Growing up in the fifties, I had traditional ideas about moms and dads. Mothers took care of the house and children; fathers had their hands full as breadwinners. My father was a pumper. Every day before dawn he left our two-bedroom house in the oil camp to check the wells in the field. He measured the oil flow, checked the tank batteries and did a lot of other things even my big brother, Wayne, didn’t understand.
In the evening, Daddy came home to the dinner Mom had lovingly prepared for all of us. She was gentle and feminine and an excellent seamstress, not only mending our clothes, but always making me something nice for
