/4     teaspoon     Thyme    
1/2     teaspoon     Salt    
1/2     teaspoon     Pepper    
1     tablespoon     Worchestershire sauce    
1/4     teaspoon     Louisiana Red Hot Sauce    
              
          STEAMED  RICE    
1     cup     rice    
2 1/4     cups     water    
1/2     teaspoon     salt    
              

Salt and pepper pork chops.  Put oil in large non-stick skillet.  Get oil medium hot and add pork chops and brown on both sides.  Remove from skillet.  Turn heat down to medium and add onion, celery, bell peppers and garlic.  Cook until limp.  Add tomatoe, chicken broth,  basil, parsley, oregano, thyme, salt, pepper, Worchestire sauce and Louisiana Red Hot Sauce.  Stir, mixing all vegetables well.  Add pork chops back to skillet and cook until tender.  When chops are tender add English peas..  Taste to see if you  need to re-season.  Simmer approximately 10 to 15 minutes.  Cook rice and serve the pork chop with tomatoes and English Peas over the hot Steamed Rice.  Enjoy!!!

NOTE:  Cook rice according to directions.  Serve pork chops, tomatoes and vegetables over hot steamed rice. 
     —————  

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I found this poem on the net.  It was written by Louis Flint Ceci.  As a geologist, it touched my soul, and continues to do so each time I reread it.  For those of you that don’t know, the Afar Triangle, in southern Africa, is a triple-juncture – a spot where three tectonic plates coincide.  I know of no other triple juncture on the face of the earth.  The three places I would like to visit before I die are 1) the Afar Triangle, 2) Iceland and 3) Jamaica.  These three locations are geologically unique on the face of the earth.  Here is the poem:

The Afar Triangle

I do not know the way a planet thinks.
I cannot plunge my hands deep in my own clay
The way a mountain plunges through the crust,
Nor run wild as a glacier through
The temples of the gods, nor sing a single note
That slides along the lips of the caldera. But here
That wisdom thunders through my feet,
    And shows the dance is measured
    By dancers keeping beat,
By those whose only measure is the dance.


June 14, 1999
August 31, 2000

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