The English teacher and the butt connector

by Brad Nelson

My baby girl just made an awful face at me and stomped out of the room. Now to be truthful, just three minutes before, she caused my blood pressure to go down.

Here about 10 days ago, she got her first driver’s license. And this evening she and a friend went to a makeover party. To the best of my knowledge, that’s where they help you apply that sweet-smelling stuff that the girls use when they go off in groups to the “powder room.” Then they hope that the stuff makes enough of an improvement that the party-goers will be unable to live without owning some of it.

What made my blood pressure go down was that she called home (as directed) when she left the party, and then she arrived home safe and sound about five minutes later than I thought it would have taken her. Upon my inquiry, she seemed to have enjoyed the party. She even came close enough so that I could see her “made over” face. What made her make a face and stomp off was my comment that “they did a really nice job. You couldn’t even see the putty knife marks.”

And this year in high school, she will be in Mrs. Neiffer’s English class. The Neiffers grow some hay here in the Columbia Basin, and Mr. Neiffer receives [the Progressive Hay Grower]. I still recall the day my son Ryan came home from school, Mrs. Neiffer having found out who his father was, and had directed him to me for some help with his homework. The earthquakes recorded that day were only all of my deceased former English teachers, “rolling in their graves.”

Speaking of the “next” generation, I find great interest in how easily some move into maturity and how difficult it seems to be for others. And then there are the moments of near comedy (except for those involved), which have or will affect us all.

Leo and I spent most of one summer hauling into the Bell Brand Ranch. The ranch had sold the Bruneau, Idaho, unit and wanted the hay moved to the headquarters unit, which is best described as being the other side of Jackpot, Nevada, about two hours on a good day.

We observed there one fine day, to our amusement, a band of cowboys riding into where we were. One was old enough to have a bit of a “grizzled” look about him. As his trusty mount trotted to a stop, he appeared to be glued to the saddle. The eight or nine buckaroos with him ... well, if I had that much daylight between me and the saddle, it’s possible that my mother would not have had grandchildren by me.

Talking with the ranch foreman, he commented that he gets a fair number of youngsters who want to be a cowboy more than anything in the world. Problem is, he went on, that being a cowboy and doing the things that make one a cowboy are sometimes worlds apart.

One of the neatest things to see is a young man who has been taught by his father, not only to work, but the specifics of a particular line of work.

Darrell has been hauling hay into the plant all summer. He graduated from high school this spring and is college-bound this fall. I understand that when not hauling hay, Darrell and his little brother would earn some spare cash by plowing. Darrell would pull the plow. As is the custom at the plant, when someone new has an upset and drops a block of hay or has a section of stack fall over, I make every effort to help them pick it up at least a couple of times. Now to his credit, Darrell was embarrassed first to have had a problem and, second, to have a couple of us helping to pick up the mess.

What impressed me about Darrell was that when he saw me move about three bales, he commented that I’d done this before. Now here’s an 18-year-old who not only knows what he’s doing (most of the time, anyway), but can also tell right off if someone else knows what he’s doing. (You done good, Gary!).

Early on in my hay hauling career, I found that trucks have many little bitty parts that are critical to getting home. I found also that the places you need these little fellers are generally not across the street from the parts store. I soon got into the habit of buying two of things that had stranded me due to the lack of having one. After awhile, this cache of parts got cumbersome to control.

Comes to mind the night Leo and I sat on a hilltop above Mountain Home, Idaho. In a 20-mile-an-hour wind of about 20 degrees with his helper running back and forth between the trucks, as he and I both searched our “goody” boxes for a little-bitty fitting he needed to stop an air leak in his gear shift knob, which prevented his truck from functioning.

Leo never did say, but I think it was a combination of chewing gum, duct tape and wire that got us to town that night.

I finally organized my collection of little bitty parts into a fishing tackle box. Here I had electrical crimp-on connectors, 1/8-inch airline connectors (on up to 1/2-inch) and all manner of good stuff. Many times on the road I had to fend off an offer from someone to wrestle me for the box. And many times it saved the bacon of me and mine and not just a few strangers.

When my son Dan went a trucking hay, he proudly showed me his tackle box, which he was neatly filling with all the “right stuff.” I tried to get it away from him, but he was too fast and observant. I’ll have to get my old one re-filled. It gives you kind of a thrill to be somebody’s hero just because you happen to possess an 1/8-inch ferrule or a butt connector. PD