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The Old Main Street

Our move to the farm east of Binger, Oklahoma marked a drastic change in life. It was vastly different from our life in Cordell. My dad had bought a house set on a modest foundation. A propane stove heated it. There was no running water. We had no telephone. The electricity worked until a snowstorm or thunderstorm blew through and took it down. In time, things would improve, but first, we had to learn a new way of living.

Each evening, my dad brought home two five-gallon containers of water and set them on the kitchen floor. Hanging above them was a metal ladle, which we all used to scoop ourselves a drink. It was a crude method, but it worked—and we didn’t think twice about it.

Going to the restroom was another matter. Several attempts had been made to drill wells, but all came up dry. My dad had the holes filled in, except one. Over that one, he placed an old-fashioned outhouse—worn, sun-bleached, and splintered. It looked fifty years old, and maybe it was. But he fitted it with a new toilet seat, and we used it like it was brand new. The worst part? The yellow jacket wasps that swarmed it in summer. They built their cones overnight, and chasing them off was a risky job that none of us looked ahead to.

This story isn’t about the outhouse or the water jugs. It’s about the town’s Main Street during that time. The impression it left on me was significant. I was only five years old, but the images are burned into my memory.

My dad was the town barber. His shop sat on a steep sidewalk, at least three feet above the street. Set into the concrete were old metal rings. For the longest time, I had no idea what they were for. One spring morning, I was playing on the sidewalk. I was flipping one of the rings back and forth. An old timer stopped and looked down at me.

“Do you know what that ring is for, Sonny?” 

He asked.

I shook my head. 

“No.”

He grinned. 

“Those were for tying up horses and wagons. Back in the day, folks would come to town on Saturdays—buggies and wagons lined this whole street. Horses everywhere.”

That answered a mystery I’d long wondered about. But there were more to come—and like those rings, they’d slowly be explained to me, one by one.

That same sidewalk saw a lot of stories. I remember one day. A slick Chevrolet four-door pulled up. Two men and their children—a boy and a girl—went into the drugstore next to Dad’s barbershop. My oldest brother had come into town to visit and was sitting in the shop when someone waiting for a haircut suddenly shouted, 

“FIRE! FIRE! THAT CAR IS ON FIRE!”

The man bolted into the drugstore to alert the others. Someone must’ve called the fire department—but “fire department” was a stretch. The town had a 1945 fire truck with a rusted tank and an engine that wouldn’t start. They had to tow it with another truck to get it to the fire. My brother ran to the car and had one of the men pop the hood. Without hesitation, he ripped off his shirt and began beating out the flames around the carburetor.

The twins—those two kids—stood next to me on the sidewalk, watching. They would later become my classmates and lifelong friends. That introduction during the chaos would forge a connection we kept through the years.

My brother eventually put out the fire. The fire truck, still leaking water, finally rolled to a stop behind the car—just as the tank began to empty. The scene would’ve been funny if it hadn’t been so sad. Laughter erupted from my dad’s shop. The volunteer firefighters were embarrassed, and I remember feeling bad for them.

It wasn’t the last mishap. Months later, a house caught fire just behind the fire station. The truck’s wheels locked up that time, and it couldn’t even be towed out. The town then decided it was time for a new truck. 

Through donations and fundraisers, they finally got one. The arrival of the new fire truck was a significant moment in our town’s history. It was a testament to our resilience and the importance of community support. It was a real point of pride—a saving grace when it finally arrived.

Main Street had its beautiful moments, too, especially at Christmas. The decorations draped across the street like something out of It’s a Wonderful Life. Seeing them lit up at night turned Main Street into a glowing wonderland.

One Christmas, the town threw a parade. The governor came. And so did our hometown hero, Johnny Bench, riding in the back of a convertible. I stood beside my dad in front of his barbershop, watching as they passed by. It was one of the biggest things to happen to our little town of 750 souls.

Main Street had different values back then, too. I remember a funeral procession once drove through town. My dad stopped cutting hair and closed the shop until the last car had passed. Other businesses did the same. That quiet gesture of respect left an impression on me that’s never gone away.

Looking back now, I realize that old Main Street was more than just a stretch of asphalt and storefronts. It was the heartbeat of a simpler time. Life was slower and more mindful then. It taught me about community, kindness, hard work, and the small moments that shape our lives. Those sidewalk rings, flickering Christmas lights, and clunky fire trucks are gone, but the memories stay. And in my heart, Main Street still stands—just as it was.