I've known ole JoeBob, Joe Chambers, and his older brother Ed, as long as I can remember. Their dad, Ed senior, and my dad were on the Director's Staff of Hejaz Temple of the Shrine for many years, and every time there was a convention, somehow Ed, JoeBob and I ended up together. Friendships that have endured the ages.
Ed has always been quieter, and more conservative than JoeBob and myself, whose sense of humor has always been too close to the surface and two wicked to talk about.
These Chambers brothers have always been into music, and when they were just kids they formed The Royal Scotsman Band, bought a school bus, and hit the road. They backed up a whole host of beach music acts through the years and have recollections that are just fun to hear.
One time when Greenville-Pickens Speedway was hosting a traveling daredevil, JoeBob casually said, 'I know him. We were playing in Montgomery, and that guy came in and started a whole bunch of trouble. It ended up with the police being called to calm things down.' What JoeBob glossed over was how he, personally, and the daredevil almost came to blows right on the dance floor over the disruption.
And that particular daredevil was going to jump cars at Greenville-Pickens.
On Tuesday of jump week, JoeBob called me at the newspaper and started the conversation with, 'Guess who just walked in to buy a bunch of wood to build a ramp?'
JoeBob was over shipping and receiving at GBS Lumber at the time, and the daredevil had showed up with a list of materials to be delivered to the track. He did not recognize JoeBob, of course, and when he insisted on picking out the wood himself, JoeBob was quick to oblige. He called one fo the men who worked the yard (I'll call him Willie), introduced them, and sent them out to start picking.
The daredevil didn't know who he was deling with, but everyone certainly knew who he was. When the lumber was picked, loaded, and paid for, Willie showed up in JoeBob's office and made the announcement, 'That man ain't gonna build a ramp capable of holding up a car with the lumber he picked out. He's got all kinds of wood full of knots'.
Everyone had a good laugh and forgot about it.
Until Saturday night. I was at the track, covering the event for the newspaper, and when the daredevil came rouring out of the fourth turn, all set to go up the ramp and jump the cars, he hit the ramp and wood went everywhere. The ramp just disintegrated. The daredevil slammed into the first car he was supposed to jump. The fans were booing at full strength. The deredevil had lots of reasons for the failure.
I couldn't wait to get home and call JoeBob to give him the ramp collapse news.
In fact, we spent most of Sunday afternoon and evening celebrating the failure. And somewhere around the second or 12th beer, we came up with an idea. We'd blame the whole thing Willie, the yard worker who let him pick out the knotty wood.
One of the things that JoeBob was regular with was his failure to get to work on time. But this joke just had to have him there on time. Before they went to work, the yard guys would sit around in JoeBob's office filling up on coffee and cigarettes. I was going to call and pull the joke on Willie, and JoeBob was going to stop things before they went too far.
Everything went exactly according to plan, except for one small item.
JoeBob was late for work.
He had promised to be there. He had intended to be there. He just wasn't there.
That led to a problem. A big problem.
When JoeBob's office phone rang and 'Lieutenant Evans of the Greenvill County Sheriff's Office' was on the line asking to speak to tWillie, JoeBob was nowhere to be found. The Lieutenant didn't know this, of course, so when he started in telling Willie a warrant had been issued citing him with 'Attempted Murder' for letting the daredevil pick inferious wood. The problem was, it was a busy morning at the LEC, and there wasn't any officers with time to head to Mauldin to pick him upl So the Lieutenant told Willie to just leave work, get to the LEC, and turn himself in at the front desk. Willie readily agreed that he would show up, because it 'would look better at the trial if he turned himself in'. He went to the timeclock, punched himself out, and headed for his car.
Luckily, just as Willie was getting in his car, JoeBob came sliding in the parking lot. JoeBob asked Willie where he was going and was told he had to turn himself in because there was a warrant out for him. When JoeBob started trying to get him to go back in the shop, Willie. He said they Lieutenant told him to come right on or he would make people mad.
JoeBob asked him what the warrant was for. "They said I killed somebody,' he said. "JoeBob asked who he had killed, Willie said he didn't know, but he must has killed somebody or there wouldn't be a warrant out for him.
JoeBob finally coaxed him back in the building by saying he would call the LEC and get things straightened out. And he called me.
JoeBob was wanting 'Lieutenant Evans' to put a halt to the proceedings. So I asked to speak to Willie and told him there had been some question about what was going on, and for him to just go ahead and work his job and not say anyting to anyone.
A few hours later JoeBob went out to tell Willie 'Lieutenant Evans' had called and said everything was a big mistake and to forget about it.
Willie did, but JoeBob and I eased back on our practical jokes for several weeks.
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Monday, February 3, 2014
Broadway Joe and the Super Bowl
Every Super Bowl, every year, brings back the memory of when Greenville's own Dan Foster, Sports Editor of the Greenville News, had to defend his Super Bowl story in a telephone conversation with none other than Broadway Joe Namath.
For anyone who has been a vacuum for decades, when Deion Sanders and all the other NFL trash talkers go into their routines, they are but a pale copy of the ultimate and original trash-talker --Broadway Joe Namath.
Namath came out of Beaver Falls, Pa, and made a national name for himself by playing quarterback for Alabama under coach Bear Bryant.
Joe cut a wide path, both on and off the field but he arrived, truly arrived, when his Jets were going to play the highly-favored Baltimore Colts and quarterback Johnny Unitas in the Super Bowl.
Never the shy one, Namath announced, long and loud, how his Jets were going to do things like wipe up the field with the Colts, In other words, he predicted victory.
This brash and totally unvelievable act was taken to task by football purists everywhere, including Dan Foster. Never one to shy away from a turnstyle or hesitate to spend company money, Foster was one of the many nationally-recognized fooball expert-scribes to attend this Super Bowl, and Foster took Namath to task for running his mouth, saying outlandish things, and a lot of othe stuff. The only think Foster didn't touch on was Namath's family.
Of course history proves Namath and his Jets really did put a whipping on the Colts a beathing that put the AFC and NFC divisions of the NFL on a much-mor even keel.
While the world was shocked, that wasn't the good part.
That night, that very night, way up in the night, Foster's hotel room telephone rang. Already asleep, Foster was roused to answer and was shocked by talking to none other than Broadway Joe Namath, who took Foster to talk over the contents of his newspaper column.
Now, think about it. Dan wrote for the Greenvlle News, the last time anyone checked on the map is still right in the upstate of South Carolina. History will prove the News did not have a newspaper rack anywhere in Florida, especially Miami. How in the Wide Wide World of Sports could Broadway Joe even hear of Greenville, much less be offended by a newspaper article that picked the wrong side.
The cold hard facts are -- Broadway Joe never, ever heard of Dan Foster or the Greenville News. Even if he had, it would have been just one more in a huge pile of articles that didn't give the Jets a chance.
The idea what Namath had not read, nor care, what he had written never occurred to Foster. He could understand completely how Namath would see and be insulted by the article. He attempted to defend himself.
And Namath pulled him through the hot coals. It was a long conversation when, finally, Foster got Namath cooled down enough to talk in a civil tone.
Somewhat appeased, the conversation between the Super Bowl Hero and the Upstate's finest scribe ended.
As far as I know, Foster never mentioned the telephone call to anyone. It was something he must have kept to himself to the grave.
Maybe you are wondering how I found out about it. I could say Namath himself brought it up one day while we were havin lunch in the bar the NFL made him close, but that wouldn't be anywhere near the truth. I did meet Namath at a meeting of the Easley Football Jamboree not too long after this, but I didn't learn about the converstation, then, either.
The way I found out was by talking to the REAL caller, who only said he was Namath. It was the Sports Editor of another Upstate newspaper.
It sounds just like something I would have done,though.
For anyone who has been a vacuum for decades, when Deion Sanders and all the other NFL trash talkers go into their routines, they are but a pale copy of the ultimate and original trash-talker --Broadway Joe Namath.
Namath came out of Beaver Falls, Pa, and made a national name for himself by playing quarterback for Alabama under coach Bear Bryant.
Joe cut a wide path, both on and off the field but he arrived, truly arrived, when his Jets were going to play the highly-favored Baltimore Colts and quarterback Johnny Unitas in the Super Bowl.
Never the shy one, Namath announced, long and loud, how his Jets were going to do things like wipe up the field with the Colts, In other words, he predicted victory.
This brash and totally unvelievable act was taken to task by football purists everywhere, including Dan Foster. Never one to shy away from a turnstyle or hesitate to spend company money, Foster was one of the many nationally-recognized fooball expert-scribes to attend this Super Bowl, and Foster took Namath to task for running his mouth, saying outlandish things, and a lot of othe stuff. The only think Foster didn't touch on was Namath's family.
Of course history proves Namath and his Jets really did put a whipping on the Colts a beathing that put the AFC and NFC divisions of the NFL on a much-mor even keel.
While the world was shocked, that wasn't the good part.
That night, that very night, way up in the night, Foster's hotel room telephone rang. Already asleep, Foster was roused to answer and was shocked by talking to none other than Broadway Joe Namath, who took Foster to talk over the contents of his newspaper column.
Now, think about it. Dan wrote for the Greenvlle News, the last time anyone checked on the map is still right in the upstate of South Carolina. History will prove the News did not have a newspaper rack anywhere in Florida, especially Miami. How in the Wide Wide World of Sports could Broadway Joe even hear of Greenville, much less be offended by a newspaper article that picked the wrong side.
The cold hard facts are -- Broadway Joe never, ever heard of Dan Foster or the Greenville News. Even if he had, it would have been just one more in a huge pile of articles that didn't give the Jets a chance.
The idea what Namath had not read, nor care, what he had written never occurred to Foster. He could understand completely how Namath would see and be insulted by the article. He attempted to defend himself.
And Namath pulled him through the hot coals. It was a long conversation when, finally, Foster got Namath cooled down enough to talk in a civil tone.
Somewhat appeased, the conversation between the Super Bowl Hero and the Upstate's finest scribe ended.
As far as I know, Foster never mentioned the telephone call to anyone. It was something he must have kept to himself to the grave.
Maybe you are wondering how I found out about it. I could say Namath himself brought it up one day while we were havin lunch in the bar the NFL made him close, but that wouldn't be anywhere near the truth. I did meet Namath at a meeting of the Easley Football Jamboree not too long after this, but I didn't learn about the converstation, then, either.
The way I found out was by talking to the REAL caller, who only said he was Namath. It was the Sports Editor of another Upstate newspaper.
It sounds just like something I would have done,though.
Friday, January 24, 2014
Next month will be three years since I was in the emergency room of St. Fancis hospital, where a heart doctor was explaining, 'We are going to cut open your chest, right down the middle, spread wide your ribs, remove your heart, put in a cow valve, put it back, and you will be good as new.' "That's option A,' I answered. "What is option B?' "We can bury you,' he smiled, and I immediately chose option A. When I emerged from the hospital a week later, I was on top of the world. If being darn near starved, unable to stand straight up, scared to death I was going to cough, or sneeze, or laugh, or do anything else that would jerk those metal stitches that was holding my rib cage together. On top of the world. Until we made it to Rout4 4, Piedmont to find our heating system had taken a vacation. Being a handy sort of guy, I knew exactly what to do to being it back on line, so to speak. But the doctor had told my wife I was no to do anything for a month. I couldn't lift over two punds. I couldn't go into the basement, take apart the burner, put in a new nozzle, adjust the anodes, and bleed the line. I knew what to do, but I couldn't do it. And I couldn't find anyone else that would listen carefully and do the work for me. So, with electric heaters, and a blanket or two, we coped. We coped for three weeks before my wife made me swear to just sit in the recliner and do nothing but change channels on the tv until she returned. I swore. I took an oath, I would have slapped my hand on the Bible and took another oath, but she didn't require that. She was sure everything was under control when she left. Two hours later, when she walked in the door, I was sitting right where she left me, watching television. But the house was warm. She looked at me and demanded to know how that happened. 'It was a miracle,' I just walked by the thermostat and jiggled it a lilttle bit, and the furnace came on.' It hasn't failed since. On Thursday, it wasn't the furnace that laid down and died but the Water Heater that started spouting warm water out the side, into the basement floor, and out into the yard. I had planned to have a nice lunch with a good freind but he called in sick and I took it upon myself to install another water heater. The big box appliance store had one advertised cheap, but it was a bait and switch. I ended up with one that wasn't cheap. I bought everthing I could possibly need to make the swap. Yeah, right. The old heater was not an easy ripout. It was a 50-gallon monster completely full of a find blend of calcium, from the well, mud, also from the well, and rust, from oxidation. I tried for hours to get the water out of it, so I could move it, but my darling wife had erected tables and filled them with breakables, which made the job dangerous at best. Finally, dragging and cussing and slipping and sliding and covering the floor with calcium, mud, rust and water I got it out the door. Then I was ready to reeplace. It was a piece of cake. It was amazingly easy, and within minutes I had everything buttoned up and was waiting for the water to heat so I could shower. But the water didn't heat. I checked the elements, and sure enough, I had burned one to a crisp. I bought one, then found I didn't have a wrench to fit, even though I had one of those five wrench sets made just for water heater elements. So I had to go to town and buy another wrench. I had been working on this minor job for hours, and when I finally got the bad element out, I found I had purchased a short replacement when Ii needed a long replacement. So I did what every junkyard mechanic would do.... I screwed in the wrong element and turned on the power. We have hot water. I have decided that I am not fully qualified to give advice to anyone attempting this. Call me. I can tell you how to do exactly the wrong thing, step by step, until you are ready to tear your hair out and get hot water yourself. And I can give one more piece of valuable advice. When you have everything done, with the old water heater on the patio outside the basement door, get it loaded in the truck and take it to the scrapyard.
It will bring $16, if you don't lose all of the calcium, mud, and rusty water.
It will bring $16, if you don't lose all of the calcium, mud, and rusty water.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
I have no idea where you were the evening of Oct. 26, 1970, but I was in Atlanta for an evening of sheer terror and high drama.
How would you like to be standing between Diana Ross, wearing a see-through blouse, and Muhammad Ala, who had just knocked Jerry Quarry senseless in three rounds. Diane was screaming, 'Muhammad, you are the best in the world at what you do!' And Ali was screaming, 'Diane, you the best in the world at what you do, too.'
I was between them, holding my little tape recorder, thinking, 'I'm pretty darn good at what I do, too. But my expertise was not in boxing, and I wasn't about to arouse the wrath of the former World Heavyweight Champion by staring at Diana's chest. (I did take a couple of quick glances, and really, the view just wasn't that terrific.)
But I'm getting ahead of myself. My trip started by driving my old Starfire Olds from Route 4, Piedmont, to Atlanta, where I had reserved a room at the Georgia Tech Motel. I had taken it upon myself to file for press credentials the moment I learned of the fight, and was shocked to learn I had been granted access to this history-making night. All of that was the fun part.
The scary part started when I drove over near the auditorium. Maybe you have heard that Sherman and his Federal Forces burned Atlanta during the War of Northern Aggression. He didn't burn this particular auditorium because he figured it would fall down just any day, anyway. It was in a seedy part of town. It was old, and dirty, and small. The Black Panthers were protesting and handing out literature as I walked by, with briefcase in one hand and portable typewriter in the other.
Scared?
You bet your butt. I kept wondering, 'Fant, what the heck was you thinking when you did this?
Then I saw a familiar face making the same walk. Dan Foster, the Sports Editor of the Greenville News, was a half-block behind me. So I waited and we walked together. We got thorugh the door just fine, then discovered the place was packed and it was almost two hours until fight time.
A seat? On press row? Unthinkable. There was a fellow there with an arm band, and we walked up to him and preesented our credentials. He laughed at us. He called us hillbillies, and said we were just stupid for walking into a championship fight this close to fight time and expecting to get a seat.
Then Jesse Jackson got into things. Jesse, who is a Greenville native and a former halfback at Sterling High School, looked around, saw us standing there, and said, "Hello, Dan, Reese." And turned back around. The usher's jaw was on his chest. when he got his mouth back under control, he said, "I don't know who you two are, but you are somebody if Jesse speaks to you. I'll find you seats."
He did, too. Dan and I laughed about how any high school football standout would know the names of the sports writers for the local paper. Jesse knew.
We hardly had time to get seated before Ali started beating Quarry like a yard dog. He hit him with everything but the corner stool, and in the third round Quarry decided he had enjoyed all he could stand. he hit the floor.
The place erupted. We had been shown a room, over beneath the balcony, where Ali would be making his victory statement. That's what we were told before the fight started. Where Ali wold be making his victory statement.
So, still expecting to have someone snatch my briefcase and typewriter, I rushed over to this room, waved my credentials, and went though the door. And practically everyone in the auditorium followed me. It was a madhouse. That's when I discovered I was the buffer between Ross and Ali. The oley quotes I got on tape were the two of them sceaming at each other. In just a few moments, Ali was gone, along with the 'famous folks' who had pushed through the doors. The room was still packed, but it was packed with ordinary folks, like me.
And here came Tom Brokow. He was working for an Atlanta television station, and he was letting a few other writers in on a big secret. Back then there was an African American Senator in Atlanta, and I am hoping I remember correctly that his name was Johnson.
Anyway, Brokow said there was a private victory party to be held in one of the Senator's homes, in West Atlanta, and Brokow had wrangled invitations for us sports writers to attend.
Not this country boy. I was delighted to be invited. (I still believe Brokow made up the invitation part and was going to use the rest of us as leverage to be allowed into the party. Brokow stressed that it was in these after-fight parties that Ali opened up and talked.
I kept nodding and writing down the address as Brokow talked, and I was knowing all the time I knew exactly where the Georgia Tech Motel was, and if Ali came there, I had questions. Otherwise, I was through interviewing for the night.
And I eased out of the auditorium and beat it down the street, looking everywhere for leftover Black Panthers.
The next day, listening to the radio heading back to Greenville, I was thinking about everything I had seen and been a part of the previous night, when a news item came across.
It seems a large group of people who had received invitations to an after-fight party in West Atlanta, had been met at the door by two men with shotguns. They were escorted into a side room, forced to completely disrobe, then led to the basement, where they were made to lie flat on the floor.
The only thing I could think of was Brokow's white rear shining like a beacon in the midst of those victims. That was 44 years ago, and I have never got close enough to ask Brtokow, 'Did you end up nekkit in the floor after the Aki-Quarry fight? I've always figured, even if ye did, he's lie about it. I would.
How would you like to be standing between Diana Ross, wearing a see-through blouse, and Muhammad Ala, who had just knocked Jerry Quarry senseless in three rounds. Diane was screaming, 'Muhammad, you are the best in the world at what you do!' And Ali was screaming, 'Diane, you the best in the world at what you do, too.'
I was between them, holding my little tape recorder, thinking, 'I'm pretty darn good at what I do, too. But my expertise was not in boxing, and I wasn't about to arouse the wrath of the former World Heavyweight Champion by staring at Diana's chest. (I did take a couple of quick glances, and really, the view just wasn't that terrific.)
But I'm getting ahead of myself. My trip started by driving my old Starfire Olds from Route 4, Piedmont, to Atlanta, where I had reserved a room at the Georgia Tech Motel. I had taken it upon myself to file for press credentials the moment I learned of the fight, and was shocked to learn I had been granted access to this history-making night. All of that was the fun part.
The scary part started when I drove over near the auditorium. Maybe you have heard that Sherman and his Federal Forces burned Atlanta during the War of Northern Aggression. He didn't burn this particular auditorium because he figured it would fall down just any day, anyway. It was in a seedy part of town. It was old, and dirty, and small. The Black Panthers were protesting and handing out literature as I walked by, with briefcase in one hand and portable typewriter in the other.
Scared?
You bet your butt. I kept wondering, 'Fant, what the heck was you thinking when you did this?
Then I saw a familiar face making the same walk. Dan Foster, the Sports Editor of the Greenville News, was a half-block behind me. So I waited and we walked together. We got thorugh the door just fine, then discovered the place was packed and it was almost two hours until fight time.
A seat? On press row? Unthinkable. There was a fellow there with an arm band, and we walked up to him and preesented our credentials. He laughed at us. He called us hillbillies, and said we were just stupid for walking into a championship fight this close to fight time and expecting to get a seat.
Then Jesse Jackson got into things. Jesse, who is a Greenville native and a former halfback at Sterling High School, looked around, saw us standing there, and said, "Hello, Dan, Reese." And turned back around. The usher's jaw was on his chest. when he got his mouth back under control, he said, "I don't know who you two are, but you are somebody if Jesse speaks to you. I'll find you seats."
He did, too. Dan and I laughed about how any high school football standout would know the names of the sports writers for the local paper. Jesse knew.
We hardly had time to get seated before Ali started beating Quarry like a yard dog. He hit him with everything but the corner stool, and in the third round Quarry decided he had enjoyed all he could stand. he hit the floor.
The place erupted. We had been shown a room, over beneath the balcony, where Ali would be making his victory statement. That's what we were told before the fight started. Where Ali wold be making his victory statement.
So, still expecting to have someone snatch my briefcase and typewriter, I rushed over to this room, waved my credentials, and went though the door. And practically everyone in the auditorium followed me. It was a madhouse. That's when I discovered I was the buffer between Ross and Ali. The oley quotes I got on tape were the two of them sceaming at each other. In just a few moments, Ali was gone, along with the 'famous folks' who had pushed through the doors. The room was still packed, but it was packed with ordinary folks, like me.
And here came Tom Brokow. He was working for an Atlanta television station, and he was letting a few other writers in on a big secret. Back then there was an African American Senator in Atlanta, and I am hoping I remember correctly that his name was Johnson.
Anyway, Brokow said there was a private victory party to be held in one of the Senator's homes, in West Atlanta, and Brokow had wrangled invitations for us sports writers to attend.
Not this country boy. I was delighted to be invited. (I still believe Brokow made up the invitation part and was going to use the rest of us as leverage to be allowed into the party. Brokow stressed that it was in these after-fight parties that Ali opened up and talked.
I kept nodding and writing down the address as Brokow talked, and I was knowing all the time I knew exactly where the Georgia Tech Motel was, and if Ali came there, I had questions. Otherwise, I was through interviewing for the night.
And I eased out of the auditorium and beat it down the street, looking everywhere for leftover Black Panthers.
The next day, listening to the radio heading back to Greenville, I was thinking about everything I had seen and been a part of the previous night, when a news item came across.
It seems a large group of people who had received invitations to an after-fight party in West Atlanta, had been met at the door by two men with shotguns. They were escorted into a side room, forced to completely disrobe, then led to the basement, where they were made to lie flat on the floor.
The only thing I could think of was Brokow's white rear shining like a beacon in the midst of those victims. That was 44 years ago, and I have never got close enough to ask Brtokow, 'Did you end up nekkit in the floor after the Aki-Quarry fight? I've always figured, even if ye did, he's lie about it. I would.
Sunday, January 5, 2014
This is sure to teach folks things they did not know and never expected. Feel free to take notes. This could take your life down another path or end it completely. The choice is yours. You have been warned, tell your family not to sue.
Here goes.
I bet you didn 't know this, but the wheel-width of a 1956 Chevrolet fits exactly atop railroad rails. There are probably a bunch of other cars that have the same width, but we concentrated on that '56 Belair. It was a beautiful car, black, lowered, with a white insert painted down the side. Black leather interior, extra speakers, semi-loud mufflers, four-barrel carb. If memory serves, Don Kelly owned it. I may be wrong about that, but I am not wrong about the car. It was fine.
Anyway, I never thought to ask, so I don't know how someone in the car that particular night knew, but when they said, 'Did you know you can ride the railroad with this car? Up on the iron rails? You don't have to let any air out of the tires or anything. You get it lined up and the weight of the car keeps it there. You can just put it gear and idle along. It's pretty cool.'
To say something like that to me any time before I met Diane and got married, at 23, was like throwing gasoline on a fire. The result would be a huge explosion. We didn't exactly explode, but I demanded to be shown, immediately. So we went to the closest place tracks crossed a street, turrned sideways to traffic, lined up the wheels, and eased off. I realized later the car owner had dones this once before, because he didn't complain as we started putting his nice ride at risk of falling off the rails and being stranded on railroad tracks. In the early 50's there were a lot more trains than there are nowadays. If we were up there, idling along, and happened to meet a train, the only thing we could do was jump away from the car. There was absolutely no way we would have been able to get that car clean off the tracks.
We didn't care. it wasn't our car, and evidently the owner didn't care, either.
That first night we only rode from one street where we got on the tracks to the next street where we got off. We weren't taking too great a chance. We were testing.
The test worked. It was great. A huge rush. It wasn't that we were seeing the world through different eyes, or anything like that. Anyone who had ever walked down a railroad knows there is nothing to see. The rails stretch out ahead, and behind, and it's level. There is usually a bank on both sides, where the builders graded the ground to make it level. And there are usually trees behind those banks because railroads bought right-of-ways where the land was cheapest. You scenery wasn't nice, but we were doing someting 'dangerous'.
I instantly became the tour guide. I spent hours trying to come up with places we could ride the rails that would be different.
I hit two home runs.
Back before they built Hartwell Lake there was a long railroad bridge back behind Denver Downs that was relatively high. I found that bridge. Actually I didn't find it. I knew where it was the whole time, I just thought of it. It just happened to be near an old house where we played 'Sarah' from time to time. (But that's another story.)
If we got on those tracks, we'd be up there for a couple of miles before we could get off, and if the car fell off the tracks while we were on that bridge, we'd have a long way to go bump bump bumy between railroad ties trying to get off. And I wasn't completely sure the car would do that. Did I mention that is wan't my car?
We had no idea what time the train went through, so one night we went up about dusk and just parked there until almost midnight to see if a train came through. None did, so we figured we were home free.
The next night we were on those tracks. We had to get on a long way from the actual bridge and we weren't extremely sure this was going to be fun. I figure we felt just like Evel Keievel felt just before he set off that rocket car trying to jump the Snake River canyon. And we didn't realize just exactly how far we'd have to go until we got started. Once we were away from the road, everyone wanted to stop, put it reverse, and back up to where we could get off. But we had never done that, and weren't at all sure it would work. So we went on. Finally, after what seemed like all night and 40-miles, we got across the bridge and to the next road.
Not even Olympic medal winners could have been happier than we were to see that road show up. We were stilll alive and the car wasn't hurt. We had made it.
Now we were just too afraid to tell anyone what we had done.
We knew if we told that bunch we were raised with, railroad tracks all around town would be filled up with automobiles. So we kept quiet.
We kept our Home Run to ourselves.
My second homer was on Fant Street. Fant street ran parallel to main street, and the train depot was just off East Orr Street, between there and where McCants Junior High still sits. We had lived on East Orr one time, and I had walked those tracks over and over.
And they ran beneath town. They still do. We could get on the tracks on Fant Street, go under mcDuffie, and then beneath Main Street. Then we would go beneath Murray Avenue, and finally come out over on Bleckley, right at the Railway Espress warehouse.
We couldn't wait. We lined up that car like the veterans we had become, and headed under town. Once we got past McDuffie, there is a long section where people once boarded and got off the trains, a stor or waaehremetItrt
Here goes.
I bet you didn 't know this, but the wheel-width of a 1956 Chevrolet fits exactly atop railroad rails. There are probably a bunch of other cars that have the same width, but we concentrated on that '56 Belair. It was a beautiful car, black, lowered, with a white insert painted down the side. Black leather interior, extra speakers, semi-loud mufflers, four-barrel carb. If memory serves, Don Kelly owned it. I may be wrong about that, but I am not wrong about the car. It was fine.
Anyway, I never thought to ask, so I don't know how someone in the car that particular night knew, but when they said, 'Did you know you can ride the railroad with this car? Up on the iron rails? You don't have to let any air out of the tires or anything. You get it lined up and the weight of the car keeps it there. You can just put it gear and idle along. It's pretty cool.'
To say something like that to me any time before I met Diane and got married, at 23, was like throwing gasoline on a fire. The result would be a huge explosion. We didn't exactly explode, but I demanded to be shown, immediately. So we went to the closest place tracks crossed a street, turrned sideways to traffic, lined up the wheels, and eased off. I realized later the car owner had dones this once before, because he didn't complain as we started putting his nice ride at risk of falling off the rails and being stranded on railroad tracks. In the early 50's there were a lot more trains than there are nowadays. If we were up there, idling along, and happened to meet a train, the only thing we could do was jump away from the car. There was absolutely no way we would have been able to get that car clean off the tracks.
We didn't care. it wasn't our car, and evidently the owner didn't care, either.
That first night we only rode from one street where we got on the tracks to the next street where we got off. We weren't taking too great a chance. We were testing.
The test worked. It was great. A huge rush. It wasn't that we were seeing the world through different eyes, or anything like that. Anyone who had ever walked down a railroad knows there is nothing to see. The rails stretch out ahead, and behind, and it's level. There is usually a bank on both sides, where the builders graded the ground to make it level. And there are usually trees behind those banks because railroads bought right-of-ways where the land was cheapest. You scenery wasn't nice, but we were doing someting 'dangerous'.
I instantly became the tour guide. I spent hours trying to come up with places we could ride the rails that would be different.
I hit two home runs.
Back before they built Hartwell Lake there was a long railroad bridge back behind Denver Downs that was relatively high. I found that bridge. Actually I didn't find it. I knew where it was the whole time, I just thought of it. It just happened to be near an old house where we played 'Sarah' from time to time. (But that's another story.)
If we got on those tracks, we'd be up there for a couple of miles before we could get off, and if the car fell off the tracks while we were on that bridge, we'd have a long way to go bump bump bumy between railroad ties trying to get off. And I wasn't completely sure the car would do that. Did I mention that is wan't my car?
We had no idea what time the train went through, so one night we went up about dusk and just parked there until almost midnight to see if a train came through. None did, so we figured we were home free.
The next night we were on those tracks. We had to get on a long way from the actual bridge and we weren't extremely sure this was going to be fun. I figure we felt just like Evel Keievel felt just before he set off that rocket car trying to jump the Snake River canyon. And we didn't realize just exactly how far we'd have to go until we got started. Once we were away from the road, everyone wanted to stop, put it reverse, and back up to where we could get off. But we had never done that, and weren't at all sure it would work. So we went on. Finally, after what seemed like all night and 40-miles, we got across the bridge and to the next road.
Not even Olympic medal winners could have been happier than we were to see that road show up. We were stilll alive and the car wasn't hurt. We had made it.
Now we were just too afraid to tell anyone what we had done.
We knew if we told that bunch we were raised with, railroad tracks all around town would be filled up with automobiles. So we kept quiet.
We kept our Home Run to ourselves.
My second homer was on Fant Street. Fant street ran parallel to main street, and the train depot was just off East Orr Street, between there and where McCants Junior High still sits. We had lived on East Orr one time, and I had walked those tracks over and over.
And they ran beneath town. They still do. We could get on the tracks on Fant Street, go under mcDuffie, and then beneath Main Street. Then we would go beneath Murray Avenue, and finally come out over on Bleckley, right at the Railway Espress warehouse.
We couldn't wait. We lined up that car like the veterans we had become, and headed under town. Once we got past McDuffie, there is a long section where people once boarded and got off the trains, a stor or waaehremetItrt
When I was writing for the newspaper, I'd get letters now and then about how my sentence structure wasn't correct, or how I was single-handedly corrupting the youth of America.
It used to aggravate me, but I finally got used to it, and quit writing stories that included alcohol, firearms, or moving vehicles.
It used to aggravate me, but I finally got used to it, and quit writing stories that included alcohol, firearms, or moving vehicles.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
another truck
As
near as I can tell, it was about 10 or 12 years ago when I cruised Roger Tripp's
junk yard (Salvage Automobiles) looking for a Ford truck fender and hood.
Someone else had broken that truck and I'd bought it at the SADISCO salvage sale
out on Scuffletown Road. It was a Ford, after all, and I've made it known since
college that I had just as soon walk down the road with a Chevrolet hubcap under
my arm than ride in a Ford. But my little red Mazda truck was dying and I needed
a replacement. It's always a traumatic experience to see the one you love just
wasting away and there is nothing you can do. Being desperate, I opted for that
Ford pickup because it was an easy fix, the price was right, and I hoped that by
only driving it at night nobody would see me in it.
You've heard of love at first sight? You have heard about the lightning bolt? Wel, right there in the upper third of Tripp's junkers, I found true love.. There was a black extended cab Dodge Dakota sitting there without a pimple on it's butt anywhere. It was fairly new, clean, nothing seemed to be missing and even the tires were fair. The first thing I thought was, it's not a Ford. It's black, maybe to match my soul. And if it's cheap, and not too much is wrong with it, I can sell that Ford and clear the Dodge. I've already said this but I am going to say it again. It's Not A Ford!
So I ambled back by the office and axed about the truck. I already knew Roger fairly well. He had read my stuff in the paper, and just swore up and down he had gone to school with my wife. (He didn't.) But if I could get a better price on his parts, I didn't much care what he believed.
The first thing I asked was what was wrong with it. He said the motor was blown. He went on to explain the engine would turn over, but wouldn't hit a lick. I asked how it sounded, turning over, and he shoved me the key. He told me the battery was good, and to go listen to it myself and make up my mind. He also said he hoped I didn't want it because he would have to move three or four cars to get it out.
When I listened, I couldn't find anything wrong with the engine excapt it wouldn't crank. It wouldn't hit a lick and I thought, electrical problem, and went hustling back to Roger. He made me a price and I cried. I moaned and groaned and offered him half of what he wanted. He seemed shocked and I explained that the engine really was blown. He took my offer. Two hours later we had it cleared enough to get on the rollback and headed towards Route 4 Piedmont, home of a great nurses, one broke-down writer seveal good used cars and a growing inventory of trucks.
I couldn't wait to tear into that 3.9 engine. But I was gonna be cool. What I knew about Dodge engines could be recorded on the back of a stamp. And my background in electricity stops anywhere beyond wiring a home.
(Let me get off track here. I am an expert on home wiring. You only have three wires. You have a white wire, and black wire, and a green wire. I call it the Olympic Theory. Folks are going to read this and call me a racist. That's ok. I was born in South Carolina, lived my whole live here so far, and have bought a paid for a plot that should keep me here until Greenville Memorial Gardens becomes a mall. If you think I am racist for this, have at it. Here's my Olympic Theory. In the games, the blacks win the gold medals, the whites win the silver medals, and those folks from route 2 Asia get the bronze medals. So, using this theory on house wiring, the black wire goes to the gold screw. The white wire goes to the silver screw. The geeen wire (bronze) goes to ground. In the electrical box, the black wire goes to the circuit breaker, the white wire goes to the bar on the outside of the box, and the green wire goes down to the bottom as ground. Remember this and you, too, can be a rasist and wire a home.
Now to get back on track. Any automobile past an A-Model has more than three wires. The t-Model, not so much. You didn 't need a wire going to a hand crank, the turn signals consisted of sticking your arm out the window, an while there may have been brake lights, the odds were no other cars were behind you and everyone already knew where you were going.
I don't do electrical work, but for what I paid for that truck, I'd take an uneducated shot. Besides, I already had a Dodge Dakota sitting out on the road for sale, and I could look at it for a pattern.
What I especially wanted to do was get this truck running so fast she wouldn't have bad things to say and I'd end up sleeping in it. She and I don't fuss. Well, I don't fuss. I was raised in a constant battle of words, and vowed never to have to live in such, so it usually just ends up with me telling her what I had done, she saying, 'whatever' and leaves me hoping something terrible will happen to take her mind off whatever I did.
So I was about to pitch a tissy to get that truck running. I didn't have time to talk to much. I was too anxious to find that problem. With the loving wife looking on, with somewhat of a hard stare, I opened the hood. And everything was just exactly where it should be. It looked normal. So I opened the fuze box, and immediately noticed an empty hole among the relays. I pulled a relay that controlled the wipers, and plugged it in the gap. Then I walked around, turned the key, and cranked the engine. There wasn't anything wrong with it. It purred like a kitten. I'm a dog person, so I use purred like a kitten hoping it fits, I've never owned a dog that purred. To say, 'it barked like a dog' just didn't fit the description. The durned thing ran.
Ran good. I didn't cut cartwheels because I'd end up in the hospital. So I concentrated on smiling. I smiled a lot. I had nealed that truck. I didn't have to drive a Ford.
"What now?" she asked, and I told her she was looking at the new Fant Mobile. The Ford had just gone on the auction block. (Actually I sold it out of the front yard, like lots of other castoffs have gone.) I just had to fix it first.
As soon as I got the door, hood and fender on the Ford, it went to the front line (there has never been but one line. The front.) That same day I got a call from Winn-Dixie saying they had an emergency delivery to Biloxi, Miss., and would I be interested in making the trip. I didn't want to go, but asked what it paid, and when the man said, $1.000, I asked how soon he needed me to leave and what was I delivering? They had two pressure chicken fryers that just had to go to a store in Biloxi and had to be there within 36 hours. The only problem was, they were too big to carry in my Dakota. But they would fit right in the back of that Ford. I told him I would be there to load in just over an hour, snatched the tag off of something there in the yard and made the call to my insurance company. They were closed, of course, so I left word that I 'might' be buying a Ford truck, and read off the vin number. I told them I'd let them know for sure within 72 hours. I headed for the Winn-Dixie warehouse. I loaded up, stopped and filled up the second tank, and headed south on the Interstate. Somewhere the far side of Atlanta I was running out of gas. I hadn't filled up the main tank because I didn't need to. There was already a good bit of fuel in it. So when I was running out, I smiled, hit the switch to go to the other tank, and coasted to a stop on the side of the Interstate. Obviously, the switch didn't work. I was out of gas and sitting on 18 gallons. There is a sign in Skin Thrasher's hot dog place that says feel free to use the same language here you use in church. The things I said in the cab of that truck were bad enough to get me kicked out of all churches, the Shriners, the Masons, the YMCA and the Boy Scouts would be demanding my merit badges be returned. It was not nice.
I had barely coasted to a stop when some guy pulling a landscape trailer pulled up in front of me and got out. He stopped by the trailer to grab a gas can, and said not a week before he had been out of gas out there, and someone had stopped to help him. He had been given fuel, and asked only to pay it forward. So that was what he was doing.
The gas he provided got me to the next exit and I was once again on my way.
Finally I saw the sign alerting me Biloxi was the next exit. I got off that Interstate, looked, and there sat a Winn-Dixie store. I was elated until they said it was not the right store. I went another 10 miles, to another Winn-Dixie, only go get the same news. The store I was seeking was on down the road.
Finally, becoming more and more frustrated, I spied my third Winn-Dixie store. This, indeed, was the right place.
But the manager was less than thrilled when I spread my good news. "We don't need it or want it. We have one that is working fine. Just take those back to Greenvlle."
I wouldn't do it. He said I would have to because, A, the hydraulic lift was not working and I couldn't get them unloaded, and B, he wasn't going to sign for them.
I went around back and sure enough, there was a problem with the loading platform. I pulled two pins and the lift worked fine, except it was very unsafe. That didn't slow me down at all. I backed up to it, rolled the fryers off, then pulled away.
I want back to the manager and told him they were out back. He said he still wasn't going to sign for them. I said I didn't have any paperwork anyway, and left.
I made it back to up to Montgomery before I stopped for the night and by the next day at noon I was back on Route 4, Piedmont, the Ford was back on the 'front' line, and I had called the insurance company to say I had changed my mind and wasn't going to buy the Ford and to cancel the request for insurance.
Then I drained the second tank. A man came by saying that was exactly what he had been looking for, and how much. I went up a hundred dollars as soon as he said that was what he was looking for.
I told him about driving it to Mississippi and we agreed on a price. he told me he was a Greenville County Deputy, and I said there was a deputy that lived over on the next road that flew the helicopter for the Sheriff's Office. He said that was him.
I told him that every time he took off in that thing he would swing over his house and check it, and his circle took him right over my place. And he was just screwing up my gardening completely.
He laughed, paid me, and drove off.
It more than paid for my new Dodge ride.
Some time later I heard he and his wife had split up and he had left the truck just sitting in the yard. The new owner had put it in a junk yard. He said if I had a Saturn engine, he would trade me. I did, and we did. They delivered my new old truck, and after taking two loads of trash to the dump out of the back, I started trying to get it running again. I pulled off the bed, but two fuel pumps in the tanks, and cranked the truck. I went to see him, who by now had lef the sheriff's office. I introduced myself, and he said, 'Oh yes, I bought a truck from you one time.' He looked sort of shocked when I told him I had it back, but that I didn't have a title. he told me to just do what I needed to do to get one, and that he would sign it over to me. I explained that I had leaerned to read and write, and I was perfectly capable ot filling out the papers. I just wanted him to know.
I sold the truck again, and made more money on it the second time than I did the first. Years passed, and I kept driving that Black Dakota.
Until last spring.
I saw where a man was selling a late-model Dakota, up above Inman, for what seemed to be a very cheap price. I went to look, and was told the heater would not work, that he was freezing to death, and just wanted to get ride of it.
I paid him and dreove home cold. But when I got home, I hooked a water hose to the heater hoses and blew great gobs of trash from the heater core.
It started heating up just fine, and I retired the black Dodge. It only have over 300,000 miles on it, had been hit in the side, hit in the back, turned over once, and had lots of minor injueries. The gas tank gauge didn't work. So I put it up for sale, and it lasted two days before someone met my price.
Now I'm down to my last few trucks. I have two Ford box trucks and two Chevy box trucks I use for storage. I have the Chevy dually, the 82 4x4 Chevy, another Dakota, make tha two, and a Mazda truck. Oh, yeah, i've also got the 96 Z71 truck. And I've just traded for a 96 Ford with the 7.3 turbo diesel. My wife says that's enough, but I would still buy a bargain.
And the little black Dakota went smoking off towards Walhall, ( I think). I really didn't care, except to yell, 'keep checking that oil' as he smoked away.
So there is an empty spot in my yard If you have something I like (cheap) let me know but please don't mention it to my wife.
Happy New Year, yawl.
You've heard of love at first sight? You have heard about the lightning bolt? Wel, right there in the upper third of Tripp's junkers, I found true love.. There was a black extended cab Dodge Dakota sitting there without a pimple on it's butt anywhere. It was fairly new, clean, nothing seemed to be missing and even the tires were fair. The first thing I thought was, it's not a Ford. It's black, maybe to match my soul. And if it's cheap, and not too much is wrong with it, I can sell that Ford and clear the Dodge. I've already said this but I am going to say it again. It's Not A Ford!
So I ambled back by the office and axed about the truck. I already knew Roger fairly well. He had read my stuff in the paper, and just swore up and down he had gone to school with my wife. (He didn't.) But if I could get a better price on his parts, I didn't much care what he believed.
The first thing I asked was what was wrong with it. He said the motor was blown. He went on to explain the engine would turn over, but wouldn't hit a lick. I asked how it sounded, turning over, and he shoved me the key. He told me the battery was good, and to go listen to it myself and make up my mind. He also said he hoped I didn't want it because he would have to move three or four cars to get it out.
When I listened, I couldn't find anything wrong with the engine excapt it wouldn't crank. It wouldn't hit a lick and I thought, electrical problem, and went hustling back to Roger. He made me a price and I cried. I moaned and groaned and offered him half of what he wanted. He seemed shocked and I explained that the engine really was blown. He took my offer. Two hours later we had it cleared enough to get on the rollback and headed towards Route 4 Piedmont, home of a great nurses, one broke-down writer seveal good used cars and a growing inventory of trucks.
I couldn't wait to tear into that 3.9 engine. But I was gonna be cool. What I knew about Dodge engines could be recorded on the back of a stamp. And my background in electricity stops anywhere beyond wiring a home.
(Let me get off track here. I am an expert on home wiring. You only have three wires. You have a white wire, and black wire, and a green wire. I call it the Olympic Theory. Folks are going to read this and call me a racist. That's ok. I was born in South Carolina, lived my whole live here so far, and have bought a paid for a plot that should keep me here until Greenville Memorial Gardens becomes a mall. If you think I am racist for this, have at it. Here's my Olympic Theory. In the games, the blacks win the gold medals, the whites win the silver medals, and those folks from route 2 Asia get the bronze medals. So, using this theory on house wiring, the black wire goes to the gold screw. The white wire goes to the silver screw. The geeen wire (bronze) goes to ground. In the electrical box, the black wire goes to the circuit breaker, the white wire goes to the bar on the outside of the box, and the green wire goes down to the bottom as ground. Remember this and you, too, can be a rasist and wire a home.
Now to get back on track. Any automobile past an A-Model has more than three wires. The t-Model, not so much. You didn 't need a wire going to a hand crank, the turn signals consisted of sticking your arm out the window, an while there may have been brake lights, the odds were no other cars were behind you and everyone already knew where you were going.
I don't do electrical work, but for what I paid for that truck, I'd take an uneducated shot. Besides, I already had a Dodge Dakota sitting out on the road for sale, and I could look at it for a pattern.
What I especially wanted to do was get this truck running so fast she wouldn't have bad things to say and I'd end up sleeping in it. She and I don't fuss. Well, I don't fuss. I was raised in a constant battle of words, and vowed never to have to live in such, so it usually just ends up with me telling her what I had done, she saying, 'whatever' and leaves me hoping something terrible will happen to take her mind off whatever I did.
So I was about to pitch a tissy to get that truck running. I didn't have time to talk to much. I was too anxious to find that problem. With the loving wife looking on, with somewhat of a hard stare, I opened the hood. And everything was just exactly where it should be. It looked normal. So I opened the fuze box, and immediately noticed an empty hole among the relays. I pulled a relay that controlled the wipers, and plugged it in the gap. Then I walked around, turned the key, and cranked the engine. There wasn't anything wrong with it. It purred like a kitten. I'm a dog person, so I use purred like a kitten hoping it fits, I've never owned a dog that purred. To say, 'it barked like a dog' just didn't fit the description. The durned thing ran.
Ran good. I didn't cut cartwheels because I'd end up in the hospital. So I concentrated on smiling. I smiled a lot. I had nealed that truck. I didn't have to drive a Ford.
"What now?" she asked, and I told her she was looking at the new Fant Mobile. The Ford had just gone on the auction block. (Actually I sold it out of the front yard, like lots of other castoffs have gone.) I just had to fix it first.
As soon as I got the door, hood and fender on the Ford, it went to the front line (there has never been but one line. The front.) That same day I got a call from Winn-Dixie saying they had an emergency delivery to Biloxi, Miss., and would I be interested in making the trip. I didn't want to go, but asked what it paid, and when the man said, $1.000, I asked how soon he needed me to leave and what was I delivering? They had two pressure chicken fryers that just had to go to a store in Biloxi and had to be there within 36 hours. The only problem was, they were too big to carry in my Dakota. But they would fit right in the back of that Ford. I told him I would be there to load in just over an hour, snatched the tag off of something there in the yard and made the call to my insurance company. They were closed, of course, so I left word that I 'might' be buying a Ford truck, and read off the vin number. I told them I'd let them know for sure within 72 hours. I headed for the Winn-Dixie warehouse. I loaded up, stopped and filled up the second tank, and headed south on the Interstate. Somewhere the far side of Atlanta I was running out of gas. I hadn't filled up the main tank because I didn't need to. There was already a good bit of fuel in it. So when I was running out, I smiled, hit the switch to go to the other tank, and coasted to a stop on the side of the Interstate. Obviously, the switch didn't work. I was out of gas and sitting on 18 gallons. There is a sign in Skin Thrasher's hot dog place that says feel free to use the same language here you use in church. The things I said in the cab of that truck were bad enough to get me kicked out of all churches, the Shriners, the Masons, the YMCA and the Boy Scouts would be demanding my merit badges be returned. It was not nice.
I had barely coasted to a stop when some guy pulling a landscape trailer pulled up in front of me and got out. He stopped by the trailer to grab a gas can, and said not a week before he had been out of gas out there, and someone had stopped to help him. He had been given fuel, and asked only to pay it forward. So that was what he was doing.
The gas he provided got me to the next exit and I was once again on my way.
Finally I saw the sign alerting me Biloxi was the next exit. I got off that Interstate, looked, and there sat a Winn-Dixie store. I was elated until they said it was not the right store. I went another 10 miles, to another Winn-Dixie, only go get the same news. The store I was seeking was on down the road.
Finally, becoming more and more frustrated, I spied my third Winn-Dixie store. This, indeed, was the right place.
But the manager was less than thrilled when I spread my good news. "We don't need it or want it. We have one that is working fine. Just take those back to Greenvlle."
I wouldn't do it. He said I would have to because, A, the hydraulic lift was not working and I couldn't get them unloaded, and B, he wasn't going to sign for them.
I went around back and sure enough, there was a problem with the loading platform. I pulled two pins and the lift worked fine, except it was very unsafe. That didn't slow me down at all. I backed up to it, rolled the fryers off, then pulled away.
I want back to the manager and told him they were out back. He said he still wasn't going to sign for them. I said I didn't have any paperwork anyway, and left.
I made it back to up to Montgomery before I stopped for the night and by the next day at noon I was back on Route 4, Piedmont, the Ford was back on the 'front' line, and I had called the insurance company to say I had changed my mind and wasn't going to buy the Ford and to cancel the request for insurance.
Then I drained the second tank. A man came by saying that was exactly what he had been looking for, and how much. I went up a hundred dollars as soon as he said that was what he was looking for.
I told him about driving it to Mississippi and we agreed on a price. he told me he was a Greenville County Deputy, and I said there was a deputy that lived over on the next road that flew the helicopter for the Sheriff's Office. He said that was him.
I told him that every time he took off in that thing he would swing over his house and check it, and his circle took him right over my place. And he was just screwing up my gardening completely.
He laughed, paid me, and drove off.
It more than paid for my new Dodge ride.
Some time later I heard he and his wife had split up and he had left the truck just sitting in the yard. The new owner had put it in a junk yard. He said if I had a Saturn engine, he would trade me. I did, and we did. They delivered my new old truck, and after taking two loads of trash to the dump out of the back, I started trying to get it running again. I pulled off the bed, but two fuel pumps in the tanks, and cranked the truck. I went to see him, who by now had lef the sheriff's office. I introduced myself, and he said, 'Oh yes, I bought a truck from you one time.' He looked sort of shocked when I told him I had it back, but that I didn't have a title. he told me to just do what I needed to do to get one, and that he would sign it over to me. I explained that I had leaerned to read and write, and I was perfectly capable ot filling out the papers. I just wanted him to know.
I sold the truck again, and made more money on it the second time than I did the first. Years passed, and I kept driving that Black Dakota.
Until last spring.
I saw where a man was selling a late-model Dakota, up above Inman, for what seemed to be a very cheap price. I went to look, and was told the heater would not work, that he was freezing to death, and just wanted to get ride of it.
I paid him and dreove home cold. But when I got home, I hooked a water hose to the heater hoses and blew great gobs of trash from the heater core.
It started heating up just fine, and I retired the black Dodge. It only have over 300,000 miles on it, had been hit in the side, hit in the back, turned over once, and had lots of minor injueries. The gas tank gauge didn't work. So I put it up for sale, and it lasted two days before someone met my price.
Now I'm down to my last few trucks. I have two Ford box trucks and two Chevy box trucks I use for storage. I have the Chevy dually, the 82 4x4 Chevy, another Dakota, make tha two, and a Mazda truck. Oh, yeah, i've also got the 96 Z71 truck. And I've just traded for a 96 Ford with the 7.3 turbo diesel. My wife says that's enough, but I would still buy a bargain.
And the little black Dakota went smoking off towards Walhall, ( I think). I really didn't care, except to yell, 'keep checking that oil' as he smoked away.
So there is an empty spot in my yard If you have something I like (cheap) let me know but please don't mention it to my wife.
Happy New Year, yawl.
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