PICHER, OKLAHOMA
The wind bursts up along Main Street and you can hear a lone shutter banging against a clapboard wall. A handful of old-timers gather in front of Susie's Thrift and Gift, an odd air of expectation about them, but all is quiet and desolate. "I hate this" says one. "I hate to see Picher go." The sad reality is, it's gone already and not coming back.
Picher, Oklahoma, once a burgeoning mining community with a population that peaked around 20,000, is now a bleak reminder of days gone by. In many ways, it could be a microcosm of the very future of our country if we don't get our head in the game soon. Picher was once rich in lead and zinc and the town was mined heavily. It produced the lead ore that in turn produced most of the bullets for both World Wars. Now, it is one of the premier environmental disasters in the country. Mine shafts and tunnels are underground everywhere, even under the town itself. In 1967 a mine collapse created a sinkhole that consumed nine houses. Outside of town, little gray mountains are everywhere, some over 100' high, built from the "chat", or tailings from the mining process. Back then, of course, the dangers were not known and many of these hills were covered with gravel and served as sledding hills for children or play places. Others were left bare, a constant source of lead-laden dust that swirled around and frosted the town with a deadly lead pollen. The hills even have names like Sooner, St. Joe and Golden Rod 8. Nearby Tar Creek runs bright orange, saturated with the acidic runoff from the barren hills and from the water that filled in the mines. It wasn't until years later that local teachers began noticing learning disabilities in local children and an investigation revealed high lead levels in the blood of residents. The mines closed around 1970 and since then it has been a slow, painful death for Picher.
According to Orval "Hoppy" Ray, who worked in the mines in the 1940's and now runs a run-down pool hall, "Ol' Picher is just like the rest of us. She's 90 years old and on her last legs..." Hoppy is among a handful of lifelong residents who refuse to leave, despite the fact that there is no longer city water or a police department. No matter how much he's offered for his property, he will keep it open until he's dead. Who's offering? The Federal Government, that's who. They are in the middle of a $60 million dollar buyout and as of April, over 800 applications had been filed from residents and business owners. No word on the governments plan once everyone has been moved out, but I sense there will be a story there eventually as well. Just give them a little time.
For now, it's just a heartbreaking little story from the heartland. A once bustling community with schools and shops and movie theatres, families, friends, all those things that the rest of us know. I try to imagine my hometown being folded up like a suitcase and removed from the map. Just gone. Not even a place to which to someday return with your grandchildren and say, "this is where I grew up...this is where I worked...this is where you were born.." In that little pool hall of Hoppy's there is probably more American stoicism of the old-variety than you could shake a stick at. At 82 years old, where would you sell out to? Where would you go? When the bulldozers finally come, and they will, I hope it is only after a dignified farewell, and perhaps a "thank you" from a grateful nation, have been afforded this little corner of Americana. In the meantime..."Hoppy, rack 'em up."