Topeka Metro-News
December 20, 2002

It’s only about 275 miles from Borger, Texas, to Oklahoma City, and the logical way to make the trip is to drive. It’s true today, just as it was in 1948, when I was a hot-shot sportswriter-police reporter-obituary writer for the Borger News-Herald, thinking about going home to Oklahoma for Christmas.

Driving was a scary option. For one thing, my car was a pre-war Pontiac, one of the last to roll off the assembly line before the factory was converted to tank or truck production, or whatever. You could say it wasn’t ready for the open road, since it had a radiator leak, an oil leak, a cranky transmission and slick tires.

Then, there was the weather, always pretty unpredictable in the winter in West Texas. I had been with the paper only a year, but already had been caught in two blizzards, which forced me to spend one night in a 24-hour cafe, and another in the showroom of a John Deere dealer in the town of White Deer.

So, driving was out., and the next option was the bus. I could board one in Borger, change buses in Amarillo, and cruise right into Oklahoma City.

But there was something about the bus that bothered me. This would be my first trip home for Christmas since I’d finished college and embarked on a full-time job, And I wanted to make an impressive return.

I wanted to surprise the whole family, particularly my two brothers, by going home surrounded by the sweet smell of success. I wanted my mom and dad, those two older brothers, my aunts, uncles, cousins, and all the rest to take one look at me and say, “He must be doing all right.”

It was my Uncle Bill Garthoeffner who gave me the idea of how to make it all work. I had written home, saying I probably wouldn’t get there for Christmas because of work, bad weather, and what have you. Uncle Bill heard about this and called me.

He was a pilot who owned a plane, and he said he’d come and pick me up, but it would depend on the weather. He pointed out what I already knew – that it could quickly discourage even bold pilots of small planes from leaving the ground. Then he mentioned something I never would have thought about.

He suggested I fly Braniff Airlines from Amarillo to Oklahoma City round trip, assuring me it wouldn’t cost too much. I immediately was so taken by the idea that I didn’t care what it would cost. I was determined to fly home.

It would be the supreme ego trip, something that average folks did rarely, if ever. It would stun most of the family, and even gain me more respect from Uncle Bill and my middle brother, who was also a pilot. It would be my first flight on a commercial airliner, And the timing was perfect.

So, made the reservation, and later coaxed my shaky car the 45 miles to Amarillo. I had to trust it, because I had to fly home.

I was sitting in the Amarillo terminal when a Braniff DC-3 pulled up, and when fellow passengers went out to board it, I followed nonchalantly and took a seat. Then, I suffered the humiliation of hearing an announcement saying, “Any one not going to Dallas should deplane now.” I felt like Clem Kadiddlehopper.

Eventually, I was on the right plane and flew into Oklahoma City. There were two cars of family and relatives there to meet me, and when they asked if I had a nice trip, I replied casually, “A little bumpy.” Real cool.

For the rest of my stay, I was asked by others if I drove or rode the bus home, and I took great pleasure in saying, “I flew.” I can still see the expressions on some of those faces.

When I left, there was a nice crowd to see me off from the Oklahoma City airport, and I said to myself, this was my best Christmas ever.

It was getting dark and snowing when we landed in Amarillo, but my car surprised me by starting, and I began the drive back to Borger. An hour later, the bottom had dropped out of Merry Christmas. I was stuck in bumper-deep snow on a desolate stretch of road about 10 miles from the nearest town, Fritch.

I was resigning myself to a Siberian death when my guardian angel, disguised as a man driving a road grader, showed up. Now, my car wouldn’t start. So, the man took me home with him. And no, There was no spare bedroom, and no farmer’s daughter. I slept in a chair.

I got to Borger late the next afternoon, and when I pondered how broke I’d be for the next couple of months, and weighed it against my grand return home, I thought, “Christmas. Bah. Humbug.” I should have hitchhiked.