The last laugh

[Bruce]

Life

Hey Kevin, I didn't know you went to school/grew up in Baltimore? Ms. Webb had quite a set of gams...drove me crazy too.

[Kevin Mienke]

My 3rd grade teacher, Miss Webb, got the idea that she would try to teach us boys how to be men. This involved trying to instill a womanly view of manhood into us. This wasn’t exclusive to Miss Webb...it went on throughout my years in elementary school, Jr. High and High School, finally peaking in college. College was the worst for trying to turn men into women.

I remember Miss Webb though, in particular, because it was the first time I had heard these womanly things. She told us to set aside our plastic machine guns at recess, stop making up wars, and stop arguing over who was dead. She wanted us to play quiet and tame games, "just like the girls."

She was trying to take away our boyish spirit and make us better students of the 1960’s. It was an era of change and she wanted to affect us with all of the things she had learned in college. And she was successful to a large degree. Many of my classmates were an easy sell. I was a bit harder. The best I ever did in her class was a C+, probably because I couldn’t get past staring at her legs. She had very nice legs.

She really couldn’t take the boy out of me.

A little later, I learned how to tame my spirit without smashing it to bits. Losing your boyish spirit can be devastating if you aspire to someday have a manly spirit. I think schools are missing that fact. I think many parents are missing that fact.

Let boys be boys.

[Hobcobble]

I'm requesting an exemption to the Cowboy hat rule. When I drive the Border Patrol Ramcharger through the Home depot parking lot, wearing the Richard Petty wrap around sunglasses and White cowboy hat, the invaders scatter. Somehow I don't think my Roman legion helmet would be as effective.

Years ago, my father-in-law gave me a Minnetonka [made in the USA]
cowboy hat that I've used for years. It is the only decent rain hat I
own. I don't claim to be a cowboy.... I have a nice dry head when I
come in from the rain though :)
John

[NNICKB]

I might have to add it to my itinerary? I've been to your neighborhood a few times, the Panhandle, Amarillo, Dallas/Ft. Worth & Fredricksburg. Some day when I give up the rat race...............

My "neighborhood" is central Pa, where it is greener, whiter, grayer, and colder than South Tx.

[Bruce]

Sounds Good

I might have to add it to my itinerary? I've been to your neighborhood a few times, the Panhandle, Amarillo, Dallas/Ft. Worth & Fredricksburg. Some day when I give up the rat race...............

[NNICKB]

South Texas........how far south?
Another good one for the tailgate.

Rio Grand Valley/ McAllen. About as far south as you can go without hitting the creek, er, river. Palm trees, but no movie stars. Best grapefruits in the world.

[NNICKB]

Error

[QUOTE=NNICKB;76327] I took a big screwdriver out of a nearby tool box and tried to ground the starter. There were a lot of sparks, but no movement. QUOTE]

Replace the word "ground" with "jump."

[Bruce]

Directions, We Don't Need No Stinkin' Directions

South Texas........how far south?
Another good one for the tailgate.

[NNICKB]

[QUOTE=Considering your ability to paint a picture with words, I look forward to hearing more stories.[/QUOTE]

Hmm. Coming from a published author, that is quite a compliment (blush).

I do not want to monopolize the forum, but since you asked, and since this section permits discussion on "other types of trucks," I will comply with your request.

Before starting, I should say that it is not my habit to think less of people because of their country or heritage, particularly if they are hard working, love their families, and vote the same way I do. But as you will see, it is a necessary part of the story to describe the people as they were. I will simply tell things as they happened.

I have some relatives that live in South Texas. They are city folks, but the men, like most people in that part of the world, love the outdoors, and have access to big arsenals and big vehicles, as well as big cattle ranches on which to exercise them.

Some 25 years ago, they invited me down for one of their grand hunting trips. It was "winter" (though it hardly seemed such) and deer season.

One of my uncles had a new diesel-powered Suburban, blue, with the obligatory dark glass. Don't ask me if it was a Chevy or GMC. Apparently the thing broke down somewhere to the North and he had it towed in to a dealership. It took them a week or two to repair it. He had gotten a ride home somehow, and the car needed to be picked up.

The plan was that he would fly me up there in his airplane, then I would drive the Suburban some 100 miles or so to their ranch.

The plane was a Maule, a small taildragger packing a pretty serious motor. It was designed to take off and land on short, rough, runways. He kept it, however, at the city airport. We taxied right along with the Boeing 737s of the commercial lines, and out onto the runway. We were cleared for takeoff, and, it seems, as soon as we were moving, were up in the air. I swear by the end of the runway, we had reached our cruising altitude.

An hour or two later, we landed at our destination. It was cold and windy, a desolate place, the airplane terminal consisting of a doublewide with a coffee machine inside. The service man from the dealership met us there. He flipped me the keys to the Suburban, and I was off.

Driving the Suburban through rural South Texas was not unlike flying the plane. That is, you just pick a direction, and go. There is no need to steer. For a kid from rural Pa, it was like a visit to Mars.

I managed to find the gate for the ranch. It was late afternoon, and getting colder. The gate had a series of padlocks, and I had been given a series of keys. I tried each key in each lock. Twice. None of them worked.

Cell phones were a thing of the future in those days. I hopped back into the Suburban, and headed for the nearest "town," which consisted of three houses and a convenience store. Oh yes, and a payphone.

I got some dimes and started making calls. The ranch house. The house. The office. No one answered.

I returned to the warm, comfortable interior of the Suburban, and placed the key in the ignition. It wouldn't start. I cranked. I played with the glow plugs. I read the owner's manual. The piece of junk just wouldn't start.

I got out and started wandering around. In front of the store was a Ford F250, about five years old at the time, with a home made wooden stake bed. Parked at an angle to it was an aging Chevrolet pickup. Both hoods were up. The trucks were connected by jumper cables.

Two Mexican guys were staring blankly under the hood of the Ford. One was short and stocky, with a big mustache. The other was a little taller, and thin. Both wore big, straw cowboy hats.

"What's the problem?" I asked.

"Truck won't start." Came the reply. "Wee are tryeeng to jump start eet."

The jumper cables looked to be of good quality. I checked the connections. They were tight. I took a big screwdriver out of a nearby tool box and tried to ground the starter. There were a lot of sparks, but no movement.

"Hmm," I said. "My best guess is the starter."

"Just our luck." came the reply.

I walked over to the cab of the Ford and peered inside. A big stick shift poked reassuringly from the floor.

"Hey!" I said. "We can catch it in gear. You guys have a tow chain?"

"Oh No," the short guy said. "We do have two chains. But they are both too short."

"Umm, I went to college," I said condescendingly. "We can hook the two chains together and make one long one."

"Brilliant!" the short guy exclaimed. "Wee see you are veery smart!"

"Yeah. So I'm told. We need to hook onto the back of this truck first, pull it away from the building, and then hook to the front."

"No need for that," said the short guy. He motioned the tall one into the Ford. He then jumped into the Chevy pickup, and proceeded to ram into the front of the Ford. The bumpers didn't quite match, and the impact broke the plastic grille, and shattered a headlight. The Ford dutifully flew back about 30 feet and came to rest.

The short guy maneuvered the Chevy into position, and hopped out, with two five foot chains.

I quickly tied them together and lashed them to the frames of the trucks. "Make sure the key is on." I told the taller guy. He nodded. "Let her rip." I told the other.

The two trucks took off down the road in tandem. Soon the Ford's engine was roaring at full throttle, while the short guy unhooked the chains. Both trucks turned around and came back up the roads, their drivers grinning from ear to ear.

They both got out, motors idling. The short guy came up and announced. "You help us! Now we help YOU!"

"Oh no." I replied. "I'll get a hold of somebody. Don't worry about it."

"It's a deeesel, right?"

"Yeah, so what?"

"All you have to do is put WD40 in the engine and shee start right up."

He returned to his truck and came out brandishing a blue and yellow can. He motioned to the taller guy and pointed to the Suburban. Before I could sneeze he was behind the wheel yanking on the hood latch.

"Look" I protested. It's a new car. It's under warranty. It doesn't belong to me."

"Donn worry."

The short guy put his foot on the bumper, and heaved himself into the Suburban's giant engine compartment. There were warning labels all over the place. "DON'T USE STARTING FLUID. IT WILL VOID THE WARRANTY. IT WILL CAUSE DEATH OR SERIOUS INJURY. DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT. THIS MEANS YOU!"

"Look here," I told him. "The label says you're not supposed to do that. Cut it out."

"Crank her up!" He yelled.

The taller guy started cranking the starter. The short guy under the hood sprayed an ever so tiny wisp of the WD40 into the nostril of the air cleaner.

The Suburban started instantly. It settled into a contented idle. I couldn't believe it.

The short guy jumped down and closed the hood dramatically. He was beaming with pride.

"You thought wee were a bunch of dumb Mexicans ay?" he said.

"Uh yeah, I guess so..."

"We know theengs that you don't"

"Obviously." I replied.

We shook hands, patted each other on the back, and wished each other well. I hopped back into the Suburban, adjusted my ball cap, and headed South, towards the city.

It was dark now, and I was wearing sunglasses. But hey, at least I didn't have to steer...

[Kevin Mienke]

I doubt if the Sox & Martin Hemi Cuda ever launched as decisively as that red Dodge bursting out of that snow drift. \

I love that line.

Considering your ability to paint a picture with words, I look forward to hearing more stories.

[Jonas Smith]

Uuuhhhh.....

Lol!

[Bruce]

Engagement?

Liked it, good story.

[NNICKB]

Part 2.

The following year I started college. I drove school bus on rural routes on early morning and late afternoons, with class in between. I sometimes walked home for lunch.

One blustery winter day, I was walking up the street, and there was the red Dodge, stuck in a snow drift. A cute looking guy was behind the wheel. A middle aged woman was shoveling.

Common etiquetted demanded that I stop and help. On the other hand, I didn't want to get involved with these people, and only had an hour. Besides, it was a very capable truck, and didn't appear to be stuck very bad. I stared at the ground and walked briskly by.

I consumed my lunch and returned down the hill. The Dodge was still there. The middle aged woman was shoveling furiously now. The 318 was revving away like a two-stroke motorcycle. Not much else was happening.

I walked over to the driver's door. The pretty boy opened it.

"Um, I see you have a four wheel drive truck," I said.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" He snapped. The high pitched feminine voice made the hair of my neck stand up.

"No. I didn't say that. I just noticed that your truck is stuck and that the front axle isn't turning."

"I know that. The four wheel drive is broken."

"You have it all shifted in and everything?"

He nodded and put his hand on the transfer case lever.

"What about the front hubs. Did you engage them?"

"Look," he hissed, pointing to a paper sleeve on the sunvisor. "The pictures on the instructions show the hubs in a horizontal position. I checked them and they are right where they are supposed to be"

The wheels in my head started turning. What they told me, of course, was that the hubs turned with the wheels.

"Umm, would you like me to check them for you?" I asked.

"Don't you dare!" He said furiously. "You keep your grubby hands off this truck!"

"OK," I said. "Guess I'm out of here."

The woman intervened.

"Is there something you can do to get this truck out of here?" She asked.

"Of course," I said. "Turn those hubs and it will pull right out, without so much as spinning a tire."

"Then you do it." She said authoritatively.

I obliged.

I doubt if the Sox & Martin Hemi Cuda ever launched as decisively as that red Dodge bursting out of that snow drift. The truck flew off down the street, the driver not stopping or saying a word.

"Thank you." The middle aged woman said. She turned and walked back into her house.

I would see the woman around town once in awhile after that. She always smiled at me.

[NNICKB]

OK guys, I am going to attempt to inject some fun into this thread and tell the story of the theater troupe and their red Dodge.

The year was 1975. Your correspondent was one of a pack of teenagers running loose in a small Pa. town. In comparison to our parents, we were a little spoiled, not having to spend our childhood dealing with nuisances like the depression or World War II. Nevertheless, we weren't completely helpless. If we wanted things like cars or motorcycles, we had to work, buy clunkers, and fix them ourselves.

Our town was bounded by farms and deep dark woods. The terrain was very steep and hilly. Winters were long, and the springs were muddy. The ideal vehicle for rumbling about off road was the old Willys Jeep. My buddies and I would purchase non-concours examples for say, $200.00, and do our best to continue whatever abuse they had suffered.

Newer Jeeps, Scouts, and small Broncos were admired. Also M37s. Quads and rhinos had yet to be invented. Ditto for compact pickups. "Full size" pickups were not as full size as today, but short wheelbase 4WD models were rarely seen, and highly prized. Civilian Power Wagons were around, but were considered "farm trucks," too big and clumsy for our purposes.

There was a theater troupe in our town. It was populated by classy, poised, artistic, and quite beautiful girls, along with a gaggle of young men who had no particular interest in them, if you get my meaning. It was funded mostly by wives of important banking and insurance people, and, of course, car dealers. We were not members of this social circle, nor did we aspire to be.

The theater troupe needed a truck, and apparently, someone obliged. And what a truck it was! A 1971 Dodge, (last of that body style) short wheel base, 4WD, Sweptline bed. V8 with a four speed. Cherry red. Just the way you would order it. And in mint condition.

I stopped by one of my buddy's houses. He had an old Jeep station wagon, which he had converted to Ford V8 power, using the finest quality flex pipe and angle iron available. It was a rather ill-mannered beast, and he was always working on it.

He poked his head out from under the hood.

"Did you see the truck the theater people are driving?"

"Yep," I said.

"What an outrage."

"Yeah I know. But this is America. I guess they can drive whatever they want."

He had a point. It was like using a thoroughbred to pull a circus wagon.

(I will post this and continue with Part 2)

[74w300uteline]

cowboy hat??

I'm requesting an exemption to the Cowboy hat rule. When I drive the Border Patrol Ramcharger through the Home depot parking lot, wearing the Richard Petty wrap around sunglasses and White cowboy hat, the invaders scatter. Somehow I don't think my Roman legion helmet would be as effective.