It Takes a Village to Raise a Child
I used to say that I had four sets of parents – my actual biological parents, as well as the parents of my closest friends – the Bradshaws, Lawsons, and Wingards. I’m not sure if it was the kids or the parents who became friends first, but we all lived in or near Latta, Oklahoma, a small rural community outside of Ada in southeastern part of the state. The four families had 10 children between them, and we all attended the same small K-12 school where my parents were teachers. All of the women worked, so I was exposed early in life to working mothers. All of the men farmed, whether it was their main occupation or something they did on the side. In those days, I spent almost as much time at the Bradshaw’s, Lawson’s, and Wingard’s as I did at my own house. While I’ve often lamented the lack of diversity in that community, most of my memories of that time are actually happy and fun. Today, I drove back to Ada to say goodbye to the last of the four men I considered as one of my fathers.
During those years, I inevitably spent most of my time in the home of Nancy and Joe Bradshaw because their oldest daughter Vicki was my closest friend from elementary through high school. When we were in elementary school, our houses were probably 1-2 miles apart “as the crow flies.” Since this was a small rural area, it wasn’t “walkable.” There were no sidewalks, just farmland and county roads. But one Saturday when I was probably 9 or 10 years old, I got the idea that if I walked straight out back from our house, I could get to Vicki’s house. This is shocking on many levels, with the first being that I have no sense of direction. Second, there was an empty pasture behind our house with a bunch of trees beyond that. I had no idea what was beyond the trees. But on that Saturday, I enticed my sister to “go exploring” with me, and off we went. Some time later after we had traversed a few pastures, and I had coaxed my sister over a couple of ravines, we ended up on the Bradshaw’s doorstep. When a surprised Nancy opened the door, her first question was “How did you get here?” When I told her, the next question was “Does your mother know where you are?”
Shortly after that expedition and not long after I had gotten braces, I was at the Bradshaw’s for a sleepover. I had eaten several “Sugar Daddy” caramel candies on Friday night (one of the “don’t eat” items for people with braces). I woke up on Saturday morning with the wires on the top and bottom braces intertwined. I literally couldn’t pull my top and bottom teeth apart. When I tried to explain to Nancy what had happened, she expressed no sympathy at my dilemma. None. Nada. Instead her comment was, “Your mother is going to be furious with both of us!” Side note, I don’t think Mom was upset with Nancy, but she was not at all pleased with me. As I recall, we had to wait until the following Monday to get an emergency appointment at the dentist. Lesson learned. I never ate caramel candy with braces again.
By the time we were in high school, the Bradshaws had moved to a farm in Fitzhugh, Oklahoma. One day when I was at their house, Joe came in and announced that he needed Vicki and I to help him “pull a calf.” For those who didn’t grow up on a farm, “pulling a calf” means just that – turning and pulling a calf out of a cow that is in distress or having trouble delivering the calf. Was he kidding? I was incredulous. There was no way I was going to help pull a calf! My dad had never even asked me to do that. Whether it was trying to “one up” Philip Stephens or just a desire to put “prissy” me in my place, but 10 minutes later I found myself in the paddock with Joe and Vicki pulling that calf and all of the messy stuff that came with it. Come to think of it, I may have Joe Bradshaw to thank for me becoming a vegetarian.
During the last semester of our senior year in high school, Vicki and I had a bad case of “senioritis.” We were just too cool for school. We had a free hour for the last hour of the day that we had used for cheerleading practice. But after basketball season ended, there was no need for us to practice anymore. So without permission, we would get in one of our cars and drive to Ada. Evidently, we weren’t quite as smooth as we thought, and one day our high school principal caught us and said something to my dad. Joe liked to tell the story about my dad going to visit him about their “mutual problem.” “Joe, we have a problem with Shelli and Vicki. They’re skipping last hour and going into town.” To which Joe replied, “Philip, during the day when they are supposed to be at school, they are your problem.”
After high school, college and marriages, the paths of our group of friends diverged. Several of us moved away from Ada. For the past 40 years, our paths have crossed only intermittently. Even though I didn’t see them often, the four sets of parents remained friends throughout the years. They were there for my family when we lost my dad. Over the years, we’ve also had to say goodbye to Bob Lawson and Harold Wingard.
Today, I went back to Ada and listened to stories told by Joe’s friends and family. Most of the stories were new to me, but the character of the man they described was very familiar. After the service as my sister and I were hugging Joe’s youngest daughter, Cheryl, she looked at us and said, “Those men are all up there together now.”
Rest in peace, Joe. My life was richer because of your love and support.