Quakeland by Kathryn Miles

Quakeland by Kathryn Miles

Author:Kathryn Miles [Miles, Kathryn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-09-05T04:00:00+00:00


OUR INGENIOUS WELLS

The town of Stillwater, Oklahoma, has two grain elevators, four pawn shops, seven BBQ joints, and approximately 900 earthquakes a year. The businesses have been around for decades; the earthquakes have not. Tremors were first felt there in 2006, the same year oil companies like Devon and American Energy began aggressive hydraulic fracturing campaigns in the area. Mark and Ilke Crismon have lived just outside of Stillwater since their home was built in 1971. At first glance, little has changed in the intervening years. There’s still the same wood paneling and white painted brick, a metal roof, lots of sliding glass doors. Outside, their land sprawls for about 160 acres, past a man-made pond and some discarded farm equipment, along with one of the largest vegetable gardens you’ve ever seen. Inside, animal pelts and a framed picture of a Native American riding a painted pony bedeck the walls, along with a reproduction of the Mona Lisa. Mark and I sit on their back porch in metal patio chairs—the kind that bobble-rock when you lean back in them. His is burgundy. Mine is turquoise. Separating us is a large stump Mark has fashioned into an end table. There’s a turkey feather wedged in it. Scattered around us are empty sunflower seed hulls, detritus from the bird feeders Ilke has hung in every possible spot on the porch.

I’m here because I contacted Angela Spotts, cofounder of Stop Fracking Payne County. I told her I wanted to see what was causing the huge spike of earthquakes in Oklahoma and Texas. She drove me to meet the Crismons.

Mark is seventy-six and the living embodiment of both Johnson-era politics and country folkisms. He wears his full white hair slicked back in the style of an early Bob Barker. His button-down shirt is neatly creased and worn above a sparkling white undershirt, which just peeks through the collar. The shirt itself is flannel and tucked into a pair of high-waisted faded jeans. He wears work boots that extend well up his calf but only laces them partway. He chain-smokes, knocking ash of his cigarette and into an old white pitcher as we talk. Ilke wears jeans as well, along with a worn tan fleece. Her hair is also slicked back but much thinner than Mark’s. She’s seventy-five and battling cancer. She stands, leaning in the sliding-glass doorway, mostly listening. Ilke is a Republican. Mark is a Democrat. They tend not to talk too much about politics.

Below Ilke’s feet—below Mark’s and my feet—is a web of cracks in the concrete and foundation. Each one was caused by a shallow earthquake in the last five years. In a way, the Crismons have it easy: They can still keep their prints hanging on the walls, their glasses and vases in a highboy. Residents in neighboring communities can’t. Some of them just have nails and faded wallpaper where their paintings and family pictures once hung. They’ve taken to using only plastic cups and plates: Their glass and china ones just broke too easily.



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