The Harris invasion

Thursday, June 6, 2002

Gloria Masoner, City Editor

Gloria Masoner

My dad stopped by the other day to ask if Brad and I wanted to get deer licenses for the November rifle season.

Brad gave an enthusiastic reply and asked my dad what he needed to get on the Internet and get the licenses.

"Well," said my dad, digging his own license out of his pocket and looking at the information, "You need eyes, hair, height..."

"Boy Brad," I interrupted, "You'd better go hunting this year. You may not have any hair next year."

I've been told by several people that I really need to get past the whole remodeling project thing, so I've decided to move on and ignore the fact that Brad has done an excellent job of kicking it into high gear and getting things done.

I can finally say we're about two weeks away from getting everything wrapped up. It's too bad family from Oklahoma, California, Washington, Kansas, Texas, Colorado and Ohio will be showing up tomorrow.

My mom told me she'd be glad when everyone got here and she could stop cleaning. She said she was really looking forward to her nervous breakdown next week. I asked her if we could share a room in the mental institution.

My mom, Lucile (Harris) Banzhaf, (I don't dare use the name my grandmother gave her or she'll hunt me down and hurt me) grew up in Idabel, Okla., with three sisters and nine brothers. My dad was a Nebraska-fed farm boy from the Cambridge area who had decided to spread his wings and fly the coop.

At the time they met, he was working for a company building electrical lines through Oklahoma.

It didn't take them long to realize they wanted to spend their lives together, and instead of risking the wrath of my grandmother, they escaped to Oklahoma City and eloped.

Shortly after, my dad brought my mom home to Nebraska.

Throughout my youth, our yearly two-week vacations consisted of trips to Grandpa and Grandma's house. Our days were spent going to the pond to go fishing, enjoying a swim at Beaver's Bend or sitting in Grandpa's "Parlor" and visiting through the heat of the afternoon and well into the cool of the evening. The "Parlor" was an umbrella of huge old pine trees sitting in the front yard of their ramshackle house. Grandpa kept his guests entertained throughout the day with stories of his work on the Oklahoma State Experiment Farm, which is also where he found a way to keep 15 hungry mouths fed.

Of course with a little prodding, Grandpa would pull out his harmonica and play a few tunes, including "Orange Blossom Special." Uncle David would get into the action with a rousing rendition of "Jeremiah was a Bullfrog," and the Harris Family Choir would burst into a medley of hymns.

When the evening was over, we'd pile into the house and the tents scattered around the yard to get a peaceful night's sleep.

In the morning, we'd awake to the smell of eggs, bacon and sausage, biscuits and homemade blackberry jam, as grandma prepared a feast for the hordes which had descended on her humble abode. Obviously, cholesterol was not an issue at that time.

The summers in Southeast Oklahoma are unbelievably humid. I never could figure out why we couldn't spend the holidays down there instead of going when the trees actually broke a sweat.

It sounds like we'll be welcoming them with the same oppressive heat this year. How's that for getting even?

This weekend the Harris clan will celebrate its family ties. The absence of Grandpa and Grandma, Linda, Steve, William and Eva, Hiram, and Franklin and Wilma and their son David will be strongly felt. They can only be with us in spirit but those remaining will continue with the traditions of the Harris Family gathering.