Killers of the Flower Moon -- Book Review

On April 17, 2017, I was listening to NPR's 'Fresh Air' with Terry Gross. She was interviewing David Grann about his new book Killers of the Flower Moon, scheduled for release the next day. (To read a transcript of that interview click Killers of the Flower Moon.)

I am from Oklahoma and all public school students get one semester of Oklahoma History in the 9th Grade. I had my one semester. It not only didn't cover all the 'good' stories about Oklahoma, it certainly didn't cover any of the 'bad' stories about Oklahoma.

When I was well out of school and working for the Oklahoma Welfare Department in Logan County, I had the great good fortune of working with a woman from Marshall, Oklahoma, a very small town in the northern part of the county. She had long known a woman named Angie Debo who received her Ph.D. in history from the University of Oklahoma in 1933. Dr. Debo had been writing articles and books on the treatment of Native Americans by local, state, and federal governments. She named names many of whom were still living, which drew the ire of the powers that were and attracted death threats. 

Dr. Debo's books focused on mistreatment of the so-called Five Civilized Tribes -- the Cherokee, Choctaw, Chickasaw, Creek, and Seminole who had been forcibly moved from the Southeast United States to Oklahoma Territory pre-Civil War. But I knew some of her journalism dealt with the Osage. So I knew a bit about the Osage murders.

I had long entertained the possibility of writing a biography of Dr. Debo. The idea that someone else was writing about those days in Oklahoma and naming names, got my attention. I went right home and ordered David Grann's book, Killers of the Flower Moon. And it did not disappoint. 

Killers of the Flower Moon takes on the situation in the Osage Nation in the 1920's. 

Because the Osage were living in a nation of law, they were, in a way, much better off than most of the Native Americans who had been moved into Indian Territory. The Osage sold their lands in Kansas to the U.S. Government and they bought their lands in Oklahoma. That means there were deeds involved. Not treaties with highfalutin language that was so nonspecific that it could be twisted to fit whatever the U.S. Government wanted it to mean. The surface rights to the land were divvied up among members of the tribe and could be sold, but mineral rights were reserved to the tribe and could not be transferred except by inheritance.

As of 2017 this still means "The Osage Tribe owns all mineral rights located within Osage County and has an income from all oil and gas found in Osage County." according to the Osage Minerals Council. 

Oil was discovered and the Osage became the richest people on earth. Wikipedia says "From 1921-1925 an estimated 60 Osage were killed, and most murders were not solved."

Because local law enforcement was either unwilling or unable to deal with the situation and because it was gaining national notoriety, the nascent Federal Bureau of Investigation was brought in to it. In 1924 J. Edgar Hoover was named director. He came in determined to make the FBI a modern, national police force, free of corruption. The investigation of the Osage murders was "to be a showcase for his bureau." (Grann) 

He assigned a former Texas Ranger to lead the investigation. Tom White was an exemplar of the Old West Hero. Honest, fearless, compassionate. Grann couldn't have invented a better character for the hero.

When I heard they're making a movie of the story, I couldn't imagine why. I was looking at it as history, nonfiction which normally limits entertainment interests. My husband pointed out that it was a perfect Hollywood story -- super wealthy victims, shootings, bombings, poisonings, throwing witnesses off of trains; corruption in high places, and low ones; tall, good-looking FBI agents unraveling the conspiracies -- of course it's perfect for Hollywood.

The same day I heard the interview on NPR an article by Sean Woods in Rolling Stone (April 17, 2017) described Tom White "... born in a log cabin, policing the frontier at a time when justice was pretty raw. There's a picture for me that's so amazing: White's got a cowboy hat, he's riding a horse, and he's got a gun. In a later picture, you see him with a fedora, he's trying to use fingerprints and he's got to file paperwork, which I just always love, because he clearly hated the paperwork." Referring to photographs in the book.

"EXCLUSIVE: In a stunning end to the biggest and wildest book rights auction in memory, Imperative Entertainment has paid $5 million and won the rights to make a movie out of David Grann’s book Killers Of The Flower Moon: An American Crime And The Birth Of The FBI, which Doubleday is publishing next spring." So said Mike Fleming Jr., March 10, 2016, more than a year before the book was published, on deadline.com an online entertainment rag. 

IMDb names  Director: Martin Scorsese; Writers: David Grann (novel), Eric Roth; and Star: Leonardo DiCaprio. Pretty impressive names.

You know, any time a writer cashes in this big, it makes me happy, regardless of Hollywood's dismal record of handling really good books.

Here's hoping the movie is as good as the book.

Forty-one Years Ago -- Flash Fiction

image from Pond5

I knew this morning when I woke up. I understood. Forty-one years ago the world came to be when I held up my hand and blocked the sun. It disappeared. For that moment, the sun didn't exist. That was my first memory. Before that moment of knowing, nothing existed.

I've been told or I've read that the world is billions of years old. Or 6,000 years. Some say we landed men on the moon and there was a great earth quake in San Francisco more than a hundred years ago. I've seen both events or representations of them on TV. And I've seen planes fly into the World Trade Center buildings many times, maybe hundreds of times, also on TV.

I cannot, from my own experience, say that any of that is real. But I can say, from that moment of knowing forty-one years ago to this morning, the world  is real. Because I was there then, and I am here now.

When Grandpa was alive, I watched Matt Dillon shoot a new bad guy at the end of every Gunsmoke rerun. Somewhere along the line, I understood that Matt Dillon wasn't real and didn't really shoot those men.

I did, however, believe the things that knowledgeable people told me. Or that they wrote in books or video-documented. Their reasoning seemed sound. It gave me something to believe. To understand how things worked, how they got here. Why I was here. What the point of my being must be.

I would grow up, get married, have babies, raise those children, become a grandmother, and always learn. Become who I was meant to be. Learn what was real.


Charlie sprang full grown and twenty-six years old when I met him. Though a man, my own Athena. wore full armor -- a three-piece suit, a striped tie, and nice leather shoes. He came to my booth at the Downtown Art Festival. Before that, he did not exist. Not as a baby or teenager. Not even the night before that morning. But I saw him every morning for the next ten days of the art show.

Our nods became hellos and then lunches. When he laughed, he'd throw his head back and laugh out loud. His laugh attracted attention and made people smile. When he told me things, he made me see them as he described them. Sometimes I saw them before he described them.

He looked at me when he listened to me talk. He knew the stories I painted without me having to explain them. Why my skies were yellow ocher, trees had faces, and why snow flakes fell in the desert.

But I know now, that none of that existed when we were not together. He was only the bits and snatches that occurred when we were together.

At night as he slept beside me, he was real while I listened to him breathe. But when I slept, he ceased to exist. I would wake, joyous to find him there. Real again.

He gave me two babies. Now that I think about them, I understand how real they were at first when they were always with me. Then they became strobe light flashes. Eager faces anticipating a cookie, a first date, a graduation, a baby of their own. Or the light shown for a moment on broken hearted tragedy. A dropped ice cream cone, a lost love, a failed campaign.

Sometimes when I see them now and they are again real for the moment, I wonder who they've become, who I've become.

I went to bed last night. I didn't hear Charlie's breathing. I knew when I woke this morning that he wouldn't be there.

I thought about the world. What I know first-hand about it and when, I know for a fact, it came to be. Forty-one years ago when I held up my hand and blocked the sun.

Light filtered between the blinds. The dog wanted out. The children, now no longer children, would be here at 10:00 to help make arrangements.

The world still exists. It is real. At least for a while longer.

The Walking Group's Field Trip -- nonfiction

Several years ago a couple of people who participated in a class sponsored by the Consortium for Older Adult Wellness started a walking group. Since then more and more people have joined the walks. Most are active at one or more of Lakewood's four rec centers and most are senior citizens, though that is not a prerequisite.

The walking group is very free-form. Not everyone walks every time. Most of the time we walk at one of Lakewood's more than 200 parks. We do keep our walks to easy terrain because we have all levels of fitness in the group. Probably the biggest difference between our walking group and others is our penchant for coffee and treats at local coffee and bakery establishments.

We don't claim to be a weight-loss program or even a fitness program. It is an opportunity for us to get together with really nice people from different backgrounds and different parts of the country and, indeed, the world. And, of course, we use the après-walk visit to solve the world's problems.

Occasionally we take field trips to local areas of interest. Last Thursday we visited Hudson Gardens.

Hudson Gardens and Event Center is a 30-acre non-profit botanical gardens located along the bank of the South Platte River, in Littleton, the next town south of Lakewood. Walking there is free to the public. They have concerts on an extensive lawn during the summer, rent facilities for weddings and other private events. They host a big beer festival in September, and decorate for holidays from fireworks for Fourth of July to lights for Christmas.

Originally developed in 1941 as the private gardens of Colonel King C. and Evelyn Leigh Hudson.  The gardens contain varied grounds ranging from high, dry prairie to river wetlands, featuring plants that thrive in the dry Colorado climate.

  

The rose gardens are a joy from June through late summer.

This time of year, the pumpkin patch is very popular. They also have raised beds of kitchen garden veggies -- green beans, squash, tomatoes, cucumbers, radishes, etc. 

The big surprises for me were the varieties of sunflowers.

Colorado grows sunflowers in fields, like wheat or corn so I'm used to seeing the standard commercial sunflowers they grow for seeds. The fields in Eastern Colorado are actually quite beautiful and the flowers follow the sun just like the sunflowers we grow in our flower beds.

But these sunflowers come in all kinds of colors. Like these on the right. They're colored more like Indian Paint Brush, but of course they're much larger. 

And below are little white ones nestled in among the more standard yellow ones.

                  And, of course, the bees like them, too.

Then there are the water features. Because Colorado east of the Rockies is in the High Plains Desert, water is a limited resource. There are books written about it. There have been pitched battles fought over it -- both in court and with guns. So water, any water is appreciated and celebrated. 

That's Rich. He's the mainstay of the walking group. 

He hardly ever misses a walk and often comes up with

wonderful suggestions -- like Hudson Gardens.

For our après-walk it was Lucile's Creole Cafe for brunch. I get to take credit for this choice. Lucile's is my favorite restaurant in Colorado. But, then of course, I love Louisiana food and they do it pretty much right.

My place at the table -- beignets, fruit, and coffee. No, I didn't eat all those beignets myself. I shared.

The first time I had a beignet, I didn't see what the big deal was. The next morning I had one and it was pretty good. The third morning I HAD to have one.

This was us. Not all of us could be there for the walk that day, but for those who missed it and for those who didn't, we'll do it again. Laissez les bon temps rouler, y'all.

The Library! -- Nonfiction

"She's got a ticket to ride"

Now you have an ear worm! But aren't you glad it's the Beatles and not a Christmas commercial jingle?

A ticket for the light rail into Denver. I do love the light rail. Please note the $2.60 cost of a round trip ticket. That's cheaper than the cost of gas to get me into the city then home again -- not to mention $10 or $15 to park.

A friend from my walking group suggested that I visit the Denver Public Library, especially the floor that has maps, art, and genealogy. So last week, my daughter Grace and I went downtown.

I've lived here almost six years and had not yet visited the DPL. Grace went the first week she lived here, and there happened to be a book sale going on. Two bags full of books later and she was already helping support it. Yep, she was raised right.

We live in Jefferson County so I'm a regular at the Belmar Library, one of ten Jeffco library branches. The Denver Public Library has 25 branches. And, as a resident of the State of Colorado, I qualify for a library card there, too. So many places to get books and movies and music, oh my. And all for free.

We took the light rail down to Union Station which just happens to be across the street from Zoës Kitchen. Yes, lunch!

               

Where the food is good, the prices are right, and there's plenty of
indoor and outdoor dining space. Plus the wait staff are friendly and courteous.

Then a ride on the Free Mall Bus to the end of the line and a walk through Civic Center Park.

Food trucks and tables and chairs. We could have eaten in the park.
Oh well, maybe next time.

From this photo it's hard to tell how well-used Civic Center Park is.  

But there were lots of people of all ages. Some walking  and enjoying the green, 

some sleeping, some just hanging out. The umbrella was to protect this lady from the sun. 

There was no rain.

The Denver Public Library

The Denver Public Library began in 1884 as the Chamber of Commerce Library. The directors of the local Chamber of Commerce voted "that a room be set apart" in the Chamber of Commerce building. It was supported entirely by the Chamber of Commerce with an initial $15,000 for the purchase of books. Maintained without outside assistance until 1891, the Denver City Council then appropriated $5,000 to $8,000 per year for its support although it did not become a city institution until 1898.

John Cotton Dana was Denver's first Librarian. He directed the Denver Public Library from 1889 to 1898 He led the way for open stacks, allowing patrons to browse for themselves instead of library staff intervening for every request. Dana established the first-ever in the United States a collection devoted solely to children's literature.

The library went through several iterations and buildings including the standard Carnegie Greek Revival building from 1910 to 1955. Then to the Burnham Hoyt Building which was named to the National Register of Historic Places in 1990. And finally with additions and redesigns by architect Michael Graves we have today's building.

Filled with books, music, movies, computer access, maps, research materials, artwork and peaceful places to read, hold meetings, and sleep, if that's what you need to do.

The art starts right out front with this demi-wall of tiles of books.

   

                                       
And a window of post-it art --  Anime's Totoro and the internet's Nyancat ("Nyan" is how cats say "meow" in Japanese. I don't think my Kočka is civilized enough to learn Japanese. I wonder how cats say "bite" in Japan....)                                                  






The library is so big, there was no reason to attempt a casual walk-through. We went straight up to the fifth floor.

The Fifth Floor lobby has a wonderful exhibit of black and white photos taken by Dana EchoHawk of the San Luis Valley in southern Colorado.

In the stacks are family genealogy books, alphabetical by family name, and plenty of computer stations where online research is available.



There are murals by artists commissioned by the The Federal Art Project (1935–43) of the Works Progress Administration, part of Franklin D. Roosevelt's New Deal. Artists were paid $23.60 a week by the government. Tax-supported patrons and institutions provided the artist's materials. They made it through the Great Depression and we benefit from it to this day.

Frank Mechau's Horses at Night 

In the smaller rooms opening off the Gates Reading Room there are maps on the walls and in flat files. There are tables where you can lay them out and look at them to your heart's content.

The Gates Reading Room is dominated by an odd construction, a stylized oil derrick. Art for Art's Sake, I suppose. The very pleasant byproduct of this piece of art is that the room is open and light.

And there is space to hang the current exhibit of quilts

 by members of the Colorado Quilting Council

Ending our very pleasant library visit we walked back along the mall and met Grace's fiancé, Bob for "refreshments." Refreshments is a low-calorie was to say brownies and tea.

Sixteenth Street Mall is an entertainment in itself. There are street musicians and, in fact, there are pianos there all the time so anybody can play. Some better than others, but all, safe-to-say, can play better than I. 

Then back on the train and home in time for dinner.

ACK! FLEAS!!! -- Nonfiction

Kočka

Isn't it enough that I live in my beautiful United States while the White House is infested? Now my beautiful Colorado is infested. FLEAS!!!!

It'll be six years this Christmas that I've lived here. Never until today have I seen a tick or a flea. We've had dogs here. We've had cats. We've had fish and a snake. So, okay. Fish and snakes don't get fleas. But none of our other animals have either. Until today.

The dogs didn't have fleas last night. I'm sure. I held them. I brushed them. I did not see fleas.

This evening as we watched BBC America with its sort-of-good-news that North Korea isn't going to bomb Guam today. And its really bad news that *rump has had oral diarrhea yet again telling us that there were "fine" people carrying those Nazi swastika flags and those Army of Northern Virginia battle flags in Charlottesville, Virginia. Let me think. The former was disbanded forcibly May 8, 1945, and the latter disbanded equally forcibly April 9, 1865. I have to remind myself that this is August 15, 2017.

And my dogs have fleas. I discovered them first on Lily. Scott checked. Yes, they were fleas. He checked Cooper. Cooper had fleas, too. Then he snatched up Kočka. Kočka, who does not like to be held or petted or touched by humans, did NOT have fleas. Kočka immediately fled the area. We found him in the office taking refuge behind my chair. (See photo above.)

Where did they get fleas? From the little pocket mice who live in the roots of the pine tree at the edge of the patio? Bubonic Plague is endemic to Colorado. Yes, that Bubonic Plague that killed millions of humans during the Middle Ages. It's carried by rodent fleas. Scott does not believe our dogs have rodent fleas. He thinks the dogs have the most common kind of flea -- the cat flea. Which our cat does not have. Trust a veterinarian to recognize the subtle differences in fleas.

The Good Doctor thinks it likely that neighborhood dogs are to blame. Who knows where those other dogs have been? Kočka's never been outside. But he'll get those fleas from our dogs. 

This is not to make light of the world's problems or my country's problems. It's just the straw....

This is, however, a straw I can do something about. I jumped in the car and headed to Pet Smart. Yes, my beautiful Colorado has fleas and rush hour traffic. Those other drivers are crazy. I wasn't even on any freeways. It was like a NASCAR race -- cars dodging in and out, hurrying through yellow/red lights. Heaven forfend that anyone should get ahead of anyone else.

Then and then and then, it was home finally, with the preferred flea treatment.

Cooper, normally the more docile of the two dogs, struggled mightily, but I held on tight as Scott applied the premeasured dose for dogs five to twenty-two pounds. Thank goodness, he doesn't weigh the full twenty-two pounds yet.

Lily was a good deal easier. And Kočka? 

Kočka was at the back of the top shelf of the tall book shelves in the office. I could barely reach him. Kočka bites. It was only yesterday that he brought the blood on me because I wouldn't let him play with the tie on my robe, I told the Doc to have the little vial open and ready to apply when I got the cat down.

Kočka was a perfect gentleman. He did not fight me. He did not bite me. He didn't call me ugly cat-names.

Now, if the rest of the world would behave so well as Kočka did on this one occasion, perhaps we'd have fewer infestations of unwanted pests.

Crown Hill Walk -- nonfiction

Here I am on the trail again. 

This time the walking group visited Crown Hill Park, a Jefferson County Open Space. The 242 acre park is fifteen minutes from my house. It has 9.5 miles of natural surface and paved trails, including 1.2 miles of paved trail around Crown Hill Lake. In the northwest corner of the park is Kestrel Pond, a certified National Urban Wildlife Refuge.

This truly is an urban wildlife refuge. The park sits on the border between Lakewood and Wheat Ridge, Colorado, in the midst of a human population estimated at almost 156,000.

Wheat Ridge High School is just beyond the northern limits of the park. In the background you can see the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. The haze is from wild fires in the Pacific Northwest, some more than a thousand miles away. The jet stream (one of several upper air currents around the Earth) flowing from west to east carries the smoke across the mountains. The smoke then settles south along the east side of the Rockies compromising our mountain views and our air quality.

A gentleman just coming out of the wildlife part of the park, alerted us to the presence of a deer and her twin fawns ahead. The Mule Deer doe calmly grazed in the meadow as we walked past. In the background you can see electric lines, and just beyond the trees is Wheat Ridge High School and the rest of the city.

  

Kestrel Pond is fenced so that it can be closed to humans during nesting season. This spring  it was closed for the early days of these two fawns' lives.

More a wetlands, than a pond, Kestrel Pond is home to migratory water birds and shore birds.

In addition to the Canada Geese on the bigger lake, we saw these on Kestrel Pond. The bird in the upper left is a Killdeer. The two larger birds are American Avocets and the little brown bird is a Sandpiper.

Not to be outdone by the fauna in the wildlife refuge, the flora is abundant this time of year including a plant I did not recognize.

This is the Arrowhead plant, also known as Indian potato. According to the United States Department of Agriculture Forest Service the Indian potato or Wapato (Sagittaria cuneata) is common and widespread from eastern Alaska east to Newfoundland and south to Texas. The tubers have a potato-like texture but more the flavor of water chestnuts when boiled or roasted to remove their slightly bitter taste when raw. Arrowhead tubers grow in muddy soil underwater and were harvested by Indians using sticks or with their bare feet (once freed, the tubers float to the surface to be gathered).

None of us knew of their special properties, though I doubt any of us were inclined to squish around barefoot in the mud to harvest them.

Another plant new to me is the Red Smartweed -- apparently an invasive species that's hard to kill out, but very pretty with its bright fuchsia colored flowers.





I love living here. Here I am in the midst of suburbia complete with decent public transportation, excellent medical facilities, ample shopping, and world-class entertainment venues and still have the natural world practically outside my front door.

Help -- Flash Fiction

"Mister?" she called.

He didn't answer.

He couldn't hear her. Too many cars sped past her on the bridge. The noise drowned out her voice and the wind dragged her hair in its wake. Why didn't they stop? Couldn't they see? He needed help.

She'd been there herself. Once. Three years ago. Or was it last year? Or yesterday? Someone had stopped then. To help.

"Please." She leaned out over the railing. "Don't jump!"

They were so high. Her stomach felt hollow. She could feel herself falling. She clutched the railing. All she could see was the top of his head. He seemed intent on the rapids far below them. She had to do something.

"Hey, Mister?" She climbed up on the bottom rung of the railing. She hated heights.

She saw him let go with one hand and lean away from the rigging.

"Mister," She willed him to look up.

He didn't.

The rapids. "Oh, God." Three, maybe four stories below them. She had to get to him. She crawled over the rail keeping her body against it, its chill seeping through her shirt and jeans, her belt buckle scraping against the metal. With her right foot she reached for the narrow ledge. Too narrow for her whole foot. It would have to do.

"Mister. Don't." She moved down to a beam. First her left foot. Then her right. She wrapped both arms around the slanted metal brace. The rumble of traffic and the roar of her own blood filled her ears, pounded through her body. She had to get to him.

"Hey!" she yelled.

He looked up. Squatting there, on the second beam down, he looked up. Thank God, he looked up.

His eyes wide with surprise, he spoke, but she couldn't hear him.

"What?" she shouted.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Please, don't jump."

His brows arched high above his eyes, then furrowed deep into a vee. His eyes narrowed to little more than slits.

"Dammit, Lady. You think I'm a suicide?" He put something into his shirt pocket. "You be still. I'm gonna climb up to you."

She couldn't breathe. She pressed her face against the metal brace and waited.

He hunkered on the beam behind the brace she clung to and touched her shoulder. She was afraid to move her face away from the metal. Afraid to move. Afraid to look at him.

"Aw, Lady." He brushed her hair away from her face. "This wasn't suicide." He pulled something from his pocket. A tiny gold locket on the finest of chains. "This was my wife's. I meant to throw it in the river, but it got hung up." He put it back in his pocket and waited.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Sorry about that woman I married? Sorry, you came to help? Or sorry you're dangling out here over the river, shaking like a leaf?"

He helped her let go. "You're gonna climb back up now."

He grasped her belt as she reached up the brace toward the ledge. "I've got you. You won't fall."

He put his face next to hers and said just loud enough to be heard over the river and the traffic, "I do appreciate the help."


This story was inspired by the 2017 NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Competition. We writers were each placed in one of eighty groups and assigned to write a story of 1,000 or fewer words in a genre, a location, and including an object. I have previously posted my submission. This assignment was for a group not my own -- genre, romance; location, a bridge; the object, a locket. This story comes in at 537 words.