The Day the Oil Stopped

By Fred Chittum

I had no more stepped off the last stair step when I heard the gun shots ring out and the franti c scream from my mother. I tripped over my own self twice as I raced back up the stairs, through the kitchen and out the back door. The fi rst thing I saw was my mother lying face down in the grass across the alley way. I ran straightaway across the back yard, screaming as I ran.

Our Author takes us into the life of a small town Iowa family. Explosions of the oil fi eld regions of the Persian and Saudi Gulf coast means disaster for their town. Go along the journey with Michael Larson and his family as they encounter the good and evil of the people in their community and discover the new world they help create.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475990713

Fred Chittum

Fred Chittum had a passion for writing. He was an over the road truck driver that loved to tinker with anything and everything that was mechanical. He was born in Denver, Colorado where he lived the majority of his life. He spent the last 18 years living in Boone, Iowa. He and his wife have three children and ten grandchildren. Fred died of a heart attack in March of 2010. He looked forward to having one of his books published. This book is being published by his family in his honor.

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PROLOGUE

Seventeen! What a difficult age to be. You’re too old to be considered a child, yet too young to be considered a man. You’re old enough to drive, yet too young to vote. No one wants to call you a little boy anymore, although ironically you might hear a thirty something man say, Honey, I’m going to the club with the ‘BOYS’ for a round of golf. At seventeen, you’re neither a man, a child, or a boy. Some people will call you a ‘Young Adult’ out of politeness, and I’ve always wondered what an ‘Old Adult’ would be considered. At seventeen, you’re just stuck in the middle. The ‘Mid-Teens’ era! It will be another four maybe five years until you’ve attained credible ‘MAN-HOOD’ status. But for me, it all came about differently. Maybe on paper I still went through all those years, but in my heart, my soul, my mind, my beliefs, my personality, and most importantly, my life, all changed before I ever made it to my eighteenth birthday. I didn’t want it to change, but it did… . and I will never have those years back.

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS MY HIGH SCHOOLS next to the last baseball game of the 2008 season. In my home town of Berthoud, Iowa, sports were the number one activity for most students, even throughout summer vacation. I was up early and put on my baseball uniform and headed downstairs where the aromatic scent of frying bacon was filling the house.

Michael L. Larson! my mother yelled as I came into the kitchen. How many times have I told you NOT to wear those baseball cleats in this house? You get those shoes off right now, or there is NO breakfast for you young man! I don’t know why Big Eddie makes you put on a uniform anyway, since you don’t even play she said. If you’re going to be in the dugout, you have to be in full uniform, I replied. Its’ Coach Eddies rules Mom. I’ve told you that before. I slipped off the cleats and sat down in front of a plate full of bacon and eggs. Big Eddie, as everyone called him, was the school baseball and wrestling coach. On the field or around school he was always Coach Eddie.

At seventeen I had reached what would be my full lifetime height of six feet and weighed in at one-hundred-sixty-five pounds. My father and Big Eddie were best of friends. The two of them had grown up together. Big Eddie had been my father’s best man at his wedding, and my father had been his. Between the two of them I was coaxed into playing baseball. School baseball started in mid-May and ended one week before school started up again the following September. My friend Louis Jenkins, who lived across the street, was basically the school’s baseball and football star. He had also collaborated with my Father and Big Eddie to get me to play ball. Generally I was considered one of the high school Geeks or Nerds, as we were so called, and had never played in any sports activity in my life. I think it was only my early sprouting in size that seemed to give everyone the notion that I should play in some sport or another. As for me though, a fast paced game of Chess on the computer, or taking a computer trip through the on-line stock exchange market, was sometimes more excitement than I could handle. I was a numbers person. A book worm. I would rather be watching the Wall Street Journal report on television or World News Tonight than to be sitting in a baseball dugout. I did watch sports on television and I knew the rules and regulations of just about all major sports played, but I watched mainly for the strategy aspect of the games. An odds maker or maybe an analyst you might say.

It didn’t take but about three practice sessions of this summer’s baseball season to make Coach Eddie realize that indeed, I was not destined to be any kind of baseball player. So he gave me the responsibility of keeping the teams scorecard updated throughout the season. But I took it to my level. I watched each player with great intensity throughout our practices. I took note of their hitting abilities. How they held the bat. What sort of stance they were in when they did their best hitting. I watched the pitchers and analyzed them the same way. I watched every player on the team and put together a report of all I saw. I went over all my stats with Coach Eddie and the assistant coach, Mr. Brown. They worked with the players and so far with only two games left of a thirteen game season, we had won every single game and held first place in our district. But I still had to wear FULL dress to each game. It was just Coach Eddies rule and that was that!

I finished breakfast, gave my mom a hug, went outside and put on my cleats, then headed off. The school used the local baseball field that was only five and a half blocks away. I could have gotten a ride but I needed the walk to work off the hearty breakfast I had. The game was one of the shortest ones we had played that summer. The other team was very evenly matched with our team in playing ability. It was a three up, three down game, till the bottom of the eighth inning. My friend, Louis, hit an inside the park home run which was scrutinized hard by the opposing teams coach. But the play stood and we ended up winning. We were done in less than an hour.

Big Eddie loaded up several of us in the back of his pickup and gave us rides home. He lived behind me and two houses down. He dropped off the other players at their respective homes and as we drove up the alley behind my house we both caught the fresh smell of the bread my mother was baking as it drifted from out of the kitchen windows. We both simultaneously took in a deep breath through our nostrils. Tell your mother my bread box is empty at home, Big Eddie said as we turned into our driveway. There’s always the smell of good cooking coming from your house. Wish my Annie would come over and take a few lessons, Big Eddie stated as I climbed out of the pickup. I’ll tabulate all the game numbers and print out a game report and bring them over later. Maybe I can sneak a loaf of bread out too! I added. Big Eddie laughed and I thanked him for the ride.

I made sure I took off my cleats before I went in the house. The kitchen was saturated with the smell of the bread baking and my mother was in a baking trance and had not noticed I was home. Every counter top was occupied with some sort of food preparation. There were pans on the stove alive with ingredients being combined together for who knows what sort of finished product. My mother, who grew up on a cattle ranch in western South Dakota, always remarked that she was raised pretty much entirely in the kitchen. She was always working with her mother preparing something for the hired hands that worked on the ranch or for bake sales at the church. To this day she can still just about always be found in the kitchen.

Mother turned and almost dropped one of the hot loafs of bread when she saw me. What in the world are you doing back home so early? And sneaking up on me like that too? She shrieked. Actually, I was going to try and sneak a loaf of that fresh bread out of here for Big Eddie. Thought that maybe I could bribe him into not making me wear those cleats. I replied sarcastically. You tell Big Eddie to get his own bread. All this is for the church bake sale this Saturday. And if he wants a loaf, he can just come and participate and buy as many as he wants my mother said impatiently. By the way Michael, what are your plans for today? Oh, I’ve got a little bit of computer work to do. And Mr. Ragshaw doesn’t need me at the hardware store on Thursdays anymore so I’ve got the afternoon off. Need me to do something? Maybe later mother replied. For now though, would you see what your sister is up to? She’s been awfully quiet upstairs.

Lisa was my baby sister. Twelve years separated the two of us. She had just turned five in June while I turned seventeen in July. When most siblings have that much of a spread between them the youngest is usually considered a ‘mistake’ child. But my mother had suffered two miscarriages during the gap between Lisa and me. After the second miscarriage she was told she could never have children again. Yet, she proved the doctors wrong. My mother was a registered nurse then at our local county hospital, but upon finding out she was pregnant she resigned. It was the longest nine months of my mother’s life and actually for my father and me too. Lisa was only four pounds-three ounces when she was born. Yet for being small she was healthy and extremely active and I’ve cherished her since she came into our world.

As I reached the top of the stairs, I looked in on Lisa who was talking away, as was her usual self. Hey there Lisa, what are you up to this morning? I asked. She had all her dolls lined up on a small wooden bench that my father made for her and was facing them with an open book on her lap. Shhhh, Mikey she said. Lisa was the only person that called me Mikey. I hoped it would always be that way too. We’re in the middle of Sunday School class she said with a whisper. Oh, I’m sorry Lisa. If any of your students get out of hand I’ll be in my room. OK? I replied back with a smile. They’re being good Lisa said quietly.

I changed out of my uniform and sat down in front of my computer and started entering the stats from this morning’s game. I printed out a report for Big Eddie and then opened up my financial program. My father, James Larson, was a CPA in our small town. He was born and raised here. Other than the four years away at college, he’s been here all his life. He had met my mother, Ilene Sanderson, in their first year of college. She left after that first year, and went on to medical school for nursing training. The two of them continued their relationship and were married while he was still in his third year of school. His business did very well and he was respected highly by all those with whom he did business. It must have been in his genes where I gained such an interest in working with numbers.

At seventeen, I was one of only a few in my school that not only had my own personal checking account but also carried a debit card and two credit cards. I watched my accounts with great passion. My father had taught me all about the Stock Market and got me interested in Futures Buying. I watched the markets religiously and had been buying and selling for the past two years. I was probably the only seventeen year old in town that could say I had a net worth of over eleven thousand dollars. Most of my friends didn’t even know what net worth was. Nine thousand of that was invested in stocks. The rest was banked into savings from futures buying I had done. What I made working part time at Mr. Ragshaw’s hardware store, even though that was only three days a week, was my fun money.

I finished analyzing my accounts, confident all was in order. I e-mailed my father at his office and told him the baseball games outcome and asked if he needed me to do anything around the house before I headed out. After I dropped off the papers at Big Eddies I was going over to Al’s house to play some chess. He e-mailed back saying he had nothing special he needed me to do, and good luck trying to beat Al. Al was five years older than I and had been in the Army. He lost both his legs in combat in Iraq and had gone through quite a lot of trauma readjusting back to civilian life. His mother was good friends with my mother and had told her of his passion for playing chess. We finally hooked up one day and had since become great friends and avid chess partners. Out of who knows how many hundreds of games we played I had only beaten him maybe ten or twelve times. We had been on the same game now for over a week. I was anxious to get to his house. I had a really good feeling that this game was going to be mine to win.

As I passed Lisa’s room she was busy coloring and showing her artwork to her doll class. I stood and watched her for a brief moment, as her back was towards me, and she didn’t realize I there. She was explaining her drawings to the pretend class and I could almost hear the dolls themselves asking the questions that Lisa was answering to them. She was such a special person and I was so proud to have her for my sister. I walked up behind her quietly and bent down and gave her a big brotherly hug. Is your class behaving themselves? I asked. She held up the picture she had colored. I’m showing how Noah built the ark and all the animals he put in it Lisa replied back. Well, you’re a very good teacher Lisa. I’ll leave you alone so you can finish your story. Love you. I quietly left the room. Bye Mikey Lisa said.

CHAPTER TWO

AS I CAME INTO THE kitchen my mother was still busy with her baking and preparations. Did you check on your sister, Michael? she asked, as soon as I entered the room. She’s holding Sunday School class with her dolls I answered back. Bless her heart. Mother replied. This is turning in to a lot more work than I anticipated she added as she pulled two loaves of bread out of the oven. Could you help me for just a bit before you leave? she asked. Sure, what do you need me to do? I asked. If you could just wash up those utensils and pans that are in the sink and on the counter. she said, It would sure help me out. I’m running out of space to set the bread for cooling. I set the papers down on the table that I was taking to Big Eddies and set about running some dishwater. Mother had the television on to her favorite TV show ‘The Price Is Right’. The next price up for bid is this lovely dinette set the announcer said. He described the dinette set and Drew Carrey quizzed the contestants for their prices. My mother shouted out sixteen hundred and fifty dollars! It’s twelve hundred and sixty five dollars! I responded back loudly. Drew received all the contestants bids then pulled out the little card and announced… . $1265.00! My mother gave me a snide look and said, Smarty pants! I looked back at her They have that same dinette on every other week. It’s always twelve hundred sixty five dollars! Well, maybe you need to get on the show if you think you know all the prices young man, she fired back at me. I’m sure under all the lights, and with all the screaming that’s going on in the audience, it’s a lot harder to think than when you’re standing in a kitchen doing dishes." I replied. I finished up the dishes, looked up at the clock, seeing it was only fifteen minutes past ten, then sat down at the kitchen table to put my tennis shoes on telling my mother of my plans for the day and if she needed anything else she better speak now or forever hold her peace.

I had barely finished slipping one shoe on when the ‘Price Is Right’ disappeared from the television screen. The words ‘Special Report’ blazed across the screen and a voice saying… We interrupt your regular programing schedule to bring you a special report. We now go live to our New York broadcast center and Steve Elliot. Mr. Elliot appeared as though he had been pulled from his lunch, as there was a small noticeable food stain just above the third button on his shirt. He was still shuffling papers as he began to speak. We have just received reports of two large blasts in the Kuwait oil field region. The explosions appear to be at one of the Kuwait Crude Oil storage facilities located along the Persian Gulf. At this time though . . . . Mr. Elliot stopped as he was handed more papers. We have just received additional reports that possibly two more explosions have also occurred in the Kuwait region. The explosions have taken place along the Kuwait coast line in and around the crude oil storage and shipping ports. Mr. Elliot was again interrupted and handed more papers. The blasts along the Kuwait coast have also triggered more explosions, possibly from surrounding storage tanks. An assessment at this time is pending as to exactly how much damage has been received to the area, as it is only 12:30 AM their time and further determination will have to take place during the daylight hours. Mr. Elliot pressed a finger to the receiver in his hear. "I’m told we have a live hookup with one of our reporting teams in Saudi Arabia along the coast of the Persian Gulf.

We go live now to Alex Mitchell. A live picture unfolded on our television screen, obviously being taken from a helicopter. It was mostly of dark skies, but as the picture became more focused you could see giant flames reaching into the night sky. The reporter’s voice was in competition with the noise of the helicopter, yet was understandable. Steve… . We’re making our way along the Saudi-Persian gulf coast. We’re in a Saudi military helicopter, approximately seventy five to eighty miles south of the Kuwait border. We were given access for the use of this helicopter by the Saudi government to report on this developing disaster. As you can see ahead of us, the night skies along the Kuwait coast line are bright with flames from the recent explosions. We have had confirmation that the blasts along the Kuwait coast were NOT, I repeat NOT from any sort of air strike. It is unsure, at this time, as to the exact cause, but it is speculated that a possible internal explosion at the Kuwait refineries may have triggered the explosions." The cameraman zoomed in on what appeared to be a huge storage tank just ahead of them and a large sprawling refining facility along the Saudi coast. The white luminous lighting all around the complex gave it an eerie glow in the darkness of the night. You could see huge tanker ships lined up along well lit platforms at a