Tulsa History: November 2019 Archives

After I posted my tribute in memory of Bob Gregory, I received an email from his son, Jason Pitcock, who included a copy of the eulogy he wrote for his dad and delivered at his service. What an amazing life he led! Like Bob Gregory's work, Jason's tribute to his father leaves me delighted by a story well told, better informed, and yet wanting to know more about the subject. With Jason's kind permission, I'm republishing it here.

I'm tickled to read that The Sports Buff was a regular haunt of his. It was a sports memorabilia store that was located in the shopping center that stood on the north side of 51st east of Harvard (demolished during I-44 widening). The Sports Buff was where you went to get authentic Major League Baseball caps and other sports fan apparel, as well as books and cards, when there wasn't another store like it in Tulsa. (I've got a Cardinals jacket and hat from The Sports Buff, and I liked to pick up the annual NCAA Football preview. Somewhere I've got the OU media guide with Billy Sims on the cover for his senior year, wishing for a second Heisman Trophy.)

"Dry your pretty eyes / And let me have a smile / Think how it's gonna be / When we're together again..." Lyrics from the musical "Applause." Dad loved Broadway.

Robert Bruce Pitcock, later Bob Gregory, was born in Fort Smith, Arkansas in 1931. He was Bobby to his six siblings, his mother, Leona, his father, Reves, and his stepfather, J.B. The Great Depression hit hard in the early years. But dad and his beloved little sister, Betsy, often reflected, "It was tough on everyone and we always had family. We had each other."

In the early 1940s, dad and older brother, Billy, would take the bus out to Camp Chaffee, a nearby army base, to shine soldiers' boots. One pair got you ten cents. Everything back then was measured in nickels and dimes - hamburgers, cokes, movie tickets. And dad never adjusted for inflation. World War II, an event that imbued his life, was in full swing. A lifelong passion for newspapers was born.

After the war, at the age of seventeen, he enlisted in the U.S. Army. He served between World War II and the Korean War. And his father, Reves, barely averted combat in World War I. He was on a train in 1918 headed to fight in Europe when the Allies and Germany signed the armistice. Dad knew full well that life, as John Cheever wrote, is a "collision of contingencies."

He felt duty-bound to serve. He also knew that joining offered a chance to make his own way in the world. But it wasn't easy. Basic training in the freezing cold. Family thousands of miles away and no trips homes for the holidays. Letters and Western Union telegrams sustained him. He credited army buddies, many from the east coast, with broadening his horizons. Jocko McDermott, Augie Carlino, Russ Sarami, George McReynolds - his band of brothers. Stationed in Alaska, they were purportedly training for ski patrol. But dad, half-joking, would say, "we couldn't have taken Aspen." Always witty and ready with a quip.

In the service, he took an interest in jazz, tried Pabst Blue Ribbon, shot dice, and played cards. After a hot streak one night, he wired most of the winnings to family in Arkansas.

Dad kept a pocket edition of Shakespeare in his army fatigues and studied as duties allowed. He was self-taught. His trademark elocution and diction were the result of diligence, insatiable curiosity, love of language, and a burning desire to excel. A gifted pitcher, he was a star on the baseball team. And in order to rest his arm before starts, the commanding officer exempted him from "KP" duty. A professional baseball scout later expressed interest only to rebuffed, "I'm going to be an actor."

One evening in the barracks, inspired by a radio disk jockey spinning Stan Kenton records, he resolved, "that's what I'm going to do." And man, did he do it. His persistence won over doubters. Told repeatedly by a station manager back in Fort Smith that no positions were available, dad sought permission simply to observe, without pay. The manager relented and for the next six months, aged nineteen, he showed up every day, watched, waited. Finally, he got the job he dreamed of. The deep voice, the cadence, the delivery; dad was a natural.

Several years later, as television was in its infancy, he transitioned to that medium. Telegenic, articulate, hungry, he cut his teeth in Arkansas and Tulsa. His buddies in those days were Gary Chew and Hal Balch. In 1967, one year after he married the love of his life - our beautiful, kind, sweet, selfless mother - his biggest professional break came. It was a pivotal moment. Bill Small, CBS Washington Bureau Chief, called Tulsa. Come on up to the network. Without hesitation, off to the nation's capital they went, baby Kendall, just months old, in tow.

Walter Cronkite anchored the evening news at the time, a tumultuous period in American history. Eric Sevareid, one of Edward R. Murrow's "Boys," was a mentor. Dad worshipped him. Dan Rather, Roger Mudd, and Bruce Morton were among his colleagues.

When Robert F. Kennedy was assassinated, dad received word from headquarters, 2020 M Street in Georgetown. He took an early morning taxi out to Hickory Hill, the Kennedy family compound in McLean, Virginia, to cover the story. Positioned on the lawn, dad was moved that Ethel Kennedy - grieving, distraught widow - brought out coffee and pastries for the press. Crooner Andy Williams was on hand to comfort the clan and donned monogramed slippers.

Dad saw Martin Luther King preach at the National Cathedral two weeks before his assassination. And after King was shot, he was at the White House and delivered the news to President Johnson's aide. Days later, as riots broke out on 14th Street in the Northwest DC, his cameraman was hit in the head by a protestor's bottle and the two fled to safety on a motorcycle. Soon after that he was with LBJ in the Texas hill country. Johnson wielded a pocketknife and tossed freshly sliced peaches to the assembled reporters, alternately fielding questions and telling folksy tales with that heavy drawl.

Dad, an ardent New Deal Democrat, interviewed President Nixon on numerous occasions and maintained that, politics aside, he was among the most charming, engaging men he'd ever met. He would say the same of Ronald Reagan, governor of California when they first crossed paths. There are hundreds more of these stories. Dad relished telling them. He never paused or failed to recall the slightest detail. The man spoke in complete paragraphs of lapidary prose.

Mom, dad, and Kendall left DC in 1970. He remembered the Cherry Blossom trees in full bloom along the Tidal Basin as they headed for Tulsa. They settled in. Scotty was born that year and dad began a 14-year run at KTUL, Channel 8, under James C. Leake. At the time, Leake also owned KATV in Little Rock, where little brother, Jimmy, would become a star. Dad wore it as a badge of honor. "Jimmy built that station," he would boast. It was the same with his older brother, Billy, who anchored at KOTV, Channel 6, in Tulsa. "Everyone loved your uncle. Mr. 10 o'clock."

Bob Gregory's documentaries and special features at KTUL won dozens of awards. The "Oil in Oklahoma" series, and companion book, were a sensation. For that program, he traveled to England to interview J. Paul Getty at his Wormsley Park estate. "I know people say he was a bastard but I found him fascinating," he'd say.

Dad's encounters were legion and legendary. Dinner with Menachem Begin at the King David Hotel in Jerusalem after the Six-Day War; a chat with Washington Post editor Ben Bradlee at the Mark Hopkins Hotel in San Francisco; a few minutes with Steve McQueen in Texas on the set of The Getaway, the Sam Peckinpah film co-starring Ali MacGraw (he'd gone down to interview cowboy actor and Pawhuska native, Ben Johnson); and over the course of just one weekend out in early Las Vegas with Balch, they hit a trifecta: catching a glimpse of Arnold Palmer on the golf course, receiving a warm "hello, boys!" from a tuxedoed Frank Sinatra in the lobby of the Sands Hotel, and watching Dean Martin lay thousands at the blackjack table.

In the 1970s in Tulsa, dad found his way into a loosely assembled quartet of creative camaraderie: Gailard Sartain, the actor and painter; Jay Cronley, the sportswriter and novelist; and Darcy O'Brien, the professor and author, who'd gone to Princeton only because F. Scott Fitzgerald had, and whose parents were Hollywood royalty in 1930s. Is it any wonder, then? They convened over drinks at Cognito Inn, Little Joe's, and the Tulsa Press Club. Lots of laughs, sure, but it wasn't all light banter. They loved books and movies and the art of the conversation. Dad treasured those times and reminisced often.

So many large personalities and famous names. So many momentous occasions and interviews in faraway places. But this was only the more public side of the man.

What we'll cherish most, what we'll miss most, is the lesser-known side. Birmingham Avenue has been home for almost 50 years. He loved it. Growing up, kids in the neighborhood enjoyed dad's many kindnesses. The Saturday runs were a particular treat. Cliff, Jonathan, Stemmons, Bandy, Jay Reed, cousin Marc. We'd load into the burgundy Cadillac and make the rounds: QuikTrip, B. Dalton books, the Sports Buff, Coney Islander. Dad savored every minute.

His bedroom was part-library, part-newsroom, part-shrine; signed photos adorned the walls. Stacks of newspapers and magazines. The seemingly scattered books were in fact organized, his way. At one point, he had three televisions on his desk. One for news, one for sports, and one for Turner Classic Movies. When the sports world was quiet, two were for news. For big occasions, the Oscars or Oklahoma Sooners football, he would join us in the den. There was the favorite lounge chair on the back patio. "I need some color," he'd say on sunny days. New York Times in hand and music playing, always.

I never once heard him say the words, "I'm bored." He found abundant joy in the simple things. He loved rain. "Listen, Jay. Isn't it great?" he'd gush, as the drops began to fall. The colors of the trees. The roaring fireplace in the living room. Homegrown tomatoes from his small garden in the backyard. Taking a photo of a red cardinal perched on a branch at the perfect moment.

In the old days, when he hauled us to Colorado Springs and Santa Fe for summer vacations, he took pictures of us - and of the West - with a Pentax. But after sister Betsy one year sent as a gift a digital camera, he photographed everything in sight. Flash drives replaced rolls of film. Thousands of moments - frozen in time. Family meals usually meant dozens of candid, mid-bite shots, our mouths full of food. He got a real kick out of it. And even as he slowed down, energy flagging, we still took him on drives so he could observe and capture nature.

Trivia contests were a mainstay of family dinners. Featured topics: The Golden Age of Hollywood, literature, history. Subjects he'd long ago mastered. He read avidly and his mind was a vault. Politics, war, biography. He was encyclopedic. A dear friend offered this astute and comforting appraisal: "Your dad, no doubt, lived an incredibly thoughtful and examined life. People are the richer for it."

He was kind. He was gentle. He was funny.

Music was another passion. The Great American Songbook: the Gershwins, Cole Porter, Rodgers and Hart, Lerner and Loewe. He knew songs, lyricists, composers, dates. And, oh how he loved those melodies, especially when interpreted by Sinatra, Tony Bennett, and Nat Cole. And so many movies: film noir, Westerns. Clark Gable, Cary Grant, Gregory Peck.

As the grandkids came along, the difficulty level of his trivia contests decreased. Dad wanted them involved in the fun, so he crafted questions by researching things he cared very little about. And he closely monitored the kids' progress, delighting in their successes.
Dad was effusive in his praise. He was a fierce advocate, an unwavering supporter. His love was unconditional. He was proud of every single thing we did. And he never played favorites.

All was vicarious when it came to family - the pleasure and the pain. The day Scotty's Columbia University acceptance packet arrived, dad was euphoric. His boy was headed to the Ivy League. Kendall's artistic abilities and gifts as a teacher were an immense source of pride. And I think he enjoyed my time working as a lawyer for the US congress in Washington more than I did. We were in touch constantly. Discussing who was testifying on Capitol Hill or sharing thoughts on the news of the day. He liked to know where I was. The Monocle, The Occidental, The Willard Hotel. His old haunts now were mine.

One afternoon when I lived there, I called home, anxious and upset. He could hear it in my voice. "Get on a plane," he said. "You can be home tonight. I am here for you. You're a great kid."

On the morning of the 9-11 attacks, he was on the phone immediately, as Scotty and Kendall were then living in New York. Kendall alleges that dad broke the story before NBC. The preschool staff where my sister taught, in lower Manhattan, hadn't heard the news but assured him that Kendall was safe.

Six years ago, I visited Antietam, a seminal Civil War battlefield. Standing by Burnside Bridge, I called dad. I listened raptly as he recounted troop movements and tactical blunders. He lamented missed Union opportunities. History was alive. It was September 1862 once again.

Dad was fond of quoting, as he did that day, Lincoln's rejoinder to the feckless, tentative George B. McClellan, "If the General doesn't want to use the army, would he mind if I borrowed it for awhile."

Ever the art enthusiast, dad awaited summaries when we visited museums: The Frick Collection, The Met, The National Gallery. He conveyed his tastes and judgments and in so doing cultivated ours.

For my 26th Birthday, he bought us tickets to see Bobby Short, the virtuoso cabaret singer, perform at The Carlyle Hotel on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Scotty, Kendall, mom, and me. "Come on, dad. Come up and join us." "No," he said, "I've had my day, but call me right after and tell me everything. I mean, everything."

A few days before he died, a hospice nurse paid us the dreaded visit. Dad insisted on shaving, put on a Brooks Brothers button down and his New Yorker baseball cap. After a brief exchange, he said to the nurse, "Thank you, madame, you've been a great help, and we appreciate it very much." Dignified, brave, and courteous to the end.

The Roman poet Horace wrote, "I shall not wholly die, and a great of part of me will escape the grave." I know this is true of dad. He was too big of a presence, too brilliant a mind, too loud a laugher, too adoring of his family, too much a lover of life, to ever really die. He lives on in the photographs, the documentaries, the grandkids he treasured, the memories, and all those beautiful words he wrote, private and published.

We remain very proud of his critically acclaimed biography of Cardinals pitcher Dizzy Dean. The Washington Post's Thomas Boswell said of it, "Put 'Diz' on the short list of baseball's best biographies." Fitting, then, to conclude with that book's final paragraph.
Bob Gregory, our mentor, our hero, my best friend, wrote:

"The funeral was held...and a thousand people came. His favorites were there - the hillbilly singers, football coaches, politicians, and businessmen - and from baseball came Ken Smith...Hank Aaron; and Dean's old Gas House teammate...Joe Medwick. Most of the talk was about Dizzy's accomplishments and all the fun he'd had and the laughs he'd brought to others. Nobody, they said, ever loved baseball more. He was buried near a magnolia tree on a slight mound in the center of the...cemetery, and Medwick said, 'Well, that's the ballgame...'"

I think it was in the spring of 1971 that Casa Bonita Mexican restaurant opened in Tulsa. I remember a girl in my 2nd grade class bringing a map and menu to school for show and tell and talking about how pretty it was and the sopapillas and the treasure room. We were all envious. Map nerd that I have always been, I was intrigued at the idea of a restaurant that had its own map.

My first visit to Casa Bonita was the night before my first day ever at Holland Hall School; I started in 3rd Grade in September 1971. Our immediate family went with my grandfather and some other extended family members. I suspect I had the Pony Plate: Beans, rice, cheese enchilada, taco, and sopapillas. Most of the adults had the Deluxe Dinner. I remember seeing the adults eating some green mushy stuff which looked disgusting. Then we went back to our house and had strawberry shortcake. Later that night, I got sick to my stomach and threw up. I thought it was because of the juxtaposition of guacamole and strawberry shortcake, but I suspect it was nerves at the thought of a new school and new classmates. (I threw up the night before 5th grade and 9th grade, too.)

Going through some old papers I came across the map from that first visit. You'll notice that this was before Casa Bonita's expansion to the south, when they added an arcade and the Acapulco Room.

Here's the map (click for full size):

And here's the menu:

Legendary Tulsa television broadcaster Bob Gregory died earlier this month, November 6, 2019, at the age of 88.

As Vice President for News and Special Projects at KTUL, Gregory wrote, directed, and hosted the popular series of "Oil in Oklahoma" television programs, which aired throughout the 1970s and into the 1980s, received much acclaim, and appeared in book form. He created many other award-winning documentary films and television shows focused on Oklahoma history, politics, and culture. Along the way, he trained or mentored a host of Tulsa-area TV journalists.

Longtime Tulsans might recall that Gregory's older brother, Bill Pitcock, was for more than a decade the evening news anchor at KOTV/Channel 6. His two other brothers, Jim Pitcock and Jerry Pitcock, worked in TV and radio in Little Rock. Gregory was the second of seven children.

An avid reader and gifted writer -- and a born storyteller and tireless researcher -- Gregory was largely self-taught as an interviewer, filmmaker, journalist, and author. Throughout his career, he contributed articles, profiles, and book reviews to Oklahoma Monthly, Tulsa Magazine, The Chicago Tribune, and other publications.

Bob Gregory's documentary series Oil in Oklahoma, which aired when I was a pre-teen, was one of several influences that sparked my lifelong interest in Oklahoma history.

The approach of Oil in Oklahoma was similar to that later used by Ken Burns in his historical miniseries: Photos, film, interviews, narration, and an atmospheric soundtrack with a focus on the larger-than-life characters who shaped Oklahoma's early growth, people like Harry Sinclair, E. W. Marland, W. G. Skelly, Thomas Gilcrease, Waite Phillips, Frank Phillips, and J. Paul Getty.

The book Killers of the Flower Moon has brought the Osage oil murders back to public attention, but viewers of Oil in Oklahoma learned from Bob Gregory a half century ago about the Osage Nation, their sudden oil wealth, and the murders of Osage citizens for their headrights. Two images from that episode stuck in my mind: (1) The photo of an Osage family going around town in style, in a sitting room set up in the back of a glass-sided hearse. (2) A clip of a house exploding from the 1959 Jimmy Stewart movie The FBI Story, which includes a fictionalized retelling of the Osage murders among other important early FBI cases.

Unfortunately, the series predated the home video boom by half a decade, so it was never offered for public purchase, nor are there home off-air VCR recordings circulating.

An episode dealing with the Oklahoma City and Seminole oil fields, edited down to a single commercial-free hour and repackaged for OETA, is available online courtesy of the Oklahoma Historical Society. KTUL news anchor Bob Hower, who referred to the program as "Oklahoma December," a monthly magazine program. My recollection is that Oklahoma City and Seminole were at the end of the series, as they were the last of the big oil discoveries in Oklahoma. This will give you a good sense of the style of the series, along with a strong dose of Bob Gregory's rich, warm baritone.

Part 1:

Part 2:

When people over the age of 50 say that local TV really was better in the 1970s, this is the sort of thing we're talking about. (Along with Mr. Zing and Tuffy, Uncle Zeb, Lee Woodward and Lionel, Don Woods and Gusty, and Mazeppa Pompazoidi's Uncanny Film Festival. See tulsatvmemories.com for all the details.) This is what ownership with deep local roots and a commitment to excellence can produce.

About 2 1/2 years ago, on a whim, I reached out to the Leake Auction Company, founded by James C. Leake, Sr., and the successor to the company that owned KTUL when Oil in Oklahoma was aired. I received a reply from Richard Sevenoaks, Mr. Leake's son-in-law and president of Leake Auction, who wrote, "We have the rights and copies of the programs. But we have been unsuccessful finding a broadcast partner to air the series." I wrote back, asking if he might consider releasing the series on DVD, but never got a reply. I provided his contact info to Bill Perry, VP for content production at OETA, with hopes that the two might talk. I haven't heard anything further from either gentleman.

Since those emails, Leake Auction was sold to Ritchie Bros. in 2018, but Richard and Nancy Sevenoaks continued to operate the business until retiring earlier this year. I would suspect that the family retained all the non-automotive assets of the company, like Oil in Oklahoma. Perhaps in retirement, the Sevenoakses could find a way to make Oil in Oklahoma available to a new generation of Oklahomans. It would not only be a wonderful teaching tool for Oklahoma history, but a fitting memorial tribute both to the vision of James C. Leake and to the storytelling gift of Bob Gregory.

MORE: Read Jason Pitcock's tribute to his dad, Bob Gregory, full of fascinating anecdotes about his life and career.

CORRECTION 2023/07/08: Thanks to newly available archives of Tulsa newspapers, I have learned that Oklahoma: December was the original title of an episode of KTUL's monthly "Oklahoma" series which began in 1970 as a monthly anthology of local feature stories. In 1973, it evolved to become hour-long specials about the men, events, and places in Oklahoma's oil history. Here's my tribute to Oil in Oklahoma on its 50th anniversary.

STILL MORE: The Oklahoma Historical Society has two boxes of Bob Gregory's papers, including scripts from Oil in Oklahoma and Oklahoma Diamond Jubilee episodes, research, and interview transcripts. The catalog entry indicates photographs and film/video as well, but these are not itemized.