My Dad

Pop was a pipeliner who worked all over the U.S. and a couple of places overseas. It defined him as a person. At first, the family traveled with him but we didn’t see Daddy much because he usually worked ten to twelve hours a day, seven days a week.

Eventually, my parents built a house so my brothers and I could attend Dodson High School, and after that we sometimes didn’t see Pop for months at a time. 

It was not until I was a teenager and started working with my father in the summers that I really got to know him.

I quickly realized that Pop was actually a very smart guy. With only a high school education (which was eleven grades back then), he became a pipeline bending engineer. Daddy developed an eye for topography and learned how to use trigonometry, geometry, and transits to figure out how much to bend the pipe so it would fit into the ditch.

Now, I have to admit that Daddy’s intelligence wasn’t always apparent as to me. One of my earliest memories is when my engineering father decided he could dry out our wet firecrackers by putting them on a cookie sheet in the oven. It led to the Olan Jones version of “shock and awe” when all the firecrackers started exploding. Momma would skin us alive if we even snapped a cap gun in the trailer but apparently it was okay for Daddy to blow up the oven with firecrackers.

Another thing I noticed about Pop was that he was not your typical pipeliner. Many of them are loud, braggadocios, bar-hopping, profane cowboy types. In fact, the pipeline’s atmosphere always reminded me of an old western cattle drive.

But Daddy was laid back, humble, didn’t go to bars, and, most noticeably, didn’t curse. In the ten summers I worked with him, I could probably count on one hand the number of times I ever heard a bad word slip out. No matter what happened, he always kept his cool and sense of humor.

One of the most important lessons I learned from Pop was to do the job right. For a teenager, this was actually frustrating. Often, after working in 100 degree heat for an hour or so on a difficult creek or road crossing, we’d work our way on down the line. Suddenly, Daddy would start talking to himself about the crossing. Then he’d take out his old yellow engineer’s book, flip to his figures, and study them. When that happened, his crew would start getting antsy because none of us wanted to go back and reshoot a job already done.

Finally, Pop would turn to look back down the line, take off his old dirty cowboy hat, and say, “You know. . . .” We knew then we were doomed because he always followed that up with “we’d better go back and redo that.”

It was just his way. Daddy was not going to leave something behind until he was satisfied that it was done right.

All of these things made a big impression on me over the years. I learned that you don’t have to be like everyone else to be appreciated. Daddy didn’t curse or barhop or boast, but he was one of the most popular men on the job because he was witty, friendly, accommodating, and did his job well.

Some things I learned were important character traits, like don’t sweat the little things, keep your sense of humor, stand your ground when you know you’re right, and do your best in every task. Some were more practical, like how to make a complete meal out of frozen hushpuppies and milk, how to cook just about anything on the engine block of a truck, and, of course, never dry out firecrackers in the oven.

I’ve also noticed over the years that I am taking on some of Daddy’s more quirky traits. Sometimes when I’m trying to explain something, I find my hand jerking up and down like Pop did. I also find that I cannot get my thoughts out. Daddy’s mind worked faster than his mouth and he often had a hard time expressing himself. It would come out in a jerky, halting fashion of incomplete sentences filled with “thingamajigs” and “doomafitchies.”

When I start doing that, Carol will lean over and say, “Spit it out, Olan!” I used to get defensive, but I don’t anymore. Of all the people I could be compared to, I can’t think of anyone I’d prefer than my Daddy.

Dr. Terry L. Jones is professor emeritus of history at the University of Louisiana at Monroe who has received numerous awards for his books and outdoor articles.