During the early fifties my dad, having decided not to transfer with the United Carbon Company to the Gulf Coast, bought and moved one of the small camp houses from the McIlroy Union Carbon camp to the southeast of Borger, Texas. The address was 1203 West Lee Street, on the undeveloped side of town, thus allowing open space for me to roam the countryside.
My mother and dad, having lived through the Great Depression, were very capable in the now DIY projects, even large ones, such as adding on to the small abode the family occupied. The next year was full of smells, sounds, and actions of expanding our home. The result was an attached garage transformed into a den with two small bedrooms above, one for me and one for my sister. All this work was done after the normal work hours during the day, my father at the J.M. Huber Carbon Company and my mother’s school secretary position at the local elementary school. What energy and commitment to our family’s living quarters.
Soon after the camp house was moved to Lee Street and remodeled, my father started digging a cellar, a must for the Texas Panhandle’s tornado season. Once this was finished, he started on our garage. The garage not only served as a shelter for our car, but also provided a workshop for my father’s tools and machinery. It was here I was taught the use of all the hand and power tools needed to occupy my time for the following years. All the tools required to build and dismantle almost any object were at my disposal, what more could one boy want?
Over the next years of my life I found solitude, discipline, and imagination in the dark, quiet, and undisturbed atmosphere of our (my) constructed den. Hours were spent building model airplanes, drawing, and thinking in my escape cocoon, while the others lived their lives above. Even in the rather hot summer days of the Texas Panhandle the semi-basement den stayed at a silent and cool temperature, not so for the rest of the house.
My father always drew and painted western images. Charles M. Russell was his mentor and hero. My father’s artwork, as I remember, never changed during his life, a fact that haunted me as a younger person, but having matured, I understand this was his style of making his art. I now respect his work at a higher level. He had a true passion for painting the western motifs and images; this passion was the driving force of his art’s essence.
A few years after the expansion of our home, a studio was built onto the south end of our unattached garage, another new place of solitude for me. All I had to do was open the door, smell the turpentine and oil paint and start painting. To this day I have always had a place to make art. It is part of my DNA.
My only regret was allowing my youthful time to be spent on the basketball courts. In a small town, once you started playing basketball, especially if you were tall, you were expected to serve the community until you graduated. I’m sure this activity kept me in excellent shape, but at what cost to my more creative activities?
I loved the Canadian River north of Borger, with its terrain, smells, wildlife, and rugged beauty. I spent countless hours roaming solo in this austere area, a fact that drove my mother (before cell phones) crazy with worry for my safety. I, on the other hand, never gave my safety a thought, the arrogance of youth. This activity became the counter force to my enclosed rooms at home. It was not unusual for me to return home, filled with excitement with a rattlesnake I had killed with my bow and arrow, to find my mother’s face turn a rather pale color. As a parent now, I’m sorry I exposed my mother to all those hours of concern.
My father and I spent hours along the creeks flowing into the vast Canadian River hunting and digging for Indian artifacts such as arrowheads, spearheads, and other tools made from flint by the earlier residents of the Texas Panhandle. During these hours of walking close to each other, I was fortunate to be exposed to my father’s thoughts on life, politics, and the importance of working or not working. These gems of knowledge, such as keeping the environment intact, positive ideas of democratic socialism, and general ways of spending time on this planet were never acknowledged by a verbal thank you from me, a regret of mine to this day.
To this day I retain fond memories of my first eighteen years growing up in my home located in Borger, Texas. These experiences prepared a strong and comprehensive grounding for my future.
Thanks to my Mother and Father,
Dale Conner
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