Oil Man's Daughter

When we nudge the thermostat, or stop at the gas station, we probably don’t think of the upstream struggles—the oil and gas worker who rolls out of bed at 2 AM to re-start the compressor that keeps natural gas flowing to customers’ homes—the rig hand’s frozen gloves on a 10 degree day—the oil producer laying in the snow, putting on chains, so he can pump crude oil—our country’s lifeblood.

But there is a 15-year-old girl who thinks about it a lot--as her dad departs the house—at all hours—to produce the oil and gas we all consume.  Bridgette goes with her dad on some of those trips—where she sees the sights and smells the smells of our industry.  Bridgette penned this sonnet in honor of her dad’s labors.  

The Oil Man’s Daughter

Born ‘neath the towers where black gold doth flow,

I watched my father toil ‘midst steel and flame.

Through storms and sun, through highs and depths below,

His hands grew rough, yet bore our honored name.

The rigs stood tall like sentries ‘gainst the sky,

Their iron bones entrenched in earthen veins.

He spoke of wealth, yet knew it swift passed by,

Like fickle winds that shift on vast domains.

I learned the song of engines, loud and bold,

The scent of earth once torn to yield its prize.

Yet still my heart seeks treasures not of gold,

But love and truth that gleam in father’s eyes.

Though fortune sways like tides upon the sand,

I stand as firm as he—by toil, by hand.