Wright City Ramblings

Fairly soon in life, I figured out the social pecking order for East Texas in general and Wright City in particular. I am not saying it was politically, morally, or intellectually correct (or that I even supported it), but the fact remains that it existed as follows from lowest to highest in order:

Hispanics (I don't think I ever saw one til a high school trip to San Antonio)

Blacks (Many were close friends with Dad as he treated people equally)

White Trash (Universally scorned as "sorry lazy no-goods")

Oil Field Trash (Gene Waller, Inc.)

The Rest of the World

As multiple generations of both sides of my family had worked as East Texas oil field laborers for minimum wage, we were obviously catagorized by the world as Oil Field Trash.

Above us was a social mystery that we had no knowledge of (nor the number of social layers that existed) and below us were those that we shared a lot in common with (also known as near poverty)

I grew up in a single wall house (look between the boards from the inside and see a narrow view of the world on the outside, a parallel to growing up in Wright City now that I think about it). The house had originally served as the parsonage for the Wright City Assembly of God church. It was offered for sale and Dad paid the princely sum of $500 (cash, I don't think Dad ever had a checking account). When we bought the house (1962) it had no paint on the boards and and when Dad moved out of it (about 1992) it had never felt a paint brush. The lights were bare bulbs that hung from the ceiling on wires, the AC was a large fan in one end of the house that ran backwards in order to draw (hot, humid) air into the house from the outside and the floor was usually just boards that Mom kept scrubbed almost white. (Mom was big on cooking and cleaning and darn good at both as she worked with focused dedication to keep the house and kids in good shape while Dad literally slaved in the "oil patch" in menial jobs.)

All that said, I would not trade places with anyone on where I grew to young adulthood. Both sets of my grandparents lived within a couple of miles (and they loved and cared for me in many meaningful ways). We were surrounded by woods, creeks, ponds and all manner of things where a boy could run, romp and just have a blast (in the absence of money, transportation, etc.) Back then, I didn't know the things money could allow that I was "missing". Now, I know that money could have never purchased the feelings of freedom and sheer joy at being alive when the whole of Wright City and surrounding farms were open to my pleasure (I never heard the word "tresspass" back then and nobody seemed to care that boys roamed their places so long as no mischief occurred). As an aside (this is my blog so I will take literary liberties as I choose) when I was about 12, my parents bought me a new Noble single shot .22 rifle for $13 (serious money at the time) I carried and used that gun (rabbits, squirrels) like it was the grand prize of an African Safari and keep it to this day with great memories of carrying it for the "hunt".

A heartfelt public kudo to Dad: many oil field workers followed the work which meant moving a lot. Dad would move us in the summer to find work, but he made it his number one priority to always be back in Wright City when school started so that we could have the continuity and stability of starting and finishing public school at the same place, New London. To understand the depth of this "gift" to his children, you would need to know some history. My Mom's Dad (Papuh) told me one time that he tried first grade on the first day he was old enough, but didn't like it so never went back (he was completely illiterate). I never really knew the reading level of Dad's Dad, but I suspect it was somewhat minimal as he had little formal education to my knowledge. My Dad was so severely dyslexic that he could not look at the word "cat" on a piece of paper and copy the letters underneath. In the beginning of Dad's educational attempts, he was told he was stupid and lazy and he was "whipped" every day by his Dad because of it. For the remainder of his life, Dad was depressed and frustrated at his inability to get good jobs, read letters from family (or even order from a menu in a public place)(Dad's trick in a cafe was to look intently at a menu and then ask the waitress what was good. He did this one time and the waitress said it was all good. Dad pointed at three items on the menu and said I'll have this, this and this. The waitress dutifully brought Dad fried potatoes, stewed potatoes and mashed potatoes). BOTTOM LINE: Dad knew that his kids needed a better chance in life than he had and he did his part to allow the opportunity. GOD BLESS AND KEEP YOU DAD!

So: we were economically poor, had near zero perspective on the world at large, and grew up with a lot of psychological challenges that altered our focus at times, BUT, we were housed, clothed, fed (well) and always knew we were loved by all in our immediate and extended family. How much better can it get than that for a Wright City Oil Field Trash boy who has always kept sight of where he started and tried to merit the "start" he was given in life.

My heartfelt and sincere thanks to all who had a part in that.