"All I did was put seeds in the ground," insists backyard gardener David Robison.

He is a retired police officer who traded his trigger finger for a green thumb.

"Green beans are my favorite," he says, then points, "turnips, butternut squash, and I've got Goliath radishes here."

He planted a backyard garden five years ago, and this year's version around April 5.

Everything came in pretty well, he says, except tomatoes.

But the okra really took off.

"Obviously," he chuckles, "this year was the year for okra."

The average plant grows to around seven feet tall.

David's okra topped out at 11 feet by July.

"I knew something weird was going on about the time I had to pull the ladder out to cut okra. I was like, 'I don't think this is the way it's supposed to go.'"

He got more produce from his plants that he or his neighbors could use, but it was the height of it that proved the biggest draw.

"I get a good view of all the neighbors up here," says David from the top step of his ladder. "They get a good view of me and they think I'm nuts."

"I've enjoyed this," he continues.

"Did you trade your cow for some magic seeds?," we ask playfully.

"No, no," he laughs. "I don't think I really took that good a care of it myself."

The tallest plant in the row, more like a tree now, stands at just over 15 feet.

A world record for tall okra plants came in last year from Louisiana measuring nearly 16-and-a-half feet.

"If that one does get past a world record I wouldn't even know who to call," he states.

"But I've done some pretty good things in my life and here I am getting notoriety for my okra!"

So Robison is going to keep picking the last of his Clemson Spineless and watching it grow until the first freeze.

Oklahoma's new Okra King is waiting for another miracle.

"I prayed over my garden when I planted it," he smiles, "And I can only say he answered."

For the past 13 years, he's been doing just that.

"My secret?" Pagonis smiles. "My secret is, it has to scare me. If it scares me, it'll scare you."

Take simple items, junk to most people.

Distress it, melt it, splatter it with red paint, and turn off the lights.

That usually does the trick for the usual haunted houses.

But Pagonis says, "We want to be the scariest haunt in Oklahoma."

If you want to stay in this crazy business, you have to keep going.

The ante goes up every October.

John says, "We want to give people a really memorable experience."

That's why Pagonis continues his macabre search among places like marker companies.

They occasionally make deadly mistakes.

Pointing to several marble tombstones decorating the exit to his haunt, he cautions, "They're basically misprints."

Increasing the scary ratio is also why he keeps adding the time it takes to get through his haunt.

Five years ago, it took the average visitor about 45 minutes to come out the other side,

It takes much longer now.

John's standards harken back to the haunts at Bricktown and the Fairgrounds when he was young.

"Those were some scary places," he recalls.

With sound effects and with innocent things like drips of warm water raining down from the roof of a hearse which he insists feels just like blood.

"We have people crawl through here," he chuckles.

With scary clowns and severed limbs, he takes a shotgun approach to fear and loves it best when his customers make it out barely alive.

"I watch for reactions like, 'man. that was the best ever!'" he says. "That's what makes me feel best, is those kinds of reactions as people leave."

Find more information on the Guthrie Haunts website.

It's a new attraction that harkens back to the Dust Bowl '20s and '30s, and to a vision of a man raised in its path.

"When I get a vision in my mind," says builder Sam Hagen. "I can't help it. I got to see it through. I have to make it come alive."

His latest vision began over the summer when he, somehow, acquired the highway frontage where the old Dairy Freeze in Erick used to sit.

He took tornado-damaged scrap to build this section of Sam's Town with his own hands.

Then, he connected that to what he's constructed already.

"It's like steppingstones," he argues. "One thing led to another."

It's actually a very Mother Road business idea, to divert drivers' attentions.

"My motto is, 'Slow Down America,'" he states. "We're going too fast, in my opinion."

Bicyclists are especially welcome.

His single-handed efforts went to building what he calls the Mother Road's only rest stop just for them.

We first met Sam more than 20 years ago when we featured his photography.

He turned from that to scrapping as he moved a one room schoolhouse to his property.

A few years later, he constructed a log cabin for a total of $7.

"You've done this on a budget, and when I say budget, Well, you can explain," we prompt.

Hagen laughs, "Anything to make a dollar besides the wrong way. It's got to be legal."

Sam's Town is a continuation of those efforts.

Another cabin, '7 Ricks' is so named because that's how much firewood it took to complete.

Wander his land and you'll see trailers outfitted for campers, cabins, showers, even a wine bar built from a chicken coop.

His wine cellar consists of a cistern and a hand operated crank to lift the bottles.

"It keeps pretty cool," he says as he retrieves the bottle. "Feel that."

Sam's Town is campground, off the books Air B and just Be.

It's a throwback to times when folks might just roll up in overloaded Model Ts to rest and let the engine cool.

There is no corporate here, no codes, just a hand-painted shingle, and a vision like no other.

Sam's Town is located one block west of Sheb Wooley Avenue on Route 66 in Erick.

For more information go to the Sam's Town website or to Sam's TikTok page.

Supply Chain Manager Brenna Glover is one of several employees who formed a 'Kitty Committee' back in 2019 to procure a pet.

One trip to the Moore Animal Shelter and he chose them.

"Indy was really persistent," she remembers. "He just kept reaching through the cage and grabbing at Kristen (another employee). So we were like, 'that's our cat.'"

Skip forward less that 5 years and Indy has become much more than just part of the surroundings,

His name came from an online poll, but he now boasts popular Instagram and TikTok pages.

"The internet is a crazy place and you never know," Brenna adds. "I don't even know how many followers he has. 40,000 on Instagram and around the same on TikTok."

Indiana Bones even has his own merchandise in the gift shop.

That corner is a favorite because of the catnip on the shelf.

Cast your eyes just about anywhere, work tables, among the specimens, and offices.

Sir Indy is likely close by.

He's not a great fan of crowds, but like any cat, he is curious and cautiously friendly.

"You're not worried about a black cat crossing your path?" we ask.

"No, no," smiles Brenna. "Not at all. He's not bad luck. He's the best luck."

To let you know just how valuable to the Skulls Unlimited he's become, Brenna and other 'catagers' voted him Employee of the Moth recently for his skills in marketing and procuring donated treats for friends still living at the Moore Animal Shelter.

His privileged place in the warm spotlight of sun shining through the gift shop door is assured for as long as there is flesh on his 'Indiana Bones', and maybe even after that.

For more information on Skulls Unlimited and the Museum of Osteology, go to their website.

Indiana Bones is on Instagram and TikTok!

It happens every year at this time.

No sooner do the trailers start pulling into the campground here for the International Bluegrass Festival, than instruments emerge from cases and songs like "Caroline the Baker" start filling the air like the smell of fresh bread.

"The music starts at sun-up and goes well past sundown," says Festival Director Susan Tate.

We've been here in years past to talk a little and listen a lot.

Tate's experience here goes back a decade, singing a little, and listening a lot as well.

This is her first year to run things, telling thousands of music fans where to save their spots and hundreds of musicians where they can set up to play.

"Right here is where the stage is going to be," she points.

Bluegrass is a simple music.

Conducting an international festival like this is more like a symphony.

"We have between 400 and 450 volunteers," she says. "So it's pretty amazing how the whole thing comes together."

Susan and everyone else here stand on the shoulders of the man who started this festival.

Byron Berline has been gone more than two years now, but people still come.

If you've ever listened to a waltz or dance to one, you know they have their own kind of momentum.

The musicians might change but someone is always around to pick up the melody and put their own spin on it.

That's what makes this kind of gathering so fun, and why it shows not sign of stopping, as long as there's still a spot of shade along the banks of Cottonwood Creek.

For more information about the 26th International Bluegrass Festival, visit their website.

"It's just a matter of getting it back together," he chuckles.

The machine on his workbench this December afternoon looks like a sewing machine, but he calls it a serger.

Really, it could be anything.

Dale continues, "I don't think my parents had anything mechanical or electronic that I didn't have apart."

50 years ago, he started a business in nearby Lexington that repaired TVs and appliances.

40 years ago, he parked himself in a quiet neighborhood in Purcell to fix computers, sewing machines, stopped clocks, and even vacuum cleaners.

While KFOR was visiting the shop, a customer came in looking for a replacement belt for his vacuum.

Dale gave it to him free of charge.

The Dells, Toshibas, HPs and Asis computer repairs pay his bills, but the Frontalinis, Bomars, and Ortigara bring him real joy.

"They come from varied places," he says of his selection of musical instruments.

Dale's Etc. includes the sale and restoration of accordions, too; any size, any model.

You can always find a Singer anywhere, but Dale prefers a squeeze box to his own voice box.

"I'll try not to make any rude noises," laughs Starchman as he gets his favorite accordion ready to play.

Every instrument is different, a living, breathing thing in the right hands.

"It's the original, portable instrument," he states. "They all have a little different character, a little different tonal quality."

Dale brings them in from all over the country, but he won't ship them out.

Accordion customers have to visit the shop to buy.

Because, he insists, "I want to fit the accordion with the person."

In a one-room business where you wouldn't expect to find anything extra Dale Starchman's ETC. fits in a whole quilt, the world wide web, a world symphony, and lots of other stuff, all at the touch of his fingers.

With a sweeping gesture that includes the whole shop, Dale says, "All of this is the Etc."

Dale's Etc. is located on West Jackson Street in Purcell. He's open Monday through Thursday, 9 a.m. - 5 p.m.

CHICKASHA,Okla. (KFOR) — It's one building, but Fred McNatt stuffed five different bars into this old hotel, turned Mexican restaurant, that he spent five years turning into Legends.

"I've thrown a lot of darts to kind of see what sticks," he says. "It's a restaurant during the week and a concert venue on the weekends. I wanted to bring it all into one building."

McNatt's roadhouse has proof of the many roads he's been down during his own life, starting with an Elvis Presley concert we saw at age 9.

"Did you save your ticket stub," asks his guest?

"Yes," he replies, "But that's about the only thing I can't find right now."

Fred's been collecting his stuff ever since.

Inside a glass case he points out, "This is Elvis's belt and a picture of him wearing it."

Pointing to another item, he says, "These are the binoculars I bought at that Elvis concert."

He was a DJ for a few years, then a set-up man and roadie.

"Sound, light, staging." he recalls.

He was a professional poker player for years.

"Almost every customer that comes in here has a Vegas story," he says.

At every stop he collected souvenirs from his travels and meetings with all kinds of celebrities.

"A lot of legends in here," he states.

It took him five years of planning and building, but he stuffed a lot of those memories into Legends Pub House and Venue.

"I've been collecting for 25 years," he tells us. "It's like anything else. Once you start you just can't quit."

Every corner has something to look at, every room is proof of an extensive network of famous people he's met.

His place along Highway 81 is a stop for a lot of bands both up and coming or on their way out.

"Puddle of Mud, Tantric, Trap, Saliva," he lists.

For Fred, whose life could be a song with a hundred different verses, it's all about the music, and a place full of legends in one form or another.

"I want to put them in here for everybody to enjoy."

"All of these buildings are so familiar to me," she remarks as she walks.

Her Broadway memories in Elk City go back to when she was a kid.

Her mom used to take her through a now familiar door.

"We would come in here and shop for shoes," recalls Julie. "It was called The Bootery."

Julie took flight and flew the coop for a while.

She got married and had a family.

She taught high school English for 18 years, but the faded neon lights of this avenue stuck in her memory.

Bonner says, "For a long time I would drive down Broadway and think, 'What do we need? What do we need that we don't have?'"

Last year she took a chance on an idea she had for this old retail space.

Bonner thought it might just be big enough for a boutique style hotel – three rooms, no employees, just her.

She smiles. "I come up and clean the rooms myself. It's been very easy."

The rooms are named for grandparents Rachel, Jessie and Marie.

The Bluebird Inn is named for the figurine her Nana gave her as a child.

"I thought it was perfect. It made me think of her."

Family history and Elk City history united at the Bluebird.

Her tiny hotel isn't too far off the track.

Guests can see Route 66 a block away out the front windows.

No front desk, no bell to ring for service.

Guests check in online and settle in.

The light is back on again along this section of Broadway, a bright idea that took flight.

Bonner has her grand opening set for Saturday, April 17 from noon to 2 p.m.

For more information, or to book a room, go to The Bluebird Inn website or the Bluebird Inn's Facebook page.

“Every free minute I have, I’m pretty well out here,” he says of his big, metal barn

His empty void is a giant, 300-pound globe of hollow steel, a quarter-inch thick.

“They’re tank caps,” he describes, “from (oil field) pressure tanks.”

The Purviance first directive ‘let there be light’ comes from a handheld plasma cutter that does its hot job and draws at the same time.

“Exactly,” he agrees. “That’s exactly what it’s doing.”

Cody’s own father taught him the art of welding, first on two-dimensional plow disk wall hangings.

There is no longer any flat earth for him now.

His new worlds must allow for a horizon that’s always changing.

“Every act of creation involves destruction first,” said Pablo Picasso, another artist.

The world of oil rigs and tractor sheds that Purviance comes from makes it hard for him to think in quite that way.

He eventually points to the worlds he creates for people who call him up with a picture they want put on their outdoor fire pits.

His finished pieces are functional.

They provide both heat and light on cold, clear nights.

The fire within reveals his work, that thin line between destruction and creation becomes a picture anyone in Oklahoma can recognize.

To see more of Cody Purviance’s work, go to his Facebook page here.

In group sessions, or one on one, even just reading a book and talking about it later can help her charges who might be having trouble.

"A school counselor," she explains, "is just right there in the trenches with the kids."

According to the American Association of School Counselors, the job calls for people like Jodie to 'maximize student success', 'help manage emotions', 'collaborate with families', 'be a student advocate', and 'an agent for change.'

She's a counselor, too.

Laufer recalls, "I've gone to bed many a night, and said a prayer for little Judy or Johnny because I wondered what they were doing. How was their night going?"

When Laufer came out of school as a piano and vocal music major in 1973, she already had a feeling that mere notes on a page wouldn't be enough to make a difference in her students' lives.

She taught a few years, then went into counseling.

For the past 5 years, Jodie worked as part of a federal grant helping students across the Elk City district.

"You just get them for a little bit," we suggest.

"Then they're gone," Jodie responds. "And they grow up. I turn around twice and I have their kids."

With the grant ending, and her last day of work rapidly approaching, we spoke inside bare walls.

Even her nameplate is in a box somewhere at her house.

An economist could easily compute a Laffer Curve as the relationship between tax rates and tax revenue.

The 'Laufer Curve' is harder to quantify.

But a glance at 50 yearbooks containing the photographs of thousands of children, all of whom passed under her watchful, caring eye, might indicate the shape of her own curve would be heart shaped.

Laufer's last day at Elk City Intermediate was Thursday, September 28, 2023.

Fellow teachers, family, and former students planned a party for October 3.

Jahruba grew up in a still-segregated Oklahoma City, as an eyewitness to the first sit-ins, a hitch in the Army during Vietnam, Black Studies in college, and then finding his musical voice in Reggae on a trip to Jamaica.

He recalls the music, "It hit me. Like, this was my tribe. It felt different."

He could have drowned in the fast waters in any part of his stream, but he didn't ever want to get out.

Stopping, he argues, would have been worse.

"It's been a wild adventure," he admits.

"You haven't jumped out yet." we ask, continuing his metaphor?

"No," he replies quickly. "You got to be in the stream, or the curve. As long as you're in, you can deal with what's outside of it, as long as you're in the stream."

From his house and retreat in rural Norman, Jahruba—the bongo player, the story teller, the teacher—continues his work, pulling with him all the influences that brought him downstream this far.

He still plays and performs regularly.

But his latest venture, a sort of memorial to his son who lost a battle with cancer a few years ago, put instruments and instruction in the hands of young people who want to perform.

Bring more human sounds to a world that is, he says, increasingly machine generated.

"We need to make more musicians," he insists, "because AI is creeping up on us fast."

The waters are deep and wide. Jahruba's stream is easy to enter, hard to leave.

The mixture of influences are all there, starting and ending in central Oklahoma.

Jahruba is planning a three-day series of concerts across Norman starting October 5 at the Blue Door, October 6 at the Midway Deli, and October 7 at Hollywood Corners to raise funds for music scholarships.

For more information, go to his Facebook page.

"I can tell you the story behind it all," he says.

It was his grandfather who let him start bringing old stuff out to the farm, old signs, old cars, and other rare, rusty things.

"Do you look across the landscape here and think of things to do with it?" we ask.

"Something's always missing," he replies.

But he had a vision and the work ethic to turn all that old stuff into a unique property.

"You haven't quite yet?" we query.

"No. I haven't yet," he smiles. "We're still putting in 18-hour days."

Muscle Car Ranch is home to pretty ponds, docks, big stages, old buildings, highway signs, and, yes, cars.

"You can uncover a lot of really interesting little angles, nuances, and corners. The ambiance is really cool out here," he says.

His latest plan for a half dozen vintage buses and RVs, line them up along the shore of one of his ponds, fix them up, and let guests camp in them.

Some people might call it 'glamping', but Hart has been too busy to familiarize himself with the term.

"Glamping," he chuckles. "I'll have to look that up."

Curtis never kept all his artifacts to himself.

Just about every year since he moved to this place, he's held outdoor concerts or swap meets.

This year is no different.

The stages, and the pastures, and all the stuff to look at will make for an event he now calls Twisterfest, three days of concerts.

"We've got plenty of bands," he promises. "We've got a really neat championship wrestling ring we'll put down by the old Valentine Diner."

A smarter investor might have developed this property by the turnpike, built houses, or just mowed it for the hay crop.

"I've never been a smarter guy though," he smirks. "I guarantee you boy. That's the truth."

But Hart continues to work on his own kind of ranch, cutting grass, raising steel, and inviting friends over to look or play.

For schedule or ticket information on Twisterfest '23 go to their website or their Facebook page.