This morning, I took my father to the doctor, a dear friend who has probably saved both of our lives, for a follow-up visit after last month’s exam. That meant, once again, driving north on Lewis Avenue in Tulsa, Oklahoma, from the Hebrew Home to the clinic, which evidently now takes us through Pennsylvania and New Jersey, if you ask my father — and I invite you all to do that someday.
“Where the hell is this place, Ohio?”
“Ohio?”
“Not Ohio, I know. But where is it?”
“Oklahoma.”
“Oklahoma? Why do you see a doctor there if you live in New Jersey?”
“I don’t live in New Jersey. I live in Oklahoma. You live in Oklahoma.”
“How long have you lived in Pennsylvania?”
“Pennsylvania?”
“Oklahoma.”
“I mean, Oklahoma. You live here? Why?”
“Good question.”
“How long?”
“Thirty years.”
“Have you struck oil? Because, you know, Oklahoma is known for that.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Why not?”
“Been looking in the wrong place, I guess.”
“But if someone asks me why I’m in Oklahoma, can I tell them I have oil wells?”
“I think you should.”
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