Friday, April 26, 2024
Sam Houston
FROM MY FRONT PORCH
Sam Houston is the publisher of the Hood County News. He is also an actor, author, playwright, performer and entertainment producer/promoter.
During my college days, once school was out for the summer, I would head to the oil field where I would work to earn enough cash to carry me through the upcoming school year. I absolutely loved getting out of the classroom and being part of the oilfield. I admit some of the joy was being far from home and having control of my own destiny. No one told me when to come or go, and I had to manage my own affairs and needs. Most of all, it was such a completely different environment from the academic world where I spent my other nine months of the year.
I loved the people I worked with, too. They were “old-time” oilfield guys. They were not educated, or sophisticated and certainly unconcerned with the finer things in life. They worked hard, took pride in what they were doing, and as I have written on other occasions, made it their goal to run off “college boys” who thought they were smarter or “better” than the ordinary field hands. As such, it was important to learn and understand the oilfield culture and to always maintain a level of respect.
One fella I got to know well was a man about 15 years older than me named Bob Johnson. He was raised in eastern Oklahoma and the only thing he knew or had much interest in was fast cars and the oilfield. This was 1976, but Bob was a relic of the 60s. He was a little man who probably did not weigh 135 pounds. He had a big handlebar mustache and absolutely the bluest eyes I have ever seen on a human being. Bob was never seen without a ballcap on his head, and he had long hair that tumbled out from under the cap and well over his collar. He always cut the sleeves off his work shirts and thus his arms, face and neck were tanned a golden bronze from working in the Oklahoma sun.
I underwent some hazing from the full-time hands, but by the end of my first summer my hard work and attitude earned Bob’s respect and he and I became friends. As I loaded up my things to head back to school, he shook my hand and told me to take care and to “try and crack a book every now and then.”
When I returned the second summer, we often worked together on any job we could and spent time after work drinking a cold beverage or going fishing. I think he liked hearing about my college adventures because they were so foreign to the world he had experienced. I loved how he explained the oilfield life, the equipment, machinery and how the whole process came together. Bob was not formally educated beyond the 10th grade, but he was far from dumb. I learned a lot from him about work and I always appreciated how those blue eyes saw the world around him.
Late in the third year of my summer employment, Bob and I were working on a compressor engine. The truth is, Bob was working, and I was handing him tools as he needed them because I sure would not have known what to do or how to do it. During the entirely of the days I worked with Bob I never had seen him without a ballcap on his noggin.
On this day, a storm was brewing in the summer sky and the temperature dropped. It was apparent a big thunderstorm was blowing in. The two of us were working as fast as we could to get the compressor back online as the storm clouds gathered. Suddenly, a huge gust of wind blew the hat off Bob’s head, and I almost fell over backward in shock. When the wind had removed Bob’s hat, it revealed the baldest and shiniest head I had ever witnessed. I probably let out a gasp, because I had never even imagined the possibility of Bob being bald. His hair was so long in the back, I don’t think anyone would have guessed he was as slick as an onion under his cap.
Bob looked shocked, grabbed his cap off the ground and replaced it on his head, and never said a word nor did he make my eye contact with me. I kept working and kept my lips pressed tight together to keep from saying anything. It was obvious Bob was mortified. We quickly finished the job got in the truck and drove down the road about 30 minutes, in complete silence. Bob just stared straight ahead as he drove, but he finally spoke. “OK ... so now you know. I am bald and I don’t like it.”
I heard what my friend had said, and I also could sense the pain in his voice. I also understood the “code” I had experienced in the oilfield of keeping things to yourself and respecting other men. There was a rather long silence and I kept looking straight ahead through the windshield, never changing expression or turning my head toward Bob. I finally spoke in a low, measured tone and uttered, “Really, …never noticed.” We rode together in silence the rest of the trip home and the subject of Bob’s cap coming off his head was never mentioned again.
Years later I went to Bob’s funeral. I had not seen him for a long time, and I smiled when I passed his casket during the viewing. Bob was laying in his casket, wearing a ballcap.
Thought for the day: Friends overlook your broken fence and admire your garden.
Until next time…
sam@hcnews.com | 817-573-7066, ext. 260
