Barrelin’ Down the Dirt Road

September 20, 2011 at 4:40 pm · Filed under Mostly true, Stories, the good old days ·Tagged an old Internatinal pickup, author, Buckeye Arizona, Charles L. Mashburn, cotton farmers, Dick Morris, don't forget to latch the hood, harvesting cotton, laughter, story, writer

Barrelin’ Down the Dirt Road

In Memory of Richard (Dick) Morris

This is another tale about yours truly, and the stunts I pulled back in the day. I had a wild streak, knew everything, and needed no instruction from the adult world. (Was anybody else like that when they were a teenager?) Well, anyway, check this out.

Dick Morris was a harvesting contractor in the Buckeye, Arizona area; he didn’t own a farm, but he had the equipment, and contracted to pick cotton for some of the big farms around Buckeye. I hired on to pull cotton trailers from the field to the cotton gin.

It was a fun job; I got to drive an old International pickup, usually pulling two cotton trailers at a time to the gin. I’d pull under the canopy, and they’d use this big vacuum hose to suck the cotton out of the trailer. Once all the cotton had been removed, I’d haul butt back down the dirt roads to the field we were harvesting.

I hadn’t been working for Dick too long, when one morning he came up as I was about to leave the field pulling two trailers filled with cotton. He motioned me to wait, then came over to the window and said, “When you get to the gin, while they’re getting’ the cotton out, check the oil in the truck. You know how to do that?”

I gave him a look that said I did. You know; the look where you raise both eyebrows and tilt your head back and smile. It’s a good look, because even if you don’t know what they’re talking about, the other person usually thinks they’ve insulted you, and they don’t pursue the question. Dick added more to the instructions.

“After you change the oil, don’t forget to latch the hood.” He pointed at the hood latch on the driver’s side of the truck, to make sure I knew what he was talking about. I was starting to think he thought I was an idiot. I had both hands on the steering wheel, and I slumped forward then banged my head on the big wheel. Dick laughed then punched my shoulder and told me to get out of there.

When I got to the gin, I forgot to check the oil, but remembered at the last minute. I bailed out and checked it as fast I could, and the guy running the big suction tube was yelling at me to get to get my dang truck out of the way, as I jumped back into the driver’s seat. During harvest time, there could be a lot of trailers lined up waiting to unload, and time was money.

I hauled-butt out of there, and was once again barreling down the dirt road, when WHAM, something came out of nowhere, and hit the truck’s windshield. It busted the windshield good, too; spider-webbed like crazy in a matter of seconds. I could hardly see out of it.

I looked in the rearview mirror, and to my horror recognized the hood of the truck floating through the air then crashing to the road. I slammed on the brakes, causing the trailers behind me to get all sideways and stuff then jumped out of the truck. I looked at the naked engine compartment, said some things Mom wouldn’t have been proud to hear, then ran back to where the hood had come to a rest.

My first thought was I could put that baby back on real fast, and Dick would never have to know I’d forgotten to latch the hood. One look at the mangled hood—especially where it fastened to the rest of the truck, told me that idea was not going to come to pass. I drug the hood to the truck and somehow managed to get it into the bed of the pickup—the darn thing probably weighed more than I did—then driving a bit slower than normal, crept back to the field.

As I pulled up, Dick saw me coming, and even from a good ways away, I could see his eyes get real big. He stood there, staring at me, and as I came to a stop a few feet from him, he shook his head slowly side-to-side then dropped his gaze and stared at his feet. I rested my head on the steering wheel, and listened as the sound of his crunching footsteps approached then stopped.

“You forgot to latch the hood,” he said, quietly.

“Yes, sir,” I said, not raising my head to look at him.

After a long few seconds, he patted me on the shoulder and said, “Don’t worry about it. I can fix it.”

And that’s how I remember Dick Morris. He was a great guy; always smiling and laughing, and he had a genuine love and compassion for people—even know-it-all-teenagers. I’ll never forget him.

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