05/18/2025
๐ต๏ธโโ๏ธ ๐ง๐๐ ๐๐ข๐๐ ๐ฉ๐๐จ๐๐ง โ ๐ ๐ฉ๐ฎ๐ด๐ฎ๐ฏ๐ผ๐ป๐ฑ ๐ง๐ฎ๐น๐ฒ ๐ณ๐ฟ๐ผ๐บ ๐๐ถ๐ผ๐๐ฎ, ๐ข๐
๐ ๐๐ถ๐ฟ๐๐ ๐ก๐ฎ๐๐ถ๐ผ๐ป๐ฎ๐น ๐๐ฎ๐ป๐ธ, ๐๐ถ๐ผ๐๐ฎ โ ๐ฃ๐ถ๐๐๐๐ฏ๐๐ฟ๐ด ๐๐ผ๐๐ป๐๐
It was one of those gray, drizzly Oklahoma mornings where even the birds looked like they wanted to stay in bed. But we were on a missionโnot just any vagabonding adventure, but one chasing threads of family history in the little town of Kiowa, tucked in Pittsburg County.
Busterโs great-grandmother, ๐ฅ๐ฒ๐ผ๐น๐ฎ ๐ฅ๐ผ๐ฏ๐ฒ๐ฟ๐๐ผ๐ป, came here to the Indian Territory, as a ๐ญ๐ฐ-๐๐ฒ๐ฎ๐ฟ-๐ผ๐น๐ฑ ๐บ๐ฎ๐ฟ๐ฟ๐ถ๐ฒ๐ฑ ๐ด๐ถ๐ฟ๐น in the 1880s (yep, fourteenโlife came fast back then). By 1925, she was mothering eight children of her own and had taken in four more from neighbors lost to an epidemic. Hard doesnโt even begin to describe her lifeโbut she did it with grit and grace.
We were chasing down one particular piece of her story: the ๐๐ถ๐ฟ๐๐ ๐ก๐ฎ๐๐ถ๐ผ๐ป๐ฎ๐น ๐๐ฎ๐ป๐ธ ๐ผ๐ณ ๐๐ถ๐ผ๐๐ฎ. It was rumored to still existโbut no one seemed to know exactly where. We asked around. We circled blocks. We studied maps like two confused cartographers. After canvassing this tiny town, we finally lost hope. Maybe it was gone.
I turned to head back to the car, rain speckling my lens, when a flash of light caught the corner of my eye. The sun peeked out for just a second, casting a golden glow on what looked likeโฆ a weathered warehouse?
But there it wasโjust barely visible in the lightโfaded ghost letters on a stained wall. All I could read at first was โโฆANK.โ
Waitโwhat??
I froze. Zoomed in. Blinked twice. And then it hit me.
โBUSTER! BUSTER! I got it! I found it!โ
He ran over like Iโd struck gold, and Iโm telling youโmy camera came to life. That building, once easy to ignore, was suddenly bursting with silent history.
What threw us off was how un-banklike it looked. No fancy architecture, no vault-shaped drama. Just straight Art Deco bones and decay. But up close, the lettering came through:
FIRST NATIONAL BANK.
Still standingโjust barely.
And this was the place where Reola had saved $1,500โa small fortune back then. But when whispers of the ๐๐ฟ๐ฒ๐ฎ๐ ๐๐ฒ๐ฝ๐ฟ๐ฒ๐๐๐ถ๐ผ๐ป hit in 1929, and folks were pulling out their cash, she did too. The banker smiled and said, ๐ โ๐ ๐. ๐ฅ๐ผ๐ฏ๐ฒ๐ฟ๐๐ผ๐ป, ๐๐ผ๐๐ฟ ๐บ๐ผ๐ป๐ฒ๐โ๐ ๐๐ฎ๐ณ๐ฒ. ๐ก๐ผ ๐ป๐ฒ๐ฒ๐ฑ ๐๐ผ ๐๐ผ๐ฟ๐ฟ๐.โ
Guess what?
๐ซ ๐ง๐ต๐ฒ ๐ฏ๐ฎ๐ป๐ธ ๐ฐ๐น๐ผ๐๐ฒ๐ฑ ๐๐ต๐ฒ ๐ป๐ฒ๐
๐ ๐ฑ๐ฎ๐.
Locked doors. Empty pockets. And Reolaโleft to raise all those kids without a penny of her own savings.
Family lore says she never trusted a bank againโnot once. Every dollar hidden in corners, cans, and creaky floorboards after that.
And in the final picture, thatโs Buster beside the grave of his great-grandfather, James W. Roberson ( Reola's husband), in the Kiowa Cemetery. We were lucky to find that, tooโlike a whispered โwell doneโ from the past.
๐ญ Moral of the story?
๐๐น๐๐ฎ๐๐ ๐๐๐ฟ๐ป ๐ฎ๐ฟ๐ผ๐๐ป๐ฑ โ ๐๐ผ๐ ๐บ๐ถ๐ด๐ต๐ ๐ท๐๐๐ ๐ฐ๐ฎ๐๐ฐ๐ต ๐ต๐ถ๐๐๐ผ๐ฟ๐ ๐๐ต๐ถ๐๐ฝ๐ฒ๐ฟ๐ถ๐ป๐ด ๐๐ผ ๐๐ผ๐.
A ghost sign. A buried truth. A womanโs iron will.
And the importance of always turning around with your camera ready.
