The Picture That Told Three Stories

"Jefferson History Then and Now"

The Picture That Told Three Stories 

by Patrick L. Johnson, Roscoe Thompson, and Nellie Beavers Childs, collected by Letty Watt    

In the spring of 2025 I posted this picture on the "History of Norman" Facebook page. This is one of the responses I received from a man who found his father in the photo. The man, Patrick L. Johnson shares this story of his father Pop Johnson.

 

In this 1908 classroom photo from Eastside school, I think the youngster in the second row from bottom, 3rd from the right, is my Pop, JA “Red” Johnson born in Norman in October 1901. *The arrow points to Roscoe Thompsons another story from the photograph. 

Pop's father died in 1904 when Pop was three and younger brother was an infant. In order to feed her family, my grandmother took in washing and cleaning houses. My Pop only made it through the 3rd grade when he quit and took odd jobs to help his mom support the family. 

He worked in the oil fields as an adult, raised four kids through the depression doing whatever he could to make a buck. Sometime in the mid 40’s, he got a full-time job with the Oklahoma National Guard. He was injured in 1949 while training at the North Base Naval firing range when the infamous tornado ripped through that area. He was sent to Fort Sam Houston, San Antonio TX, where they implanted a metal plate on the left side of his head to compensate for the skull that had been crushed.

He recuperated over the next several months and eventually went back to work with the NG.  Pop went with the Division when it was activated and sent to Fort Polk LA (1950?) in preparation for deployment to Korea.  However, he was forcefully medically discharged before his unit deployed and later worked at Central State Hospital. He had a massive stroke in 1963 complicated by the head injury but again recuperated and lived out his last few years here in Norman with my mom, passing in 1971.

Thank you for sharing this photo on the History of Norman site and giving me the chance to tell my "Pop's" story.  Sincerely, Patrick L. Johnson

This picture tells the story of:

Nellie Beavers Childs: Their Friendship Endured

Roscoe Thompson from Thompson Moving and Storage: The Story of Roscoe Thompson

 

The Healing Years

Our country home on 10 acres

Twenty years ago we packed our belongings and moved to Hutchinson, Ks.  We left behind our youngest son and daughter, friends, family, and friends. Even though I fell in love with new friends, country fields, and sand dunes during those eighteen years we lived in Kansas, I could not revisit our land east of Norman where the healing took place.  We came home often for family events and football, but never once drove east on highway 9 to 108th street.  We never turned down Baltic avenue to see what changes the new owners of our ten acres might have made; we never once drove to the parks to walk through the trails lined with black jack oaks, sumac bushes, and worn down rose rocks. We never once set foot on the land that Washington Irving called the "crosstimbers."  It simply hurt too much.

Retirement offered us the time to return to Oklahoma, but not to our land. A home in town, close to family is where we need to be at this time in life. Last spring, I drove my mother-in-law out to see the historic flooding around Thunderbird Dam, and then with a deep breath I turned north on 108th, west on Lindsey, and north on Baltic. A gate stood at the entrance to their winding drive down the sumac lined hill to the tri-level native stone home. A tear trickled down my cheek. What were they keeping out, I wondered? Still I couldn't write about it.

I found this picture two weeks ago while helping my sister clean out the clutter.  Seeing the happiness on our faces must have been touch magic, my heart opened, and I felt refreshed with the memories, the sharing could begin. 


It was the openness of the land that created the healing energy I needed when we moved to the country in 1990. In 1988 our daughter, left home angrily creating her own path; Jack's father died on Land Run day, and gaps and voids began to

fill my heart. A year later in 1989 my mother died suddenly in August; my father died of a broken heart eight weeks later.  Everyone, from family and friends to children at school, stepped in to help; to love; to hug; to hold; but broken hearts take time to heal.

In time our daughter found her way home, and back to the land where she felt secure. Our boys began the explore their life journeys. Jack and I found solace in the land, in the

colors of nature, during the seasons of change, alongside the deer, bobcats, birds, and snakes. Walking paths created by the animals widened as two people walked them daily searching for answers. 


The animals, the trees, the grasses shared their space with us, and likewise we shared our space with others.  Friends often came out in late evenings and weekends to sit on the back deck or walk serenely down the hill, through the ravine, across the rocks where waters ran in the spring, or up the hill to a patch of wild flowers growing in the sunlight.

One day we discovered a pile of left over

native stones hidden at the top of the hill near the water well. One by one Jack and I carried the stones down the hill to the back yard where he built a garden around a tree.In time grasses grew where once red clay soil baked in the sun.  A soft cushioned swing hung from a tree, and a hammock floated between two trees giving a starlit view of the summer meteorite showers. 

Like the stones carried down the hill, one by one, our hearts began to heal. Color came back into our lives filling us with laughter and creating flowing peaceful moments. When my mind closed down and depression set in, nature rose to my rescue. She showed me a washed out area of land that held the remains of worn but recognizable rose rocks. Often I sat on a the land and picked up rose rocks,

admired their beauty and forgot why I was sad. One evening at sunset, I came face to face with buck on the same path as I. My heart raced, he held firm and then like a flash of lightning leaped down the ravine. Tears of awe and joy ran down my face and filled my heart with peace.

Late one night, when my mother might have said, It's too late, don't go walking out there, I went walking out there. Led by the dog who adopted us, Black Bart, I started up the hill through scrub oaks and fallen logs. Suddenly, Bart stood sideways on the path and stopped my advance. I heard the growl and scream from the bushes nearby. The dog and I turned running. He beat me to the driveway and once again stood sideways like a

motionless shadow on a moonless night with his nearly invisible long black hair. I never saw him until I plowed into him, flew into the air, and rolled down the incline into the drive way. Startled and dirty, I lay on the driveway while the dog licked me, and assured me we were safe from the mother bobcat and her kit.

Though sometimes bruised from trips and falls, I healed in those five comforting country years. Now each day the birds outside remind me to be mindful of the healing powers of nature.

The Seven Sisters.
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When Exercise Became Sexercise

No matter the weather our Lucy dog needs exercise or we have no rest.  Sadly, Jack and I need even more exercise, so to satisfy our bouncing begging dog 

we often take her to the walking trail on North Base. This winter we've experienced several weeks of fog and drizzle which makes the waking slightly miserable.

So when the sun came out we jumped at the chance to walk the dog and then perhaps enjoy a delicious lunch at LaBaquette, never mind the cold blowing wind sailing in from the northwest.  The winter view of the setting moon relaxed Jack and I, as we bundled up and began our hunkered down walk into the brisk north wind.  

Lucy paid no attention to the wind nor to the afternoon moon, and in no time at all she was out of sight.  We slowed down, held hands, and giggled like a couple suddenly without little children running through the house.  Our eyes cast around looking for a low area out of sight, but this not our old Kansas field with tall grasses and miles of privacy.

Then without notice Lucy came charging from behind like a greyhound racing out of control.  Always aware of her clipping abilities and how hard the ground can be when we fall, we both automatically stepped aside as she barreled through us.  How proud she was when she galloped lightly back to us, with her helicopter tail in full spin.  We'd been caught just thinking about sex! How reminiscent of moments with our children.

The remainder of the walk was just for Lucy, filled with chase scenes and hide-and-go-seek maneuvers by Jack, while I exploded with belly laughter as the two of them played.  In the end, we loaded our now hot and sweaty bodies into the car.  As Jack drove to Sonic (not even near LaBaquette), I noticed a text message from a friend.  I felt compelled to explain why I hadn't replied earlier, so I wrote, "Jack and I have been out in the field sexercising."  

She immediately replied, "What did you do?"  Then I saw the error, and once again I laughed out of control.  I guess it was either a spell check error, a Freudian slip, or perhaps just a wishful expression. 

Good Night Sun.  Good Night Moon.

Here's hoping that all of your New Year's Wishes come true.