Gene Hines, a member of the Cordell Class of 1971, takes Cordell and Washita County folks on a wonderful, fun-filled journey through time as seen through the lens of a boy growing up in Washita County.
My dad was the County Sheriff for all of my childhood. His office sat on the ground floor, northeast corner of the courthouse. My earliest memory of that majestic courthouse starts right at those old black doors, heavy, thick, and almost impossible for a little kid to push open.
Inside, the floor practically glistened. Those tiny octagon tiles were polished every week by the live‑in janitor, who kept his family in an apartment at the very top of the courthouse.
To explain how slick those floors were: Ed and I wore out more pairs of jeans than Mom could count. We’d run full speed, drop to our knees, and see who could slide the farthest. It was like ice skating indoors. Mom would give us a stern lecture when we got home about tearing up our already worn‑out, washed‑too‑many‑times jeans. Funny thing is, today people pay big money for jeans that look worse than the ones we were embarrassed to wear in the 50s and 60s.
Mom was a genius with a needle and thread. She’d iron on the smallest blue patch possible, and of course it never matched the denim. It was always new, bright blue. She’d shake her head, call us dumbasses, and say, “Well, you’re still going to have to wear those to school!” If you ever wore patched jeans back then, you know the feeling. It was like walking around with a big sign that said poor, dumb, or whatever else a kid could imagine, all because of that loud, mismatched patch.
Back to the courthouse. Dad’s office was the first door on the left if you came in the north doors. A big white door with rain glass on the top half. In the
RECOLLECTIONS center was a glorious panel with black, gold‑outlined lettering in a majestic font: Washita County Sheriff’s Office and below it, in smaller letters: Skip Hines, Sheriff A quick note about that name. Dad’s real name was Clifford Hines, and I was proudly named after him. So where did “Skip” come from? Back in his little country school, one room, all grades… first day, the teacher was taking roll and asking for everyone’s full name. When she got to Dad, he said, “Clifford Hines.” She said, “No, your full name.” Dad repeated, “Clifford Hines.” Irritated, she insisted everyone had a middle name. Dad shrugged and said, “Nope. They must’ve skipped me.” From that day on, he was known as … Skip Hines.
Inside the L‑shaped office lobby were ten chairs along one wall, and on the other, in the middle, was a massive black steel door with a chrome ship’s wheel, a combination lock, and huge chrome hinges. Gold pinstriping with feathered corners made it look downright regal. It was known as the “Vault.” Inside, it had tall black steel walls and a very dim bulb in the middle of the steel ceiling. I thought it was haunted, and always ready for Dad to lock that thing back up. Everything was neatly tagged with name, date, and case number. Imagine full and half‑empty whiskey bottles, guns, tires, all sorts of things, at one time it held two complete whiskey stills! Some things I didn’t have any idea what they were.
Those chairs were usually filled with farmers in overalls. Every one of them had a pencil in the top pocket, a plug of Bull Durham chewing tobacco or Mickey Twist, their billfold, and a pair of pliers hanging off the side. If they took their hats off, they looked a quart low because of their farmer’s tan. And every one of them carried a sharp pocketknife for whittlin’.
If you’re not familiar with whittling, you need a big thick 12‑inch cedar stick, a good story, and you end up with a pile of shavings about a foot high between boots that hadn’t seen polish since they were new. I can remember John…..just not his last name. He was frail, and everyone said he was close to 100. I don’t think he really knew. But sharp as a tack. Always kidding, he’d slowly look up with one eye shut and say, “You’re one of Skip’s boys, aren’t ya?” I always answered the same every time: “Yep, John, it’s me. What you whittlin’ today?” He would answer, “Today I am building me a fine toothpick!” He told stories of bringing his family to Oklahoma in a two horse wagon, with two milk cows and chickens. His chicken story has stuck with me all the years. He said, “Them there hens gave us eggs every morning for breakfast, and Ma sure did like her fried chicken every Sunday. That woman could put a mean scald on that fried chicken. And dad-burn one day if we didn’t run out of chickens!” He always told me, “You got a good pa, son. Thank your lucky stars tonight.”
Three brass spittoons sat on the floor, and some of those old boys could ring them like a bell. You could hear the latest weather, wheat and cattle prices, how the cotton was growin’ and who in the county was doing something not everyone approved of.
I got one hell of an education sitting quietly in the corner, always asking questions. Dad would step out every now and then and remind them, “Careful, that’s my boy.” Dad stood 6’4”, 240 pounds. A farmer who grew cotton, 50‑pound Black Diamond watermelons, and a garden big enough to feed anyone who needed it. He was known to pull, not pick, a bale of cotton in a day, which was unheard of. His hands were almost inhumanly strong.
Every once in a while someone would mouth off that he couldn’t break a pair of pliers with one hand. The office would buzz, someone would hand him a pair, and Dad would say, “Anybody bets, they’re going to jail.” He’d hold them shoulder‑high and.. pow.. snap the handle. The last time I saw him do it, he cut his hand badly between his thumb and forefinger. Many of his suspects were surprised when he offered a handshake. If he got your hand, you were done for.
Everyone in that courthouse knew my name, and I knew theirs. I passed American history from the war stories those men told with graphic detail. The folks there treated me with such kindness. The ladies in the county clerk’s office always had homemade cookies, cake, or brownies, and they always saved me some. When I was home, in those days we had phone operators. You’d pick up the phone and they would say, “Number please.” I didn’t know the number, so I would say, “Give me my Daddy.” They would ring the sheriff’s office in the courthouse.
Across on the south side of the courthouse was a concession stand run by a blind man. Gray hair, gray shirt, gray slacks, and shoes so shiny I still don’t know how he did it. He amazed me, he could walk down the glass covered case and grab the exact candy bar I wanted, that I could rarely afford. Nobody cheated him. He could feel a bill and tell you exactly what it was. Dad checked on him every day. Like the Brooks & Dunn song “Believe,” that man taught me a lot about the words written in red. A heartfelt gentleman.
In the center of the courthouse was an open rotunda with marble stairs on both sides. Had to be careful here because it had a very distinct echo. We couldn’t be too loud. Court was on the third floor, and we didn’t even talk up there. Nobody wanted the wrath of the County Sheriff coming down on them.
Outside, on the east and west sides, were stairs leading up to the second floor. On the west side was a tunnel; they closed in the east tunnel, and that is where the gentlemen on the second floor played checkers and dominos to pass the time. At the top of the stairs, I would launch those dime‑store wooden airplanes — the kind you bought at T.G.&Y. (Thomas, Gosselin & Young, for those who don’t remember). Cordell had one of the first, along with the United Grocery.
Ed mastered the unicycle, I think Dee built it out of the bike Ed crashed. He rode that thing all over town and was proud when he learned to hop up each courthouse step all the way to the top. Ed also had two pet pigeons. People always said, “You’ve never seen a baby pigeon, but you know they exist!” Well, Ed and I have. He named them Louie and Dewey. Louie met a sudden end when she built a nest under the push mower. Dad started it up and covered the backyard in feathers.
Dewey, though, would fly overhead wherever Ed went on that unicycle. He’d circle as Ed bounced up the courthouse steps. Eventually, Dewey even followed Dad in Mom’s little red Opel to town, flying right alongside.
Dee told a story once: a guy came into his shop and said, “Dee, I just saw the damndest thing. A little bitty red car with a giant guy driving, and a kid yo‑yoing out the window with a pigeon flying beside him. You know everyone in town — who the hell was that?” Dee answered without missing a beat, “I have no idea who that could be.”
The courthouse was renovated in the 80s, new copper on the dome, stone repairs, fixed the four clocks on the dome, bells ringing on the half hour and hour, after about 70 years of service. The county seat had originally been in Cloud Chief, Oklahoma, (a ghost town today), in the late 1890s. The story I was always told, Cordell stole the wooden courthouse and moved it to Cordell, in the middle of the next night they stole all the records amidst violent gunfire.
That old courthouse met it’s doom when some outlaws were up for charges of horse thieving, cattle rustling and whiskey making. It burnt 2 days before their court date. Today’s version was built in 1910 in the middle of Main Street, designed by the same gentleman that designed our state capital building. The lawns had trees, but they were removed in the late 20s because the judge’s car was getting bombed daily by pigeons. Back then you could park in the middle of the road on both sides, but you had to leave your keys in the car in case someone needed to move it.
Saturdays were special when I was a kid. All the country folk came to town. For Thanksgiving they had turkey drawings announced over speakers attached to the courthouse. Same for elec‑tions and big events. In December, every Saturday had drawings, and the lawns were full of people. The city hung lights on every inch, from the top of the dome, wrapped around every column, and strung from each corner of the building to each corner of the lawn. Downtown glowed with every color. Christmas music rang through the air all day and evening. I can close my eyes and still see that grand old courthouse lit up in all its glory. When gas was 25 cents a gallon, the teens had to do the Cordell drag, around the courthouse, through the only stoplight in town, down the hill, up the next hill, and around Karla’s Drive Inn. Repeat… honking at all your friends no matter how many times you met.
That courthouse is in my DNA, a big part of my childhood, my education.
Thanks to Mr. Phil, my brothers each have hunter green benches dedicated to them on the plaza, across from the courthouse square. I have sat there several times, ex‑changing from one bench to the other, and the memories rush back to my childhood. Popcorn Bob selling his wares on the same sidewalk. The quarter Sunday afternoon movie at the Washita Theater. The new bicycles on the sidewalk in front of the Otasco. The door at the Cordell National Bank, where Felix always had a free ice‑cold 8‑oz. Coke, the C&H pink box full of sugar cubes sitting on the counter for coffee. I had at least five cubes before I left. New cars and some very old pickups making their way around the square. An old rusty International truck loaded down with fresh‑baled alfalfa hay, grunting the whole way, but as it passed by, that sweet hay smell would fill your nostrils with bliss. A Honda scooter parked in front of Lawrence’s that some lucky person was going to win. (You had to buy something to get a ticket. That left me out, we didn’t have two nickels to rub together.) Mommas going in and coming out of United with brown sacks full of groceries. Daddy walking with some of his deputies, him taking one step to their two, heading toward Lavena’s for lunch. The Soda fountain at the corner drug store, comics books by the front door, serving syrup mix Dr. Pepper, with 2 paper straws, in case your girlfriend came by.
I sat there, the memories were so thick I had to swoosh them away like flies.
Two beautiful sights in western Oklahoma:
• At sunset about five miles east on Highway 152, where you top the hill and see the courthouse silhouetted against yellows, pinks, and oranges.
• The same spot at Christmas, those colors weld themselves into your memory.
My heart still SKIPs a beat every time I see it. No pun intended.
If this took you back to 50’s and 60’s …..please share with a friend!