A grade school friend of mine who lived across our pasture used to tease our classmates then use “Dibble, OK” as the punch line.
“If you DO graduate high school, I’m sure you’ll have nice career at the Sonic in Dibble.”
“You’re getting on my nerves. I think it’s time for you to move to Dibble.”
And so on.
I have no doubt that a similar personality type made the same jokes about “Tuttle, OK” while growing up in Dibble. Dry wit, after all, is an Oklahoma pastime.
So until a few weeks ago, Dibble was a mysterious and greater-than-fiction community imprinted into my fifth grade brain as a place where punchlines finished and I would never go.
That changed when Rachel chose Dibble as the headliner for our second pilot run. And my impression of those who occupy the town has now evolved from fiction to fact by two sisters we met, sitting on their porch on a breezy Saturday morning. They were both sporting flannel pajamas, drinking coffee, and taking in the cool morning temperatures. Wind chimes danced above their heads and serenaded their thoughts until we interrupted the scene.
Just a few minute prior, we had chosen this vintage abode as our target interview:
The mid-century, flat-roofed home invited Dibble visitors to knock on the door, and to check out the burnt orange loungers while waiting for someone to open it up. But no one answered; not after the first knock nor the second.