Child of clay

by Brad Nelson

The lyrics to one of the songs of the late 60/early 70s were close to this: “Once there was a child, a beautiful child, a child of clay – bent and twisted into what you see today.”

I didn’t like it then, and I don’t like it now. Most likely because my father was an honorable man, perhaps not perfect, but honorable. He once stated in public, that the world could thank the mother of his children for all their successes, and it could lay all of their failings at his feet.

My answer to those lyrics would be, “Here you see young men, honest, hardworking young men. Faithful husbands, loving fathers, taught in their youth to care for others; by their mothers, and also their fathers.”

Well, so be it. I’m not a poet, and now you all know it. When I was dairying, Dad came with me when I went to haul hay home to the cows. I had a 1961 Freightliner truck with a 220 Cummins motor, and 20 forward gears. At about 62 miles per hour, it ran out of gears. But the lower gears were adequate to race with the turtles.

Coming into Boise, Idaho, one night, a snowstorm found us. One with big wet snowflakes the size of silver dollars. The defroster was not up to the task, and Dad’s side of the windshield was soon covered, except for a 1-inch slot that followed the arc of the windshield wiper. The opening on my side was about two inches wide. Dad looked over and said he hoped I could see out my side better than he could out his. I replied that he didn’t need to see out at all, since he had neither steering wheel nor brakes over there. He agreed with me but went on to say that if we were going to run into or over something, he’d really like to see it before he heard it hit.

One of the previous owners of this truck had named it the “Arkansas Traveler” and added a plate on the radiator grill that proclaimed this to all the world.

The 220 Cummins engine was not turbocharged. One of the first things that needed replacing after it came to my house was the chimney pipe and muffler. Abbotts Auto Supply sold me the least expensive four-inch muffler they had. It was about two feet long, and it looked like an overgrown glass-pack. Since I had been told that there was fire coming out of the chimney at night (and lots of good, black smoke in the daylight) I added a tall pipe with a generous turn-out at the top after the “economy” muffler.

Now you old hot-rodders know what a long pipe following a smitty muffler sounds like. And you old truckers remember the distinctive “Cackle” of a good-running 220 – well, the Arkansas Traveler could be heard coming from two miles away. What a beautiful sound! I haven’t had a vehicle before or since that made such a nice sound.

One trip out of Fairfield, Idaho, I had my younger brother Neal (come to think if it, they are all younger) with me. He did not know the characteristics of the 220. We were about five miles west of the Hill City scale, on the long pull out of the hay growing area, and leading to the Cat Creek Summit. One of my 20 gears would run the engine into the speed governor, while the next higher gear would lug the motor down. It had just got nice and dark. I shifted into the gear that was going to lug the motor in about a quarter of a mile.

With the 220 making that beautiful sound, and the throttle pedal mashed to the floor, I asked Neal to open his window and tell me what the end of the exhaust pipe looked like. He argued with me for a bit, and then he rolled down his window and stuck his head out to look at the pipe. Grudgingly. Very grudgingly.

Then, with great vigor, he came back inside the cab, spread his hands about three feet apart, and shouted, “There’s a fire this long coming out the exhaust pipe!” I nonchalantly nodded my head and said that this is good. It means the 220 is running right.

One of the few trips that we actually made it most of the way home in the daylight, we had a good big lunch with us, including those wonderful homemade sandwiches that once you start on them, you cannot put them down without finishing the eating with a fork.

Coming from Bruneau, Idaho, heading towards Mountain Home, we started up the Rattlesnake Grade. With the ’Traveler in the gear that would take us most of the way to the top, I asked Dad for a sandwich. He handed me one. I had it gnawed down to the point of if I’d put it down I’d lose it. Then the ’Traveler picked up a little speed and needed another gear. Dad looked over and asked what I was going to do now. I let off of the throttle, bumped the Brownie stick into neutral with my elbow, and then when the 220 had slowed just right, bumped it again with my elbow into overdrive and mashed the throttle back to the floor. I looked at Dad, and said, “Will that do?” He just grinned.

Dad was a shift foreman at the sugar factory in Nampa, Idaho, for more years than we care to count. He told us of an incident with his crew.

The place was very dusty. So that you could sweep an area, and from one side to the other not even see your tracks when you finished. His crew was complaining that they shouldn’t have to be so meticulous when it appeared to them that the shift they followed had hardly done any cleaning at all. Dad said he just looked at them in silence for a few seconds, and then said, “That may very well be true. But don’t you ever let anyone say that about “my” shift!” The subject never came up again.

Dad graduated from high school in the middle of the Depression. He explained his collection of worn-out shovels, hoes and pitchforks said that there was a time when he’d have given anything to have one to use that was as good as the one he’d just replaced with new. I wonder if this has anything to do with my wife having to thin out my clothes closet when I’m not home. And her trying to enforce the rule that I cannot bring home new socks until I throw out old socks. I find myself advising my sons to repair what they have; then they will know what they have, as opposed to buying another used one. The same advice works well for marriages, too.

We lost Dad in 1983. I’ve been to his grave maybe several times since. I don’t honor his memory with graveside visits. Rather, with doing all I can to see that his grandsons and great-grandsons are honest, honorable men.

When the younger hay hauler needed a new camshaft in his truck, I talked him into doing the work himself. I asked him why he thought the guys who built it were smarter than he was. Dad would have grinned when Dan, his grandson, did the job without complications.

I’ve felt his approval also when I’ve run off a couple of young bucks not worthy of the companionship of his granddaughters. Trucks are easier to repair than family. PD