FEATURE
STORIES
Oklahoma
Land run, oil tycoons and other tales from America’s high plains
by Lindsay DeChacco
“Jane would usually wake up late, take her breakfast
in bed and then perhaps write a few letters before
dressing,” our docent shares as we take turns peering
into an elaborately ornate pink marble bathroom
from an equally ornate and decidedly feminine master
bedroom.
“That’s the way I’d do it,” quips Rebecca, one
of the PR pros staffing my Oklahoma state tour.
We move to the second master suite, trading peach
chintz for animal hides as we do. “Frank Phillips
usually woke around 5:30 or 6 a.m.,” our guide
continues, “He took his breakfast in bed then he
would receive a shave, a trim and a massage in
his bathroom’s personal barber chair.”
“That’s the way I’d do it,” Rebecca dryly drawls
a second time.
The home of Frank Phillips, of Phillips 66 renown,
located in Bartlesville, Okla., is one of the many
imprints left on Oklahoma by the early 20th century
oil barons.
Phillips, a humble farm boy turned oil millionaire,
built his family’s neo-classical style house in
1908 and today, roughly a century later, the house
is open to the public through the Oklahoma Historical
Society.
Called the “Grand Lady of Cherokee Avenue” the
home reflects its second remodel, which took place
in the 1930s. With the assistance of knowledgeable
docents, however, visitors can peer through its
layers. Guides will helpfully point out where the
secret hiding places once existed in the library
— added as the Lindbergh kidnapping reigned in
the headlines — only to be encroached by the final
addition of an elevator in 1947.
Through exploration of the 26-room mansion, you
will gradually become acquainted with the nuances
of “Uncle Frank” and “Aunt Jane,” as they were
known by the community — from Jane’s proclivity
for pink and peach to Frank’s partiality for lucky
numbers 11 and seven. The third floor still houses
the quarters of their long-time butler, Henry Einaga,
who quietly amassed a fortune, yet continued to
work for the Phillips until his death in 1969.
On my first visit to the Sooner State, I found
the impact of the oil industry to be similarly
interwoven throughout Oklahoma’s infrastructure,
not only through the ubiquitous oil wells that
pepper the landscape or the multiple estates left
by these oil magnates. Strung together, the stories
and contributions of these early tycoons guild
Oklahoma’s plains like a fine pearl necklace.
Thomas Gilcrease was another humble farm boy who
saw his fortunes dramatically changed through a
lucky oil strike. In 1902 at the age of twelve,
Gilcrease was allotted 160 acres of Creek Nation
land, due to his one-eighth Creek heritage. Five
years later, the former Indian Territory had become
the eastern half of Oklahoma state and petroleum
rigs were pumping pools of oil from beneath Gilcrease’s
auspiciously located acreage.
By the age of 17, Gilcrease was well on his way
toward becoming a very wealthy man, but it was
a passion that he developed 32 years later that
paved the way for perhaps the greatest boon to
Oklahoma’s cultural scene.
Following the bitter end of his second marriage
to a Cherokee beauty, a former Miss Tulsa who was
the first Native American to be crowned Miss America,
Thomas Gilcrease developed a rabid appetite for
western art. He was particularly interested in
pieces depicting the Native American experience
— a part of his heritage with whose grievances
he had developed an affinity on the heels of his
acrimonious and degrading divorce.
He amassed his collection at an exponential rate,
employing all of his resources in pursuit of his
newfound passion. However, his single-mindedness
proved too reckless, resulting in the accumulation
of a $2.25 million debt that ultimately placed
his prized collection in jeopardy.
Another Native American diaspora seemed inevitable
— this time their likenesses on canvas and cast
in bronze were on the verge of being scattered
— when the city of Tulsa voted in favor of a plan
that would rescue the collection and allow Tulsa
to retain the museum. In 1954, a small group of
Tulsans organized a bond election to pay off Gilcrease’s
debt with the single stipulation that Gilcrease
repay the loan from his oil revenues. In 1955,
Gilcrease deeded his collection to the city of
Tulsa.
Thus, Tulsa acquired what is universally agreed
to be the finest and largest collection of western
art in the nation, at no cost. The Gilcrease collection
still resides in Tulsa, highly lauded and drawing
visitors from across the world. On July 1, the city
of Tulsa and the University of Tulsa entered into
a historic public-private partnership to manage
the city-owned museum.
And though it constitutes one of the crown jewels
of Oklahoma’s art world, it is, by no means, the
only place of note in the state. At the behest
of yet another oil mogul, the world’s only Frank
Lloyd Wright skyscraper graces the otherwise low-slung
plains of nearby Bartlesville.
Harold C. Price of the H.C. Price Company, an oil
pipeline firm, commissioned the 19-story tower,
which was completed in 1956. Today, the Price Tower
is comprised of a unique boutique hotel, the Copper
Restaurant and Bar and the Price Tower Arts Center.
The hotel suites are designed in an updated “martinis
and shag rug” retro while the very top floors have
been restored to the original 1950s Formica surfaces
and geometric prints.
Guest can tour these levels, which reflect the
interior as it appeared while it housed the Price
Company. The restored rooms include Harold Price’s
executive office as well as one of the loft-style
executive living quarters.
The Price Tower turned out to be such an incongruous
and unexpected discovery, I could almost forgive
Harold Price’s directive to deliberately design
his secretary’s desk into a windowless cubby. In
a structure that otherwise offers panoramic windows
and sweeping vistas from nearly every angle, this
has to be one of the cruelest edicts ever made.
The restored executive apartment on the
17th and 18th floors mirrors the hotel’s renovated
suites. They both feature the loft layout, wrapping
panoramic windows and floor-to-ceiling curtains.
However, the rooms in the executive apartment remain
unrenovated and the materials and furniture were
painstakingly acquired to duplicate its original
design.
Countering the flashy, neoteric mentality of a
city like Las Vegas, that follows the adage of
“if it’s not broke tear it down and build a new
one,” you will find that Oklahomans exhibit a particular
adeptness and interest in preserving these glimpses
of history through their establishments.
In Oklahoma City, I stayed in another historic
boutique hotel. The Colcord, a relic of 1910 —
the year that Oklahoma City became the state
capital, is set apart from newer structures by
charming plaster-of-Paris detailing on the exterior
and elegant black awnings. The lobby is encased
in black marble and the original elevator doors
complement the heavy-laden decadence.
Another relic from the past, America’s Mother Road
literally has its routes in Oklahoma. Cyrus Avery,
known as the father of Route 66, was appointed
to the state highway commission in Oklahoma and
was integral to the promotion and paving of U.S.
66.
Oklahoma showcases the nostalgia of the historic
highway through not one but two Route 66 museums.
Oklahoma contains 376.4 miles of the famed highway
(a stretch rivaled only by that in Arizona). The
historic road is flavored by a quirky collection
of both old and new curiosities. In Arcadia, Route
66 is flanked by a historic round barn and a few
miles down the road, POPS, a combination restaurant
and shake shop with an old-fashioned soda fountain
flair, recently opened.
POPS features a candy colored kaleidoscope of 1400
varieties (500 at one time) of soda. The glass-bottled,
cane-sugar-sweetened drinks seem to come in every
flavor and brand imaginable. There are 63 varieties
of root beer alone, running the gamut from Sioux
City Sarsaparilla to POPS’ signature Round Barn
Root Beer.
The small community of Guthrie is undoubtedly Oklahoma’s
historic epicenter. Located 32 miles outside of
Oklahoma City, Guthrie is the original capital
city and the town that was built in a day when
its population swelled in a period of 24 hours
to over 10,000 following the 1889 land race. It
managed to die with equal alacrity when the seat
of the state government was voted to Oklahoma City
in 1910.
It was perhaps that fateful decision that, in a
manner, froze the town into a virtual time capsule.
With 1,400 acres and 1,269 building recognized
on the National Register of Historic Places, Guthrie
is a charming community of historic homes and quaint
storefronts.
In 2007, Oklahoma celebrated its state centennial
with dozens of civic enrichment projects that you
can’t help but stumble across as you explore. At
the same time, the 
cities are experiencing revitalization
and signs of new life abound in every direction.
Oklahoma City’s downtown warehouse district has
been reinvented with a River Walk-esque canal system.
A water taxi shuttles passengers between the movie
theater and various eateries that have taken up
residence in Bricktown. A centennial project mosaic
graces one end of the waterway, while heroic-sized
bronzes celebrating the Land Run are situated along
the outer end.
Beyond the statues, passengers can peer across
a grassy knoll to the Chesapeake Boathouse. It
marks the revitalization of the Oklahoma river,
which stood for years as the butt of a longstanding
joke: the river that needed to be mowed twice a
year. Since the river project was completed in
2004, Oklahoma has quickly carved a place for itself
in the boating community —underscored by the growing
popularity of their annual regatta.
Tulsa’s cityscape is likewise enhanced with waterways
and miles of bike paths that run alongside its
Arkansas River. Following a European model, Tulsa’s
River Parks Department has equipped the path with
free bicycle rentals. Resembling lazy Pepto-pink
land cruisers, the bikes are clustered at various
stations along the river trails. A swipe of a credit
card releases them to recreation seekers, who can
return them to any of the subsequent stations along
the path.
Oklahoma proved to be so multifaceted that it became
a difficult place to package. During my stay, nobody
could even definitively tell me where it lies in
the geographic orientation of the U.S. Whether
it’s Southern, Midwestern or Southwestern appears
to be a matter of audience predilection and it
holds the ambiguous title of the “oldest of the
modern states.”
Yet, for better or worse, the state capital possesses
one moment in its recent history that takes a defining
precedence in the minds of most visitors. Rather
than try to obliterate the memory of 1995 bombing
of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building, the city
has created a poignant place to memorialize the
tragedy and heroism of the day.
The western chain link fence first greets visitors
as they approach the memorial. Originally erected
as a barrier, the fence has evolved into an asylum
for the mementos and well wishes of people from
across the world and has come to symbolize the
support of the nation.
The other elements that comprise the outdoor memorial
are deliberately symbolic. Most significant, 168
empty chairs represent the 168 lives lost in the
bombing. They are situated in what was the footprint
of the building, arranged in nine rows representing
the building’s nine floors. Five of the chairs
stand away from the rest, marking the victims 
who
were not in the building when the blast occurred.
The museum is located on the north end of the site
in a building that housed the Journal Record at
the time of the bombing. Less than 48 hours after
the blast, the Record managed to put out their
daily edition despite suffering extensive damage
from the explosion. The south-facing facade of
the building still bears pockmark scars of bombarding
shrapnel.
Inside, the exhibit is masterfully executed. Beginning
on the third floor, the chronological self-guided
tour throws into sharp relief the minutes and hours
that followed explosion. The first rooms act as
prologue, containing models and pictures of the
site as it was.
Next, you file into a small room to hear audio
that was recorded in a state building across the
street moments before the bombing. For two minutes
you listen in on the proceedings of a water resources
board hearing, then the explosion sounds and it
is 9:02 on April 19, 1995. You are ushered from
the darkened room to the blare of the first news
telecasts that occurred on that day.
The exhibits are varied and include salvaged pieces
of the building, like the bronze United States
seal that was located near the south entrance,
as well as various collections of personal effects
that were sifted from the rubble. A pile of watches
in one display, cell phones, car keys, they all
shout of the stream of interrupted humanity — a
child’s shoe speaks volumes.
In the next room, accounts from survivors loop
on an overhead television. The displays here underscore
the randomness of the destruction: an unscathed
coffeepot, a photo of a jacket hanging immaculately
in a room that appears to have crumbled around
it. Life and death determined by feet and inches.
As the hours progress, the informational plaques
record fewer rescues. The exhibits go on to outline
the subsequent days and the investigation that
followed; but you see the last surviving victim
taken from the wreckage at 10:40 p.m. on the night
of the bombing.
The museum leaves few questions unanswered. The
haunting images of a cratered building and a child’s
waxen body are tenuously held at bay by the final
message of hope. Toward the end, the exhibit remembers
the heroism and support of people throughout the
nation who responded to the crisis.
Oklahoma’s framework teams with more dimensions
than Frank Phillips thrice renovated mansion and
more layers than H.C. Prices’ prized tower. In
the throes of a Centennial makeover, Oklahomans
remember to preserve all that came before — its
history steeped in highs and devastating lows are
carefully catalogued like the Native American artifacts
in the bowels of Mr. Gilcrease’s museum.
And through their one-of-a-kind memorial, Oklahoma
City offers the nation a blueprint on how preserve
the lessons of a world-altering event. I can’t
help but think, as the museum’s final notes recount
the strides the city has made towards recovery,
“That’s the way I’d do it.”
Photos from top to bottom: istockphoto.com/Robert Trawick; Christian M. Korab; istockphoto.com/Beverly Martin; Oklahoma City National Memorial and Museum (bottom two)
If you go
Gilcrease Museum
1400 Gilcrease Museum Rd., Tulsa
$8 adult; $6 senior (62+), military and groups
(10+); $5 students; free for children under 18
and for all visitors the first Tuesday of every
month.
Hours: Tuesday through Sunday, 10 a.m. to 5 p.m.
Price Tower Arts Center
510 Dewey Ave., Bartlesville
Pricetower.org, 918-336-4949
$145 room; $245 Suites
Colcord Hotel
Fifteen N. Robinson Ave., Oklahoma City
Colcordhotel.com, 405-601-4300
Water Taxi of Oklahoma City
bricktownwatertaxi.com; 405-234-8294
Chesapeake Boathouse
725 S. Lincoln Blvd., Oklahoma City
Bike and kayak rentals: $10 per hour
Hours: Monday through Friday, 7 a.m. to 8 p.m.;
Saturday, 7 a.m. to 5 p.m.; Sunday, 1 to 5 p.m.
POPS
660 W. Highway 66, Arcadia
pops66.com; 405-928-7677
Oklahoma City Memorial
620 N. Harvey, Oklahoma City
$10 adult; $8 senior (62 +); $6 student; children
under 5 are free
Hours: Monday through Saturday, 9 a.m. to 6 p.m.:
Sunday, 1 to 6 p.m.
