Dumpster distress update

I brought my Dumpster fight to the City Council this week. I was darn nervous, being used to the other side of the microphone (listening, not speaking.)

Sigh. Council members seemed receptive, but when someone makes an emotional plea to them -- they always look receptive. I know them too well, having reported on the city beat for four years. Getting ordinances through moves at a snail's pace. I think eventually something will get done, but it won't be during our near triple-digit heat that ratchets up the whole smelly problem.

I think it went OK. I received some assurances that the council is working on my problem of having a Dumpster located 7 1/2 feet from my kitchen window adjacent to the too tall 30-unit, three-story Campus Station apartments. Vanguard manages the property for the Vern Hagen Revocable Living Trust, which reportedly is out of Colorado.

Earlier Tuesday, sanitation director Scottie Williams called and asked if I might be interested in mediation between me and the apartment complex management that insists their Dumpster be placed under my kitchen window. I told him I'd be happy to sit down and talk. It's my understanding that mediation is supposed to work both sides into a compromise. What can I even compromise on? The Dumpster needs to be moved to a less impactful portion of their rather large, overly paved lot. Period. There are plenty of options. They just need to choose one. Away from me.

The interesting thing is that to locate the Dumpster by my kitchen window, it's so far away from the apartments that according to city sanitation personnel, its residents are more likely to dump their trash in the Keys Apartment Dumpster, which is next door and closer. I guess I should be happy about that.

Norman's Council Oversight Committee is considering an ordinance with my proposals for setbacks for Dumpsters from residential neighbors. Also, they're considering changing the fence ordinances to help protect said residential neighbors.

But because this apartment complex has been around for awhile (1990 or so), it's quite possible it would be grandfathered, which leaves me in the same stinky place I was in before.

I feel like the apartment management has been trying mightily to force me out of my family's cute little house that's in such a lovely place close to Campus Corner. I'm trying to decide if I have the emotional energy to fight them and wait them out. I'm wondering if I'm always going to have problems with those apartments.

What they probably don't realize is that even if I move out, they don't get rid of me. Because I'm my mother's power-of-attorney, it's my responsibility to take care of the Park Drive property for the family, and it's value and quality of life. They have pissed off the wrong person, because I am not going anywhere when it comes to digging in and fighting them. I hope they're reading this.

Their irrational desire for retribution I think is rooted in my complaint about their falling-down fence (see picture at the right) when I first moved in -- doesn't make any sense. That fence had slats out, panels down and was a general menace to their residents and their neighbors.

In my opinion, they are the ones who have encroached on our property, with their oversized three-story apartment complex looking down into our backyard and completely obliterating any privacy we might have here.

To sum it up, Campus Station apartments have caused us no end of grief.
That includes:
• Sanitation issues and smell from their Dumpster
• Security issues from Dumpster divers
• Quality of life issues
• Noise issues - Dumpster is emptied between 6:45 and 7 a.m. Tuesdays and Thursdays and it vibrates my whole house
• Property values -- who wants to buy a house with a Dumpster 7 1/2 feet from the kitchen window. If we were to rent it, I'm not sure I would want a high-tolerance renter who would be OK with the noise, the smell and the view.
• Drainage issues

Fortunately, some of my friends have other ideas that might be effective and I'll be exploring those. I'll keep those close to the vest until I know if they'll work.

If you've gotten this far on the post, I appreciate it and hope I can count on your support.

Don't give me your tired, your poor ....

... your really awful, tired clichés about women competing against each other.

Many of my female friends quietly or not so quietly celebrated U.S. Rep Mary Fallin and Lt. Gov. Jari Askins winning their respective Republican and Democratic primaries Tuesday.

After Oklahoma AG Drew Edmondson conceded the gubernatorial primary win to Askins, I posted a quick note on Facebook:

"Wow ... two female candidates for governor. CAN'T WAIT for the debates!!!! Gosh, I'm getting a little teary-eyed."

And almost immediately, one of my long-time male friends posted (from a newspaper where I used to work.)

"Gubernatorial cat fight... LOL."

And I took offense. I know my friend meant to be funny and know he really isn't a misogynist. But I'm afraid it foretells what's to come.

I want my journalist colleagues to reach beyond all those tired, old clichés to cover this historic race between two women. I don't want to hear the words cat fight, girls night out, cougar, meow or any of the other "clever" phrases referring to women.

In fact, I'd just as soon not have to hear that they're women every time Mary and Jari are reported on during this campaign. They're simply candidates for governor and the fact that they're female is nice, but it's not a reason to vote for either one. The reason to vote is because these two were the most qualified from their respective major parties to become our next governor.

And I don't want to hear about what they're wearing, please. Who the heck cares, unless they appear in a burlap sack or a $3,000 pantsuit? That isn't going to happen with these two.

Cover Jari or Mary on where they stand on the issues that are important to Oklahomans, a list that's could keep you going for awhile.

See you on the campaign trail.

Suggest you read the excellent comment by Dr. Joey Senat on the previous post

Dr. Senat slices and dices Coburn's letter in my previous post. It's definitely worth reading.

Coburn finally gets back to me on the Shield Law

July 22, 2010

Ms. Carol Cole-Frowe

PO BOX 720102

Norman, Oklahoma 73070

Dear Ms. Cole-Frowe,

Thank you for writing to express your concerns regarding an amendment to the Free Flow of Information Act of 2009 (S448), offered by Senator Feinstein, that would have limited the definition of "covered persons" under the bill. I am glad to have your perspective, and I offer my sincere apology for the delay in my response.

I agree that protecting the anonymity of news sources is potentially of great value to our First Amendment freedoms, but I am concerned that the current breadth of "covered" individuals as described in S. 448 is too broad and could include bloggers and other non-media sources that do not merit the same protections as journalists.

A broad media shield law brings tremendous national security risks by potentially undermining our ability to protect intelligence methods and national security investigations. If the definition of "covered person" is applied too broadly, any individual could leak national security secrets or classified information and subsequently hide behind "journalist" protections. On the other hand, as you note in your letter, applying the term too narrowly could result in mainstream media sources being covered, while some legitimate bloggers, student journalists, or web-based journalists are not.

In order to balance these concerns, the amendment Senator Feinstein offered would have included in the definition of "covered person" any person who had worked as a journalist for at least six months during the previous two years, as well as students who work for journalistic publications at a college or university. For these reasons, I voted for the amendment. However, as you likely know, the amendment failed by a vote of 8-11 and is not included in the legislation that is pending on the Senate floor.

Crafting the definition of a covered person has proven to be one of the most challenging aspects of developing a federal media shield law, but it must be resolved before the bill proceeds to a final vote. I will certainly keep your insights in mind, when the Senate considers the definition of covered persons in the future.

Thank you again for your letter, for your service to your profession in the Society for Professional Journalists, and for your service to the public as a journalist. I welcome any additional thoughts you may have, and I look forward to hearing from you in the future.

Sincerely,

Tom A. Coburn, M.D.

United States Senator

TC: jdw

A Flying Saucer? No, it's a Squash

It's the most delicious time of the year, when tomatoes turn into a sliced piece of heaven, punctuated by kosher salt and freshly ground pepper, maybe a little good olive oil sprinkled on top. Ah, I'm a purist.

I try to boycott those strange, sawdusty things they sell in the grocery stores the rest of the year, although I give in occasionally to those faux tomatoes on the vine they sell in the chill of the winter. But last week, with the purchase of my first heirloom Cherokee purple tomato, it's all so good again. Yum. Cherokee purples taste like they're infused with wine. Don't ask me to reveal which stall sells the Cherokee purples. You have to discover it on your own. Only hint: look for the purple potatoes.

Wednesdays are my favorite days to trek to the Norman Farmers Market. It's not so crowded. The best farmers are still there in good numbers. And if you arrive at 10 a.m., it's not so picked over that you might not score some of the fresh eggs or Cherokee purples.

The best underappreciated item is purple potatoes. The outsides are nearly black and they don't look so appetizing. My advice: just cut them and expose that beautiful purple flesh of the potato. And then cook them and enjoy something really special.

One of my favorite farmer/vendors at the NFM is Charlene Perry of Goldsby, not just because she always tries to put forth the best offerings of her awesome garden, but she also offers up recipes. Hit Charlene up for her Perry's Farm recipe for Unfried Green Tomatoes ... they're really great and if she'll let me, I'll share the recipe on my blog. I'll ask.

This week my NFM haul included Porter peaches (Porter is in the same neighborhood as the more famous Stratford, Okla.), flying saucer squashes, purple potatoes, Cherokee purples, and some OM Garden mushrooms -- golden oyster for salads and Maitake that I'll slice up, cook in a little red wine and serve aside some righteous Oklahoma beef.

Life is good. Eat well and live well. NFM will help you do that.

The Summer of Stink

Imagine having a stinky green Dumpster less than a dozen feet from your kitchen window and only a few more feet from one of your a/c units. This shouldn't happen to ANY Norman resident.

Recently, when Campus Station apartments at 502 S. University Blvd. resurfaced their parking lot, they relocated their Dumpster right underneath my kitchen window -- the first time only 7 1/2 feet away. I called the apartment management to request that we find another solution to the Dumpster location. They blamed its location on the City of Norman, but said they'd contact the owner and see about moving it. Followup calls were not returned.

I visited the City of Norman on May 27, talked to several people who said there is NO ordinance regarding setbacks for Dumpsters from their single-family residential neighbors, and finally e-mailed sanitation director Scottie Williams. Scottie visited the apartment complex and called me to say they'd relocate the Dumpster to the north side of the parking lot, which backs the McFarlin Methodist church parking lot. It was done within hours.

But Tuesday, June 8, the Dumpster reappeared in almost the same spot. I e-mailed Scottie and he wrote back that the apartment management had objected to the Dumpster being moved and they had to put it back because the apartments were paying for the Dumpster. The photo to the right is a little dark but you can see my kitchen window just to the left of the Dumpster 2 1/2 feet past the fence.

I should probably mention that my situation is further complicated by a weird little triangle-shaped piece of property on the plats that juts between my property and the property to the north -- that's where the Dumpster is now located. It would be an ideal location for a Dumpster if there were no neighbors.

My house stinks when the wind blows the wrong way and I have my a/c on. Plus I can't open my kitchen window or I have flies everywhere. I reiterate -- this shouldn't happen to ANY Norman resident. It also impacts my family's property value (the house is owned by my elderly mother and I pay her rent to live here when I'm in town.)

I'm requesting that the City of Norman consider passing an ordinance with the following:

• A setback requirement for Dumpsters of at least 40 feet from residential neighbors' homes.

• A requirement for all multi-family residences or apartment complexes to have an at least 8-foot fence in good condition. Currently, the Campus Station fence is a 6-foot fence. It would be preferable that this be retroactive or required on replacement of any fence.

• A requirement that the multi-family residences or apartment complexes maintain their fences. When it falls out of compliance to the point where it's a code violation (slats out, etc.), they should be given a 30-day warning and then fined if they don't comply. (See the Key West apartments' fence that's in bad repair, just south of the Campus Station apartments.)

This isn't my first rodeo with the Campus Station apartments. The first was in 2006 when their 6-foot fence was literally falling down. Yep, right by my kitchen window again, just past the falling-down fence. A call to the complex management received a "we'll try to do something about it," response. Followup calls were not received that time either.

That time, it took calls to my councilmember in Ward 4, Carol Dillingham, and also calls to the code enforcement folks at the City of Norman.

The apartments' management responded by tearing down the fence and leaving it totally down for a couple of months, before finally replacing it. During that time, some residents of the complex took to heckling us when we barbecued in our backyard. That finally stopped when the apartments replaced the fence.

And in 2008, I suggested they trim a tree that had large, dead branches hanging over my power lines after the December 2007 ice storm. I was concerned that our Oklahoma wind would come sweeping down the plains and limbs would come crashing on my lines. The apartment management responded by taking the whole mature tree down. Sigh. I'm big fan of big trees. Trimming would have been adequate.

It's been a continued pattern of harassment from the 30-apartment complex to its two single-family residential neighbors. (I'm not the Lone Ranger — there is one other residence affected.) I know you have to make compromises when you live close to campus, like learning to live with a little more noise and occasional college student who doesn't understand why it's not OK to drive over your lawn because they've gotten parked in at the neighbor's house. My student neighbors have been far more well-behaved than my apartment complex neighbors.

I've heard back from two councilmembers, Tom Kovach, Ward 2; and Carol Dillingham, Ward 4, who ran interference once before; along with Mayor Cindy Rosenthal. They are working on a remedy, which could include passing my suggested ordinance. So I'm hopeful.

But I doubt if it will be soon enough to save me from the Summer of Stink.

View from Porum Mountain

Breathe in the air and memories. We're on top of what we call a "mountain" in Oklahoma -- Porum Mountain, where my granddad, "PaPa," took me quail hunting, where my dad loved the wildflowers and gnarly wood used for fenceposts among the rusted barbed wire, where it seems like a world apart and you could see the hazy blue of the hills below through the trees.

I drove to Porum in southeastern Oklahoma for Memorial Day ... about three hours each way from Norman on SH 9, the best way ... to visit my dad's grave for the first Memorial Day since he died Jan. 24, 2010, and leave some fresh blue flowers (even if they were weird dyed things) to decorate his grave, because I know he hated silk. It's still so very fresh and my tears of loss continue to be close to the surface. And I visited Porum Mountain, one of his favorite places, just west up Ute Road from the home of my grandparents almost under the tiny town's water tower. Ironically where my dad is buried is east on Ute Road at Fields Cemetery, where you drive and drive until you find the faded rusted sign and think you've about run out of road when you get there.

It's a question of what is "home" for each individual? As my dad fought to breathe the air that keeps all of us alive, thanks to his uncomfortably painful and progressive pulmonary fibrosis, he would ask each of us as we entered his room at the nursing facility he hated, "Are you here to take me home?" And to him that meant Porum. Would we take him to his beloved Porum? It answered our unasked question about where to take him when he lost his biggest life battle.

Daddy and I had planned to go to his beloved Porum High School reunion about a year ago, but his lung disease had already robbed him of too much of his body. We'd gone twice in recent years. He'd lost too much of his vision as a result of macular degeneration to drive, but he loved me chauffeuring him there and his arriving like a rock star amongst his dwindling group of friends, most of whom would attend from his tiny class of loyal graduates. He had so many good friends from his class who would attend -- Leola Griffith, Eugene Cooper, Flora (Hilton) Tye, Cora Shipley, Margaret "Maggie" Hazelwood and more.

As a young man, my dad escaped Porum to go to college at Northeastern Oklahoma State University in Tahlequah and dental school at the University of Missouri at Kansas City. And I say escaped. Because he left for dreams of a good life that he didn't think he could have in Porum. But as we all want recognition in our home towns, so did my dad.

After he retired from dentistry in about 1990, he started modeling and acting, first in Oklahoma and Texas and later in New York City. He had some success, like his lovely little part as a classy security guard in Home Alone II that delighted his granddaughter, although it was not the wild success he dreamed of. Those kinds of parts went to veteran male actors like Kirk Douglas, Henry Fonda and Walter Matthau.

He had his happiest acting experiences with the interactive New York murder mystery troupe, Murder Mystery Inc. -- always as the guy who dies, some times as a corrupt New York councilman with women on each arm, something his kids found humorous. We joked that he was dying to meet you and he "died" thousands of times.

But I digress. All that time he spent in exotic places around the world and Daddy still wanted to come back to Porum. After living in the always bustling New York City for two decades -- which he reveled in -- he was always drawn back to Porum.

My Aunt Louise (his older sister) and Uncle Bill lovingly purchased my dad's head stone and traveled there when it was set quietly May 27. I love that they did that as their last gift to him -- and us. They are very special people.

Porum's a sweet spot where I spent parts of my youthful summers -- chasing chickens with their heads cut off, shooting bottles off a downed tree with my granddad over a creek near the house and nursing sick cows -- and now it's the place that my Daddy wanted to be and now it's the place where I'll visit when we want to be especially close.

Daddy ... I miss you and I'll be there again one of these days soon. But I know you're with me all the time anyway.

I can hear your voice as I greet you on the phone with, "What's cookin', good lookin'?" And your perennial answer -- "Chicken, wanna neck?" And you'd laugh and it was our silly Okie joke. I can hear it. And you're with me right now.

RIP Mark Shannon - and then there was one

To meet Mark Shannon was to love him. Or hate him. Or both.
I met Mark when he came to Oklahoma City in the early 1980s to join the fledgling KJ-103 radio station as one of the original crew. To work for KJ-103 in those days was like riding a fast-rising rocket ship. The Contemporary Hit Radio (CHR) station climbed the ratings in record time.
I came over from KOFM's sales staff to help start up the station, lured by the charismatic then-32-year-old station manager Mark Schwartz.
And as sales reps and on-air talent often do, Mark Shannon and I butted heads. We worked dozens of on-air remotes at places like Hudiberg Chevrolet -- me slinging hot dogs and Coca-Colas for the customers and Mark oftentimes dodging unwanted female admirers, escaping to the service department if necessary. But we got to be friends, sort of a team in some ways, to the benefit of both.
We worked together the first five years KJ-103 was on the air. After five years, we'd been through three general managers, three programming directors, three sales managers, and all of our co-workers had turned over. We were the last two of the original KJ-103 staff.
In 1986, I got married, had a daughter and returned to the station to find my account list irreparably damaged and a new rep they'd hired to be my successor. They somehow assumed I'd leave and be a stay-at-home mom. I don't know where they ever got that idea.
Mark was encouraging through all of that mess.
And in June 1987, I had a run-in with management when they decided to trim account lists, including some major accounts I'd gotten on the air before we even had ratings in the beginning.
I lost patience with it all. But first there was one person I had to tell. It was Mark, who was working the afternoon drive shift and was on the air at the time. And I walked into the control room and he knew something was wrong.
"And then there was one," I told him.
"Nooooo. No. NO, NO," I remember him saying.
I didn't see Mark a lot after that, but would run into him occasionally at an event and we'd catch up.
He had some pretty rocky dating relationships until he met his beloved Kris, whom he eventually married.
When I saw him on the family night at an Oklahoma City Gridiron show about five years ago, he was so proud to tell me that Kris was "still putting up with him after all these years."
And I snapped a photo of him another year or two later when he did a cameo in the Gridiron show, wearing a placard with "It's Really Me," after leaving WKY when they changed it to a Spanish-language station.
I totally didn't agree with his politics, but he was a heck of a good guy. And I'm going to miss him.
And then there was one.

Bye, bye Buick

The hail was huge, about golf ball size, as I was driving west in afternoon rush hour on Interstate-40 seven years ago May 8, and I started dialing up my reporter friends at the Shawnee News-Star east of the storm.

I found cops reporter Kim Morava.

“If anybody’s comin’ this way, tell them to wait. There’s a heckuva hail storm moving your way on I-40.”

But Kim didn’t care much about hail.

“Where are you,” she demanded.

“Oh, on I-40 about Tinker (Air Force Base in Midwest City,” I said.

“THERE’S A HUGE TORNADO AT TINKER.”

And I suddenly realized that big, floor-to-ceiling black cloud to my left, hovering over Tinker Air Force Base and the General Motors plant was not a cloud. It was a pretty substantial tornado.

It was not a good feeling.

It was May 8, 2003, and it was a few moments before I was more-than-a little-bit -concerned about huge hail and cars stopped under bridges blocking the road.

Now there was a whole new threat and nowhere to go.

So I drove. Boy, how I drove that red hot little, low-mileage ’88 Buick I’d bought a couple of years before from my mother.

That little red Buick took me home past the storm to watching my daughter Kat perform one of the leads in Casady High School’s production of “Book of Days.” It was a scary night and it was a great night for my daughter. Little did I know that she and her friends were watching the weather and she was crazy-worried about me coming through that stuff.

The Buick suffered hail damage severe enough to “total” it. But I wanted to keep it anyway -- and I did.

And the Buick went on to become my daughter’s second car, affectionately nicknamed the “Red Rocket” as so many red cars get tagged, replacing her first car, another old blue Chevy that had drawn the moniker of the “Getaway Car,” since it was basically invisible most of the time.

It also was precious in other ways. Mother offered it up after my beloved ’89 BMW 525 was totaled in 1999 after I was T-boned in a residential Altus neighborhood one week before I was to go to my dream job at the Associated Press in Oklahoma City.

The Red Rocket turned out to be a three-generation vehicle — precious to each of us in its own way.

And this afternoon, it moved on to its next life.

Now, the red Buick had issues that wore more than it was worth. Bad battery, bad shocks, but other good things like almost new tires.

This afternoon the red Buick went on to its next incarnation.

We donated it to KGOU for Click ‘n Clack’s Take My Car Puh-Leez.

And late this afternoon a massive wrecker came down our little one-way street and from its rumbly motor, I knew it was here before it stopped at our address.

Suddenly I’m wistful about this vehicle that has laid dormant for months in our driveway.

It took care of three generations of Cole women. And hopefully, it will be a good vehicle for someone else.

Bye-bye, little red Buick. It was a good ride while it lasted.

Witness to the battle of the seasons

When I arrived in Lagos, Nigeria, on a dusty Monday afternoon late last month, there was no question about the season.

It was still Harmattan, when the fine desert dust blows in south from the Sahara, making the normally hazy light blue/gray skies more of a dirty tan color.

The seemingly never-ending Harmattan, usually over by mid-March, had stolen away my sliver of ocean view from the wide kitchen window of our eighth floor flat on Victoria Island. I’m always fascinated by the parade of several dozen odd-shaped oil tankers slowly waiting for their opportunity in the harbor, lining the horizon.

The tankers “disappeared” thanks to those dust-drenched Harmattan days, as was the horizon, blending in with the dirty-looking sky and haze.

The red tile roofs of the buildings between here and the water looked soft-focus, tucked inside their towering walls topped with barbed wire or glass shards or spikes. Even some of the dozens of cell towers or construction cranes from Lagos’ building boom that usually litter the view weren’t jutting upward so harshly.

In Lagos, the seasons aren’t really very dramatic. But there are differences and the people there welcome them.

This year, people were complaining more than usual. Not only was it sticky hot — as always — but it was a dirty, sticky hot that seemed to squelch your metabolism, making it feel like naptime all the time.

Bob and I had always joked about the Weather app on my iPhone when I’d call him from home in Oklahoma or Texas. The week’s highs at a glance — 92, 92, 92, 92, 92, 93, 92, in Fahreinheit of course, and about a thousand percent humidity. Stop the presses, we’d say, a heat wave on Saturday with that 93. And the lows were no different — 79, 79, 78, 79, 78, 79, 79 — never varying more than a degree, at the most two.

Who do you think decides — in some weather office somewhere — how one day of the week gets a 93? Or a low drops one more degree on a certain day, like there was a cold front or something.

After I’d been in Lagos about a week, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a bright flash of light off our balcony past the potted bouganvilla and palm trees. And then another. And then another. Lightning — the tiny delay and then thunder.

And the rain came down, at first hurky-jerky kinds of large, splashy drops. Then torrents. It was the first hint, the first clue that the rainy season was easing into its own.

The air smelled differently that night and into the next day. My ocean, the line of tankers was back.

Water filled up the gargantuan potholes, so the next day our driver Tom threaded our black, carwash-loving SUV down the muddy streets to pick up the things we needed. And then washed the car. And then washed it again.

But the Harmattan wasn’t done yet. It got dry and dusty again. Darn.

A couple ‘nother days and another thunderstorm. Hallelujah. The rainy season finally arrived for sure.

And the horizon was gladly back, yet again. And I had to remind myself — it never left.