WHERE THE HEART IS : Be It a Farm in the Country or a Jam in the City, There’s No Place Like Home

We click our heels and descend into Oz, driving Interstate 35 north. Rich green plains occasionally segue into subtleties of wheat and rye broken by splashes of wild purple. Brick-red soil is revealed in layers and muddies ponds and lakes. The farms are manicured, windmills whirling, oil wells pumping. We stop at a Stuckey’s for burgers and shakes, then traverse limitless horizon at 80 m.p.h. Ahead: Howard Johnson’s, Wichita, Kan.

Not all of the family could come, but we gather Friday evening, Memorial Day weekend, for the sixth reunion of Dunbar and Hall high schools (Hennessey, Okla.), closed 40 years ago because of integration. Hands over hearts, we pledge allegiance to our flag. Bleats of rainfall penetrate the garden room roof like the beatings of angel wings, and the eerie sound lends a somber undertone to songs from the Phillips Singers. Everyone joins in for the black national anthem. Have not our weary feet come to the place for which our fathers sighed ? Names become faces--a roomful of people who look like me. We are here because I’m the oldest child of the secretary of the Hennessey Old-Timers Club of Southern California, my mother, graduate, Dunbar Class of ’38. Plaques and anecdotes are presented, emphasis on the last class of Dunbar, ‘55, but when full roll is called, we honor the lone surviving 1920s graduate with applause.

Saturday morning, my sons, husband and I join aunts, uncles and cousins for breakfast and family news updates, sharing photos and tales of an American farm life where racism was muted by strong common decency. Saturday night’s gathering begins with the Serenity Prayer, then more memories a la chicken cordon bleu , followed by dancing to the sassy downbeats of the Ninth Street Blues and Jazz Band.

I remember things I don’t know. Sunday morning, we don’t quite know where we’re going but get there, trailing the busload of nostalgic schoolmates across the Kansas state line, returning to Oklahoma for the Hennessey picnic. After the two-hour drive, hungry and thirsty, we pull up and idle behind the bus, which has stopped outside a tiny graveyard off an unpaved road. The elders pile out and roam among headstones decorated with flags and flowers. My roots are here, great-grandfather, grandfather, grandmother. Hawks circle overhead and red ants dominate the Mount Zion Baptist church grounds, where we gather over country fried chicken, roast beef and coleslaw. Afterward, we wade through wild, shoulder-high wheat and rye to visit the ruins of granddad’s farm. I’ve been here before. This time, I own the memories of baby chicks, the old outhouse and grandmother’s tears.

On Monday morning, Memorial Day, after biscuits and gravy, we drive the 81 south, pass through Kingfisher, Okarche and other small towns. Flags are everywhere, on stoops and rooftops. Outside El Reno, we head east into Oklahoma City along the new business strip. We notice all flags are at half-staff. We have three hours before our flight and are anxious to see the federal building bombing site. We ramble toward downtown, then make our way to 5th and Broadway. Many buildings are boarded up. Overcast skies exaggerate the devastation.

We park and walk to the fenced-off site. Work crews and cranes search for remaining victims. Police keep tourists like us outside the corridor where onlookers gather for autographs of rescuers. On the fence in front of the YMCA, mourners have hung a wreath from which an angel dangles, along with flags, flowers and poems. We take snapshots, buy souvenirs, collect autographs, move on....

Images of Oz buzz my head as we jockey through LAX. I’m not Dorothy and my story has no Wizard. Cruising Century Boulevard east to the 405 north, we slip back into the rhythms of honking horns and cursing drivers. There’s no place like L.A. And though this is so, I’m haunted by the feeling that I’ve left home to return home.