Saving The Old Rustbucket--My 1982 FJ40 Tale (4 Viewers)

[SHUSH]

Lee, I hope that seeing our comments and TOTAL support you will continue to write, unfiltered, what you remember and feel. I know for a fact that there are many others that have lost loves and lots of psychological baggage....I would like to suggest that hearing your story makes the rest of us feel a little more normal knowing we aren't alone. The same goes for your service in Vietnam. My dad flew A-4s on 2 different tours and he lost many, many good friends. (Arlington is a place I know well after visiting with him). today's service members, like me, owe your generation a debt of gratitude for all the warm remarks, free meals, and support we get. Our nation largely forgot ya'll and didn't know how to cope with the aftermath of Vietnam. All I can say is that I appreciate you sharing this and I certainly understand and respect what you sacrificed for our nation.

"That is all Commander"

on to some tech right?

 

[69 Spring Green]

In construction I have worked with many Vietnam vets. As always, an appreciation for the sacrifice and service. Thanks for sharing.

 

[Sea Knight]

Spearman--Part Two

Oh no, these blues are gonna rub me raw
Oh no, these blues are gonna rub me raw
Rub me raw, hit me.
--Warren Zevon​

As Route 66 passes through Sayre, Oklahoma, it's called Main Street, and that's where the Beckham County Courthouse sits. It's a historic structure, a big red brick edifice with Tuscan columns and a dome, not the sort of thing you'd expect to find in a little farming community. I've read about it, seen it in the Grapes of Wrath, and now I've pulled up in front to see it in person. The courthouse is open to visitors and tours are free, but now that I'm here I've lost motivation. I keep sitting in The Turtle, thinking. I think about Mike Dewlen and Gary Milton, and Nettie's son Ray, and I think about serendipity, and I think about my being here, in an old FJ-40. Then I think about Patsy Kingsley, and I know that it's time to leave the Mother Road. I have to go to Spearman.​

The Oklahoma and Texas panhandles are criss-crossed by dozens of state highways, county roads, ranch roads, farm to market roads, and a few unmarked roads that seem to lead nowhere. In Austin I bought a Magellan GPS, but even before reaching Sayre I'd already decided that I didn't like being told where to drive by a black box. I leave the courthouse and find a convenience store with gas pumps, fuel up The Turtle, go inside and buy an official Texas road map. My new GPS comes off the windshield and I dump it inside the Tuffy. I'll use the map to ad lib a route. According to the mileage chart, it's 145 miles to Spearman, or 3 hours drive time. No one is waiting, and I don't care if it takes 16 hours, again. Today I'm in no hurry.​

I toy with routes, and select a beginning leg. From Route 66 in Sayer, I'll take US 283 North. Guessing at distance, it looks like I'll follow 283 for about 50 miles, passing through the Black Kettle National Grasslands before turning. The Turtle and I start rumbling northward, and once again we're greeted by sunny skies and little traffic. Now we're in Indian territory. In the grasslands it's so deserted that I can easily imagine Comanche and Cheyenne villages nestled amongst the Cottonwoods, and herds of bison grazing on the plains. These were their lands. Several years before Little Big Horn, General Custer led a surprise attack on a Cheyenne encampment here, the Battle of the Wachita River. Historians describe the attack by Custer's troops as a massacre, an unprovoked ambush of a peaceful band en route to their reservation. Most of the Cheyenne were killed including their leader, Black Kettle; his wife was shot in the back while fleeing. These grasslands were named for Chief Black Kettle. I'm driving slowly, barely chugging along in 3rd gear, when I see markers for the Wachita Battlefield Historic Site. I park and study the information board for a moment. There's a visitor's center, with organized tours, and lectures. Not really my thing, so I randomly wander around alone, down a primitive hiking path that takes me to the river. Approaching, I see a Native American family standing at the river's edge. They're a nice looking family, mother and dad and three well dressed kids. No native garb; they're wearing good old American clothes, and the kids look as though they could be models for The Gap. They're very still, the five of them holding hands, and they appear to be praying. I feel like an intruder so I stop, observe a moment of silence, turn and quietly leave. If there are spirits, as the Indians believed, I'm sure they're right here.​

Not far past the grasslands, US 283 intersects State Highway 33. I've not been here before, but my map says it's a paved two lane road, and it leads West. Good enough for me, and that's the direction we need to travel next, so I make the left turn and begin following SH 33 as it parallels the river. Studying the map, I didn't see a direct path to Spearman, which is probably fortuitous. I need to take advantage of this time. Zig-zagging across the panhandle and being contemplative, maybe I'll have an epiphany. I can only hope so, because I sure don't know what I'm doing here.​

This little road, SH 33, leads about 40 miles West to an intersection with US 83. There I'll turn North again, and it's only 10 more miles to Canadian, Texas. These are the Texas High Plains, almost 4,000 feet above sea level. Except for Palo Duro Canyon, Texas panhandle topography is pretty much the same, flat grassy prairie lands, with occasional red slate hills. There isn't much in the way of native vegetation. You don't see many wild flowers, and no towering trees or lush forests. What you do see is windmills, farms and ranches, cacti and scrubby Mesquite trees, tumbleweeds, and miles and miles of cultivated fields. Everyone has heard the old saw about beauty being in the eye of the beholder. That's nowhere more true than here on the High Plains. Some have described the countryside as stark, barren, monotonous, even ugly. I spent my formative years in Amarillo, at least some of them, and I've never bought into those characterizations. I find these lands majestic, even starkly beautiful. Watching the scenery, time passes quickly and before I know it, here's US 183. I turn right, following the arrows pointing toward Canadian. It's nearing 3 PM and I remember that I haven't eaten all day.​

So here comes Canadian. I went to school with people from this area but can't recall ever being here. If Patsy and I had come through Canadian, I doubt I'd remember. I know it's called "The Oasis of the Texas Panhandle" because it sits in the verdant Canadian River valley. I also know it's the Hemphill County Seat and has a population around 2,200, because I just read all about it on the chamber of commerce billboard. Driving through town I spot City Drug. It's in a weathered brick building with a window sign advertising old fashioned milk shakes and deli sandwiches. I need to be settled in before dark and don't know where I'm staying so I can't waste time on a sit down meal. I dash in, order a strawberry shake and a smoked turkey sandwich, and hit the road again. It's an outstanding overstuffed sandwich, and the shake is made from hand dipped Bluebell Ice Cream. I can't even remember the last time I had a real milkshake. The things you can find in small towns.​

Only 60 more miles to Spearman. Barely more than an hour and I'm there. The obvious question is why? Is it closure I'm after? I hope not, because I don't believe there's such a thing as closure. The notion that you can take something that's eaten away at you most of your adult life, experience some kind of catharsis and leave it behind strikes me as ludicrous. I don't buy it. But here's another thought. Since the storm in Clinton, I've had this eerie feeling that an invisible hand is steering me toward Spearman. If that's true, I'll be provided with the reason once I'm there. I consider the very real possibility that I'm taking this Twilight Zone nonsense too seriously, but I'm on final approach now and determined to play this out.​

I leave Canadian slurping on my shake, still traveling North on US 83. After half an hour, the shake and sandwich are gone and I turn West on Ranch Road 759. Since leaving the Black Kettle grasslands the temp has started dipping, and outside Canadian I begin seeing snow. Not fresh snow, but there's accumulations on the ground along the roadside and drifts are visible in the fields that border the road. Thirty miles to go and I start formulating a plan. I need to get my bearings and find a place to sleep. Tomorrow I'd like to talk with Patsy's parents, and visit the cemetery. It's just after four as I ease the Turtle into Spearman, running on fumes. The only gas station I see is an Alsup's convenience store ahead, 3 banks of fuel pumps and several trucks parked outside. This is good, because I need more than gas. I need information. I assume Spearman is large enough to have motels and I'm sure everyone knows where the cemetery is located.​

There's a large woman about Nettie's age manning the register, and a line of weary looking men buying beer and smokeless tobacco, and lottery tickets. I wait and after they leave, I buy bottled water and several energy bars. And I ask my questions.​

Me: "I wonder if you could help me out? I have a couple of questions."
Her: "I'll try. What kind of questions?"
Me: "I was wondering where I could find the motels."
Her: "There's only one motel. The Nursanickle, over on 207."​

No way. I can't see me staying in anything called Nursanickel. I have a backpacking tent and a zero degree bag bungeed to the roll bar. This might be a good time to break 'em out.​

Me: "And what about campgrounds? Anything nearby?"
Her: "Up at Lake Palo Duro. It's about 10 miles North. You cain't miss it. Foller the signs."
Me: "And the cemetery, are there more than one?"
Her: "Jest one, Hansford County. Go out 207 and it's right outside town."
Her: "What do you need from the cemetery? There won't be nobody there"
Me: "I want to find the grave of a friend. And I'd like to visit her parents. Do you know the Kingsley family?"
Her: "Lord yes. Known 'em for years."
Me: "Patsy, did you know her?"
Her: "Everybody knew Patsy. That girl could sing like an angel. Terrible what happened to her."
Me: "Could you tell me how to get to her parent's farm? I haven't been here for years?"
Her: "Oh Honey, they're gone. Evelyn passed a few years after Patsy, and then Mister Kingsley. They're out there with Patsy. All right there together."
Me: "Thanks. I appreciate the help."​

As I'm leaving....​

Her: "I wouldn't do no camping. It's gonna be real cold tonite."​

I trust my cold weather gear, and sleeping outside sounds good in spite of the weather. I follow the signs and ten miles north of Spearman I find Lake Palo Duro. At it's entrance there's a self pay station. $2 entry fee plus $4 to camp. I stuff six bucks into a deposit envelope, then drive around looking for a place to pitch my tent. There's a good bit of snow on the ground but I find a bare spot on high ground near the lake. It's isolated and I can't tell if it's a designated camp site, but there's a rutted trail leading there and The Turtle takes it with ease. 5:30 and the sun is beginning to drop. I walk down to the lake and sit on a rock, watch the sunset, and think about serendipity again. Thirty five years ago Patsy and I came to Spearman in an FJ40. Here I am again, another 40, and tomorrow The Turtle will take me to her grave.​

....to be continued

​

 

[waiting for time]

Thank you for sharing.
And if you decide to write the book, I will buy it for shure.

 

[Chamba]

Having driven many miles in a 40 through many snow storms, I can say that I greatly appreciate your tech tips on how best to do this with a co-ed. This may be the first Mud thread which my wife has allowed me to read to her.... I'm really enjoying this.

Cheers,

Josh

 

[Sea Knight]

Catching Up

So far so good, Commander. Your memory and memories are amazing. I had a grandmother named Nettie. Glad that Viet Nam was only something I watched on the nightly news back then.
Keep on truckin'.

Thanks Steve. Nothing wrong with the old memory, but I'm also cheatin' a bit. I still have most of the emails documenting this road trip, and some notes that I started taking after it got interesting. You'd better get ready because you're only a couple of chapters ahead. And I have pictures.

Re Viet Nam, I'm proud to have served but trust me, you didn't miss a thing.

... So far we've got electrical tech, upholstery work, and I can sense some clutch tech coming up.

You are correct. Soon we'll have clutch tech, duck tape tech, and possibly toss in some windshield wiper tech.

Dang.....I didn't see that coming!

Neither did I.

Commander, as you know there are literally thousands of potential routes from Austin to Seattle and beyond. The driver at the wheel is in control and I must say you have all of us stuffed in the back, some are riding on duffles and others sharing space on one of the rickety jump seats, our heads rocking and swaying to the impact of each pothole and expansion joint that the drivers course delivers. Should the Turtle stumble or the driver need a break we will all pile out of the back and lend a hand. Carry on.

Kelly, I'm honored to have everyone along for the ride. Had it not been for several of you great folks, this road trip would never have occurred. Besides, what's the point of an adventure if you can't share it with your friends.

And if you decide to write the book, I will buy it for shure.

Don't be planting any ideas. But now that you mention it, I do have plenty of material.



I appreciate all the positive comments. I also appreciate everyone allowing me to work through the Spearman detour chapter. I understand that it was way out of line for the tech forum, but it was part of the journey and I needed to get it out even if it was never posted. After I write the end of that chapter we'll be back to the fun stuff--Cruisers, road music, girls and beer.

Lee

 

[yooper]

and naked pool ladies.

The story wouldn't be complete without the Spearman chapter.

 

[wesintl]

s***, I don't care if there is any tech.. good story and a 40 on a road trip...the open road. Spearman's the best part so far.

Thanks for sharing

 

[overhanger]

and naked pool ladies.

The story wouldn't be complete without the Spearman chapter.

Yeah, something about Uncle Meldon's neighbor's pool lady, Lupe? That's the chapter the movie should open with. Warm moist air, ferns and palm trees everywhere, waves gently lapping at the pool's edges, you feel like taking your clothes off....

Geez, January in Denver sucks.

Drive on Commander

 

[Brownboy]

I'm a long-time lurker on this forum currently on a hunt for a 40, but felt obligated to express my gratitude for posting this as this is the first thread on a car forum that has caused me "dust in eye" syndrome. Weird thing is I just drove back from Austin with the number to a 40 I saw sitting down the street from the Hula Hut.

 

[coleman2347]

Darn this makes you think

Commander,
This thing has everything, smiles, memories, tears...oh and tech. I haven't read much lately that reminded me of some of my life, some good and some bad...the writing is outstanding ( never knew Squids could write good, somehow always pictured them with a crayon), but dang you nailed it. Keep it up, and your correct, if you were not there you didn't miss nothing, except maybe the camaraderie which last a lifetime. Most of us fought for each other and nothing else, truth be told...Semper Fi....Lee 4/67-10/70

 

[1911]

Great story cousin, keep on a goin'.

 

[Sea Knight]

Yeah...Uncle Meldon's neighbor's pool lady, Lupe? That's the chapter the movie should open with. Warm moist air, ferns and palm trees everywhere, waves gently lapping at the pool....

What the hell? You met her too?

Actually her name wasn't Lupe, she was Uncle Meldon's gardener, and she WAS the neighbor. But that's several chapters ahead.

...never knew Squids could write good, somehow always pictured them with a crayon...

You're not far off.

Most of us fought for each other and nothing else, truth be told...Semper Fi....Lee 4/67-10/70

11/68-5/70 here. Heck, I may have even pulled you out of the bush. Back at ya.

Great story cousin, keep on a goin'.

Thanks cuz. I may have to think of a way to insert the great "1911" ice storm rescue anecdote in here somehow. I'll think on it.

 

[fireflyr]

Dang, even the comments rock! BTT

 

[coleman2347]

(If the wings are traveling faster than the fuselage, it's probably a helicopter, and therefore, unsafe)
"yes you can fly faster than sound and turn upside down, and you can hover, land in my driveway and shake, but I,my son, can get up, take a piss, grab a cup of coffee and read the latest edition of Penthouse"
Capt.Pete Donato KC130driver...BA09 1984

Lee thought you would appreciate this..Lee

 

[srplus]

Worst part of the story is getting to the line that says:

....to be continued

 

[Sea Knight]

Spearman--The Final Chapter

“For he had learned some of the things that every man must find out for himself, and he had found out about them as one has to find out --through error and through trial, through fantasy and illusion, through falsehood and his own foolishness, through being mistaken and wrong and an idiot and egotistical and aspiring and hopeful and believing and confused.” ​

― Thomas Wolfe, You Can't Go Home AgainYou Can't Go Home Again​

I'm awake before the sun. It's a crisp morning, an icy wind coming off the lake, ripping across the little knoll where I'm camped, rustling the tent. I'm warm, and not inclined to emerge just yet. At first light I peek out from the rain fly and see the silhouettes of two deer standing beside The Turtle, doe and fawn, using it's body as a wind break. There's heavy frost on the windshield but no sign of fresh snow, and only a few clouds in the sky. I'm making smoke with my breath, and from the frost I'm guessing the temperature must be in the 20's. Hearing me, the deer bolt. I crawl out, stretch, and as I break down the tent a soft rain begins to fall. I climb into The Turtle, wrap myself in the sleeping bag, and watch. Unlike the Clinton storm, this is one of those gentle morning showers that leaves everything smelling fresh. A cleansing rain. No reason to hurry away; I'm enjoying the solitude. From the truck I can see Lake Palo Duro throwing up choppy little waves and an occasional whitecap, several more deer at water's edge. And no sound but the rain.​

An epiphany, a moment of revelation. There's something you don't understand, no matter how much you labor over it, and then suddenly you do. Pieces come together, and you have insight that wasn't there before. It's what we all hope for. The Hollywood version would feature claps of thunder and lightning bolts, smoke and an apparition. Mine wasn't that dramatic or that swift. Sitting in the old FJ40 on that knoll outside Spearman, watching the rain, I began to think of youthful dreams and innocence lost, of things that worked out and those that didn't. I thought of Mike Dewlen and Gary Milton, and Nettie's son, and the Native American family praying at the Wachita river, and Patsy. They were all connected, and it wasn't as complicated as I'd tried to make it. I'm seeking peace. And I need to say goodbye.​

The showers ease, and I crave hot coffee. Whatever shortcomings exist in an FJ40, the heater isn't one of them. By the time we navigate the ten miles back to town, The Turtle is blowing hot air on my feet, and there's Alsup's, all lit up and already doing business. There's a different clerk at the register, a younger lady who looks like she'd rather be anywhere else. She sells me a 20 ounce coffee, hot and strong, not half bad, and makes a half hearted attempt to sell me breakfast tacos. I pass on the tacos and ask for directions to the cemetery; she say's it's six miles due West and I'll see it on my right, on the high side of the road.​

I know cemeteries well. In the early 1970's I had a brief assignment at Fort Myer, Virginia. My office overlooked Arlington National Cemetery and I'd often pass up lunch and walk among the graves of the famous and not-so-famous. General Pershing is there, Audie Murphy and Pappy Boyington, President Kennedy and boxing champ Joe Lewis, and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Thousands of fallen brothers. Over the years I've visited cemeteries in Dublin and Adelaide, Manassas and Vicksburg, all different yet all having the same feel. For those at rest, whatever their journey, they've found peace. My sister is buried in a small country cemetery in Piedmont, Oklahoma, in a pastoral setting amid a patchwork of small farms and rolling green pastures. I've taken my parents there many times and each time I'm drawn to the grave marker of a teenage girl, bearing the simple inscription: "And Now She Sleeps." I hold that thought as I drive West.​

The directions were spot on and minutes outside town, to my right I see an asphalt drive leading to a gated entry. Low red brick walls on either side, a simple iron arch over the drive and atop the arch, Hansford Cemetery, 1890, a small cross in the center. It's not yet 7 AM and the gates are open; as I enter I think that they're probably always open. Through the gates, the road leads uphill. Ahead and to the left are several evergreens and to the right, bordering the drive, a long row of leafless trees, silent sentinels. I don't see an office or a directory so I park The Turtle and begin walking. Thirty minutes and I find her, atop a snow covered hill, beside her parents. A plain marker.​

Patricia Marie Kingsley
Beloved Daughter
June 25, 1947 -- September 21, 1976​

This seems a time when I should say something eloquent, or important but I don't have the words, and knowing Patsy, I don't think she'd mind. I stand there in silence for what seems an eternity, hands in pockets, waiting for an inspiration. Nothing comes, and finally, I offer a clumsy apology. I continue standing there and shortly the sun begins to break through. Then I recall these lines.​

And He will raise you up on eagle's wings,
Bear you on the breath of dawn,
Make you to shine like the sun,
And hold you in the palm of His Hand. ​

And there she is, shining like the sun. I say a prayer. I ask for wisdom. I pray for peace. I tell Patsy goodbye.

 

[myquestoyota]

As usual, my first visits these days are to your thread and always hope for a new chapter. Just wanted you to know once again that we appreciate it and want to say; Write On Commander, write on!

 

[Sea Knight]

Don't go leaving out the parts about the co-ed in Colorado...

Tucker

That was New Mexico, but whatever....Comin' up next

 

[davegonz]

Keep going Lee. I read a couple of your entries to Mateo (11). He had a big grin and said he liked the story about Ken and Barbie.