From my blog Okie Without Borders. Growing up Okie in L A.

Once you had passed over the very narrow Red River Bridge from North Texas, you will drive 20-miles north and a bit east. Arriving in the little Micropolitan village of Wilson, Oklahoma. One main street, one fire house, one post office, one Ford dealer, one drug store, one ice house, one movie theater, one set of railroad tracks, and a half dozen or so fundamentalist churches. Your typical southern Plaines Mayberryish former oil boomtown. Once the commercial hub for other smaller rural towns in the Wilson solar system. And, for the most part a slow and peaceful place to be.

As I had reported several times in the past, my parents and we siblings had traveled by car from Los Angeles to visit the red dirt homeland. Wilson, Oklahoma USA. My grandmother Ayers lived in Wilson on Sixth Street about a half mile south of Main. It’s a small rural farm and oil worker town consisting of about 1600 inhabitants and as mentioned just north of the Red River. Wilson is located just off old US 70 west of the larger Oklahoma town of Ardmore. At least in Wilson is where she had lives when I visited her in the late 1940s and up to the mid 1960s. But prior to those times she and her family lived on various tenant farms in southern rural red dirt Oklahoma.

Nonetheless, her home was a modest white wood frame house. Square, four rooms, and sizable front and back porches. The front Porch, which faced west, was big enough for cousins to sleep out on in a rollaway bed. Really the best place of the house to sleep in mid-summer. The back porch, which faced east to a broad sunrise, was more utilitarian. It had an old wringer washer, galvanized tub, and a garden hose. The hose was used to either fill the metal washtub or used to connect to the wringer washer. Plus the back porch was a great place to hand crank a bucket of ice cream. Or, just a sitting place for we grandkids to giggle and poke each other while eating watermelon.

Now if you were to draw a square on a sheet of paper and divide it into four equal quarters that would be the floor plan of my Gramma’s house as possibly drawn by an architect. Plane and simple. One living room to the south, two bedrooms to the north, and a kitchen in the back and squeezed in-between the two bedrooms was a very small bathroom. Small, compact, and very useable house by one grandmother. However, when kids and grandkids came to visit, a bit tight and compressed. But we loved it nonetheless. A modest carpet of grass and weeds surrounded her house. Certainly not to big or difficult for her to maintain. The grass was outlined by a white picket fence with front gate leading out to the sidewalk on Sixth Street.

Almost straight across the street from my grandmother’s but a bit south lived the Morgan’s. An old couple in their seventies or early eighties. Mrs. Morgan always had a smile on her bespectacled thin face and a quick tendency to talk. Mr. Morgan looked as if he was in constant pane with all facial features pointing down. Walked with a stiff leg, aided with a cane, and slanted forward. The Morgan’s would sit outside in the evenings on two old metal seat and back patio chairs while observing the activity on the street. She sat crossed legged. He sat slanted like a 2 by 4 sitting in a chair. Mr. Morgan sat that way because of a back injury and fused vertebras. Nonetheless, they were kind folk and always willing to talk.

On the same side of the street my grandma lived and south down at the corner lived banker Wilson. He own and ran the bank of Wilson on Main Street in town. He certainly lived in a larger house that faced the corner. His house was twice the size of my grams but modest. Maybe 1500-square feet or so. However, Banker Wilson was a thoughtful man sometimes even inviting we restless cousins down to his house for a snack or iced tea. He knew the benefit of establishing relationships and probably read Dale Carnegie.

Just to the north and on the same side of the street as my grandma’s lived the Peffer family. We grandkids would sometimes play with the Peffer kids. Mr. Peffer was the town’s pharmacist and was well regarded in the neighborhood. His drug store was on Main Street complete with soda fountain and shelves of paperback books. Once I had even bought the book Dr. Strangelove from their respected establishment. But, one summer years later in 1964 when I was visiting Wilson and headed back to college it was discovered Mr. Peffer lost his license to practice his trade. He lost his license because of not really having a college pharmacy degree. Disqualifying him to perform pharmacy work. However, his daughter had recently graduated from pharmacy school at Oklahoma University and took over the filling of prescriptions. So, it all worked out.

So, let us pause here. There is certainly more to this travelogue and next week we’ll pick up the travel adventure and take a walk downtown. Stay tuned. Chuck Ayers