winkgirl4's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Childhood, revisited. Okay, so last night we were bored. What do you expect? We are in southeastern Oklahoma and on a Thursday night you can either go to one of the local bars and sing Karaoke or get the two-for-one special at the bowling alley. As neither of us felt inclined to get boo-ed out of a bar or off the lanes, Shannon decided to pick up some movies. All I can say is: I was amused at his selection. We got "Shark Tales," "King Arthur," "The Village," and "Where the Red Fern Grows." And which, you might ask, was the first movie that Shannon wanted to see? Why, "Where the Red Fern Grows," of course. It's funny because we can both recall either reading the story or having the story read to us in school and we can both, distinctly, remember the trip to the school auditorium where all the lunch chairs were lined us so that we could watch the older version on "movie day." And we could both list the people whom we knew for a fact "cried like a baby" when they saw it (neither of us admitting that we were in that group.) So we watched this newer version, with Dabney Coleman as the ever-supportive and loving Grandfather and none other than Dave Matthews as the God-fearing, overall-clad father. Now, I'm not really sure I liked this version as much as I did the first as the first version reminds me of when I was just young enough to be, both, touched by the story and impressed that it was set in Oklahoma. It kind of made us feel like celebrities (in a six degrees of separation kind of way.) We were all thinking, 'kids all over America- the world even- were watching this movie. And wouldn't they be envious of us that we actually LIVED here. We knew Talequah and Tulsa, personally. Those were OUR roads and OUR trees. That was OUR state they were talking about. It was a time when we were too young to realize that this was not the first time (or the last) that the people in Oklahoma were considered and depicted to be no-shoe-wearing, potato-pie-eatin' 'hicks' and 'hillbillies'. For us, this was the Oklahoma of our youth. The one that afforded us our own adventures. So we watch the movie. Quietly. We don't burst out with noteable comments like we do in most other movies- mystery science theater-style. We just watch. And, when Dan and Little Ann die, we don't look at each other. We allow ourselves to pretend- just a little longer- that we weren't a part of that crowd that cried when he found the red fern lying there between the two grave markers of the redbones that Billy raised and trained and loved as well as we have ever loved any of the pets we were ever allowed to have as children. Then, just before he replaces the movie with the DVD of "The Village," we just smile at each other- knowing, both, the differences and similarities between the first time we watched the movie and the last. What an unusual, cheesy, enjoyable evening. 12:24 p.m. - February 04, 2005 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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