The big oil tank was painted white and shaped like an Onion. It had a big red flying horse painted on its side. It was highly visible from SH-3 and its presence had not gone unnoticed by me and my old buddy in the 1945 Stonewall 6th grade, Bobby Newport. The area around Stonewall was defined by the big “Fitts” oil field. A sea of hundreds of tall oil derricks and Magnolia had a “village” on the land where the baseball and softball complex are now situated. And of course, the highly visible Onion.

Bobby and I had climbed several oil rigs and one day my friend nearly took a deadly spill when the timber he was standing on atop the tower gave way. It was a spectacular moment for me and that was the last derrick I climbed for a while. But not Bobby. He hung on and survived. I heard some pitiful screams as the drama played out, but they weren’t Bobby’s.

Naturally we climbed around on the Onion. One day after school and with an audience of our classroom peers Bobby initiated a sort of contest. He wondered who would go out the furthest from the little round platform atop the oval tank. Three or four of us scooted as far as we dared and scooted back up to the safety of the top. Bobby said, “I win!” The two of us went again and, as I peered over the lip of this monstrosity, I had a vision of myself falling into the security fence down below. The 6-foot fence had four strands of barbed wire at its top and I figured if either of us fell we would land and impale ourselves on a pole, our bodies bursting open and you know what spilling everywhere. Not a pretty picture.

I argued that I had gone just as far as he had but the next day he mentioned several times to our peers that he and I were going out to the Onion after school and settle this once and for all. I said something stupid like, “Yeah, so you say.” After school we retired to the Onion. Bobby had two stubby pencils and gave me one. We scooted out about as far as we could and yet be able to scoot back. We each marked a spot, argued about who was the winner and who was the loser. We did it again. This time I went about 1-inch further and felt a little slip as I marked the place my toe was digging in. I told the “Dear Lord” if I ever did make it back to safety I would just declare Bobby the winner and never do a stupid thing like this ever again.

I think we even scared our bloodthirsty observers and so-called fan club— none of whom showed any disposition to best us in our mark. Bobby was indeed the winner. Forever. When we were old enough to drive Bobby could outrun, out-drive and out drag any of us. By the time we were out of high school he had acquired an old obsolete Piper aircraft and even had a 16hr beginner’s license. Yes, he had two or three car wrecks and mishaps (one of which I was his passenger) but he realized his main dream when he graduated from the Air Force’s school and they let him fly his own Jet Fighter.

My life-long friend finally met his undramatic end on a country road near Stratford, Oklahoma. Unexpected? Yes. He was plodding along (slowly) in his old pickup going out to feed his cows when a teenage girl came in off a side road T-Boning Bob and his load of hay. Bob died a few weeks later. Amazing, I thought.

I was over at Stonewall some time ago and noted that not only is the old Onion gone, so are the Tennis Courts and houses that made up Magnolia Park. In their place is a fine baseball complex and the noise and excitement of kids enjoying a ball game. Safely. But in my mind, I can still see the big Onion, live and in color. A crowd of little boys are hanging on the railing shouting encouragement to two other daredevils way out on the edge.

Before you get too far out on the edge, let me encourage you to attend your church this Sunday. And yes, I enjoy hearing from my readers.

Wayne Bullard, DPh

cwaynebullard@gmail.com