I donโt know about you guys, but when I drive through my hometown, I see the buildings that hold so many memories. I grew up in Hennessey, Oklahoma, and one of my favorite spots is the Sinclair Station on the south end of Main Street. It reminds me of the days I went there with my dad. He often took me to school, and to avoid getting there too early, I would ride along with him while he filled up his pickup for a day of checking wells. There may have been a soda and a handful of peanuts involved. I would mix the peanuts through the opening of my soda bottle, enjoying the combination while keeping myself occupied.
This story actually goes back to when I would accompany my dad while checking wells. I would sit in my little chair on the tailgate, watching for snakes while Dad cleaned out cattle guards. I was also in charge of covering my ears when Dad had to start a stubborn hand-cranked pumping unit he called โOld Jose.โ He would tell me to cover my ears because he was pretty sure heโd have to sweet-talk her to get her going!
When I started kindergarten, I didnโt understand why I had to go to a place that requested an extra pair of underwear and made us take naps on mats. I was perfectly fine hanging out with my dad. My mom often entrusted him with my school drop-off, knowing I wouldnโt resist as much.
Years later, I found myself going through a family treasure: an old red cookbook my mom frequently used. The pages were marked with notes and stains, telling stories of their own. My mom often said that the old cookbook kept us from starving. As I gently turned the pages, a gas receipt fell outโa simple receipt from 1985, signed by my dad, which became a treasured keepsake.
I wanted to create a tribute to my memories of the Sinclair Station, and that tribute came in the form of a gas can, brought to me by a family friend and my Sunday School teacher, Chuck Grimes. Although it wasnโt from Sinclair, it still had a connection to me. It was from the Farmers Coop on the north end of Main Street, a place Iโve written about in some of my stories.
While some people share their memories in albums, I express mine through writing and painting. Selfishly, I hope my grandchildren will someday read this and catch a glimpse of a place and time I cherish. I have that gas can sitting in the corner of my living room, and itโs definitely a conversation starter. Not far from the gas can hangs a painting of Old Jose. If I could paint the sound of her backfiring, I would!
Iโve often wondered why no one has written a song about the sounds and smells of the oil field. I was blessed to experience it firsthand and hope my parents knew I appreciated their sacrifices!
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