CHAPTER V
“Della, do wash Addie’s face and comb her hair,” said Mama one morning. “Her hair looks like a straw stack.”
“Ain’t been combed since Monday,” mumbled Addie.
“Land sakes, and here it’s Saturday,” said Mama. “The days go by so fast I can’t keep up with them. How long since you washed your face?”
“’Bout two weeks, Mama,” said Addie, laughing.
The house was full of strangers. Orvie and Addie felt like strangers themselves. Mama was so busy she had no time for them. The change began one day when two oil workers came to the door and asked for a bed to sleep in. Papa and Mama talked it over.
“I don’t want to take in roomers,” said Mama, “but it seems like I have to. There’s no other place for the poor men to go. There’s no place for ’em to eat, either, so they want me to let them eat with us.”
“They make good wages, and they’ll pay well,” said Papa. “It’s up to you.”
Mama put the first two men into the spare room, and when the next two came, she moved Orvie and Bert into the attic and gave the men the boys’ room. The rest of the family gave up their beds one by one. Mama slept on the leather couch and Papa on the floor of the front room. Della and Addie slept on beds made up on the dining room floor each night. When Mama put two men into the attic, Bert went out to the barn and Orvie moved to the porch swing. Only Grandpa remained comfortable and undisturbed out in his hen-house under the cottonwood tree.
One day a knock came at the door and Grandpa answered it.
“It’s the ‘farm boss’ of the Sooner Oil Company, Jennie,” he said. “He wants to arrange for a strip of land along the road, where people can build houses.”
“They’ll build houses?” asked Mama.
“Yes, a whole string of ’em,” said Grandpa.
“Who’ll live in them?” asked Mama.
“Oil workers and their families,” said Grandpa. “They’re nice folks. With oil wells springin’ up like mushrooms, all the workers have to have places to live. It’s too far for them to drive back and forth to Perry or Tonkawa every day. Do you want to be bothered about takin’ in the rents, Jennie? You can add it to your chicken and egg money.”
“All right, if they won’t bother us,” said Mama.
And so Stringtown—one of many Stringtowns—was built in a week on the half-mile frontage of Robinsons’ quarter-section. Lumber was hauled in over night and building began. Houses were moved in too, whole and readymade, blocked up in place and occupied immediately. People came in wagons, buggies and automobiles, bringing furniture. Before the end of the week, the Robinsons had many new neighbors.
At first Mama tried to see that she rented only to nice people, good people. But they came so fast she could not keep track of them all, and soon she was too tired to ask questions. If they said they would pay the rent, she told them to move in. She tried to remember their names—Armstrong, Cassady, Decker, Soaper …
“Can these people get water here, Mama?” asked Orvie.
“I suppose so,” said Mama. “There’s no other place. You help them pump, Orvie.”
A procession of strangers—men, women and children—lined up at the well in the Robinsons’ back yard with milk cans, pails, pitchers and bottles. Orvie pumped a while at first, and then gave up. The pump was always going. The people kept coming to the house, always wanting something. Mama began to sell them eggs, milk and cream, vegetables and chickens.
Mama was so busy she never noticed that Orvie had stopped school. He brought his books home one day and put them in the closet in his old room. He had decided not to go back, but he did not announce this to the family. He told them the latest oil news instead.
“They’re spuddin’-in No. 2 back of the barn,” said Orvie, “right in the puddle where the doodlebug wiggled!”
No. 2 Robinson had been staked off some time before, cellar dug and rig erected. Wells had been started by half-a-dozen companies on neighboring farms. A few had proved to be dry holes, but there were more and more producers, so the field was considered proved territory.
“Oh, my land, I’ll go crazy with two wells drillin’ as close as that,” said Mama. “No sleep at night and headache all day with all the racket goin’ on.”
“Slim’s down to the Bartlesville sand in No. 1,” Orvie went on, “and he’s goin’ on down to the Mississippi,” Orvie explained. “They say there’s seven sands and oil in every one of them—three of ’em for sure, and there’s gonna be three derricks on every location.”
“Seven sands!” Mama picked up the broom and began sweeping briskly. “Looks like I got seven sands right here in my house, what with all you menfolks keep trackin’ in. Orvie, take hold of that wash-machine handle and get it goin’.”
“Beds, beds, beds! I’m sick of makin’ beds,” complained Della.
“Hurry and bring the dirty sheets down, so I can put them in the machine,” said Mama. “I got to get these pies and cakes in the oven, and the meat on to stew. The men ain’t particular, but they like to eat hearty. I want ’em to have all they can hold.”
“You feed ’em too good, Jennie,” said Grandpa. “You won’t make any profit on this deal.”
“It does me good to see ’em eat,” said Mama. “I never thought they’d be so nice. That Jenks feller—he’s just a roustabout—brought me a present, a pretty silk handkerchief, yesterday. Of course I laid down the law to ’em when they first come. I told ’em they could play cards but no gambling or drinking in my house.”
“They’re good boys all right,” said Grandpa. “That bunch on the Wilkins well got hijacked last night, robbed of every cent they had in their pockets—they’d just been paid off. There are always bad characters roamin’ around, livin’ off the gains of others.”
“Orvie, what are you standing there gawkin’ for?” cried Mama. “Take hold of the handle of that wash-machine. I must get those sheets out on the line before noon.”
“Mama! Mama!” called Della from upstairs. “Somebody’s knocking.”
“Don’t call so loud,” answered Mama. “The night tour (tower) men must get their sleep.” She put the cake into the oven and went to the door.
“Could I rent a room, Mrs. Robinson?” asked the well-dressed man who stood there.
“I’m full up as I can be,” said Mama. “I could board you, but my beds are all full.”
“My name’s Jim Waterman,” the man said, “I’m ‘tool-pusher’ for the Sooner Oil Company, in charge of all our wells around here. I have to see that they have supplies and equipment and keep going.”
“That’s our oil company, Mama,” whispered Orvie.
“Could you give me a pillow and a quilt and let me sleep on the floor?” begged the man. “That would be better than the lazy-bench in the doghouse. Last night I had only my raincoat for a pillow, and the bench got mighty hard. All the boarding houses are full, with men sleeping in cots in the halls. They’re sleeping in chairs in restaurants and barber shops, in parked cars—anywhere. So you see …”
“Why, that’s terrible, and you a tool-pusher,” said Mama. “But I haven’t a place on earth to put you. There’s somebody in every room but the kitchen, and I have to start the wood fire so early …”
“Mrs. Robinson, how would you like to have gas piped in to cook with? And for lights too?” asked Mr. Waterman. “You could cook quicker, and you wouldn’t have to fill all those kerosene lamps. How would you like to have free gas?”
“Me? Free gas?” cried Mama. “I can’t believe it.”
“We’ll pipe it in just as soon as we can,” said Mr. Waterman. “Could you give me a pillow and quilt whenever I come and let me sleep here on the porch? I want to be as close to your oil well as possible. I won’t be regular, I come and go, but when I come, I’ll need a bed.”
Mama laughed. “Why, of course, Mr. Waterman, if you don’t mind Orvie in the porch swing. We’ll buy you a cot and fix you up comfortable.”
The next day was Sunday, but not the quiet peaceful Sunday of the past. The two Robinson wells were drilling away, shattering the Sunday peace with their loud commotion. The oil workers went about their work as usual, dressed in dirty everyday clothes. Mama and Della were so busy cooking all morning, nobody thought about going to church.
Della put all the extra leaves in the dining table, so it stretched from window to door. There were two sittings because Cousin Mattie and Cousin George, with their three grown-up children, came from Blackwell to spend the day, and Aunt Lottie and Uncle Mart dropped in on their way home from church. Orvie and Addie never got to sit down at all. They ran back and forth to the kitchen and helped themselves to dishes of food sitting there. They peeked through the crack of the door and listened to the conversation.
“They say they’re going to drill in the cemetery, right by the Prairie View Church!” announced Aunt Lottie briskly.
“Goodness gracious!” exclaimed Cousin Mattie. “Can’t they let the dead alone?”
“Jennie, do you hear?” called Lottie. “They won’t even let the dead lay in peace.”
But Mama was out in the kitchen cutting pie.
“Likely the oil field runs in that direction,” said Uncle Mart. “They say it runs from southwest to northeast and then swings over west again. Likely it runs right in under the cemetery.”
“There’s always oil under a graveyard, they say,” put in Cousin Mattie.
“Sandy Watkins won’t let them drill there,” said Papa. “He gave that land for the church and cemetery. His folks are buried there.”
After the meal was over, Orvie walked out of the house with Shep at his heels. The novelty of the oil wells had worn off. The drilling seemed endless, and as long as it continued, there was no excitement. Orvie felt like his father. They were drilling clear down to China and not finding oil.
He went slowly down the road past the row of little Stringtown houses which lined the ditch. They were the smallest houses he had seen in his life. They sat close together, with just enough space between to park a car. Some of the cars looked larger than the houses.
No one acted as if it were Sunday. A woman was washing clothes in a wooden tub. Another was hanging bedding out to air. Strange children were playing about. Orvie wondered if he would ever get to know them, and which name belonged to which—Cassady, Armstrong, Decker …
Pounding and sawing were going on everywhere. A new house was going up—twelve feet wide, eight feet high and sixteen feet long. The walls were made of one thickness of boards, with window frames protruding on the outside. A two by twelve plank rested on its narrow edge, reaching from front to back of the building. A man was laying roof boards on, curving them over to give enough slope to shed water.
“This your house?” inquired Orvie.
“Gonna be,” said the man. “We’re fixin’ to move in tomorrow. Laid the first timber this morning.”
“Awful funny roof,” remarked Orvie.
“Box-car roof,” answered the man. “We call it a box-car house. Quick to build and good enough to live in. We always have ’em in the oil fields. I’m Ed Soaper, roustabout.”
The man’s wife and children came and stared at Orvie.
“Gonna plaster inside?” asked Orvie. “You’ll freeze to death in the wintertime with only thin boards for walls.”
“No, bub,” laughed the man. “Not when we git gas piped in.”
“We’ll git free gas and we’ll roast ourselves to death,” said the woman, laughing.
“My name’s Charley,” said the nine-year-old boy. “Charley Soaper. That’s a nice dog you got. You live up there where we get water, don’t you?”
Orvie nodded.
Ed Soaper glanced up the road. “Here comes somebody in too big a rush to build him a house. He’s movin’ one in.”
Orvie hurried up to watch. Several teams of horses were pulling a one-room house with rollers under it. Two men followed behind, picked up the rollers and ran to the front to put them under again. The house made slow progress.
“Want a ride?” called the driver, when they came to the corner.
“Sure,” said Orvie. He looked at the sign in big letters above the front door. OSAGE TORPEDO HOUSE it said. He wondered what it meant, as he stepped inside and rode along.
The house was moved around the corner onto the side road. Here were more of the hastily-built shacks along the edge of Grandpa’s wheat field. The house was set at the end of the line, near the alfalfa field.
“Who’s going to live here?” asked Orvie.
“Them folks,” said the driver. He pointed to a truck loaded with people and furniture, which had driven up. A girl climbed down and sat on a box to watch the unloading. She was pretty and wore a flowered white dress and a straw hat. Orvie went over to talk to her.
“Are you going to live here?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the girl.
“Your father …” began Orvie.
“He’s a shooter,” explained the girl.
“Oh!” said Orvie. He did not know what a shooter was. He looked at the sign over the door of the building. “What’s that?” he asked.
“For dynamite,” said the girl.
“Oh!” said Orvie again.
“It used to be for storage,” the girl went on, “but now we’re going to live in it. We couldn’t find any other place.”
“Oh!” said Orvie. “My name’s Orville Robinson. What’s yours?”
“Bonnie Jean Barnes,” said the girl.
“I … I had a ride in your house,” said Orvie.
But the woman called and the girl went into the Osage Torpedo House. Orvie wondered how it would feel to live there.
He cut into the field and wandered slowly across the prairie. Shep scampered along happily. It was quiet out in the field. He was away from the noise of the oil wells and the noise of many people. The earth seemed to have flattened out and the sky was a blue dome overhead. The sun was hot on his back and a good stiff wind was blowing. It was just the kind of day that he liked.
Suddenly he saw Shep chasing a jackrabbit in the pasture ahead. A jackrabbit was larger than a cottontail, with very long ears and much larger, stronger hind legs. The rabbit was wise—it acted as if it were crippled and let the dog come close. Then suddenly it ran off and hid behind a bush. Shep came up sniffing. The rabbit kicked the dirt up in his face and was off again. Orvie laughed as he saw the long-legged creature go flying up the slope, its ears laid back, making jumps twenty feet in length. What chance did poor Shep have?
Orvie decided it was time to go for the cows, so he went to the barn and climbed on Star’s back. Dusk was gathering as he headed for Cottonwood creek. In warm weather the cows sought the thickest brush to get relief from flies and ticks. It was hard to hunt them out, one by one, from the dense plum and blackberry bushes, overgrown with wild grapevines.
Orvie wondered where they were tonight. So much had happened, he had not been to the creek lately. Bert had been bringing the cows in. To his surprise he saw lights flickering among the bushes. He slapped Star’s back and trotted over. Shep came running behind.
The creek was greatly changed. He hardly knew it.
In among the shady trees and bushes, homeless campers lived in tents or makeshift huts. They were “hangers-on”—people who followed the oil booms, hoping to get jobs or money by fair or unfair means. Some of them were ragged, others wore few clothes. It had been a very hot day and the air had not yet cooled off. Orvie could see beds inside the tents and people lolling on them. He saw smoky campfires and women trying to cook. Ragged, barefoot children were breaking branches off the trees and throwing them on the fires. Others were sliding down the dirt banks of the deep gully or wading in the creek.
Orvie slid off Star’s back and let her stand. Shep came close.
“Where you folks from?” Orvie demanded, approaching a blowsy, fat woman, who held a greasy skillet over a fire. “This is my Grandpa’s farm. Did he say you could camp here?”
The woman laughed a loud, coarse laugh, which made Shep growl. Orvie pulled the dog back. The woman called to a group of men sitting on the ground behind a tent, playing a game. They had bottles in their hands.
The men called back to the woman in words that Orvie did not understand. They tipped their bottles and drank. They threw the empty bottles in Orvie’s direction.
“Git along home to your rich old Grandpa!” cried the woman. They were all looking at him now.
The ragged children dashed forward and threw stones at Orvie and the dog. As he turned away, Orvie noticed that the grass was strewn with empty bottles. He stumbled and fell. The next minute an overgrown boy was on his back, pounding him hard. But Shep set up a wild barking, then began to nip the boy’s heels. The boy jumped off and backed away, afraid.
Orvie ran across the pasture to catch Star, who had started to run. Then he had to stop and sit down for a while. He felt so sick he was afraid he might lose his dinner. Shep came up and lay down beside him, panting. He patted the dog on the back.
Orvie felt sick in another way, too. The creek, where he had had such happy times wading and fishing, was spoiled. It was spoiled for him forever. He must keep Addie away. She must not see the creek the way it was now. Addie was too little to understand such things.
Orvie rode the pony slowly back across the fields to the farmhouse. The farmhouse too had changed so he hardly knew it. It did not seem like home any more.
Before he reached the barn lot, before he could hear the noise and vibration of the two oil wells, he stopped suddenly for a strange sound struck his ear. It was music—loud, noisy music, the kind of music that kept on getting louder and louder as if it would never stop. Then it stopped for a minute, quieted down, but soon began all over again.
Orvie listened to see which direction it was coming from. All at once he knew. It was coming from the Pickerings’ farmhouse down the road. He remembered Mrs. Pickering’s visit on the day of the hailstorm. Old Pickering had done just what she said he would do. He had started a filling station across from Moore’s store and he and his wife were living upstairs. The old farmhouse, one of the first built after the Run, had been turned into a dance hall. That was where the music was coming from.
Orvie put Star in the barn and started for the house. He must tell Bert to go after the cows.
He walked over to the oil well at the side of, the house. Just then its lights came on. The derricks were lighted up with electric lights from bottom to top at night, so the night tour could continue the drilling.
Orvie felt sick again.
Even night was changed to day.
