by Lois Lenski
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Boom Town Boy
Lois Lenski
For my
Oklahoma
Nieces and Nephews
CONTENTS
FOREWORD
I ON THE FARM
II NO. 1 MURRAY
III NO. 1 PICKERING
IV SPUDDING-IN
V STRINGTOWN
VI BOOM TOWN
VII NO. 1 ROBINSON
VIII THE MILK ROUTE
IX BASKET PICNIC
X WHIZZBANG
XI A BIG TIME
XII SUMMER TRAGEDY
XIII THE NEW HOME
Words Defined
A Biography of Lois Lenski
Foreword
The amazing thing about Oklahoma is its oldness and its newness—the oldness of its Indian civilization, and the newness of its white settlement. In a man’s lifetime, it has passed from the pioneer stage to modern civilization. There are men and women living today who settled in Old Oklahoma at its opening in 1889—only fifty-eight years ago; and others who made the Run in the opening of the Cherokee Strip in 1893—fifty-four years ago. Children who went in with their parents and lived in sod houses are now in their sixties and early seventies, and remember their experiences vividly.
These land openings were phenomenal. Towns were built overnight. Like swarms of locusts, the people came, took claims and settled on the land. Many people have felt that nothing like it could ever happen again, but it could and did. Where? In Oklahoma.
The oil booms were equally phenomenal. Beginning in the early 1900’s, and continuing for some thirty years, the early 1920’s were the peak of the oil boom period. Again, towns were built overnight. Again like swarms of locusts, the people came and settled, this time not to get land, but money. The only thing in American history comparable to the oil boom was the gold rush in the Far West, where boom towns also sprang up, and where good and bad people swarmed, in the hope of getting rich quickly.
Oil booms took place in other states, too—in Pennsylvania, Louisiana, Texas, California, etc. But in Oklahoma, the drama of oil was heightened by contributory factors—by the recentness of its settlement, by the unproductiveness of the land and the struggle involved in getting a bare living.
Oil booms are now a thing of the past. They can never happen again. Oil wells are no longer allowed to run wild and devastate the country—the product is too valuable. The oil industry has profited by its early experiences and learned effective means of control and conservation, which are rigidly enforced.
The coming of oil in the boom period is a dramatic story, one of the most dramatic chapters in the history of our country. Fortunes were made in a day and lost as quickly. People were hurled from poverty to sudden riches. Those who did not know how to handle money promptly lost it through bad expenditures, investments or swindles, and went back to poverty again. Some few accomplished a great deal of good with their money. Those who lived through the experience of becoming suddenly rich, and salvaged from it a commendable way of life for themselves were fortunate. There is no question but that oil money, wisely used, benefited thousands of Oklahoma families and gave a chance in life to thousands of Oklahoma children who would never have had it otherwise.
There is so much American history still unwritten. I read a number of books on the subject of oil as a background for this story, but I could not find in them the information I needed. Only from the lips of living people can this kind of history be obtained. I went to Oklahoma to find out how it felt to live through an oil boom.
The rapid change from farm region to oil field must have been catastrophic to those who experienced it. I tried to get at it. I tried to get beneath the surface, and find out what it did to people. I talked to many people who had experienced oil in different ways.
I talked to children who grew up in oil fields; to girls who lived so sheltered they never suspected there was evil or wickedness in the neighborhood, or if they knew, lived in abject fear of it; to boys who, despite their mothers’ fears and admonitions, did know what was going on about them. All the mothers insisted that they had carefully shielded their growing boys from the harsher side of oil field life, but the boys themselves told a different story.
For the past fifty years, through all the Oklahoma farmer’s struggle to wrest a living from the land, he has carried a vision of the miracle of oil, which would come one day to release him from that struggle. I have talked to farm people, still full of eagerness and hope for the oil miracle to happen. Some men are bad farmers because they lean too heavily on this miracle—they dream too much of dreams that may never be realized.
I have seen in the face of a woman of seventy the fierce eagerness of that dream. She has seen oil money wreck people’s lives, but it has not disturbed that dream. She has lived unselfishly for others all her life, but when she speaks of the possible coming of oil, her tired face beams with new life and her work-worn hands reach out greedily for easy money. She has worked so hard, she now covets money she did not earn. She lives in the hope that money may fall like manna from heaven into her lap. The amazing thing about this dream is its tenacity.
I talked to a devout man who said that God had revealed to him the presence of oil on his farm, who waited fifty years for the miracle to happen, and when it did, gave one hundred dollars from his first oil check to his church as a payment of gratitude.
I have talked to people who invested money—often their life-time savings—in oil, to lose or profit thereby. The strange thing is that so many of them, after years of up-and-down speculation, have come back to about the same level where they started.
I have talked to oil workers who knew oil’s sordidness, its uncompromising demands in the way of long hours and heavy labor, and the thrill of its production. There is no question but that oil gets into men’s blood. They sacrifice much for the thrill of adventure that it brings. They lived, and still live, unsettled, nomadic lives, carrying their families from one field to another because they love the work. They often come face to face with danger and death. I have talked to women who sacrificed husband or son to oil, and can speak of it now without bitterness. In the early boom days, the hazards were great and many men lost their lives. With modern methods of production has come greater safety.
I listened to many opinions about oil. To some it was a cruel monster who devoured people and wrecked lives. To others, it was a beneficent god, bringing riches, prosperity and happiness. In one part of Oklahoma, where oil is now being drilled, every one is greedy for the money that oil will bring. Only one man said: “I wonder if folks here will be any happier when they get oil and have all that money.”
For every story of happiness and benefit caused by oil money, I heard a dozen stories of ruin and wreckage of people’s lives—stories of family quarrels, of sons who dissipated and went to the bad, of daughters who made unwise marriages; of families who went through large fortunes in a hurry, and were left poorer than they had been at the start.
These are comments I heard:
“The more you get, the more you want.”
“Money’s not everything, but it helps.”
“Oil money comes easy and goes easy.”
“Rich one day and broke the next.”
“Oil brings happiness—at least at first.”
“Oil has ruined more people than crime or vice.”
I did not hear any one repeat a statement made long ago which I thought of often as I listened: “The love of money is the root of all evil.” One woman came near it when she said: “Material wealth does not bring happiness.”
I have not attempted to portray a specif
ic boom town, but have preferred to draw a composite picture, using incidents that happened in several localities. The general location is that formerly called “Three Sands.” The name “Whizzbang” was actually the name of an oil town near Shidler, now a ghost town. My characters are imaginary, but most of the incidents used are taken from actual experience. I have made use of a few public figures of the period.
I have put less emphasis on the technical side of oil production, and none at all on its distribution or the advantages of oil to our civilization, as these aspects are usually covered in material generally available for school use. My emphasis has been on the human side, the drama of the coming of oil into a community—what it meant to one family, how it disturbed and disrupted their lives; what an upsetting thing sudden wealth can be, and how futile the pursuit of riches; and how the family is obliged to stop and think, to decide for themselves what constitutes happiness and how to use money as a constructive rather than a destructive force.
I am grateful to friends in Perry, Tonkawa, Ponca City, Shidler and Oklahoma City who helped me to understand their region and who shared with me their oil knowledge and experiences. In particular, I wish to thank Mr. Bert Woodruff, Miss Ruth Brookhart, Mrs. Ethel Konklin; also other members of my husband’s family living in Perry and vicinity; Mrs. Ann Hough, Children’s Librarian of Carnegie Library, and other friends in Oklahoma City, who gave me not only a graphic picture of the oil boom there, but a great deal of encouragement. I wish to thank Mr. Russell Hogin of the American Petroleum Institute and Mr. N. D. Drake of the Standard Oil Company for checking my manuscript for technical errors.
I have consulted Oklahoma: A Guide to the Sooner State; This Fascinating Oil Business by Max W. Ball; Flowing Gold by John J. Floherty; Then Came Oil by C. B. Glasscock; Oil Boom by Boyce House; other volumes on general Oklahoma background; also newspaper and magazine articles.
Lois Lenski
Perry, Oklahoma—Spring, 1947
Greenacres, Harwinton, Connecticut—Summer and Fall of 1947
CHAPTER I
On the Farm
“It’s your turn, Addie.”
“No-sir-ree, you only pumped ninety-eight strokes,” retorted the small girl. “You stopped countin’ at ninety-eight.”
“Well, I’m awful tired,” said Orvie. “You’re younger and spryer’n I am. If you jump up and down while you pump, it makes it go faster. Golly, you’re so little and quick, Addie, you’ll get to one hundred in no time.”
Little Addie, with freckled face, straw-colored windblown hair and plump arms and legs, took hold of the iron pump handle and pushed it vigorously up and down.
“One, two, three, four … five, six, seven, eight …” Orvie began counting for her.
“Pump handle’s so hot, it’s blisterin’ my hands,” complained Addie. “It’s too hard for me to pump …”
Ten-year-old Orvie slouched down on the dusty ground and leaned against the twelve-foot water tank.
“It takes a hundred and fifty strokes to raise the water one inch,” he said lazily. “I measured it with my school ruler. When you pump an inch, I’ll take my turn. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen …” His voice went on counting as the girl’s feet danced up and down.
It was late afternoon on a Sunday in September. The sun shone down fiercely on the dry Oklahoma pasture and flooded with its glare the two children under the windmill.
The pasture grasses were dry and dead. There were no trees except in the distance where the flat field suddenly dipped to a hollow. There, in a deep gully, a shallow creek made its way. There were no birds to sing in the heat. The shrill rasp of the katydid and the chirp of the cricket made it feel hotter than it really was.
“Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two …” counted Orvie.
“Why’s it got to be so still?” cried Addie. “Why we got to have so many still days anyhow? Why don’t the wind never blow any more?”
“Wind don’t never blow when the water tank’s empty, you know that,” said Orvie in a disgusted tone. He looked lazily up at the big wheel of the windmill overhead. He puffed his cheeks out and began to blow upward. “I’ll start it for you, if I can get enough breath. Whew! Whew!”
But the big wheel did not turn.
“Fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight …” continued the boy.
“Orvie!” Addie screamed. “There’s that old cow comin’ again. She drinks a tubful every time and we’ll never get the tank full.”
A cow came up to the tank. She sank her nose in the cool water and drank. Orvie and Addie picked up sticks and began to pummel her, but she kept on drinking.
Orvie dropped his stick. “It’s no use—likely she’s thirsty.”
“Guess so,” said Addie, dropping hers. Perspiration ran down her face, now red with the heat. She dropped to the ground and leaned against the tank. “You pump now, Orvie. Here come the horses.”
Six horses came across the pasture and took drinks at the tank. Orvie picked up his stick and measured. “They’ve drunk three inches,” he said in despair. “Three times a hundred and fifty … it’ll take four hundred and fifty strokes to get it up to this wet water line, and it’s six inches more to the top …” The arithmetic proved too much for him, so he just stood and watched the horses. “Likely they’re thirsty,” he said. “Cold water tastes best thing in the wide world on a hot day. Addie, I think …”
But Addie did not hear him.
“Where you goin’? You better come back here and help me pump, Addie.”
Addie’s feet were taking her swiftly across the pasture in the direction of Cottonwood creek. Orvie knew she was heading for the shade. She was going wading in the cool water. The boy’s first impulse was to follow her. He looked up at the sky, hopeful of seeing a cloud which might bring a gust of wind. He looked at the windmill, wishing that by some magic the wheel might start turning and fill the tank in a few minutes.
But all was still. The air was filled with a deadly stillness. Nothing moved—it seemed as if nature had stopped breathing.
Orvie did not dare go away with his chore undone. He had been taught to obey, and he knew disobedience brought punishment. Addie was the littlest, “the pet” of the family—she could do as she pleased.
The horses kept on drinking. The old cow came back for another tubful. Orvie decided there was no use pumping until they had their fill. Suddenly an idea struck him and he put it into immediate action. He began to climb the ladder at the side of the tower. Now and then he looked down at the ground beneath him, but it did not make him dizzy. On and on, up and up he went until he reached the top. He drew a deep breath. He had never been clear to the top before.
It was a magnificent moment.
He looked all around and felt like a king. The farmhouse and barn looked smaller than they really were. He saw the pigs in their pen in the barnyard, and the chickens scratching and raising a dust. He saw Grandpa’s small house, set in the yard under a cottonwood tree. He wondered how it felt to live all alone in a brooder house, and where Grandpa had gone this afternoon. His eye scanned the pasture and the field plowed for winter wheat beyond. It swept the horizon on all sides. If only the windmill were a little higher, he could see Texas to the south and west, Arkansas to the east and Kansas north. But all he could see were wide fields that had once been prairie, fenced into quarter-sections. The earth looked small, so wide and open was the sky.
Orvie thought of Addie again. He couldn’t see her. She had disappeared in the bushes along the creek. He decided to follow her … He looked down. The cows and horses had wandered off in the field, and there below him, to his surprise, stood his father, all dressed up in his Sunday suit.
“Orvie! Orville Robinson!” came his father’s voice. “What you doin’ up there?”
All of a sudden the boy was scared. He hadn’t realized how high the windmill was before. He clung to the metal framework and his face turned white. His father’s face was a white mask below him. He could hear words coming out of his father’s m
outh, but could not make out what they were.
“Oh Lord, help me to get down and not be scared,” he prayed in a whisper. His fear disappeared and his feet found the rungs of the ladder.
“If you can’t climb down without falling,” he heard his father say, “I’ll sure blister you.”
He made up his mind he would not fall, and he didn’t. When he stood on his feet beside his father, he noticed that his father looked scared and was not cross at all.
“You should have pulled the wheel out of gear, Orvie. If the wind had started blowing, that wheel would have knocked you down,” Papa said. “Get busy and pump the tank full. Where’s Addie?”
“Gone to the creek,” he said.
“Get your pumping done and go bring her home.” Papa walked away.
The pumping went faster now. When the tank was nearly full, he scurried off over the prairie to the creek. The stream of water was down in a dirt gully, between steep embankments. The shade was cool and inviting.
Addie had taken off her shoes and stockings and was wading. The Murray girls, Edna Belle and Nellie Jo, plain-faced and plump, stood on the high bank, dressed in Sunday dresses with white pinafore aprons. They wore shiny slippers and long white stockings, and were afraid to wet their feet. Downstream, Orvie saw two Indian children, Harry Big Bear and Lily Wild Berry, digging crawfish. They were the grandchildren of old White Cloud, whom he often saw at the country store.
Orvie ran over and soon he was as busy as they. He dug holes in the wet bank with a stick and poked the crawfish out. He put them in the cans the Indian children had brought. Harry and Lily grinned, but did not say much. Then Orvie began to throw water up on the clay bank. “Let’s slide,” he said to Harry.
The boys ran to the top and slid down the slippery clay bank. Lily followed. The Indian children’s old ragged clothes and Orvie’s overalls were soon colored red from the sticky clay.
“Come on and slide!” Lily called the other girls. “It’s fun.”