Memories of the Hooper family I grew up in
My father went to work at the Atlantic Refining Company at the corner of Burnside Avenue and Bragg Street in the early 40s. (He always abbreviated it A.R. Co., when he had to sign anything there, and joked in later years that the company owed him a bundle in royalties for their eventual name change). Daddy was a man of about 25 at that point; no one ever said an exact age, and I never asked. The story was so sweet, that pinpointing the age was not important. Daddy drove oil trucks, making home deliveries all around town. Sometimes, when he was jumping down from the truck in the late afternoons, he would notice “the prettiest girl I ever saw” in the next yard. He made a point of striking up a friendship with that pretty girl's younger brother, who happened to frequent the “station” as Daddy always called A.R. Co. (later the Atlantic Ritchfield Co. and finally ARCO) thinking it would lead to a proper introduction. As usual, Daddy was right. A severe storm one night led my ...