A College Called Panhandle

The widow gestured helplessly. Then mother and son walked through the door and slowly down the hall.

Meanwhile, in the gymnasium across from Coach Williams' office, there had been a minor catastrophe. Henry Caldwell, 6-foot 6-inch center (just recovered from an illness), had taken a fall in a game scrimmage and sprained his ankle. This meant that the Aggies, who had been in high spirits after their 92-74 defeat of Wayland the week before, would not be at their best for their games with Southeastern State and Oklahoma Baptist, both rated as strong contenders for the conference championship. As it turned out, Panhandle lost both games the following weekend. But little Lenny Lee gave the crowd something to cheer about (and once again vindicated the faith of Bird Dog Roger Petrino back in Bridgeport, Conn.) by putting on a dazzling display of his Bob Cousy dribble and scoring 22 points against Southeastern and 31 against the Baptists.

Coach Jerry Anderson wore a long face after losing the two games, but he was cheerful again by Monday morning and so were the players and so were all the students and faculty members on the Panhandle campus. All the big ranchers were in high good humor at the Dale Hotel coffee shop in the mornings and in the Dale's private bottle club after sundown.

Panhandle students were too busy to fret about anything. Many of the athletes were busy with campus jobs. Others had jobs in Guymon. Quite a few worked as cowhands when the ranchers needed extra help and others rode herd on the cattle that were trucked into the weekly sales at Guymon and Texhoma. Some did a little dealing in horseflesh. One Panhandle boy, Bryce Waugh, took a creature that was somewhere in between a pony and a horse to the Guymon sales and was allowed to parade it around between the bidding on calves and year-lings. When young Waugh appeared in the ring with his offering, there was loud laughter from the assembled ranchers. Somebody asked Joe McGrew of the Hitch Ranch what kind of critter the Waugh boy was trying to sell. Joe McGrew (who knows every kind of horseflesh there is) said that he was durned if he knew what it was.

Bryce Waugh tried to prod his property into some small display of spirit, but the animal just stood there with a woebegone look, staring up at the cattlemen, who couldn't stop laughing.

Finally the auctioneer called for order. "Gentlemen," he said, "don't laugh. This offering is being shown by Bryce Waugh, a student at Panhandle College. Now:, gentlemen, this is a pony here, for your information. Young Mr. Waugh tells me the pony hasn't been feeling well lately, but he's responding to treatment, and Mr. Waugh is willing to get him a haircut. On top of that, Mr. Waugh says that he has papers for this creature. Or rather he did have. But driving out here, the papers flew out the window of the pickup truck. Now, we'll have no bidding on this offering. Mr. Waugh will take $65 cash and furthermore he will take any buyer out and show him the very spot where the papers flew out of the window. Who'll take Mr. Waugh's offering for $65?"

As it turned out, nobody did. The gate leading from the ring was opened, and Bryce Waugh prodded his pony toward it. The cattlemen laughed louder than ever. The pony—looking like an overgrown great Dane with long hair—turned at the gate and gave the cattle buyers a long look that was not as reproachful as it was apologetic. It seemed to say quite plainly, "Go ahead and laugh. I'm a mess and I know it." He looked so sad that the ranchers stopped laughing and gave the pony and his owner a big round of applause. It was the friendly, courteous, Panhandle thing to do.

Later, when a snow and ice storm hit the area, an Easterner found himself hotelbound in a room at the Dale. He flipped on a transistor radio and soon heard one of the Mississippi evangelists who tape-record gospel services and ship the tapes to Mexico for broadcast over the high-powered transmitters there. The broadcasts come booming into the Oklahoma Panhandle and, indeed, all through the Southwest. The evangelist of the moment was shouting the news that the end of the world was at hand. Only one hope remained: a personal tour by the evangelist himself, during which he would confront world leaders and deliver his final warning. This would take money, naturally, and to all donors of $5 the evangelist promised to send a special gift package containing five ballpoint pens guaranteed to write for six months, 12 sheets of stationery and matching envelopes, an automatic needle threader and three books. Two were written by the preacher himself and were titled How I Was Saved from Dope Addiction and a Life of Crime and Dancing: Satan's Booby Trap. The third book was a volume of poems by the reverend's associate, Sister Sunshine, who promptly recited a sample of her work to organ accompaniment. Sister's poem began:

Oh, the joy that's come to oar house,
Since we harkened to the Word
There's peace and understanding',
And miracles have occurred.
Poor Mama was baldheaded,
But she's growin' hair today,
Dear Brother's changed his habits,
Now he, too, kneels to pray.
And Daddy is a new man,
No more does Daddy drink,
There are no whiskey bottles,
A-smellin' up the sink.

The Easterner examined the soles of his shoes. There was the beginning of a hole in one of them. The Easterner remembered the saying that if you wear out a pair of shoes in the Panhandle, you'll never leave.