Remembering my folk's grease can

        I miss my folks and often think of them and the impact they had on my life.
        That was the case on Mother’s Day.
        I grew up in a two-bedroom one-bath home in the Florence Park neighborhood about five miles from downtown Tulsa.
        We had a wooden white trellis on the northside of our home.
       My mom grew roses on the trellis that often grew on to the metal fencing that surrounded our backyard.
      Every Mother’s and Father’s Days, she’d pick freshly-grown roses and we’d all wear them to church.
      She and my dad wore one color in honor of their folks and by brother, Tom, and I wore a different color.
       Our home featured a fake chimney. 
      My folks built a round raised flower bed in the early 1970s in front of the chimney. They put a large round fencepost in the middle. They got some old hay rake tines and attached them to the top of the post and hung small potted plants on them.
      While they were digging, they found an old spoon in the dirt. I never did like that spoon and would not use it to eat. It was ugly and old. I finally resorted to using it in our kitchen grease container.
      Being from the south, we had a grease container on the stove. It was a small aluminum container not much bigger than a sauce pan. It had a strainer in it and a lid.
      Mom cooked lots bacon, fish, fried chicken, fried okra and potatoes for supper. We used lots of grease and when she was done, she’d pour the used grease into the grease container.
      I used that spoon to dip up bacon grease if I needed a spoonful or two for cooking fried potatoes or some pork chops. I used bacon grease a lot more than cooking oil.
     Some years later, my brother and his wife found the spoon in the kitchen drawer and framed it for me. I still have it and I still don’t use it.
      When the grease container got full, we’d pour it in a used oil container and wash it in the dishwasher.
      I used to house sit for friends. On more than one occasion, I stayed at the apartment of friends, John and Sandy. They were from Southern California and had moved to Tulsa in the early 1980s.
       I met John while throwing The Tulsa World newspaper after losing my job. We hit it off and became friends.
    One evening while staying at their apartment, I cooked a couple bacon sandwiches. I started looking for a grease container and found what I thought was one. It wasn’t
       It happened to be a kitchen utensil container.
       I poured the grease in there and left it on the stove.
      When they got home, I got a call from Sandy about finding grease in her utensil container.
I thought everyone had a grease container.
        My dad spent hours outside pulling weeds and tending to his small garden out back.
       The driveways between our neighbor, Mr. and Mrs. Watson, to the south and our house were quite narrow the closer it got from our detached garages and the street. 
       Mr. Watson drove a big Ford LTD and when he would back down the driveway, he’d inch over in to the grass, making a big mud hole.
        My dad spent hours patching and watering that mud hole.
        I think Mr. Watson was oblivious to driving in the grass and the mud hole.
       I was quite young and my dad warned me about riding my bicycle through his mud hole.   Young Mr. Parker paid no attention and soon found what pushed my dad’s buttons.
        I got a good spanking and I never did that again.
        I had a large club house in the attic of our garage. I had carpet sample pieces that I nailed to the floor. I got them out the dumpster at the neighborhood carpet store. I also had a bean bag chair and a cot in my clubhouse.
       I had lights and a fan and would go up there to take a nap and on occasion, a friend would come over and hang out.
       Lots of great memories.
     Anytime I make the trek to Tulsa, I always enjoy driving by my boyhood home and reflecting on the good old days of grease cans, my clubhouse and mud holes. 
       Have a great week and always remember that “Good Things are Happening,” every day.