Boom Town Boy

by Lois Lenski

  Later in the morning, the women and children from the boxcar houses came to the Robinson well for water. They talked about the filling up of the cellar hole and the end of the church dispute. Orvie pumped up his bicycle tire and listened idly.

  “I hear No. 5 Murray is soon comin’ in,” said Mrs. Decker.

  “They got the torpedo hung in the well so late last night,” said Mrs. Armstrong, “they decided to leave it there till this morning.”

  “What are you talking about—dynamite?” asked Mrs. Decker. “Wouldn’t it be dangerous to leave it?”

  “Why dangerous? Nothing can happen,” Mrs. Armstrong went on. “Bill Barnes has been a shooter for twenty-two years, his wife told me.”

  “He’ll do it once too often!” laughed Mrs. Decker. “Some day they’ll pick him up in a coffee can.”

  Just then a car stopped in front of the house. Slim Rogers came in, and from the look on his face they all knew something terrible had happened. Della came running out, and Orvie hurried up to hear.

  “I was there,” said Slim, “over at No. 5 Murray. They sent a fellow to get a flashlight, and while he was gone, the superintendent of another company called to me. I went out to the road to his car, to talk to him. While we were talking, it happened. They brought the flashlight to the well, and they had the crowbar there, and … well … maybe they jolted it too much with the crowbar, nobody knows.”

  “Oh Slim!” Della broke into tears. “If you hadn’t gone to talk to that man, it mighta been you too.”

  The other women looked stricken and white and said nothing. Orvie’s lips were so dry he could not speak.

  “Three men … wiped out in a minute,” Slim managed to say. “Not a scratch or a bruise on ’em. Just snuffed out.”

  “Bill Barnes—Bill Barnes—was he hurt?” gasped Orvie.

  “He’s dead, Orvie,” said Slim.

  Orvie didn’t wait. He ran as fast as he could over the plowed wheat field to Bonnie Jean’s house. When he got there, the Osage Torpedo house was filled with people. There were so many men and women there, he hadn’t the courage to crowd in. What could he say to Bonnie Jean anyway?

  He walked slowly back home. He saw the wooden rigs rising up, gaunt frameworks against the sky on all sides of the Robinson farmhouse. Oil covered the slush-ponds and flowed into the wheat-fields, where it was killing all green and growing things. Suddenly the boy hated oil—oil that had gotten into his blood and changed his life. Oil was a cruel monster, devouring people, striking them down. He saw his home and knew that he would soon have to leave it. Oil was taking it too.

  Two days later, while making milk deliveries with Bert in the Ford, he rode past the Osage Torpedo house without stopping.

  “The house is empty—they’ve moved away,” he said.

  Orvie knew he would never see Bonnie Jean again.

  CHAPTER XIII

  The New Home

  “Well, folks, how do you like it?”

  It was Grandpa’s hearty voice. The Robinsons all ran to the door to meet him. It was Sunday again, six months later, in the spring, but now they were living in the new house in town. Grandpa still lived in the little house under the cottonwood tree, and had driven to town in the old Ford.

  “Why, Grandpa, you’re all dressed up in new clothes!” cried Orvie.

  It was true. Grandpa had on a new black and white check suit, a bright red necktie, shiny new shoes and a high wide Stetson hat. He took off his hat with a bow and tiptoed in on the velvet carpet.

  “Why, Grandpa!” exclaimed all the others. “You’re all dressed up!”

  “Got to keep up with the rest of the family!” laughed the old man.

  “How do you feel? Comfortable?” asked Mama.

  “I’ll choke to death if I can’t soon take this tight collar off,” growled Grandpa. “And my shoes are pinchin’ my toes. But do I look like the richest man in the county?”

  They all agreed that he did.

  “Oh, Grandpa,” cried Orvie. “How are Star and Shep? You takin’ good care of ’em for me?”

  “Sure, boy, sure,” said Grandpa. “They’re fine and dandy.” He turned to the others. “Well, how do you like it here by this time?”

  “Fine, Pa, fine,” replied Papa.

  “It’s awful nice,” said Mama. “Too nice for us.”

  “Are you using all the new things you bought, Jennie?” asked Grandpa. “Got the new wash-machine hooked up to the electricity?”

  “Sure,” laughed Mama. “I just sit on a chair now and wait for the washing to do itself.”

  Grandpa had stopped in before, but had never stayed long. Now Orvie and Addie showed him all over the house and explained everything. Addie turned the water on in the bathroom basin, so he could wash his hands, and Orvie explained how to take a shower.

  “What! No tin wash-tub on Saturday night?” laughed Grandpa.

  “Why, Grandpa,” said Addie. “We live in the city now.”

  Mama roasted a chicken for dinner and served it on the Bird of Paradise china. The family ate it with the solid silver knives and forks.

  “What’s the matter with your cooking, Jennie?” asked Grandpa, pausing with a forkful of food half-way to his mouth. “It don’t taste like it used to.”

  “It don’t?” asked Mama. “Did I forget the salt?”

  “Yes,” said Grandpa. “Salt’s been left out.”

  Della passed a shiny silver salt shaker, but Grandpa waved it away. “I don’t mean that kind,” he mumbled under his breath.

  “The trouble about livin’ in town,” said Mama, when they went in the front room to sit down and visit, “there’s nothing to do.”

  “Nothing to do?” asked Grandpa. Orvie came and sat on the sofa beside him.

  “Can’t listen to the player-piano all day long,” said Della.

  “Get sick of that old radio,” growled Bert.

  “No yard to play in, only the front sidewalk,” said Addie.

  “I never liked farming myself,” Papa spoke up. “I never felt I was cut out for a farmer. But it was better to be doing something out in the air than sitting around in the house. Can’t read the newspaper all day long!”

  “There’s just nothing to do,” Mama went on. “No cows to milk, no chickens to feed, no eggs to gather, no boarders to cook for. I sure did hate to leave those cows …”

  “What about all the racket of the oil wells?” demanded Grandpa.

  “I got used to it,” said Mama. “I haven’t slept near so good since we came here. I miss the drilling.”

  “God bless my soul!” exclaimed Grandpa. “I never heard the like. You folks sure do beat all.”

  “The trouble is, Grandpa,” said Orvie, “nothing ever happens in town. Why, on the farm a cow can get sick, or a horse can break a leg, or a storm will come up and you have to run to the storm cellar, or a cow gets lost and you have to ride the pony and hunt for her … the coyotes get in and kill some of the chickens … Nothing like that ever happens here in town.” He paused. “Oh Grandpa, how’s Shep? You been feedin’ him good?”

  “Sure,” said Grandpa. “Whenever he comes around, I give him a bone.”

  “I like to died when I had to leave Star and Shep,” said Orvie.

  “I never thought I’d hate to leave that farm the way I did,” said Mama.

  “But you’re close to the stores and everything,” suggested Grandpa.

  “I never want to see a store again,” said Mama.

  “Nor I,” said Papa.

  “Nor I,” chimed in Della and Bert and Addie.

  “Guess you cured us with that spending spree, Pa,” said Mama.

  Grandpa chuckled. Orvie leaned over and squeezed his hand.

  “But think of all the things you can buy!” persisted Grandpa.

  “We’re sick of buyin’ things,” said the family.

  “But I thought you wanted to move to town!” snorted Grandpa. “You all said it would make you happy. You hated life on the farm with all those
oil wells.”

  The whole family felt suddenly ashamed. They did not want to be ungrateful to Grandpa, who had done so much for them. Mama had been constantly reminding them of his generosity.

  “You’ve been good to us, Pa,” said Mama, “better than we deserve. But I guess we’ve all done a lot of thinking since we’ve moved to town. We’ve decided that money isn’t everything.”

  “No?” Grandpa acted surprised. But Orvie knew he really wasn’t. Orvie squeezed his hand again.

  “There’s a big difference between buying with money you’ve earned and saved, and buying with money that’s dropped into your lap,” Mama went on. “A part of yourself goes into what you work and save for. That’s why you get more pleasure out of it. Those knives and forks I got with coffee coupons … were more beautiful than solid silver to me.”

  “Remember that pink dotted swiss dress you sewed for me, Mama?” exclaimed Della. “You stayed up half the night to finish it, so I could speak my piece on Children’s Day.”

  Mama laughed. “I bought it with my egg money,” she said. “We didn’t point to a dress in the show window then, and walk right in and buy it no matter what the price.”

  “Always wantin’ things!” growled Bert. “Why can’t folks be satisfied with what they got? Now on a farm, with horses and cows to take care of …”

  “I never thought I’d miss those cows the way I do,” said Mama. “Nobody likes to see their farm tore up the way ours was. If only oil hadn’t come …”

  “I’m not sorry we got the oil wells,” said Grandpa. “The good Lord stored this wealth in the earth for his children, to see if they got the horse sense to use it right. As long as the oil field is there and bringin’ in the money, we can’t change that. Oil means progress.”

  “Progress!” sniffed Mama.

  “I’ll do the best I can with the money,” Grandpa went on. “I’m pleased to be in on these big deals. Oil makes modern industry and transportation possible. I was readin’ in a magazine about oil—they call it petroleum, and they make hundreds of things out of it—kerosene, gasoline, lubricants, asphalt, linoleum, varnish, paints, cold cream, perfume, vaseline and even hair tonic.”

  “They do?” laughed Mama. “What next?”

  “We can’t go backwards,” Grandpa continued. “Oil has come and it hasn’t spoiled my happiness none. Happiness just don’t depend on a lot of money. Happiness is within yourself.”

  “What do you mean, Pa?” asked Mama.

  “Just what I said,” the old man repeated. “Happiness don’t depend on a lot of money. Every one of you, except Orvie, thought it did, but you’ve learned by your own experience that it don’t. I’m awful glad you’ve come to town and been so unhappy here.”

  “Pa! How can you say that?” cried Mama.

  “You’re glad we’ve been so unhappy here?” asked Della.

  “Yes, that’s why I bought this house,” said Grandpa. “You wanted to live in town so bad, and I wanted you to find out for yourselves you wouldn’t like it. My experiment worked. Just having a lot of money to spend hasn’t made one of you happy, now has it?”

  “No … no … no …” They were all ashamed, but they had to admit it.

  “Town life don’t agree with you folks, I can see that,” said Grandpa. “Town life is like that chicken Jennie cooked today. Fine dishes and fine silver, but somethin’ missin’—the salt left out.” He paused.

  “They talk about progress,” he continued. “Why, there’s never anything new. The same old things keep on givin’ a man pleasure. To watch the green wheat grow and turn to gold at harvest time; to see trees blossom and bear fruit; to sweat good honest sweat doing hard work; to make friends of animals, wild and tame; to know the friendship of other men; to have time to think and hope, to work and pray—a man can’t ask for more than that. There are so many things that money cannot buy. It can’t buy happiness. I’ve been thinkin’ about it ever since the first oil well came in …”

  “Oh Pa!” Mama began to cry. “We’ve been so foolish. I guess all that money just turned our heads.”

  “How would you like to go back to the farm?” asked Grandpa quietly.

  “Sure would!” cried Bert eagerly.

  “Pa!” scolded Mama. “How can you tease us like this, when you know our farm’s ruined?”

  “Let’s get in the Packard and go for a drive,” suggested Grandpa.

  They were soon out on the road, rolling through Bliss and Whizzbang, going south. It did not take long to come to the old Robinson place. They pulled up in front.

  “Oh, I can’t bear to look at it!” Mama hid her face in her hands.

  The sight was indeed a sad one. There stood the old weather-beaten farmhouse in the midst of a sea of oil wells, machinery, smoke and steam. The front porch was sagging and great holes could be seen in the roof: The windows were broken and the old curtains, which Mama had not troubled to take down, were black with dirt and grease, and torn from blowing in the wind. Remnants of old broken-down furniture stood in the rooms and on the porch. Trees, shrubs and grass were dead. The yard was deep in dust where it was not a sea of seeping oil. The odor of oil and gas was overpowering.

  The family looked and remembered how happy they had once been there. No one spoke, for they could not put their feelings into words.

  Under the dead cottonwood tree on the left stood Grandpa’s old brooder house, and not far from it Mama’s old abandoned cook-stove.

  “How can you stand it to go on living here, Pa?” asked Papa at last.

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” laughed Grandpa. “I go fishing some days—off in the Indian Reservation, not around here. And I visit the oil men some. And I go to the store and visit some. I’m always happy no matter what happens.”

  “Do you get enough to eat?” asked Mama.

  “Sure,” laughed Grandpa. “That old cook-stove is wonderful—it gets plenty of draft settin’ out in the wind. And I work pretty hard choppin’ wood to burn. It helps me to pass the time.”

  “Oh, if only I had a wood stove again,” sighed Mama. “They make the best biscuits in the world …”

  “And I’d never complain about keepin’ the woodbox full,” said Orvie.

  Grandpa looked at Mama. “Jennie, do you mean what you say?”

  “Yes, cross my heart,” said Mama. “Of course I know all that’s over and somehow we got to get used to living in town …”

  Grandpa told Papa to start the car up again, and they continued on down the road till they came to Cottonwood creek. Orvie called to Papa and they stopped.

  The place was barely recognizable. There was no clear water down in the gully. There were no fish, no frogs—only red, greasy mud, saltwater and oil. The trees, bushes and vines that had once furnished comfortable shade were all dead or broken off to stumps. It was so desolate, even the campers had moved away, but they had left their litter behind.

  Orvie thought of the happy days he had spent there. Nobody spoke, so Papa drove on, following Grandpa’s directions. They all wondered where he was taking them. The ride was a long one, over country roads they had not been on before.

  “My land, it’s good to get out of an oil field,” said Mama.

  “Just look, they’ve got winter wheat planted,” said Papa. “See how green it looks coming up.”

  “And the trees have green leaves on their branches,” cried Addie, pointing.

  “It’s cooler here, with all the green things growing,” said Della.

  “I hear birds singing,” said Orvie.

  “Who are you takin’ us to see?” asked Mama. “I don’t know these folks. I never been here before.”

  The car stopped in front of a small farmhouse with a porch in front. The grass in the lawn was greening up from spring rains. There were a few flower beds and lilac bushes, and some trees. A small peach orchard grew near a vegetable garden. Barn, cowsheds and chicken coops could be seen at the back. There was a windmill and a storm-cellar.

  The family stood a
nd looked.

  “It’s as near like the old place as I could find,” said Grandpa.

  “Oh Pa, you don’t mean it’s for us?” cried Mama.

  “It ain’t got running water and two bathrooms,” said Grandpa, “but there’s a good well and a windmill. It ain’t got gas or electricity, but that old cook-stove could be moved over easy …”

  “We could get the kerosene lamps out of the old attic,” said Della. “Maybe Slim and I can be married in the front room.”

  “So that’s what’s next!” laughed Grandpa. “Of course, since that original claim I took in the Cherokee Run has turned out so profitable, maybe after a while, we could afford a few improvements.”

  “Are you sure the oil companies won’t come here and strike oil?” asked Papa.

  “They’ve been and gone,” said Grandpa. “Found nothing but dry holes, so we’re safe.”

  “What about that expensive house in town?” asked Mama.

  “I’ve already deeded it to Aunt Lottie and Uncle Mart,” said Grandpa, “as a present from their rich relations! Town life suits them better than it does us. They’ll be near the stores and everything!”

  They all laughed.

  “There’s a whole quarter-section, Al,” Grandpa went on. “Five acres in alfalfa, and the rest in wheat and pasture.”

  “Maybe I’m cut out for a farmer after all,” laughed Papa.

  “There’s room for twenty or thirty cows in the barn,” said Grandpa. “I’ve arranged to buy back all the stock you sold.”

  “Gosh!” exclaimed Bert. “I’ll start a milk route.”

  “Sure, son,” said Papa.

  “There’s a creek with lots of fish in it, Orvie.”

  “Golly, that’s wonderful! Will you come and live with us, Grandpa?” asked Orvie, as they walked up on the porch of their new home. “And bring Star and Shep along with you?”

  “You bet your boots I will!” laughed Grandpa. “I’ll move my hen-house right over!”