Mr. Word

I’m sure that I have mentioned before that I grew up in the air conditioning business.  My dad was literally one of the pioneers in the business, and because he was one of the first to offer custom air conditioning on yachts (and he had maintenance contracts on the A-C at some of the city’s finest homes) I got to meet many of the iconic movers-and-shakers of Houston in the 1950s.

One of the people who made the biggest impression on me was an independent oilman named T. T. Word.  He was not one of the wealthiest or most flamboyant.  He was almost the exact opposite of more well-known wildcatters like Glen McCarthy.  Even if you are a student of Houston history, you’ve probably never heard of Mr. Word – a Google search of his name this morning failed to find any reference to him at all.

Well into his 70s when I met him, Mr. Word and his wife shared a beautiful home in the Memorial Area with a back yard of terraced gardens leading down to Buffalo Bayou.  He was soft-spoken and treated everyone he met with dignity and respect.  It was impossible to make a service call at their home without Mrs. Word inviting you in for iced tea and cookies or a slice of fresh-baked banana bread.

He had made his fortune drilling for oil in the Louisiana delta country using shallow-water rigs like the one pictured above.

One day, after completing a service call, we were sitting on their patio when Mr. Word told the following story:

“I was sleeping on the rig south of Morgan City.  Somehow, during the night, the barge broke loose and was floating down the river toward Atchafalaya Bay.  I was awakened by a member of the Cajun crew yelling  Heeeey Goddamn – We ain’t here no more”