This is a snapshot from a Facebook group thread named ‘Remember in Duncan’ – it took off like a rocket up to more than 4,000 members seemingly overnight. The admin was gracious enough to suggest I may copy anything they have but I like this idea better. If you see something you like you may click through to the group via your Facebook account.
Lots of stories from the past and photos you won’t find anywhere else. If you want to try this Facebook Feed on your website, use the link to the right for a version to test drive.
Hal PrattI'm guessing Ray was long gone by then. Bob was working on his A&E and I think his instructor's rating when we were out searching for flight line and prop wash.3 days ago
Phil WilhelmI don't have the info you seak, but do you know anyone with film from a DHS Band halftime show?3 days ago · 1
Chris Oldsmy grandmother worked at lottie kay dress shop while i was growing up.... and i remember opal jones.... lovely lady.... always smiling....3 days ago · 1
Sherry Coates WilsonMrs Jones was absolutely the best American History teacher. I had her 60-61 just before Viet Nam when US was in Laos-she gave me a lifelong interest in history & politics.💕3 days ago
Marilyn Smith Conner-CurtisSadly, she has passed away. Sweet lady. Was in contact with her for many years after high school.3 days ago
Billy EdwardsShe was one of my favorite teachers. She called me a "yellow dog" Democrat - and I still am. 😉2 days ago
Phil WilhelmShe did better than most. At a high school, big one, not too far from us, less than 50% of seniiors knew the three branches of government.2 days ago · 1
Duane MonkresLarry, I'm pretty sure Ms. Jones is no longer with us. Upon her retirement, she and Olive Stewart opened a ladies dress shop in Duncan.. Ms. Jones taught history when I was a student there (Class of '55), and sparked an interest in history that continues through today. Great teacher and a lovely human being.2 days ago · 1
Jan Bennett GillespieI remember her and Lottie Kay's...Mom got a lot of my clothes there and Mrs. Jones was awesome2 days ago
Sammie Gail McBride RowellI was sitting in her class the day they announced the death of John F. Kennedy's death. We were all scared and she brought a calmness to our class. She and Olive Stewart were wonderful teachers.1 day ago · 2
I suppose that Duncan Oklahoma in the 1950's was different for each of us; beautiful or repulsive as the beholder's eye and heart saw and felt it. A sort of hazy mystic philosophical preview of coming attractions, for the rest of life.
I have to admit a nostalgic yearning to relive small slices of what I have come to think of as the "Duncan Experience". On the other hand, there are large swatches of it I would rather skip altogether, thank you.
The really up side of Duncan, for me, was twofold. The “pre-convenience”, convenience store and news stand over by Patterson Hospital, which featured such intriguing titles as "Cabaret" and "Police Gazette" both of which featured carefully air-brushed pictures of semi-nude ladies in a variety of settings; all of which seemed more sinful, lively, entertaining and exciting than rectitude glutted Duncan. But the true crown jewel, for me, in that island of urban sophistication, was the Public Library. The buff brick, unashamedly Middle American edifice over across the street, just north of the junior high.
The library, for me, turned out to be like Christmas, only better. The primary improvement was; the library lasted all year. I could lose myself in the stacks for hours reading snippets and bits of this and that and finding out about things you never knew existed before. Defining the world, obtaining some small understanding of why things were like they were and escaping the oppression of formal schooling and the more negative elements of the peer group.
Duncan Oklahoma was an unflinching conservative bastion in a rapidly mutating cold-war world; as predictable, in some ways, as death or taxes. Baking in the sun in summer, occasionally awash with rain left over from some Gulf hurricane or other, cringing from the onslaught of titanic thunderstorm-spawned violence in the spring and fall, tongue-frozen-to-the-pump-handle-cold in the winter and in reminiscence, almost oddly beguiling, somehow.
Even now, I always think of Duncan as it looked in the fall. I suspect because that is because it was the time of the year when the world began anew for me. School started. People we hadn't seen all summer appeared again, some making me happy to be alive myself, and happy that they were in the world also. Others, not so genial, making me regret that I hadn't managed to work some alchemical magic to make their existence as abscesses on the posterior of humanity, no longer necessary.
Duncan in the fall was, and is even now, glorious. It is a city of trees, Duncan is, although at first blush they don't intrude on your impression of the town. I first realized it at age fifteen while boot-legging a flying lesson from a Fort Sill Army Lieutenant, in that loudest of all possible small aircraft, the L-16, Aeronica. Antiques now, all of it: the plane, the town, the lieutenant and all of us (in my generation at least).
In the fall, the gum trees were a splendid hot orange-purple, the native elms were a bright yellow, the silver maples along Cedar Street had turned their leaves over and were clouds of airy white, the oaks were every shade of red from lewd and suggestive to ox-blood, the willows were a pale gold and the locust trees were, more often than not, as orange as pumpkins. I almost ended my flying career, and that of the lieutenant, in the highlines, I was so enthralled.
Fall in Duncan was stationary, cellulose pyrotechnics on a Godly scale.
The weather in the fall was always splendid, my memory tells me now. Warm days, cool nights and the shimmering, incessant, whispering pledge of winter, just beyond the Wichita Mountains to the north and west. I could listen carefully in the silent morning hours before the autumnal dawns and almost hear the jingling of the metal harness buckles and the creak of the leather straps of the soon to be charging, wind-horses that would pull winter to, and over us a little later on. But for that golden, breathless, grand, blink-of-an-eye it was late flowers blooming along side walks, fat pampered cats sleeping in the sun on front steps and Doctor and Mrs. Ivey sitting on their front porch talking to passers by. Especially to the children.
It was a time when we defined "who liked whom", linking them for the year to come, who was going steady and who had broken up over the summer.
Fall was a time when we got the measure of teachers. Grace Richardson; she of the Latin conjugations and Mister Bennett the geometry teacher. Gus Page out in the little Vo-Ag building and Hoyt Sandlin, he of the wood shop and the formidable paddle; if you did something unsafe or stupid. Coach Rutledge, Mrs. Leedy. They measured us and we, in our callow way, measured back.
As the Levi's broke-in from off-the-shelf cast-iron stiffness to incomparable comfort, winter steeds took the bit of the wind in their teeth and ran Duncan down in its own streets. Showers of wind driven leaves, dancing post Halloween saraband; fearfully, before a tyrant king of arctic wind that pulled a bank of blue-black clouds behind it and left cold gray Siberian afternoon in place of trick or treat. The final rest of spring.
Then Thanksgiving came and those of us who kept cattle were truly thankful when it was mild and clement in that season. The smell of turkey, quail, fish and wild duck mixing with the spice of mince meat and pumpkin pie, mountains of mashed Irish and baked sweet potatoes, dressing, gravy, olives and the rest. And relatives. Endless streams of cousins, uncles, aunts, and undefined significant others. Eating, laughing, snoozing, talking cattle prices, politics and oil. The Grandfathers and Great Uncles reliving epic deer and bear hunts in the Rockies back in the single digit days of the new, to them, century.
That Red Menace was always with us then, especially around the holidays for some reason. It was a little like AIDS or some of the other drug resistant diseases are now, only perhaps more universal, because you didn't have to do anything to get invaded by the Russians. All you had to do was give the enemy a chance. World War Two, so newly concluded, had left us with a lingering, but understandable, paranoia.
Time ground on toward the winter solstice, and its omnipresent Christian celebration. None of which, I can recall, were ever white. Most were tan and black, red ochre where the earth was bare. But our ice blue skies were lit at sunset by the most extravagant colors God could send us.
The two things I remember best about Duncan in winter, were the smell of fresh popcorn bubbling out of the popper in the Palace theatre, and the sound of the engines working freight cars in the train yard after midnight. Why those two things should remind me of Duncan I can only speculate. The Popcorn eludes me yet, but I think I know about the trains.
In the winter of 1954 the wanderlust was deep on me, and I suppose, all of us. I'd listened to the thunder of the freight cars being coupled and uncoupled in the wee hours and the whistle signals that went with it. Those sounds never failed to conjure up images of far away places and exotic sights, some of which might even equal or (gulp) surpass those to be found in Cabaret and Police Gazette. What was out there?
It was resolved to test the limits and plumb the waters of adventure.
I still cannot remember exactly how I managed to stow away in the box car, or the decision to do it. My mind begins to berate me for doing something that dangerous and potentially destructive to life and limb every time I try to recall; it cannot seem to quit warning me not to do it again. I do remember that there was a maximum effort sprint, beside the open door, matching speed with the engine a quarter of a mile ahead. A deck launch off the ties. Glances at the deadly wheels in mid-stride, and small stumbles on the chert fill, which thrust the heart into the throat, pounding with fear. I remember most that I did not fall but gripped the wood, hung a toe in the sill and swung myself through the gaping door into the blackness of the box car's interior.
I'd planned to simply jump off when the train slowed down at Comanche and hitch back to Duncan. No big deal. Three hours out of my life maybe. It was Friday, I told my mother I was going to a movie...my Dad was working morning tower at the refinery and no one would be the wiser.
It was cold but I had my heavy leather jacket and a wool ball cap to keep me warm. My heart pounded in my ears, keeping time with the clicks and clacks of the wheels passing over the rail joints and I wedged myself into a corner, out of the wind. Past the refinery where my Dad would soon be at work, past Oliver Road where I used to live, and through Greater Downtown Comanche at, what I estimate now to be, about fifty knots. It was panic time.
I moved to the east door of the car desperately hoping the road bed passed close to Cow Creek somewhere in the Stygian darkness ahead. I'd jump in the water, that would break my fall and I'd swim out and hitch a ride on highway 81. Yes, that's what I'd do.
The next water I saw was Red River and an iron-beamed cantilever bridge that would have minced my body to hamburger if I'd even imagined jumping, much less done it.
Then, the best part of an hour later, the train began to slow. I was some place in Texas, in mid-December with three dollars and a dull Barlow knife in my pocket, no ID, no idea what the next town was, or how I'd get back to Duncan. The train slowed some more and I could see warning lights flashing up ahead where the tracks crossed a farm-to-market road. The train slowed still more, once we had passed the crossing and I jumped.
I discovered that Texas Cockle burs, prickly pears and goat heads were in no way superior to those of my native soil. I was a little stunned, scratched and punctured, but optimistic about the possibilities. I had started walking back toward the road, along the track bed, shivering from shock and cold when I noticed the fire.
I didn't hesitate, I just made for it. It was under a native stone culvert which passed the tracks over a wide, dry gully about ten feet deep. It was out of the wind and there was warmth.
I was already warming myself by the fire when I got conscious enough to notice the sudden silence. I looked around and found myself in the presence of four Black men of indeterminate age, dress and intention. My mouth was suddenly full of my heart. All the stories of mutilation and brigandage I had ever heard were instantly shouted in my brain.
It must have showed, because one of the men said:
"Whatchoo doin' here boy?"
"Fell off the train," I said
"Yo’ Momma know whur you at?" A second man asked, not unkindly.
"Whut I thought. You runnin' away, ain'tcha," the second man said.
What happened after that was a four on one lesson in parenting which cleared up a lot of misconceptions I had about Black people. Those we called Negros and less acceptable things, back in those days.
They admonished me, reassured me, shared food with me, what they had, and an hour and a half later, bodily threw me into a box car headed back north with exact instructions on how to get off and where to do it so I could get back to Duncan America with my arms and legs intact.
I did what they told me, made up a pretty thin lie which squeaked past, took my punishment from my Dad for making Mom worry (he, of course, was impervious to that sort of effeminate clap trap, just as I now am with my son) and never, ever thought about Black people in the same way again.
Yes, that's why the sound of trains conjures up visions of winter in Duncan. I still get restless when I hear them in my memory.
In the midst of cold and colorless quick dusks fading into night the report cards came and went. Some of us were triumphant, some stunned with failure and the more reprobate, including me, were more or less indifferent to the letters adorning our evaluations. A "C" was plenty good for most stuff.
Then came Valentine's Day, which was and is pretty much a female sort of thing. The guys went along with it for want of an alternative. Occasionally we wondered if there was something to it we’d missed, but not often.
And then St Patrick's and St Andrew’s day for those of us who were Irish or Scot. The wind a little raw, but the sun a little warm to balance it. The sap was rising in the trees and in the adolescent bodies we inhabited.
Spring in Duncan was not the beginning to for a lot of us, it was the end of the year. It meant calving time, rebuilding fence down the east edge of the farm where it passed through the timber. The oaks grew big and thick there and some were bound to have shed branches, or blown down across the wire. Spring meant having to reestablish working relationships with horses who had grown fat, lazy and belligerent over the winter, it meant plowing fire guards, sowing oats, and fixing up the barn. It also meant seagulls.
Duncan, or more correctly, Stephens County, in the spring always brings up images of seagulls in my mind. Exotic wind-born explorers, white creatures with black masks, hovering behind the plow which was turning up mice and grubs and snakes for them to eat. Somehow they always knew when it was spring here. One day there were not with us, and the next they were.
The restless city of the trees, yawning after winter's nap, was arrayed in the most delicate shades of green imaginable. You could smell green in the air just after the elms budded and put forth the first leaves. You could almost feel the earth beneath the town come alive. When the leaves had burst forth, almost as though it was a signal to other, less subtle forces, the “big show” began.
Spring storms, began to ignite the skies of April, May and June with the voice of a hundred spirit warriors, calling out the names of those who truly ruled the prairie and flailing us with hail and wind for pillaging the red Oklahoma earth with plows of iron. We scurried like prairie dogs into convenient holes from time to time and emerged a little sheepish because the world was still there when we came out.
The days lengthened, the noontime sun was higher in the sky and the nights were sultry, laden with moisture from the gulf, interspersed with puffs of cool winter air from the Rockies and points north.
Spring danced on toward summer, gaining speed with fearsome intent. The spring semester's sands ran down to nothing and grades appeared again. Those who were wise among us remained diligent and the rest of us listened to our hormones howling at the planter's moon, attempted for the most part, inept seductions, and assuaged our bruised feelings by swilling canned Coors or Jax beer to great excess on secluded county roads. Most of the men of my generation will never forget the whispered sound of a church-key achieving that ultimate release, denied our biological flesh, on a virgin can of Colorado Kool-aide.
And then, summer was upon us.
Sun so fierce, it wasn't golden anymore, it was molten silver, reflected back from a sky that was a blue-glazed oven. And we bowed before it like waxen figures, slowed to the ancient rhythms of the south, then finally burned to dusty ashes when it didn't rain for weeks. It was not so bad once you gave up the idea of ever being cool again.
Salt sweat stinging eyes. Building fence, doing the myriad things that made a farm run, mowing lawns in town and sweating more. Later, bailing hay and stacking ten feet high. Dragging main in the evenings, glimpsing, from the corners of our eyes, whole universes of bugs circling the streetlights on Main Street...practicing timing so that all the lights were all green. We were looking... looking.
I wonder now, what we looked for...Ourselves? Love, relief from boredom, a kind word, adventure? Perhaps we looked for reassurance that life would not leave us dry and seared, mummified, as it had left the land around us.
We were immortal for that too brief flare of youth; bullet proof. Unconquerable. The world was one huge opportunity.
And then we left, flew away to corners of the world we wished we'd never lived to see, some of us...and others of blessed by chance to lives better than we’d hoped for. Some of us did both.
Enough rambling from an old man. I hope everyone has a wonderful Thanksgiving. God bless.🤔 ... See MoreSee Less
Chris OldsBeautiful story from the eyes of a duncanite... the true meaning of a small town in stephens county and what it feels like to be apart of this amazing community... another words simply magical...4 days ago · 2
Tommie MartinExcellent read that put me alongside you. Hope you have this saved someplace where it can be shared.4 days ago · 1
Cheryl J. JohnsonThis is beautiful. While my childhood was a few years later, your eloquence about life in Duncan brought a smile to my face and warmth to my heart. My grandparents lived near the railroad tracks on Elder and 7th. I was 4 or 5 and my grandfather and I would sit on the front porch eating homegrown cherry tomatoes with a liberal dosing of salt. We would watch the trains go by all afternoon and he would tell me about all of the different type of railroad cars. Grandma would bring us sweet tea or lemonade and check on Grandad to make sure he wasn't filling my head too full of stories or my stomach too full of tomatoes. Now, the little red and white house is unrecognizable, the neighborhood has deteriorated, and the sweet cherry tomatoes gone forever. However the locale has changed, the memories in my mind and in my heart live on forever.4 days ago · 4
Vicki PerrittWow! So many wonderful memories. Ms. Richardson. I always thought she walked the streets with Julius Caesar. 😊 If you can do it, I think this would make a nice mini-book for selling to others who remember those days as well. Great work!4 days ago · 2
Judy Humphrey VitoloHal Pratt, you are a delightful, thoroughly descriptive writer. My childhood was pale in comparison. Thanks for this lovely story. You have a wonderful thanksgiving, too.3 days ago · 1
Dale NicholsJohnny: I know you meant this as a good-natured jab at Hal in the style of the auld gang, but for the sake of those who did not know Hal or Jody or you, I'd like to say that Hal is the best layman writer I know -- and fast too! Why, in his youth he was the Kerouac of Pine Street and the Faulkner of the Science Fair. He had more DNA-jumbled cats than Hemingway ever had -- and he was trying to start an Algonquin Literary Circle at Clyde Berry's on Wednesday afternoons -- until the thought police found out and put the kibosh on the whole thing. As a stunt and a tip of the hat to the old southern literary tradition, Hal was going to write the above piece as one sentence. But he didn't want to get ahead of his audience. I don't think Jody does nostalgia except as a protest to the Vietnam war, which I believe was concluded some time ago.3 days ago · 4
Terry Collier WatkinsBeautifully written. I, too, long for those long, golden days of summer when we were young and the whole world was in front of us. It was a beautiful time in my life. Duncan was a great town to grow up in. I have friendships that have lasted a lifetime and still love coming home once a year to a reunion of my beloved family.3 days ago · 1
Phil WilhelmThe public library is still a bittersweet memory. It's where I first proposed. She said yes, the later saiid no.3 days ago · 1
Dale NicholsPhil: The old building is still there and I went inside recently. Like all things from back in the day, it seems much smaller now! In 1955 and 56 I went there almost everyday after school. My favorite spot was a little nook in the SW corner of the building near the stacks of Scientific American dating back to the 1920s. When we started having Science Fair projects, almost all of mine came directly from the pages of those old magazines. Later on, my Senior English theme, The Russian Revolution relied heavily on a series of LIFE magazine articles. I guess Miss Veal didn't read LIFE because she didn't notice the uncanny similarity between my report and that article! She gave ma an A which says a lot about LIFE's writing. Later, I developed a few more footnotes and turned the same report in at Cameron and got a B. A year later, a friend of mine miraculously turned in the same report to another teacher. He only got a C but he had bad penmanship compared to me. It was my first experience with the "Trickle Down" theory.3 days ago · 4
Catherine Ralls RussellYou hit the nail on the head. A great town to grow up in. You captured it so effortlessly and gracefully. Your writing is magic. Would love to read more of what you have written. Born 1954 in Old Weeden. Love to see how Duncan has progressed. Lived there till 1971 , My dads family was from Comanche and he used to tell me about swimming in Cow Creek so your referenence was wonderful.3 days ago · 1
Lou KnottLoved your tale of hopping a freight! Very familiar to me, since my uncle Roy Gibson had done just that, probably about 50 years earlier. He wound up in Dallas/Fort Worth. And the Hobos, White, Black, I know not, probably both, took care of him and got him home to Duncan. The Lord preserves fools and drunks.2 days ago · 1
Nancy Acridge CisnerosThank you for sharing your story of a time just barely in my memory! I see the seasons the same way in my mind, with the colors so vivid one moment and drab in the next! I see the tornado that was visible from my house in Ft. Worth that,thankfully did no damage, as I recall. and I sometimes wished I could hop a freight train and go to wherever it took me! But, being a girl, I was expected to stay home and learn to cook and sew! Thank you again for sharing!2 days ago · 1
Keep it simple folks, Insure that folks you don't know have a warm meal, Ask all of your family over for this special day. Buy and prepare a Thanksgiving meal just like your momma or grandma use to make, give thanks for being able to do so to those who insured that you can. PRAY! Eat!
Forget about the pros. they will be doing their thang. Take the batterys out of electronics. Love your children and listen to stories.
From the oil soaked, wind swept paradise that I love to call West Texas, a most sincere wish of peace and love to one of the true hearts of this country, Duncan Oklahoma. ... See MoreSee Less
Dale NicholsIn the early 1950s, on Thanksgiving day, the women and girls would always cook and the men and boys would go out on Cemetery Road to shoot guns. The men never got a turkey, but that was expected. Around 2PM, everyone would start heading to the dinner table where my mother had laid out her silver, china, crystal and cloth napkins. This was the only time we saw these items during the year, but by golly, she had it stashed away when showtime arrived! We almost always had the Texas relatives for Thanksgiving so there would be 12-14 people, one adult table and one kids table. My mom would always cook a ham with pineapples and cherries stuck on it, plus at least two hens. My mom always explained that the chicken was more moist and tasty than the turkey and easier to cook. Of course we had mashed potatoes, pecan dressing with gibbet gravy, Sweet potato casserole with marshmallow topping, green beans, with special topping, mixed vegetables, cranberry sauce, olives, celery sticks with pimento cheese, good yeast rolls (with real butter (we usually used margarine), Jello with fruit and carrots in it, pumpkin pie with whipped cream and at least one fruit pie and coffee with real cream. Before we started eating, my mom would pick the most religiously awkward person to deliver a Thanksgiving blessing, and they would usually rise to the occasion rambling on for several minutes as they thought of things that we were thankful for.. My mom saw this as the day she could show her organizational skills an her cooking prowess -- and she was always up to the task. She would hover around the table making sure everyone had everything they wanted and only sat down to her own dinner when all of the relatives were on their second plate. There was often a special kids' program at the Palace theater -- a couple of movies and 10 cartoons -- to keep the kids busy while the turkey (chicken) was cooking. Fond memories.....4 days ago · 7
Sandy HodgesSame to you! Happy Thanksgiving. May your potatoes and gravy come out even. 😁4 days ago · 1
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Jean SchalitCousin's! Wasn't exactly from my childhood....I owed it, or it owned me! LOL!1 week ago · 3
Was there a third hospital in Duncan? Our son was born in 1954. Dr. Ellis was our doctor and I thought the hospital was a couple blocks North of Main Street, but I do not remember the name of it. ... See MoreSee Less
Anthony SolomonThere was also the Lindley Clinic on tenth across from the McCasland shopping center3 months ago · 1
Debbie Collier BradfordWeedn, 10th and Oak. I believe Dr. Weedn has his office there.3 months ago · 6
Sharon DolbeeWe had the Kinsley hosp, Weeden hospital, Patterson and the Physicians hospital.3 months ago
Lou KnottPhysicians and Surgeons, Weedn, Lindley, think Patterson was no longer a hospital by the time I came back to Duncan in 1965, so there could have been 4 at one time.3 months ago
Beverly Kirk PateYes I had them. I know English can't remember the others right off. But I had them.9 months ago · 2
Tommie MartinFunny I'd never given it a thought. I had many classes out back in the primitive area and some on the ground floor, North end. Typing may have been upstairs?9 months ago · 1
Jack SylvesterOnly spent one year at the old high school and did not have any classes upstairs. Had several at the new one. The chem lab was on one end and the language lab was on the other.9 months ago
Lou SheffieldI had one class on second floor, 2nd class first floor, 3rd class 2nd floor and each were at opposite ends of the building. The new high school was the same for me.9 months ago · 1
Ronald ThomsonEnglish and typing. I think chemistry was on 2nd floor. Pat had shorthand up there. I remember her teacher, Beshie Jackson, caught us kissing behind her door and sent us to principle, Glenn Watters. He just laughed and sent us back to class. We were already engaged 💑. Married 64 years in August. Oh, and Beshie was Pats Aunt.9 months ago · 1
Kyle CollinsI had Chemistry, Physics, Math, English, Typing, Oklahoma HIstory ... well, probably about 1/2 my classes.9 months ago · 2
John StricklandMy English classes soph. and junior year were upstairs, typing, problems of democracy, physics, algebra, trig, chemistry, etc..9 months ago
Kathryn Ann Land VenturaDon't remember any classes downstairs except social studies-Coach Stayton. Oops-and English-Olive Stewart.9 months ago · 1
Gayle Ann CartwrightJohn is right. It was 1974. I was pregnant at the time is the only reason I remember.5 years ago · 2
Louise Martin FowlerYes,74,I was pregnant too.My husband had to work in the shop,got metal in his eye and he came home with a big patch on it.I just knew someone had thrown a rock at him.5 years ago · 1
Kyle CollinsYep ... I remember. I was working in the Tax Dept. at the time. It took two of us to tax invoices. They pulled my partner to work in the shop. I got to do two jobs by myself. No help. Closing the month and applying tax to invoices was a killer! No wonder I hate Unions !!!5 years ago · 3
Amanda EmersonI recall the widespread impact on the whole town. It was a learning experience for me still in High school...and somewhat shocking.5 years ago · 1
Amanda EmersonLed to a new life for alot of people. I've often wondered how it turned out for everyone. I meant the people who actually quit and sought employment elsewhere5 years ago
Mike GilbertWhen I got out of the Marines in California (1971), we moved to OKC. I could not see finding a job in Duncan. Best move we ever made. Got out of the auto parts business and got a job with Southwestern Bell. Pay raises and benefits (getting payed while going to class). I just did not see any open doors in Duncan.5 years ago · 1
Amanda EmersonThere was a SW Bell here...not sure what they did. I recall buying some telephones in there...what was that place? They did have lots of utility type trucks.5 years ago
Mike GilbertSouthwestern Bell bought out AT&T and kept the att logo and title. I worked for att my last month before I retired in 05.5 years ago · 1
Mike GilbertThe larger the city usually the more openings in different areas of the company.5 years ago · 1
Phyllis Jackson DavidsonWhen I worked @ SW Bell, probably late 60's, we went on strike. I remember "walking out" @ a certain time no matter how busy we were. I also remember picketing out in front of the building.5 years ago · 1
Betty Jennings RobinsonThat was an anxious time for Halliburton workers and families. An older neighbor boy bent my son’s thumb back to his wrist because my husband went to work when the strike was on. His dad was union. I forgot the name the union people gave the people who did not go on strike. There was also a rumor about someone being killed in a car accident on the way to Norman. Rumor only.4 days ago · 1
Vanda Copeland1974 I was in 6 grade my 6 grade teacher had to cross the picket line everyday to pick up her husband4 days ago
Beverly Kirk PateMy sister and I had to go and pickup my mom every night. It was always quiet then.3 days ago
Beverly Kirk PateI didn’t know it at the time but when I turned 18 I bought a dark blue 1970 vw bug and it was the one I think Gates McFail or one of the big wigs drove thru the picket line everyday.3 days ago
Betty Jennings RobinsonI just thought of the word, scabs is what the strikers called the workers. I’m glad that everybody left it in the past after it was over. (We did anyway).3 days ago · 1
Betty Jennings RobinsonAmanda Emerson, I don’t know about everybody else, but sometimes I forget what I already read or posted. I need a computer chip in my brain, I think it’s just about full, 😉3 days ago