Me and the Old Man Part I ...
I remember my youth roaming the lush green hills of south eastern Oklahoma. The small rural community where we lived was like every other small town in those days. The 1970's brought the country a recession which proved especially hard on an area that derived most of it's income from logging, and coal. News in the 1970's used the word high a lot. People frequently heard on TV or read about high unemployment, gas prices, inflation and interest rates. Recession be damned, the Old Man kept himself in regular work as a mechanic at the Colaska lime stone quarry. The year of 1979 witnessed the crusher hammers stop their swinging at the quarry for the last time there was no longer room in a small town for two quarries during a bad economy. The Old man was more fortunate than most, and found a job behind the steering wheel of a 57 Peterbilt hauling sand and gravel for Little Joe. Landing on his feet in the face of adversity was just something the Old Man managed to do with almost cat like reflexes.
As the 70's ended, 1980 saw a continuation of the bad economy in south eastern Oklahoma. The sand and gravel business was entirely dependent on construction and at a near crawl. The slow down reached the point that Little Joe let the Old Man know his hours were going to be cut. The Old Man started looking for stable work immediately when the good Lord smiled on the family yet again. A former co worker, and long time friend of the Old Man named Ray Thrift had come back home from western Oklahoma for a visit. During the visit Ray offered the Old Man a high paying job as a diesel mechanic with the Frac Tank Company where Ray was a supervisor. The job was accepted immediately because good fortune was to be had out there. This part of the state had largely ignored the recession because of a decade long oil boom. Everyone knew the folks in the oil patch were defiantly thumbing their noses at the bad economy while lighting cigars with $20 bills in typical Oklahoma fashion.
The Old Man had to be in Weatherford in two weeks, and part of the preparations included a visit to the Boatrights over at Alderson. The Boatrights sold used mobile homes all of which had been rehabilitated to some degree or another. Most of this rehabilitation was purely superficial and involved adding a little paint to the exterior, and maybe vacuuming the carpet. The Old Man decided on a 1950’s vintage 8x40 foot model that was silver with with a large yellow accent stripe. The trailer was paid for, and arrangements were made for the trailer to be towed to the small farming community of Hydro just west of Oklahoma City. Among the many skills the Old Man possessed was an expert ability to make use of every square inch when packing for a move. He loaded the bed of old green 70 GMC stacking it high above the cab, then lashing it down with rope. That night we slept in the stark emptiness of our hill side home waiting for our trip to begin.
Our early Sunday morning departure started with one small formality involving my brother, and the drawing of straws to determine which of us would ride with the Old Man. Both of us were extremely reluctant to ride with my Grandmother as she had only received her drivers license in 1978. Granny (as we referred to her) was the farthest thing from a calm driver. The mere idea of a 300 mile trip in the passenger seat of a Pontiac watching her maintain a white knuckled death grip on the steering wheel filled me with dread. Making matters worse was the fact that any speech from the passenger in the car would be met with ire as Granny required a monastic like silence while she concentrated on keeping close proximity to the bumper of the Old Man's pickup.
Riding with the Old Man was a different matter entirely. He always told stories on trips, and to his credit he was a story teller of the first order. Inheriting his skills as a bard from a long line of hill people that could trace their very origins to Scotland. When the Old man started a tale, he spoke with an eloquence that would have made Edward R Morrow envious. The old man told stories with a perfect clarity for events and details. He knew how to perfectly emphasize story elements through tone and expression to captivate his audience. Any trip no matter how far included at least one tale of wolf hunts,or maintaining control of a runaway buck board wagon harnessed to a pair of frightened horses that made my imagination run wild.
Just before daylight we rolled down the gravel driveway leaving our home on the hill. I took comfort in the fact that my brother had lost the draw (not entirely by accident), and that I was riding with the Old Man. The two vehicle convoy the family was in passed through Hartshorne heading towards McAlester. I looked at Caldwell’s salvage yard, and the vast rows of cars parked in the field full of weeds with wonderment. I always looked at the neat rows of cars every time we went by Caldwell’s wondering where all those cars had traveled before they were parked for the last time. The Old Man began to speak about the early 50’s and how he used to work at a little service station near the High School gym on the corner of the main street in Hartshorne.
He explained that he worked at the service station during the week. Friday night after the service station closed he worked a weekend job driving a 1940 Mercury full of wildcat whiskey on a run to a cab company in Paris Texas. Back in those days boot legging was still common due to the liquor laws in Oklahoma and Texas. The laws of course did not curb the demand for whiskey, and the Old Man helped meet the demand by delivering a car load of wildcat for which he was paid $300 per load. This was an amount that was double what could be earned in a month working full time at the service station. The money went a long way towards helping support the family of 12 the old man came from. I listened as he talked about avoiding road blocks and driving by moonlight.
It was evident by his tone that he was very proud of the fact he was never pulled over or chased by the police during these runs. I was amazed by his good fortune which turned out to be more a matter of good planning rather than good luck. The Old Man later revealed that a gratuity was paid to the local State Trooper who would let the old man know which route was safe to take. As we rolled through McAlester the the sun was rising behind us on our pilgrimage west with two vehicles loaded to the brim not at all unlike Steinbeck’s Okies on their exodus to better times in the Grapes of Wrath. I dwelled for a moment longer on the story as the Old Man sipped his coffee which had been sitting on the dash of the old GMC. Then I wondered; what would the future would bring in Hydro ?