Oilfield Trash

When you grow up as “oilfield trash—OFT” or “oilfield scum” as we were called, you learn to gravitate to others of a similar calling. Probably we clung together because no one else understood us or wanted to be lumped in with us. Gerald Lynch, the author of Roughnecks, Drillers & Tool Pushers said, “we stuck together because we spoke the same language and lived the same life.” Rarely could you find someone outside the “OFT” who understood what doubles, thribbles and fourbles were. Living in the Huber Oilfield company camp Mayfield, which consisted of 3 houses on a remote lease in the Texas panhandle, there were seldom children of my age around. Occasionally, our camp had a family with children but those times were rare. Oil patch people were good to visit back and forth with each other so I did have some interaction with other children. But until school age my acquaintances were all children of roughnecks, tool pushers and drillers. They were my only friends until I began school at Pringle, a small rural elementary school with a total student body of maybe 100 kids. It was here the OFT kids learned to co-exist with the farmers’ kids and the transient workers’ children who were with us for a few months each year and then moved on. My childhood was simple and I know now how amazingly lucky I was. I remember listening to the Farm and Market report on the radio every morning. The slogan “the best part of the Golden Spread day” sticks in my mind and makes me homesick for truly early mornings in the Texas panhandle are lovely to behold. The fact the F & M report was sponsored by the Smart Form Shop in Amarillo tickled my daddy. Something about the sponsorship of canners, cutters and prime beef by ladies’ foundation garments was wildly amusing to him. Routine drove the day. The presence of an old tin lunchbox, a huge coffee thermos and a scuffed up metal hardhat told me if daddy was home or not. And supper was typically on the table at 5:00 pm and we were safely tucked away in bed by 8:00. My bedtime lullaby was the constant beat of a pump jack working through the night. Even as a child I came to learn the sounds that signaled the need of maintenance on those iron horses. I could tell you exactly how long it took a dirt clod to disappear from sight in an oil slush pit. I knew the sound of a gas flare off and a “pig” running through pipes. I learned the term S O B meant many things and not all of them were bad. Sometimes it was preceded by good, lucky, handsome, talented and hardworking and therefore, not offensive at all. Because children were “seen but not heard” we often weren’t really seen either. Our invisibility gave us listening ears to jokes and stories definitely not intended for our tender years. Therefore, we all had very colorful vocabularies and we could cuss with the best of the hands at a very early age. OFT were prone to pranks and dirty tricks and frequently even dirtier jokes. Often, they told huge whoppers. They were vivid, colorful and interesting people who lived hard lives, worked risky jobs and loved what they did. But, more than anything on earth, I learned I could trust those rough men and the tireless women who packed their lunches and washed their dirty oil patch clothes. I instinctively knew then and know now they are people who can be counted on. You might not be readily accepted but once you gain their trust, you become a part of their world.

They are part of my past and present, they are my friends and family. That “Oilfield Trash” is also the salt of the earth and I’m proud to be one of them.