There's an Oklahoma wind blowing tonight. Here, the soil is bright rust-red and the trees dark-barked, the few taller ones mixed in with the scrub. A row of cedars, unable to resist the wind, lean angled in together near the small yellow RV Park sign up by the road. Route 66. At night the small yellow sign flashes steadily on and off. Oddly, a quiet sort of light.

These rolling hills became the town of Chandler days after a land run in the early 1890s. One of 5 that occurred in the late 1900s. In their museum today, I saw a letter behind glass, in a glassed in display of Indian objects. Beadwork—a head-dress, ties, moccasins. Pottery from the Sac tribe, with shiny glazes of earth green and brown. Steps away, in a larger area, behind glass, were typical clothes of townspeople from the 1890s: long-sleeved small-waisted dresses, little girls' dresses, a man's dark suit. A lady's parasol.

Much of what I saw remains in my mind now. Quilts. A barbed wire collection. Photos. That story about the cyclone destroying the whole town and leaving the one church standing. The pointy shoes. The guns. The room dedicated to wars. The map showing the location of the many Indian tribes in Oklahoma.

But that letter behind glass, the edges scalloped by time, the ink faded. I don't remember the salutation. Maybe there wasn't one. No Dear Sirs, Dear Madam, To Whom It May Concern—just the clear order in a confident round hand: leave the land you were given to occupy, take everything with you and get out, or you will be removed "peremptorily". Then official signatures and notation of government agencies.

Grandma Wyant's older sister made a run for land for the family in the opening of the Cherokee Strip. The rest of the family stood on a rise and watched some of the action. There is so much I don't remember. The exact facts. Dad—until this past year—was a reliable story teller and historian. Not now. Even when I Google the number of land runs in Oklahoma, there are conflicting "facts". And at this point, I can't really care about how many. The fact is, these things that feel so unbelievable now, happened. Time passes. We all live with the consequences. We wonder. We feel. We move away, or stay, or visit. Those of us who were born to share this red dirt land.

When I was young, I dreamed of meadows, green woods with tall trees, and brooks. I never dreamed that the East was waiting for me, ready to give all those things. In Orlando, where my father was born, the red dirt was often cracked dry, and stained the sidewalks and houses. The few trees were stunted, and our walks down country roads led to bridges crossing dry creek beds. Summer brought unbearable heat.

But with sunset, and the darkness at night, came the cooling prairie winds. In bed or on the front porch swing, in this strange land, I heard the rhythm of the oil pumps in motion and the far thin zing zing of the distant highway, the creaking of the rusting front gate, the mostly silent highway in front of the house—and the ghosty wind blowing and blowing.

This evening, the wind came. I'm here in Oklahoma again, feeling it all beyond words.