Looking for places that sing
“Some days there won’t be a song in your heart. Sing anyway.” — Emory Austin
Let’s call them quaint — the small town or big city neighborhood drugstore. In Purcell, Oklahoma, it was Kennedy Drug — in Oklahoma City, of course, there was, for almost 50 years, Nichols Hills Drug. These genteel places of business were a far cry from the generic pharmacies that battle for real estate today as if they were participating in the land run. Drugstores of yesteryear had, aside from both prescription and over the counter medicines, a soda fountain, whatever sundries were (what were they?) and charge accounts.
Within the confines of these drugstore walls were representatives of news and expertise from around the world, all, miraculously, at one table.
Let’s call them coffee drinkers. Farmers and lawyers. Bankers and Real Silk Hosiery salesmen. Hairdressers and hippies. All at their own reserved seat, with topics of conversation on random play.
Discussions were friendly until they weren’t. Stand back when an argument escalated to either finger pointing or the bubbling up of old grudges. (Point of personal privilege — I once witnessed, at the Lunch Box in downtown Oklahoma City, an 82 year old fellow of high intelligence and culture dump a complete bowl of spaghetti on a 79 year old rascal after a nasty political argument.)
Then came the great migration. As these fountains of both ice cream and Aristotelian diatribe began to dwindle in the name of debatable progress, the traditional drugstores gave their patrons one last goodbye kiss and faded into the sunset.
However, there were too many subjects left on the table, too many more robust opinions to be shared. Too much coffee to be stirred. Then, like a gift from the gods, fast food restaurants started serving breakfast and pouring, as W.C. Fields described it, “mocha java.”
Welcome back friends — you have thoughts regarding celebrities? Global warming? The price of coffee?
And for today’s lesson on the art of fellowship, let’s visit a northwest Oklahoma City den of burgers, fries and you guessed it. There is a discussion roundtable here which is some six
years old, well, they’ve been here for six years — their last team meeting location raised, without warning, its coffee price by 75 cents.
While permanent membership here fluctuates, guests are welcome, as long as the subjects of politics and money are kept in abeyance.
No spaghetti throwing here.
Today, the group includes Bill and Pam Moody, a retired minister and a former employee of a grocery chain, Beth Willhite and two friends of 50 years or so, A.M. Nowlin and Dean Hoel. And while every participant has their own learned opinions and life experiences — A.M. makes all family members who come to her house ditch those darn cellphones in a basket at the door — let’s check out Dean, who gives both the table and restaurant at large a lovely gift.
Dean, 83, sings. Like, out loud, in performances that are unassuming, unpretentious and unapologetic.
Dean needs no warm up nor set list. He just grabs a song by the tail and lets her rip. His voice is warmer than biscuits and gravy.
Today’s selections? The Christian anthem “One Day at a Time” and Willie Nelson’s standard “Crazy.”
“At my age, I have zero reservations,” Dean says. “I can sing whenever and wherever I want.”
No amateur is Dean. When he was 17 years old, from 1952-1953, he vocalized with Ralph Biggs and the Oklahoma Cowboys. This group’s music was reserved for churches or community centers instead of bars and honky tonks. Repertoire? “On Top of Old Smokey” to the “Old Rugged Cross” and all in between.
In 1954, Dean joined the military. He became a master chef and baker.
Upon his discharge Dean learned small engine repair and worked for 50 years or so at Oklahoma Tire and Supply Company, as ever present in Oklahoma communities then as a Sonic is today. When the stores closed in 1987, Dean worked at Albertson’s until 2001.
Along the way, Dean was married and widowed and raised four sons. In an unrelated touch of irony, his son has been a distributor for The Oklahoman for almost 60 years.
It is obvious from even the most casual encounter with Dean that he is a man of faith. He and A.M. have been members of the Lakeside Methodist Church almost all of their adult lives.
The Rev. Randy McGuire, Lakeside pastor, appreciates Dean for doing his part toward the enrichment of the congregation.
“Nobody knows their Bible as well as does Dean,” McGuire says. “He seems to never have a bad day and members of our church love him as if he is one of their family, which, in a way, he is.”
McGuire says Dean often cooks cinnamon rolls and other goodies for the congregation and always stands ready with screwdriver in hand to any repair project which might pop up.
And, shocker, Dean sings in the choir.
You might say Dean Hoel is the personification of the American dream. He served his country honorably, he nurtured his wife and family, he worked every day of his life and his Sundays have been spent in devout worship.
Now that he’s retired, he still can’t help but give back. In the key of C.
As Dean and A.M. leave for the rest of their day, it appears Dean has an encore, channeling Ray Price:
“And make believe you love me, one more time. For the good times.”
Thanks, Dean, for our good times.
“A man is born, but he’s no good no how, without a song.”