Sometimes this old Shakespearean quote applies to us. It sure did to people in Allen in 1938—a tough year for people here in Mustang land. I know it was for the Bullard’s. The business dad worked at in Allen was shuttered and gone. Whipped away by the dusty winds of the Great Depression. Finally, he found a job in Centrahoma. My brother Gerald said, “It had to be the poorest place I’ve ever seen.”

Like most Oklahoman’s, we survived. Barely. But by 1940 dad made another change in directions. He bought the old Brown Grocery Store on Highway 3. It was a step up, economically. But for mom it was hard times— as usual. The big gripe I heard from her wasn’t the lack of money, or food or stuff. She missed living in Allen. At least, she would say, in Allen we had flushing toilets, running water and natural gas. But hardships continued at the grocery. Outdoor toilet. No water. A man hauled us our drinking water in a horse-drawn wagon. Tasted funny. But no flushing toilet, and no running water.

Then there was the stove. This new one we had ran on kerosene. She was deathly afraid it would blow us all to smithereens. That’s what one of her friends had predicted to be our destiny. The stove got the heave-ho. A less than beautiful wood burning stove made its appearance. At least, mom said, “it won’t explode.” I was about grown before I found out that coal-oil (kerosene) was less explosive than nitroglycerin or airplane gasoline. For several years one of my chores was carrying in stove wood for mom’s stove. A stove she managed to cook thousands of fairly tasty meals. But wait.

A mere four years later, the stove issue would again, rear its ugly head. We had moved again— this time to Stonewall. A wonderful place which like Allen provided a city water system and indoor toilets. Man, life was good. But dissent was brewing even before the move was complete. Mom demanded and got a new electric cook stove. The reason for electric? It wouldn’t explode and kill us all. The shiny new range with its bells and whistles was delivered and quickly cooked on. No stove wood required. But dad worried aloud about what it cost to cook with that electricity.

When dad bought this electric marvel Mr. Whittle (owner of Whittle’s appliances in Ada) registered dad’s name in the drawing for a new Tappan gas range. Hold on, you’re getting ahead of me. It was weeks later that Whittles called and said (of course) that he had won this wonderful new Tappan gas range. It was quickly delivered, installed and hooked up. While mom was in the back bedroom with a cold rag on her head, dad quickly sold the cursed electric. The big Tappan had a clock in its center panel. All sorts of pilot lights and even a light on its elaborate instrument panel. I loved it. Mom, of course hated it. She predicted that it would soon explode and kill us all.

Mom didn’t like those pilot lights burning all the time either. But dad prevailed on her to leave ‘em be. She devised her own method of lighting the oven. She was terrified of the oven. Lighting the oven became her own invention. She would turn the knob to the desired temperature. Then, she would strike a big kitchen match and toss it into the hissing oven. A satisfying poof responded, and it was lit. Dad wasted a lot of time explaining what could come of this. It was something like her theories on the kerosene stove. Blow us all up.

So of course, the day finally came. After the 3 ^rd match was struck more than a poof resulted. The resulting explosion sent her back, her apron ablaze and by the next day, her precious electric was back in its place. We didn’t even need matches after that, and we all lived happily ever after that. No gas dryer either.

Hope all is well in your daily lives, and you don’t strike out—like my poor old dad always did. Be sure and go to church Sunday.

Wayne Bullard, DPh

cwaynebullard@gmail.com