Sparks

The most unusual town where I have ever lived is Sparks, Oklahoma. Sparks got its name from its origins. The origin was in work safety laws as they pertained to the railroads. Under the work safety laws, crews were only allowed to work for so many hours. Then a new crew had to take over. The timing of road length and crew changes did not always match the locations of towns. Solution: build some new towns. All over the west, railroads had lots of land, so picking spots was easy. One spot that was chosen became Sparks.

In the days of coal fired steam locomotives, when crews were changed, this short down time was also used to do some quick light maintenance on the locomotives: lubrication of vital moving parts, watering, fueling, and shaking down the grates of the firebox together with emptying the ash pan. This activity released clouds and showers of sparks, thus the name. A place where sparks were made should be called Sparks.

Sparks had always been a small town. For many years, probably most of its history, the only way to and from the town was by train. The county road was an after thought. Sparks had never been an important commercial place. It had had its one real function, as a place to change locomotive and train crews. The crews needed a place to wash up, have a meal, and sleep. Most houses were not fancy, just inexpensive frame homes. Usually they were small. Many lots had never been built upon, and many of the homes that had been built had been burned by infrequent fires, or dismantled for materials. Some buildings in town were abandoned and had fallen to ruin. When I lived in Sparks, I believe the total population of the area was about 300 souls.

The town was compact. A few blocks wide and a few blocks long. Most of the lots were empty. There were odd surviving structures that told a story of past glories, and a larger community that was only shown as the skeleton tells of an animals’ past life.

What had “killed” Sparks? What had cut off its growth before it could become mature town? The arrival of diesel powered locomotives “killed” Sparks. Diesels had fewer moving parts that needed less lubrication. Diesel fuel is liquid so there were no cinders and ash. The new locomotives could travel farther and faster with a bigger load and with a much smaller fuel bunker. Train crews were smaller. Sparks was no longer needed, so it was abandoned. All except for the people who lived there.

A child’s memory is selective. I remember the parts of the village where I lived and played. The other parts are vague. I think the tiny railroad depot survived. I know the ice house did. Many buildings and homes stood empty. The Methodist Church was unused for many years. The structure next to the Post Office had collapsed. There was also the building where we played Bingo®
a few times.

The Baptist Church and the Holy Roller Church were still strong with fair sized congregations. The Holy Rollers were different as they had a very rare woman pastor. There was Neer’s General Store, the local garage with its croquet courts tucked close by, the tiny Post Office, and the school.

The garage sold gasoline and did some minor repairs. Much more important to the life of the town were the croquet courts, which were very finely done with the fields of play bound by railroad tie sleepers, while the surfaces were finely graded and hard rolled. Croquet was a serious sport in Sparks. Aficionados made their own mallets and endlessly discussed the how’s, why’s, and where’s of their banding and weighting. They even had lights so the play could be conducted in the cool of the summer evenings.

I arrived in Sparks at the end of the second grade. About seven years old. At first we lived in a small very old wood home near our then landlord. Mom and Dad fixed up the place and forced the weeds to retreat so my sister and I would have a place to play. What I remember most about this house was three things: the half dozen or so sandstone hitching posts embedded in the front yard. Someone either had been a collector, or had a lot of horses. The second thing was that this was the place where I got chicken pox from a chicken. Yours truly actually placed a chicken cage on my head and within days I came down with a magnificent case of the chicken pox.

The third thing was that this was the place where I had my first experience with a bicycle. The landlord’s grandkids came to visit one summer and they had this giant adult sized bicycle. The wheels were most likely 30 or 32 inches in diameter. All of the grandkids could ride it. I had never been on a bicycle. They were able to convince me that it was easy to do.

I soon found myself at the top of a small hill in the nearby street. It looked like Everest. “All you do is sit on top and steer with the handlebars, while you turn the pedals with your feet. We’ll give you a push to get you started.” They did. I rolled. I pedaled like mad. The faster I went, the more terrified I became. My arms froze. My feet didn’t. I had no idea how to stop, or even slow this missile to which I was irretrievably glued by fright. No one had even mentioned anything about brakes. At the bottom of the hill was a “T” intersection. On the far side of the intersection was a bar ditch. On the other side of the ditch was the yard and home of our landlord.

Down the hill I flew. Across the intersection and into the bar ditch I sped. Up and out of the ditch the bicycle and passenger again flew like a startled quail, but no longer in any contact with the solidity of Mother Earth. The bicycle returned to ground and the powerful forces of friction and gravity first and slowed, then tumbled and stopped. I did not. I was still gaining in altitude and in the amplitude of my sincere scream of unmitigated terror when I rammed head first into the large maple tree standing solidly in the front yard. I truly don’t remember much of the event after that, but I must have survived somehow. And the stories that others told about my Suicide Run in later years were greatly exaggerated in my opinion.

A much nicer brick home became available from the same landlord, so we moved. Next door was one of the more significant structures in Sparks. This was a two story brick garage building. At one time it had sold gasoline, and may have also been an automobile dealership. Offices were on each side of the large entry door. One was the unofficial men’s meeting and social club where they played dominoes all Saturday and therein solved all of the problems of the world, Congress, and the town. The main interior of the ground floor was used for storage and repair of farm machinery. The top floor was the meeting room for several important community activities. The Freemasons and the Eastern Star groups met there. As did the unofficial and semi-organized Quilting Bee women’s group.

We stayed in this home until we departed Sparks for other experiences.

(c) Copyright 2006: George Wallace recently published a book on religion which lashes out at nearly all of the comfortable ideas about God, the trappings of organized religion, and the priesthood. His pithy comments and suggestions for a return to a God-centered personal religion will interest everyone. This article may be freely reprinted so long as all copyright attributions, and the full content of this resource box are included. www.OhGodIsThatYou.com

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