Our farm truck carried a large, thick-walled, metal gas tank right up next to the back cab window. Two inner compartments would hold diesel fuel in one, and regular gas in the other. When they were full, you could feel the extra weight affecting the balance of the truck as you bounded through the fields to fuel the combines or tractors. If it was partially full, you could also feel the sloshing back and forth of the liquid gold. I remember initially that it had a hand pump to push the fuel through the hose and nozzle. But later, Dad hooked up some sort of electrical pump that made things easier.
Even though I did not have a driver's license yet, I did have the job of driving the truck out in the fields to stop at each combine or D4 tractor to “gas them up” each early morning. Sometimes, he would let me drive a mile or two on the gravel county road between the farm and the highway. It was a farm life driver’s education familiar to many of us in an agricultural county. Dad made it clear, however, that there would be NO driving on paved roads until I had my license, where I might “get caught by the cops”.
I had the itch(desire) but not the scratch(driver’s license) to drive on paved city streets. Driver’s ed class was a few months away for me. But I was feeling brave and reckless. I saw my chance one summer weekend evening when Mom and Dad were scheduled to go out to dinner with some friends. They did not do this often, so I had to pounce on my freedom.
The truck keys, like a temptress, were on the hook by the fridge, calling my name. Out the back door I went, started the truck and backed out of the gravel driveway on the north side of the house.
My first stop was to pick up a friend just a few blocks away. Safe, less traveled roads between my house and his made this an easy accomplishment. He did not ask any questions, just jumped in with anticipation. We headed south of his house to a gravel road that held hardly any houses but was still within city limits. I made a couple of trips back and forth on this slippery surface, fishtailing, whipping the truck around sometimes violently but under control. A few hoots and hollers later, I dropped him back off at his house and motored home carefully parking the truck where I found it, hung up the keys and settled in on the couch for some “The Dukes of Hazzard” on TV, grin on my face.
The evening passed and the next morning arrived with me meandering out to the kitchen around 7 am, our usual start time on the farm. Mom was at the sink and without looking at me, she informed me, “Dad wants you out in the shed as soon as you are up, better get out there”. I obeyed, put on shoes and walked out back to the quonset shed. I could hear Dad pounding on something metal. I wondered why he needed my help so urgently. Probably just to hold the flashlight or hand him tools.
I greeted him as usual but only received a hard stare as he turned around to face me with a sledgehammer in his hand. He had pulled the truck out into the workspace but it was not to prepare for the workday by filling up the tanks, etc. Before I could ask “Wassup?” He launched into a tirade of questions with fingers pointing out the sidewalls of the bed of the truck. I could see a visible bowing out of both sides with the wooden frame that held the gas tank secure, shattered in pieces. I was speechless, but he was not. No sense in trying to cover my tracks… I confessed to everything that my hotdog driving from the previous night had done to the truck.
How that sledgehammer did not make contact with my head that day, I still wonder. He was madder than most times when I screwed up. We spent the next hour rebuilding the wooden frame from 2x4s. We bent and shaped the sidewalls of the truck bed as best we could but they never had the same appearance, although functional.
I guess I felt a driver’s license was “not necessary” (in slight reference to last week’s column). For some teenage reason, I had decided driving wild to show off for a friend was “necessary.” It was not the last time I dented or dinged one of our vehicles and some of my punishment would come decades later when my own son drove my prized Camaro into a ditch on a similar gravel road!
My dad deserves a lot of credit for raising me and not ending my life or driving career that fateful summer day. We went to the farm as usual and I carried on my usual duties, but it was in the dirt fields only. When I look back and laugh at this and other stories with Dad, I know I was reared by a great man. Thanks, Dad. JOB WELL DONE!
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