W.B. (Dub) Borders As we do different things during our lifetime, some turn out great, some okay, and then many, not so good. Here are a couple of mine.

When my brother Johnny and I were in our early teens, one afternoon our dad took us out of school to help with fencing. We did get to eat lunch at home. My dad took his usual POWER NAP, I put it in caps because if you woke him up before his nap was over, you experience the power of his wrath. Our orders were to get the fencing equipment together. We got the hammer, regular pliers, fence pliers, post hole diggers, and axe.

When he woke up we headed south to Fairview. I’m thinking that we are going to be through in a short amount of time. Be home in an hour or so, and lots of time to do what we wanted to do. We didn’t have any posts, steeples or wire for fencing. We did have baling wire in the back of the pickup, there was always wire like that around. When we got to one location, we took up old posts, rolled up wire, and saved the steeples. This took about two hours. I’m thinking, what next?

We then drove down to Citra and started fencing close to what was left of Old Town Square at Citra. Yes, Citra did have a town square.

We worked for another two hours with all the old supplies that we had. We went from tree to tree if possible. We finally got to a long distance where we had to tighten the wire and now, how do we do this without wire stretchers? My dad takes the ax and cuts out a fork from a young tree, puts the wire on the handle of the fork and uses the two branches to tighten the wire. While working, Johnny and I had to listen to the history about when he put this fence up when we were just toddlers.

We finally got the fence completed and now we can go home. No, my dad decides that he wants to take the big well rock at the town square back to our house. It is twelve inches thick, four feet across, with a hole in the middle that is twelve inches across. It probably weighed a thousand pounds. These well rocks were used to keep pressure on the smaller rocks that lined the open well. This well was bone dry. We backup the truck to it and work for a long time, finally get it into the bed of truck.

All the way home the little 1953 pickup is weighed down too much, the front end seems like it is in the air and the rear end is almost dragging. Sort of like having peanut diggers on a tractor that is too small. It sure seemed like a lot of weaving on Highway 48. At home, to remove and place it in the yard, we put a log chain on a tree, the other end on the rock, and pull the truck forward to get the rock out.

The rock stayed in that spot until years later when we had a tractor that could lift and move the rock. I moved the rock over an old water well, put up two cedar posts with a cross member, and then a pulley and well bucket. Our mother really liked the looks of it. We then put our tools up, now it’s supper time, almost dark, but we still have to milk the cows.

The only fun we had that afternoon was a milk fight now, between Johnny and me. In fact we had so many milk fights that our mother was thinking that the cows were going dry. This is one of those: It turned out completely different than I expected it to, and not in my favor.

Before my mother died, she told me I could have the water well rock. I then took it our place south of Allen. When we sold and moved, I took it to our son’s home at Hartshorne. After they split up, I took it to our lake house at Eufaula. After sixteen years, we sell that house and buy another house at Eufaula. I moved the rock again. When our son, Kevin passed away, I just cannot leave the well rock there. I have a history with that water well rock. I then take it back to the home place where I grew up. I don’t plan on moving it again. Little did I know that I would start a lifetime association with a rock. I suppose you could call it “my pet rock.”

In late December of 1983, in fact, the day that school turned out for Christmas break, an extremely dry cold weather mass moved over Oklahoma and surrounding states. For two weeks the temperature was around ten degrees or lower. The long-term effects of that extended freeze was not known for a few months. It was so cold for so long that I was able to burn down an old rotten tree that was in the middle of one of our ponds. The only saving grace during those two weeks was that there was no wind. I found out later that my Bermuda grass in the field had died. At one time the land had been in a program called Soil Bank. The intent was to lower the production of field crops, conserve the soil and also compensate the landowner. My land had not been plowed for over thirty years.

I decided to plant peanuts on it that year. I did all the necessary work and got a good stand of peanuts. The first of June was an average one, some rain and lots of sunshine. On Father’s Day, the old Bermuda High weather pattern moved into our country, all the way from Georgia to Arizona. Within a week irrigation had to be done or watch the crop dry up. That summer I irrigated the twentythree acres, probably five times. My propane cost was huge, around $1500. Elvin Lindley of Home Propane carried my bill until the crop was harvested. That fall I had a bumper crop when I should have not even harvested one. With the help of my brother R W, and Frank Huffstutlar, we pulled eight loads of peanuts off the field. Also a great amount of peanut hay was produced and sold.

I had always heard my dad say that if you could make a good crop, you could pay off a piece of land in one year. With the returns, we could have, if not for some other debts. I’ll never forget when R W and I were on the last load of peanuts to haul to Allen Peanut Company, we were on top, leveling out the load. He tells me, “WB, you are lucky”, I responded that it was skill. He repeated the same phrase, “you are lucky.”

I then asked him why, that if some good farmers in the area had a good crop, it was skill, but with me, it was luck. He said, “I don’t know, but you are lucky.” We both had a good laugh. That winter, over coffee at Betty’s cafe, I told R W, “I was lucky, wasn’t I?”

The next year I planted peanuts again, this time however, when digging the peanuts was over, it started raining and did not completely stop for three weeks. I lost that crop in the field. Thank goodness, I had crop insurance. The crows really enjoyed my failure. So, I’m thinking, I made a bumper crop when I should not have, had a good crop, but unable to harvest it. It must be time for me to quit this farming.

Two examples of unexpected outcomes, one great and one bad.

Editor’s Note – We appreciate Dub sharing his family history and stories with us. If anyone has old “Allen area” stories, we’d be happy to hear from you too.