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It was the summer of ’67 when it happened. I remember, because it was about six months after my seventeenth birthday. Momma and Daddy had died in a bad car accident, and I was left to run the small family farm by myself. My older brother Bobby, was off fighting the war at the time of the accident and with no one to help me, I was in real trouble.

Fortunately our neighbor, Charlie Perkins, came to my rescue. Our small farm sat on the outskirts of the city of Nowata, Oklahoma. It wasn’t much, but it provided our family a home and enough income that we got by. The farm had been in our family for three generations. My grandfather had first bought the property and had started the farm right after WWI. He had worked it, then gave it to Daddy to work, and now it was up to me to work it the best I could. Charlie lived just down the road a couple of miles and he would come over every day to see how I was getting along. Growing up on the farm had taught me to be self-sufficient, but there were some things I just didn’t know how to do or wasn’t capable of doing myself. That’s when I depended on Charlie to help me.

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