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I stumbled upon this hidden spot of serenity in southwestern Oklahoma on dusty red backroads not very far from a place an old Russian immigrant used to sit on top of his concrete house sawing on a fiddle while neighbors danced about in the yard below.

The beauty of this place is a product of slow time and weathered practicality as a result of honest, Okie farmsteading elbow grease and sweat; not premeditated by some fancy-fake design firm headquartered in some concrete, steel and glass-encased city, staffed by some style-stiffened people striving to be cool and pretty in their high, ultra-airconditioned, skyscraping office tower fortress.

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