Tulsa Edison Class of 1974 Reunion Weblog

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:

Tulsa County to spend $1 million to enhance Golden Driller at Expo Square

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.

For one who spent a considerable portion of his awkward adolescent phase hanging out at Southroads Mall, this article and the accompanying photo gallery recall the tag line from The Twilight Zone.

I haven’t spent a significant amount of time in Tulsa since I last lived there in 1984. My parents moved south in 1997; since then my only trips back have been for high school class reunions and funerals. From those trips I see Tulsa going through a recognizable corporate homogenization: a Walgreen’s on every major corner that isn’t already occupied by a McDonald’s or a Starbuck’s. Enclosed malls are definitely passé.

When my family moved to Tulsa from Pumpkin Center, KS (h/t Kenny Koch) in 1966, Woolco had just opened. It was the anchor tenant on the west end of what was to become Southroads Mall. (If you’ve never been to a Woolco, think “low-rent K-mart”.) Giant store , everything cheap, always with stale, well-trodden popcorn on the floor. My family had a daily trek to Woolco to buy brooms, cleaning supplies, etc., every day for the first month in Tulsa. (In the olden days, there were no Wal-Marts or Family Dollar stores.)

When I was older but too young for a summer job, I spent most of two summers hanging out at Southroads/Southland with Peter Robertson, Clint Hughes, and Dean Harms. Southroads was preferred because it was enclosed and AIR CONDITIONED. We were preoccupied with girls, fashion, records, and girls. If a movie were to be based of our adventures, it would be “Stand By Me” meets “Fast Times at Ridgemont High”, with me playing the part of the awkward chubby kid with glasses. I will leave the other casting choices to Clint, a/k/a “Clifford DeHaven“.

I never did much actual shopping at Southroads; it was a little upscale for my family’s budget. Never bought a thing at Orbach’s. Only bought shoes at Renberg’s because Bostonians ran wide. Looboyle’s, on the lower level, was the best spot in town for Zebco reels and tackle. Saved a journey to Oertle’s, which was on the edge of civilization.

Those names are gone now, or so I assume. Many of the friends from those days are gone too, and we the survivors are rapidly turning sixty. There are supposed to be benefits that go with grey hair and a middle-aged paunch. I’m not convinced. After all, my awkward adolescent years failed to end on schedule; some say they lasted until sometime during President Clinton’s second term.

At long last, the story can be told. At the recent reunion, I was approached by a guilt-ridden miscreant who, once he was assured that the statute of limitations had run out, agreed to spill the beans on our class’s 41-year-old mystery: “Who salted Memorial’s courtyard?”

Today the promised email arrived. Read on. Continue reading →

by Peter Robertson

My friend Steve Maley threw down the gauntlet, challenging me to write something for this site after Julie Price Davidson wrote her eloquent eulogy for Sandra Benson. Julie’s piece was so well written, and so affecting, that I was disinclined to write anything because it couldn’t possibly measure up! But I’ve been thinking a lot lately about our upcoming reunion, and thinking back to our graduation as well. It’s not just the reunion that has spurred this – it’s in part an accident of timing.

I had my children later in life than many of you did – we just lived through my older daughter’s high school graduation in June and then dropped her off at Tulane University a few weeks ago. Leaving her in New Orleans was an emotionally difficult thing to do, and I know that’s not news to any of you who have already gone through this. As Washington Post columnist Michael Gerson put it when he dropped his son off at college: “I put on my best face. But it is the worst thing that time has done to me so far. That moment at the dorm is implied at the kindergarten door, at the gates of summer camp, at every ritual of parting and independence. But it comes as surprising as a thief, taking what you value most.”

The emotions of parting from my daughter drew my thoughts in a straight line back to our graduation from Edison. As I’ve thought about the years 1970 – 1974, one notion most stuck with me – that is, everything useful I learned in high school, I learned outside the classroom. And I learned it from you, my classmates.

Chief among those lessons is the value of genuine friendship. That lesson, though, couldn’t become clear to me until I was able to look back decades later on our experiences at Edison. Though I left Tulsa for college, and ended up living in Virginia, I have stayed in touch with a number of our friends from high school over the past forty years. The importance of those relationships startles when I realize that, with very limited exceptions, I’m not really much in touch with anyone from my college graduating class, except those few who were also Edison graduates.

Time has not diminished the value of those relationships; if anything, it has enhanced them. It’s hard to overvalue a friendship you’ve kept for forty years. And it doesn’t really matter how often I see those friends. The relationships are so firmly established and so strongly grounded on collective experience and memories that we can pick right up where we left off, even when years go by between visits. It has been a decade since I last saw Clint Hughes, until he was in town a few weeks back. But you might have thought we lived just around the corner from each other, so familiar were our thoughts, so comfortable was our meeting.

In any case, it has made me look forward to our reunion with a degree of excitement that has surprised me. I’m hoping that many more classmates will sign up for the reunion in the next few days, and show up Friday and Saturday. I’m anxious to reconnect, not just with those friends that I’ve stayed in touch with, but with everyone that I haven’t seen or spoken to for ten or more years. If you’re at all on the fence about attending, please do come! I send my enormous thanks to all those classmates who have worked long and hard to make this event a success. I hope I can buy you a drink on Friday night!