Lucus Landers

Everywhere Oklahoma

North of Texas

In the dim pre-dawn light, I find myself gripping the steering wheel of a rental sports car, leaving Austin and its memories behind. My recent business trip, now a blur, had left my camera unused, tucked away in its bag. Resolute in salvaging this journey, I veer towards detours that beckon me closer to a destination I'm reluctant to call 'home.'

"Home" is a term that warrants clarity. There's the 500-square-foot condo in Oakland, painstakingly fashioned into my sanctuary with my fiancé — that's home. When people inquire about my roots, I often cite New York, a city where I spent a decade carving out my identity. If probed about my birthplace, I’d mention Louisiana. However, in this narrative, 'home' refers to where my family resides: a medium-sized town in Oklahoma, nestled between Dallas and Oklahoma City. This town, a mosaic of farmlands, warehouses, and strip malls, framed my childhood for eight years. It's where I stumbled through life's milestones — first loves, first drinks, first drives — all on its parched, dusty roads. Yet, despite these formative experiences, or perhaps because of them, I find no affection for this place. My visits have dwindled over the years, driven more by obligation than desire.

Now, in my 30s, with marriage on the horizon, the pull of family becomes harder to dismiss. My retired father wrestles with the abundance of free time, while my mother continues her job amidst health concerns. My sister, with her growing family, yearns to connect with me and my fiancée. Thus, I find myself traversing Texas, heading north to Oklahoma's dry plains, drawn to two detours that mirror the few gleaming moments of my youth: Dinosaur National Park and a renowned fossil dig site.

It's at Dinosaur National Park where I begin to thread together my past and present. The sight of ancient dinosaur footprints awakens a joy long buried under years of aversion for Oklahoma. Memories of my childhood, dominated by dinosaur books and vivid dreams of prehistoric adventures, flicker to life. But my visit is brief, the overcast sky dimming the anticipated sunrise spectacle. Yet, amidst the disappointment, the millennia-old footprints captivate me, reviving the child who once reveled in similar discoveries.

Hours later, I'm on my hands and knees at Mineral Wells Fossil Park, sifting through gravel, my pockets swelling with tiny relics. The nostalgia is palpable, transforming me back into that Oklahoma kid, fervently scouring river beds for fossils. Back then, my prized finds were crinoid stems, seemingly insignificant but treasures to my younger self. My recent adult discoveries, including coveted trilobites in Utah, now amplify those humble beginnings.

But the shadows of old resentments linger. While fossil hunting rekindles joy, Oklahoma remains a repository of unpleasant memories. I’m hours away from confronting my past, meeting my family with a mix of apprehension and hope. With no set plans or expectations, I surrender to the week ahead, my fiancée joining mid-way. This journey is more than a return; it's a tentative reconciliation with my past and an embrace of what's to come. Let's see what unfolds.

Reunion - Ardmore

As I returned the rental car to the nearest Avis, marking the end of my business trip, I found myself wandering the parking lot of a small regional airport. My luggage rolled behind me while I scanned for a familiar car, emblematic of my parents. Five unanswered calls to my mom and my dad's steadfast aversion to cell phones left me to rely on my own instincts. Spotting their red Honda Civic, adorned with eclectic bumper stickers and a dashboard resembling a miniature museum, brought a sense of relief amidst the uncertainty.

The reunion with my parents was a poignant juxtaposition of time's passage. They seemed almost unchanged, preserved in their characteristic attire and mannerisms. My father, still lean but slightly stooped, and my mother, her black hair now streaked with gray, presented a picture of time's gentle, yet relentless touch.

The drive home was tediously slow, punctuated by my father's meticulous adherence to speed limits and a conversation that danced around trivial matters — weather, politics, family updates, and the town's evolving landscape. Learning about the closure of the Jack in the Box where I had my first job stirred an unexpected sense of loss in me. It was a place I revisited not for its culinary delights, but for its connection to a past life.

Arriving home late felt like a small blessing. The house, now a canvas for my dad's retirement creativity, stood vibrantly in contrast to its bland suburban surroundings. Yet, the high fences surrounding it seemed to hold back a chaos that was palpably present.

The reality inside was stark. The house had transformed into a labyrinth of clutter, a testament to my father's hoarding. My old bedroom, now a storage room, overflowed with memories and random items, leaving no space for my suitcase except in the congested living room. The kitchen, overwhelmed with unused appliances and outdated food, made my ambitious plan to cook Peking Duck for Thanksgiving seem like a far-fetched dream.

The thought of documenting my parents' hoarding for a photographic project crossed my mind, but the emotional toll was too great. I wasn't ready to expose this part of my life, so for now, this story remains untold.

Entering the house also revived physical ailments I thought I had left behind. The familiar triggers of dust, mold, and pet dander awakened my dormant asthma and allergies, a stark reminder of my childhood struggles. It was only after moving away that I realized these were not lifelong afflictions but consequences of my environment.

Amidst the overwhelming clutter, I did find a curious fascination in my dad's makeshift art — sculptures crafted from old hardware and driftwood adorned with fake eyeballs. These creations were intriguing, but they couldn't compensate for the suffocating lack of space. In that house, freedom and respite were elusive, and I felt the weight of confinement as long as I remained there.

Seeking an escape from the confines of my parents' cluttered home, I turned to solitary drives at dawn and dusk, capturing the essence of the town through my lens. These moments of solitude offered a brief respite, a chance to breathe away from the overwhelming atmosphere indoors.

Each day began with borrowing my dad's pickup for a sunrise visit to a local coffee shop. Avoiding the main downtown café to steer clear of an old high school love, I opted for a newly opened, more commercial spot in the mall parking lot. The young staff, initially perplexed by my simple order of cold brew black, gradually got used to my presence. Their cold brew, surprisingly good, became a vital part of my morning ritual.

During daylight hours, I sought solace outside the house. Hiking with my dad offered a muted beauty compared to California's landscapes, yet it had its own charm. We explored riverbeds, where he looked for old glass bottles, and Lake Murray's trails, a gem in southern Oklahoma's manmade landscapes.

Antiquing with my parents was a bittersweet experience. Their enthusiasm in finding new trinkets was infectious, but it also highlighted the fine line between a harmless hobby and compulsive hoarding. For me, antique shops were more like museums, places to explore history without the urge to possess.

A visit to a pawn shop with my dad led to an unexpected discovery. In a windowless building, a metal case with a film camera caught my eye. Expecting a mundane Yashica, I was stunned to find a Leica SL with a 50mm Summicron lens. Bargaining it down to $50 by feigning a malfunction, I walked away with a treasure. The adrenaline of this unexpected find was exhilarating.

Reflecting on the day's haul — my dad's colorful 1980s telephone and my Leica find — I pondered the parallels between our collections. My father, having grown up with little, now indulged in items he once couldn't afford. Similarly, my own camera collection had grown significantly. Was I mirroring my parents' tendencies? Was this a cause for concern or a benign similarity?

These thoughts lingered as I drove to pick up April from Dallas airport. Our conversation on the way back centered on whether to stay at a hotel, mindful of not offending my parents. In the end, we returned to their house, our bed now an isolated space in a sea of clutter. The question of whether I was following in my parents' footsteps hung in the air, a reflection on the fine line between passion and obsession.

Thanksgiving

In the stillness of early mornings, I found myself embracing a newfound ritual in Oklahoma. While April cherished extra sleep, I indulged in the simple pleasure of black coffee, served by the astonished teens at my new favorite coffee shop, and then set out to chase the elusive morning light. The week had been a tapestry of clouds and fleeting sunbeams, but that morning, as the sun broke free, it bathed the world in a golden glow. A particularly vibrant red tree caught my eye, its leaves shimmering like flames against the crisp sky. I drove aimlessly, savoring the comfort of my dad's green pickup truck, as country music from the FM radio provided a fitting soundtrack for my solitary exploration of the back roads.

Thanksgiving was drawing near, and with April's arrival, our days were suddenly filled with purpose. Thanks to my sister's invitation to use her kitchen, we had the exciting task of preparing Peking duck, a culinary adventure I was eager to embark upon. Fortuitously, April and I stumbled upon the perfect ingredients to add crispy pork belly to our feast. Our preparations took us through the town and into the rural heart of Oklahoma, where long roads cut through farmlands and oil fields, leading us to my sister's welcoming home, greeted by dogs and chickens.

My sister, Amy, her husband Mike, and my niece Alyssa were the embodiment of a happy American family. Their warmth and excitement at seeing us, especially in welcoming April, was heartening. Exploring their property, I marveled at their self-sustained lifestyle. From the chicken coop bursting with eggs to Mike's 'man cave' and grow room, their life was a testament to the changing face of Oklahoma, once rigid but now embracing new industries like marijuana.

The landscape around their home was quintessentially Oklahoman — low rolling hills, tall grass dancing in the wind, and lines of trees strategically planted as windbreaks. Cattle grazed nearby, and an oil well rhythmically pumped, a stark contrast to the midday sun that bleached the colors from the scenery.

Inside, their home was a stark contrast to my parents' cluttered house and my own compact condo. It was spacious, lived-in, and typically American, with a large TV, comfortable couches, and a well-used kitchen. Here, April and I set to work on the duck and pork belly, immersing ourselves in a cooking process that required everyone's involvement. As we worked, mixed spices, and laughed together, time seemed to slip away unnoticed.

The transformation of the day was marked by the setting sun. The landscape, once muted in browns and tans, began to glow with reds, purples, and blues, reflecting the changing light. Stepping outside, I was struck by the beauty of it all. Years of photographing had only recently sharpened my appreciation for the nuances of light. Oklahoma's light, so different from what I had seen elsewhere, was a revelation.

Mike's offer to view this spectacle from his bucket truck was an opportunity I couldn't pass up. As a lineman, he had an intimate knowledge of these landscapes, but for me, being elevated 30 feet in the air was a new experience. The view from above was nothing short of breathtaking, revealing an Oklahoma I had never truly seen or appreciated before.

Thanksgiving Day arrived with the familiar comfort of my morning routine. After picking up April, we headed to my sister's house, where the festive spirit was palpable. My parents planned to join later with their contributions to the dinner. The atmosphere was bustling with activity; Mike focused on the turkey, Amy on pies and sides, while April and I concentrated on our culinary tasks. Alyssa, full of youthful curiosity, flitted around us, eagerly helping.

The kitchen became the heart of our celebration, with the turkey in a roaster and the pork belly in an air fryer. The duck, still a complex endeavor, required our undivided attention. Amy's generous array of side dishes and the oversized turkey meant that the dining table was barely sufficient to hold all the food, and we gathered around the kitchen island, a cozy, informal setting for our feast.

The day was a resounding success. The food was delicious, the conversations warm, and the evening concluded with us gathered around the TV, a perfect ending to a memorable Thanksgiving. As April and I left, a newfound appreciation for family and the bonds we shared filled me. This feeling, once foreign, had now become a cherished part of my experience.

In the following days, April and I immersed ourselves in family life. We transformed leftovers into fried rice cooked on a wood-fired outdoor fireplace, and introduced my family to hot pot, a novel experience for them. We explored my sister's property, bonding with the dogs and cats, and as the week drew to a close, I found myself wishing I could stay longer.

Our final day was spent making wreaths, a skill April had recently learned. Unable to find dried flowers, we scavenged the park for natural materials. Our collection, initially mundane in greens and tans, soon revealed hidden hues of red berries, yellow fruits, and deep maroons — a fitting metaphor for Oklahoma itself. This journey had opened my eyes to the hidden beauty of my home state, a beauty I had once overlooked but now saw being woven into the fabric of my family's life.

Going Home Home

As I sit down to write this post, the new year has unfurled its first chapters, and Thanksgiving is now a distant memory, nearly two months behind me. In the interim, life has ushered in significant changes — the most profound being my marriage. The woman who graced these photos, once introduced as my girlfriend and then my fiancée, has now stepped into the role of my wife. It's a testament to the journey we've embarked upon together, paralleling the evolving relationship I've had with Oklahoma and, more broadly, with my family there. Our shared history is punctuated with ups and downs, emotional outbursts, and reconciliations. Yet, as I step into this new phase of life, those turbulent times seem increasingly trivial, as distant and inert as the fossils I unearthed in Oklahoma's dry, dusty fields.

There remain reasons that make me hesitant to frequent Oklahoma, chief among them being the unresolved situation with my parents' hoarding. It's a painful reflection, a mirror I find challenging to face. Yet, in acknowledging this, I sense the beginnings of understanding and empathy. Delving deeper into these emotions might not only aid my personal growth but could potentially help my parents as well.

Observing my sister's life has been a revelation. She's crafted a beautiful existence for herself, one that inspires me. I aspire to build something equally fulfilling. There's undoubtedly much I can learn from her — God knows I'm trying.

Since returning from Oklahoma, I've stumbled upon a fascinating opportunity: a man, living just an hour northeast of my parents' home, allows people on his property to dig for fossils. This place, rich with trilobites, presents an adventure I've yet to experience in Oklahoma. Never have I unearthed a noteworthy specimen in my home state, but now, for the first time, I'm contemplating a trip back to Oklahoma — not out of obligation, but for the sheer joy of exploration.

This shift in perspective is new to me. The prospect of returning to Oklahoma for fun, rather than duty, marks a significant change in my mindset. It seems my journey with Oklahoma, much like my life, is continually evolving, offering new avenues for discovery and connection.