I am an attorney and aspiring writer today, but I was once a grunt in a Humvee barreling down Route Irish in south Baghdad. Fifteen years ago, I mourned a man I never met, got back to the base, and tried to forget about it. Below is what I began writing one night in 2007 when I couldn't sleep and couldn't forget about it. When I was in Mrs. Riner's junior English class at MacArthur High School, we were required to read John Cheever's The Enormous Radio. The premise was simple. A couple in the 1930s were given a special radio that allowed them to hear all their neighbors' conversations. At first they were elated, but, ultimately, they were haunted by the miracle of their ability. They could hear all the horrors of society that usually go unnoticed or are covered up and sterilized . . . and they couldn't turn it off. They couldn't change the channel. Like most high school boys, I soon forgot both the story and the assignment. But seven years later I felt that couple's horror and instantly remembered The Enormous Radio. It is not the best writing I've ever produced, and I like to think I've grown as a writer since then. It still encapsulates what that day was like, though.
Two or three years after I published the original blog post, SGT King's widow contacted me. She had searched her husband's name and found my story. My heart sank. I never wanted his family to read that, to feel that, but that is the risk we take when we share others' stories. SGT King's widow was grateful I wrote about her husband, that someone cared about his death, but it could easily have gone the other way. How would I feel if someone wrote a second-by-second story stitched together from the 911 calls on the day I lost my brother, niece, nephew, and de facto sister-in-law? I don't know. I keep that experience in mind when I consider how to tell the story of the Babbs Switch fire and ensuing mystery. These are people with loved ones. They did not ask to be public figures, and it would cause great pain to those loved ones for someone to misrepresent the people they knew. It is a great responsibility to tell others' stories, and I hope I am up to the task.
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HistoricMapWorks.com has a feature that allows you to overlay historic maps onto Google Maps. Below is a map of 1913 landowners laid over Hobart and its southern adjoining lands. The star is where Babbs Switch school was located. Although it is difficult to read at this size, in the bottom of the map are two plots of land owned by Edith Babcock—namesake of Babbs Switch. Just to the east and south of the school is the land owned by the Christian family. The Christians donated the land on which the school was built, and the school was first referred to as "Christian School" before adopting the Babbs Switch moniker.
It has been almost a century since the Babbs Switch fire, and 64 years since Hobart Democrat-Chief publisher Ransom Hancock buried the biggest story of his career out of compassion and kindness. Ransom passed away decades ago, but his legacy lives on. One son, Joe, continued the tradition by running the Democrat-Chief until he passed away. Joe's son—Ransom's grandson—is Todd Hancock, who owns and operates the Democrat-Chief himself.
Ransom's other son, Bill, also spent time running the Democrat-Chief before a distinguished career in collegiate sports. He was the first full-time director of the NCAA Final Four and has served as the Executive Director of the College Football Playoff since 2012. He compiled This One Day in Hobart and wrote a book about dealing with the loss of his son, Will, in the 2001 Oklahoma State University basketball team airplane crash. And he has been kind enough to respond to my questions as I get a crash course in Hobart and Hancock history. Right now, he is in Japan for the Olympics, which he has attended since 1984. Berry Tramel of the Oklahoman has been posting Bill's travel journal chronicling his time in Tokyo, and it's worth a read: Note: Austin Kleon of Steal Like an Artist and Show Your Work recommends being as transparent as possible during the writing process: what you're doing; where you're going; what you're reading; how you're feeling. This is the first in a series of posts to share where I'm at and what I'm feeling. It has been almost a century since the Babbs Switch fire killed 36 mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, and schoolchildren. Although much has changed over a century, basic human experiences have not. The cold sting of a December night. The pride in organizing a community. The joy and anticipation of a child at Christmas. Pain, sorrow, trauma, and grief. As I develop this book, I ponder what these people felt. How did they reconcile what happened? How did they wake up every morning and face the day? When they were asked how they were coping, what did they say? All I can do is think of the traumas I've experienced and extrapolate from there. On October 5, 2019, my brother took the lives of his two children, their mother, and himself, in our parents' front yard. In the coming days, I shielded my parents from media coverage, planned a funeral, and washed sidewalk chalk off my parents' driveway for the last time. I eulogized a five-year-old, walked past the embalmed bodies of my niece and nephew, and pulled it together to give a eulogy for the brother I knew rather than the brother he was on the last day of his life. In the weeks and months thereafter, I replayed my brother's life in my head, wondering what I could have done to prevent it. But mental illness and toxic conspiracy theories by definition defy logic. My personal mantra became "Is, not if." This is what happened. This is my life. No amount of ifs will ever change it, so why torture yourself? I wonder how many ifs were considered in the aftermath of the Babbs Switch tragedy, and I wonder how those affected responded when asked how they were doing. I know I always answer: It's hard. I don't know how many times I've uttered those two words in the last two years, but I don't know how else to respond. And, despite almost a century of dialectical evolution and expanding dictionaries, I imagine it's what the survivors of the Babbs Switch fire said, too. Unfortunately, some things—like the ability to describe the indescribable—don't change.
My goal with this book is to tell the stories of people who can no longer tell their own. That will take more than the just-the-facts-ma'am style of writing I learned as a journalist and legal writer. It will take time, and it will take work. In a word, it will be hard. But it can't be harder than what the Babbs Switch survivors endured, and it can't be harder than the last two years. Hard isn't always bad though. I'm reading and learning from some of the best writers in the country, and I learn more about Oklahoma history every day. Thanks for following along. Nothing occurs in a vacuum. I'm reminded of that every time I research this story. The people involved existed before the fire. They lived lives, navigated setbacks, and celebrated weddings, births, harvests, and grand openings. When a years-long drought ended in 1918, Kiowa County scarcely had time to celebrate before the 1918–20 flu pandemic—often brought home by soldiers on leave from World War I training—killed millions worldwide. For Kiowa County, that meant 113 dead, 102 children orphaned, 64 parents burying their children, and 36 people widowed. The sons and daughters, nieces and nephews, friends and neighbors of the dead remained, and many of them were there on that fateful Christmas Eve. Drought. World War I. A pandemic. Oklahoma summers without air conditioning. Life in Kiowa County from 1908 through 1920 was harsh . . . and then the fire happened. If you are at all curious about the Spanish Flu pandemic, I recommend The Great Influenza by John M. Berry. The book is a must-read in the era of COVID-19, but it is a fascinating read in itself. Of course, you don't have to read the book to learn that it was only referred to as the "Spanish Flu" because Spain was practically the only country in the western world that was no censoring its press. Since Spanish newspapers were the only ones honestly reporting the effects of the pandemic, Spain was blamed for the outbreak (although it likely began in rural Kansas).
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