Oilfield Trash

                                                                                    THE OILFIELD

“The only business you can work a lifetime in and never see what you are doing.”

Excerpt from Roughnecks, Drillers and Tool Pushers—Gerald Lynch

  

When you grow up as "oilfield trash-OFT for short or “oilfield scum” as we were typically 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 it best, “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 an oilfield company camp house on a remote lease in the Texas panhandle, my acquaintances were all children of roughnecks, tool pushers and drillers.

They were my only friends until I started school at 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.

Our home life was routine driven.  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 meant 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.

"Slick" As Grease On A Doorknob

A legend among oilmen, Tom Slick, known as the “King of the Wildcatters”, was an independent operator in the truest sense. His office was his car during his early days of wildcatting the Mid-Continent oil field around 1910.  And, even after great success brought him to more elegant surroundings in an Oklahoma City office suite, his style remained hands-on. 

His impromptu deals were often brokered on street corners and over pay phones in his typical laconic style. Well into the 1920s he was the last of a breed who had no stock holders or board members to answer to, and instead "worked out of his hip pocket." 

Slick, determined to become a millionaire, came to Oklahoma during the winter of 1911 to find "the big one". Although he initially found nothing but "dusters" (dry holes), a combination of perseverance and luck eventually brought him to the farm of Frank Wheeler.  Wheeler’s farm was located approximately 12 miles east of Cushing, Oklahoma in what later became Drumright and the rich smell of oil sands was perfume to Slick’s nostrils. 

Frank Wheeler had purchased his land, located in the midst of allotments forced upon reluctant Creek Indians, for sixty-five cents an acre shortly before statehood in 1907. Slick soon would take that .65 an acre investment and turn Wheeler into a very rich man.

Because Wheeler had heard of the riches of the Osage Nation and Glenn Pool, he readily agreed to lease his land to Slick for a dollar an acre.Slick obtained financial backing from bankers at Bristow along with a Tulsa attorney and soon drilling commenced on the Wheeler No. 1. However, when the well reached a depth of 2,000 feet without results, the wary investors pulled out of the project.  Slick’s determination never wavered.  Instead, he borrowed a few dollars, traveled to Chicago, and eventually secured the backing of C. B. Shaffer, who had already made his fortune in the Pennsylvania oil fields. 

Returning to the Wheeler farm, Slick selected a more promising site and began drilling once again. On March 12, 1912 his dreams were realized as his drill bit struck a gigantic gas deposit in a thick stratum of oil-bearing sand. Crude oil spewed forty feet above the derrick. Eventually the well was deepened to between 2,319 and 2,347 feet and began producing 400 barrels of oil per day.

 Within one month Wheeler was a happy farmer, receiving $125.00 in royalties every day. Two years later his royalties had doubled as other producers were brought in on Wheeler's land.  Even at the modest $125, Wheeler suddenly found himself with an income of over 3K a month which at that time was equivalent to a King’s ransom.  The production of the well was so impressive, Slick hurriedly informed his money man, Shaffer and instructed him to send experienced lease traders.

Meanwhile, in an effort to keep his new find a secret, he quickly capped the well and spread fresh dirt on the pools of oil spilled by the gusher.

 Oddly enough, although known for his honesty in business dealings, he was not above rabidly protecting his interests. The wildcatter quietly made cash deposits reserving all the horses and buggies in Cushing.  By doing so he effectively hampered the efforts of competing lease bidders who were sure to descend on the area when news of the strike became widespread.

Slick's efforts were successful for a few days, until the Cushing Democrat outed Slick’s discovery, proclaiming to the world that a "Splendid Oil Find" had taken place, and the great rush to the area began.

After his discovery in Cushing, newspapers and oil trade journals constantly followed Slick’s business endeavors, but he strenuously resisted all efforts to know him on a personal level.  He once bluntly stated “I’m not going to tell you anything about him”, speaking of himself.

 In researching Slick and learning how intensely he guarded his private personal life, I was often reminded of my own dad.  Daddy maintained “everyone should die with some secrets.”  Maybe his feeling was a common thread  running  through the veins of many an old oilman.

When Slick died in 1930, from a massive stroke following surgery, oil derricks in the Oklahoma City Field stood silent for one hour.  A fitting tribute to the man who was responsible for the discovery of the largest Oklahoma oilfield until the 1920’s.  The man who became King.

-research for this article from "King of the Wildcatters" by Ray Miles