He'll spend money on good work-clothes, and then come home looking like he's been mud wrestling, leaving trails through the house that look for all the world like a 'gator just slithered in.

Well Log

Wayne was going to write a piece for this month, but he left his word processor on and went on a service call...about five hours ago. Supper has been cold for three hours, and he just called for me to find the night number of the supply house guy, so he can get parts to fix a pump for somebody that probably wonOt pay anyway. So I thought IOd tell you folks what itOs like to be a well drillerOs wife.

I just love his wardrobe.

HeOll spend money on good workclothes, and then come home looking like heOs been mud wrestling, leaving trails through the house that look for all the world like a Ôgator just slithered in, fresh from the swamp. If I ask him to take off his muddy boots and clothes, he does. Right by the back door and washing machine, and then wanders off to his office, in the altogether, scratching himself, to return phone calls! If some of his customers could see how he calls them! I sure hope nobody comes to the door, he might answer it...

Vacations.

I've learned even a short weekend getaway can turn into a 'big adventure.' We try to plan ahead and make reservations, and pack the night before. He usually comes in so late that he goes straight to bed, saying, "I'll pack in the morning." I'm always packed and loaded and ready to go. Since it's 'vacation,' he sleeps late, jumps up, runs around and throws stuff in a suitcase. When we finally leave, late, he's determined to make up the time he wasted, 'waiting for me.' Two miles from the house he pulls into a yard and says, "I'll just be a minute, I've got to change this pressure switch before we go." An hour and a half later, the car and I are starting to overheat. After a while, I ask if we can stop and have breakfast. "Not yet" he says, "We've got to make up some time, don't worry, I know a shortcut to the freeway..."

Famous last words.

Hours later, the road dead-ends in a tobacco barn, and we backtrack to civilization. On the way he stops for breakfast at a gas station that hasn't seen paint or a health inspector since the '30's. "Hungry?" he asks and proceeds to go inside and get three cans of sardines, crackers, and a moon pie. I guess there's nothing like a balanced diet. "You're not going to eat?" he asks. "I'm not hungry." I tell him, as my stomach rumbles like tires on a washboard road (with 13 years of experience, I have brought some 'goodies' to snack on, but I'd hoped not to get into my emergency rations on the first morning). After hours of his driving like the last five laps at Talladega, we arrive at our chosen location, almost...

He can get to any town in any state anywhere, but the last ten blocks always take an hour, and a bunch of directions, that he won't ask for.

The next morning, after a leisurely breakfast, I'm looking forward to a nice, peaceful day at the beach, or the mountains, wherever we happen to be. "Let's go for a ride," he says innocently. "Where?" I ask. "I've got something up here I was meaning to look at."

Off we go.

It's a three-hour drive to a county auction waaaaayyyyy beyond nowhere. On the way he stops to talk to a couple drillers he sees beside the road. By the time we get there, the bidding is hot and heavy, and I hurry to keep him from buying some kind of coal-fired welding machine mounted on a '47 Studebaker truck. "All it needs is an engine, and a body, and it'll be good as new! Look at that tire, it's got a lot of miles left in it!"

By the time we get back to the hotel, another day is shot, but we do go out to a nice supper.

Oh, well back to reality, he's coming in now. I guess I'll try to head him off before he ruins the rug, and re-heat supper one more time.... Lottie Nash