We lived in Wilson, Oklahoma the year I was a fourth grader. So many things I had come to love and count on were no longer available. My father had moved our family to Wilson from Los Angeles and we all experienced our own variety of culture shock. But for me, that year was particularly difficult. I missed the excitement, opportunity, and culture of Los Angeles. There was always somewhere to go, something to do, or people to be with. Instead, I found myself immersed in a culture so backward and simple I felt I would die of boredom.
While in Wilson, we lived in two different houses, the first so run-down that one could literally peer through a huge gap in the wall, past the floor to the ground below. The second house was nestled on a few acres right in the bend of a creek amidst a pecan grove. The person who rented it to our family made us promise to take care of the grounds, harvest the pecans, and "not go into the room that was locked."
Many atrocities occured while we lived in that little white house by the creek. A fire in the living room started when someone carelessly draped a window curtain over the open-flamed heater, popular at the time. My sister and I valiently put the fire out before it spread but much damage was done in a matter of a few minutes. We were given stern warnings by the grown-ups, including the fire department for our efforts, but I can still remember our decision to fight the fire instead of running outside like everyone else in the house did.
My brother found that if he removed the pins from the hinges, the door to the "locked" room could be lifted out of it's opening, thus allowing us entrance. It was probably the beginning of my love for antiques, because I can still remember all the cool, old furniture stacked in the room that we weren't allowed to use. And I obsessed about having that room as my very own bedroom, instead of all four of us crammed into the freezing, drafty lean-to we used for sleeping. My father wouldn't allow us to breach the promise we had made with the homeowner, so that was the only time I can remember being inside the locked room, however, I continued my dream of having the room as my own until we moved from that place.
As for the pecans, I can remember it was not our families' priority to harvest them nor to take care of the grounds. We did plant a garden of sorts, but I remember that we all lost interest and the weeds finally took over before we actually reaped many vegetable rewards. However, my sister and I found that the pecans were like "cash" just laying there on the ground and we often picked up a wagon load and hauled them off to the produce store to have them weighted and converted to quick cash. My share of the money always went for something I had been dying to have, like a baton so I could be a "twirler."
Dad moved on to Natoma, Kansas a few months before the rest of us. He had been out of work and found employment in Plainville and would come for us when he had saved enough money for rent, etc. That period was one of chaos and adventure for the four of us. We roamed the town doing pretty much as we pleased. Mom wasn't in to baking, so we were always starving and out of desperation, my sister and I would whip up something from the "commodity" stash, involving the main ingredients; dried eggs, flour, sugar or peanut butter. We never used a recipe, we didn't need one, if it was hot and sweet, we would eat it!
Life didn't seem a lot more exciting in Natoma, but eventually I came to appreciate a few things about life in a small, quiet, mid-western town. I attended junior high through high school there but never really gained a sense of "community" although I consider it an important part of my roots. And because of that one year in Oklahoma, I can look back and smugly declare Wilson "the worst place I ever lived!"
