Reading posts on I Grew Up In sites often drowns me in memories. Recently, an update from a Southwest Kansas Community once home to grandparents, an uncle and his family, and me for a while opened floodgates to my past. Based on the conversation thread following that post, it generated remembrances for many whose dads worked the oil patch in the 50s, 60s, and 70s.
Before Dad served as a Marine in Korea, he and his brothers roughnecked and drilled wells across Central and Northwest Kansas. Once he returned from overseas, he headed back to the oilfield, which inadvertently led to him meeting my mom. During off-hours, he relaxed at the Brass Rail in Hays where he fell for a cute freshman from Southwest Kansas. Once married, they moved to Plainville. Mom, whose dad was a teacher, coach, and store owner, enjoyed dad’s rig sites, a world entirely different from that in which she grew up.
The following year, she bundled me in blankets and carried bottles and dry diapers as they lugged me to noisy wells, brightly lit so men could work 24 hours a day. My memories include her pointing out the Christmas Tree and Crow’s Nest outlined against dark skies. As a toddler, the Dog House that the crew entered and exited intrigued me. When I begged to meet the dog, my parents laughed.
The comment thread following that online post indicated a bunch of us oil-patch kids shared mud-pits full of remembrances. Recalled sounds, strings of lights, scents of diesel, oil, and bit grinding through rock, men in denim and khaki and protective metal hats clambering up and down long stairs and towering structures was a repeated refrain. I recalled watching men step onto the Kelley, link an arm around a huge chain, and ride to the crow’s nest topping the well tower
Besides the group’s rig memories, those growing up in that world share a love of rocks that began at well sites. My cousin brought up her fascination with canvas sample bags full of earth’s guts collected during drilling. Another woman agreed and described how she loved visiting the geologist’s trailer to see samples. Based on comments, I could almost touch and smell those objects. To this day, discovering a drilled core in someone’s rock collection thrills me.
Oil patch kids knew about emergency food stored in every trunk. When we couldn’t get home by mealtime, Dad opened a box filled with a P-38 and canned Vienna sausages, beanie weenies, fruit cocktail, and other foods we loved. We’d gorge on his ambrosia stash and drink distilled water from a plastic jug as our nectar. Locale didn’t matter—plains or mountains—it our introduction to alfresco dining.
Danger accompanied these jobs. No one ran wild around rig sites. Our moms corralled our curiosity to keep us from interfering with our dads’ work. Every oil field family had friends who’d suffered broken jaws, limbs, or death. My uncle hung a fire-blackened metal hat in the hallway to remind himself and us he’d survived a dreaded blow-out.
Who knew a post on a memory page could immerse so many in childhood recollections? Those lucky enough to grow up in the patch have stories and rock collections enough to entertain our entire old age.