It’s been a few weeks since my great grandmother, Opal Faye Payne, concluded her time on Earth at 97 years.
A couple weeks earlier I sat down with her to discuss her life. The cancer that had started in her breasts had spread to her stomach, kidneys and into her spinal cord, resulting in its infiltration of her brain.
The old bird clock hanging on the wall kept ticking as she sat in her brown recliner. What once was a sound that brought me comfort when I slept in the room a few feet away, now became a reminder of what was to come.
“Sometimes it feels like it’s all gone by in a flash and other times it feels like it’s been a really long time. Because it has been a long time,” said Opal as she looked out the window at the prairie surrounding her home of 78 years.
She went quiet for a minute. Her oxygen machine and the clock’s ticking the only sounds in the room. I could tell she was deep in thought. Then there was a small smile.
“I remember being a little girl living in the woods,” Opal said. “We used to climb to the top of trees. Smaller trees would start to bend and you’d have to hang on then let go and fall down. We’d swing from grape vines and fall into sand. It’s a wonder we didn’t break our legs. Gosh. Arms or hands. God looks over little kids. He has got to. The places we played. Oh my gosh. I couldn’t do it now, but I think about it.”
Opal was born during prohibition and raised during the Great Depression.
“I still have a good memory. I think about those times often. There were good times, bad times, all kinds of time.”
Opal lived her entire life within two miles of her birthplace. On Aug. 15, 1921, she was born in her parent’s small house on their Cherokee allotment land just northeast of Claremore. The second oldest of five kids. A mile from where she lived, her mother’s father had opened the first post office in Rogers County.
As a child she and her family picked cotton. They’d load the wagon and ride it into town where they’d sell sacks of it then take the profits and purchase school clothes.
She attended Claremore-Sequoyah and played on the girl’s basketball team. She said after games she’d walk the hilly country roads home. At times it’d be real dark. If she heard a noise in the surrounding woods, she’d run home at full speed. Near their house was a cave that they’d sometimes go in when it stormed.
Opal was a devout Christian and a founding member of Harmony Star Baptist Church, which is a tiny Freewill Baptist church about a mile from her home. She served as the church secretary for most her life. While the weekly services were the hellfire and brimstone variety, she had universal love for people and believed God did too.
It was during a church service that teenage Opal met my great grandpa, Melvin Payne. It was love at first sight.
“We’s at church and they had moved up here from Braggs. I knew there was a new boy or two, [his brother] Kenneth, in the community. One day at church he came up peepin’ in the door. He didn’t come in, just stood there at the door. I thought ‘Well I guess I’ll have to go with him. He’ll have to be my boyfriend.’”
The following Saturday, 15-year-old Opal pulled a fast one on her parents, claiming she was going to spend the night at her cousin’s house, but the duo snuck out to go see the Payne boys.
“My parents didn’t let me do anything on my own till I was 16, so I went to stay at Helen’s then we walked a long way to a party down near the highway,” said Opal. “I was scared to death somebody was gonna tell my mom and daddy I was at a party.”
The Paynes had relocated to the area in the mid 30s after the US Dept. of Agriculture purchased thousands of acres, including their land, outside Muskogee. The government soon built Camp Gruber to aid World War II efforts.
“They was too poor to own a car,” said Opal. “He had this old blue horse. Sometimes he’d leave it and walk me all the way home, and we’d talk about stuff. Sometimes we rode the horse. Later on his mom got a car, and we’d borrow it to take it to the show. Not too long after that we got married.”
On July 20, 1940, 21-year-old Melvin and 18-year-old Opal exchanged wedding vows. She moved into the Payne household as they finished construction on the small farm house that would be her home for the rest of her life.
“Moving from the woods to the prairie, I didn’t like that,” she said. “Oh lord because of the wind. It’d blow us away. It’s alright. I got used to it.”
There were cardboard ceilings, no running water or electric for more than a decade. The house was first heated with a coal stove. (For most my life it was a big brown metal gas stove that provided additional seating till it got too hot.)
“Around that time we got a car, a Model A. We were livin’ in high money,” she said. “We had a car. Not many did. Especially young boys. They walked places because they couldn’t even afford a horse.”
When they got married she said Melvin was making 50 cents a day cutting sprouts when he could find the work.
“Loaf of bread was a dime and a box of matches was a nickel,” Opal said. “For five dollars we could eat sardines, tomatoes, macaroni and fried potatoes. That was our favorite meal.”
In short time, Opal went from wife and rancher to also becoming a mother (eventually of three kids). They were self-sustainable with a farm operation that included chickens and a massive garden.
“Oh boy we worked. Today, people just want to push a button. They don’t want to work,” said Opal. “Nowadays they drive tractors. I used to push that plow in single file lines for 80 acres. It’d wear your legs out. Oh lord.”
It was in the early days of their marriage that America entered World War II. When asked what stands out most in her memories about the war, she said “I remember writing letters to my brother and cousins every week. We didn’t know anything until we would get a letter.”
Eventually, Melvin and Opal took over the property by purchasing the interests of Melvin’s siblings when their parents passed away. To generate money they sold horses and the necessary equipment, like saddles, spurs and bridles.
Arrow P Ranch was open for business.
When I made my surprise entrance into her world, Opal was 60 years old. She had raised three kids, helped raised grandkids and now had a great grandchild. I bet she felt old then.
During our conversation, she reflected on my first Christmas when I was a 1-month-old dressed like Santa propped up under the tree. Thirty-seven years later and she was still tickled that we had a photo opportunity to showcase five generations that included her mom.
We talked about many things that happened during our shared lifetime. Like she said, there were good times, bad times, all kinds of time.
For all of my adolescence, holidays meant a celebration at Arrow P. The house’s construction and remodels were completed before my birth, but the family tree accelerated in growth. Soon there were multiple card tables erected for lunches. If the holiday featured ideal weather, it provided relief as people could congregate outside, freeing up space inside the tiny home. The screen doors on the front and back sides constantly opening and closing as kids ran through, dodging older family members as they came and went.
It was these meals where I discovered commodity cheese and candied sweet potatoes (my favorite), and so much more.
Commodity cheese is a block of yellowish-orange goodness that is not real cheese, but a big rectangle of something solid that tastes really good (think Velveeta block, but better) and is provided free to Cherokee Nation citizens. It’s also commonly called “government cheese.”
It was through that holiday food staple that I learned about my Cherokee roots. When I once questioned why it was called what it was, I was told my grandma got it because she was Cherokee. (I was like 10 at the time.) Later that day as things settled down and the crowd began to thin, I asked her about being Cherokee. She explained to me the child’s version of the family history and how her family used to have their Cherokee land in the hills out back.
Before that, my only relationship I had with my tribe was the little blue card they gave me that meant I could go to the indian hospital and sit in uncomfortable plastic chairs all day while I waited to be seen.
Opal was the family historian by default. She had numerous scrapbooks full of black and white photos dating back to the late 1800s. There were old newspaper clippings and documents from family reunions. Copies of birth certificates and marriage licenses.
It was through these books and her stories that I was able to travel back in time to the early days of the place I lived. She’d tell me stories about the growth of Claremore that fascinated me. I’d ride my bike through downtown then next time I see her ask her stories.
She was always a great storyteller. She’d get more animated and louder when the story called for it. She’d get tickled talking about the simplest things.
Opal also loved to read. She read books to the kids all the time, and she read the newspapers. She took the Tulsa World, Claremore Daily Progress and the Cherokee Phoenix. She would read all of the news sections.
During my teenage years, I remember staying the night and the next morning walking out of the bedroom to see her in the chair by the window reading The Tulsa World. I walked over and grabbed the sports section as she got up to go to the kitchen. Soon we’d eat biscuits and chocolate gravy. Her signature breakfast for children for decades.
For the first 14 years of my life, I spent a lot of time on the farm and most of the daylight was spent with my great grandpa. Whether it was feeding horses, hauling hay, feeding the catfish in the ponds or collecting eggs from the chicken house, there was always stuff to be done. The evening was a family affair in the living room.
In the spring of 1996, Melvin passed away. People questioned how long Grandma would stick around. They’d been married nearly 56 years when he departed. All she knew was life with him, they said.
An amazing thing happened. Opal had a new beginning.
For the first time in my life, I started learning more about who she was as a person. For the first time in her life, she had complete independence.
Opal thrived. She was always busy. Every now and then I’d see her drive by in Claremore and it’d make me giggle. Looking back on it, she was in her late 70s, but it seemed even older. It was always so weird to me to see her away from her home unless it was at Golden Corral. (Note: She was really upset they recently closed the Claremore location.)
It was around that time I learned she had a job in town cleaning the house of RCB Bank owner Frank Robson. Turns out she had that job for more than three decades. I just never knew and she never talked about it. Turns out my great grandpa wasn’t too happy with her off working.
While I watched Opal change and become more comfortable with who she was, I learned the Hollywood image I had of her and my grandpa was untrue. As a child I always looked at them as the idyllic western couple living on the range. Over time she opened up about his anger issues and stubbornness. She told me she nearly left him once. If that’s true, I’d consider their marriage extremely successful.
I learned my grandpa was a very jealous man. When they got married, she stopped attending high school and was no longer allowed to go to basketball games.
“Melvin got so jealous of me having friends,” said Opal in our recent conversation. “I spoke to all the boys and girls. Well they was my friends. He thought I was flirting with them. (laughs) I wasn’t flirting with them. I don’t know what he thought was going to happen. I just wanted to go have fun.”
When asked why she never dated again after his death, she said she had no purpose for another man other than to help her do some heavy lifting.
During Thanksgivings I’d always be the one to make sure the TV had football on, and at Christmas, the NBA games on NBC.
It was at a Christmas gathering in the early 2000s that my grandma asked me what teams were playing on TV that day. I was caught off guard. She knew nothing about the NBA. It was then she told me she wished she could have watched it all those years, but she wasn’t allowed to watch it or boxing. She said she had started watching games and really enjoyed it.
I had found a basketball buddy. While I have always been a die hard Spurs fan, she enjoyed watching Kobe and the Lakers and her boys Dirk and Stevie on the Mavericks. She loved Steve Nash.
At the peak of the Spurs-Mavs rivalry, she once called me and said, “Hi Timmy, I was just calling to check on ya and see how you’re doing since the Spurs are about to lose to the Mavericks.”
The Spurs won. The next day I called her back and she said, “Well I guess everybody gets lucky every now and then.”
She became a huge OKC Thunder fan. When I visited with her a month ago, she was upset with Russell Westbrook for being injured. She was also getting tired of the 9 pm starts of west coast games, but she stayed up as late as she could to watch them. Her Thunder wall calendar featuring Westbrook hung on the wall by the kitchen table. Her Thunder beads by her bed.
I understood why she wasn’t allowed to watch those two sports. Growing up there were often racist jokes being tossed around. It was a joking jab for my grandpa to ask, “You invite your colored (or the n-word if we were outside) girlfriend?” It was a Christian household where no one cursed (unless it was a whisper), but the n-word was spoken with ease by certain men. The passing of my grandpa meant a transition to a more modern household. There were still some bad actors around, but Opal’s tolerance for hatred was squashed as soon as it started. She didn’t care what you looked like or who you loved as long as you were friendly.
During our conversation, we touched on race relations and how people acted throughout most her life. She said it was ignorance, and didn’t agree with it.
When talking about her birth year she said, “Born in 1921. The same year as the Tulsa Race Riot. I don’t remember it because I was just a baby, but that was an awful thing that happened.” (She was actually born a few months after it occurred, but I think it says something that it would stick in her mind, when she struggled with names of family members.)
We also discussed the evolution of women’s rights in her life. She was thrilled to see women having a stronger, louder voice and continuing to break barriers.
“They used to not be able to say nothin’,” Opal said. “I’m glad they can now. Men used to run over the women. It’s getting better.”
Once I got my driver’s license, I made sure I drove out to her house early for holiday celebrations. I’d get to spend more time with her and snack on all the good food. Most the time I’d hang around later until after everyone else left and keep talking to her. And eat more food. Then take a to-go plate.
It was during high school that she and I had a talk about my future. I was a sophomore going through a phase where I wanted to live out there and work the farm following graduation. I was an honors student, who loved going to school, but I also loved her land. I had just discovered Cormac McCarthy and his work “All the Pretty Horses,” which remains one of my favorite books. I wanted to be John Grady Cole. She wanted me to be Timmy Landes, college graduate.
She told me about how upset she was she never graduated high school. Probably her biggest regret. She spoke about never having the chance to go to college, but she had attended a one-week cooking course at Oklahoma A&M, and she wished she could have stayed and got a degree.
It was a huge deal for me to graduate high school. Neither of my parents had done it. She hadn’t done it. Following my graduation celebration, I broke down into tears when I hugged each of them. She squeezed me tight and told me how proud she was of me. I promised her that night we’d celebrate again.
After changing degree plans, taking a year off, going from Rogers State to OSU, I finally graduated. She was there for the ceremony in Gallagher-Iba Arena. Afterward, she told me it was one of her proudest days to see me become the first person in the family to earn my bachelor degree. A framed photo of us together following my graduation sat on a shelf by her bed for the final 12 years of her life.
At Christmas a decade ago, I learned she like to drink one shot of whiskey every morning for good health. Now at the time, I was often waking up with whiskey still on my breath. I couldn’t believe it.
Here was my angelic great grandma stashing bottles of Kentucky Deluxe in her kitchen. She had a cousin who brought her a handle every year on her birthday. The shot a day started with her dad, who used to do the same. Giddy with the most Christmas morning excitement I’d had since I got a Nintendo, my cousin Matthew and I rushed her to the kitchen to take a shot. She got so tickled about how excited we were to shoot whiskey with her before lunch. One of my favorite memories with her.
The day before she passed, we celebrated Thanksgiving for a final time at her house. The hospice nurse said she had 24-48 hours left. She was in bed. In and out of consciousness. She rambled some, but still knew who I was when I sat beside her. We talked about random things. I informed her the Thunder had beat the Warriors the night before and that made her smile. She gripped my hand tight, occasionally squeezing it. She was so happy to once again have most the family at her house in celebration. Again, I stuck around late until after everyone left to get more time with her. The next day, Nov. 23, 2018, she departed.
I agreed to speak at her memorial service. Before it started, a Cherokee Nation tribal councilor presented a blanket to my great aunt as a token of gratitude. I had a script in hand that mentioned her love of her tribe, but that was the extent of it.
When I began speaking into the microphone, I was shocked to hear how unsteady my voice was. Where was the confidence I usually had when doing public speaking? I tried to calm my nerves as I spoke. I looked out at the crowd of people and saw many familiar faces of family and friends. Some I hadn’t seen in decades. Everyone was older.
My notes talked about some of the above things, including how I wrote about her life to get my job with Cherokee Nation Businesses. I had planned to mention she had a great love for the tribe.
What suddenly exploded in my brain was how profoundly she had impacted my life. I knew her love of newspapers had an influence on me, as did her love of history. What I didn’t realize until I was standing at the podium talking was how she had been with me on so many of my job assignments. When I’d go out and talk to Cherokees for stories, I’d often mention grandma’s house repair or the services she received. It gave me an opportunity to relate to them. It was one of those things I’d just rattle off to break the ice.
When I started writing for Tulsa People, my first assignment was people in their 80s and 90s who still work. At each interview we had talked about my grandma. I really enjoy talking to elderly people about life. It all started with Opal. For more than a decade, she contributed to a lot of what I wrote. I was told after the service that she read all my Tulsa People stories and really enjoyed them. She also used to read all my O’Colly stories even though she didn’t care about any of the sports but basketball.
I don’t know if I did a good job connecting the dots in my speech. I don’t remember anything but talking about how big of a deal it was for me to get a photo of her with the chief in the Claremore Progress because I knew how thrilled she’d be to see herself in the paper. I remember thanking the tribe and one other thing I said. It went something along the lines of “My grandma Opal was Cherokee Nation. She was Rogers County. She was Green Country. She was Oklahoma.”
What I meant by that is she was the embodiment of our state’s history. She was a bridge that connected us to our past. For the rest of my life when I think about my hometown or Rogers County, it will always be known as Opal Land.
To many, she was a throwback to a simpler time, but in the moment I’m sure it was tough. She raised a family with sweat and pride. She never had much material things, but she never needed it.
As long as there was love, she was beyond content. She was always so peaceful and happy.
I’ll miss her laughter. I’ll miss her stories. I’ll continue to do what I can to make her proud and continue to work hard to ensure all her’s paid off.
Opal was an incredible woman, and I’m so grateful I had her in my life.
In my darkest moments I’ve always transported my mind to my happy place, which is sitting on her front porch, gliding back and forth on her porch swing. The wind chimes jingling nearby. Looking out to the prairie where the horses are moving about. I’ve traveled back to that place hundreds of times over the years.
As the sun set on the day we talked about her life, Opal looked out the window and watched it drop behind the hills.
Her gaze left the window as she turned to look at me, smiled, patted my hand and said, “They’re memories. That’s all. But they’re good memories.”