myquestoyota
SILVER Star
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Saving The Old Rustbucket--My 1982 FJ40 Tale
- Thread starter Sea Knight
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Fixed it
- Thread starter
- #1,363
Yep, I'm Still Kickin'
Hey Gentlemen, thanks for the PM's. Fear not, I'm still here, and the rustbucket tale is far from over. Just trying to deal with some medical issues and haven't felt up to writing. Hope to be back in the groove soon.
Carry on,
Lee
Hey Gentlemen, thanks for the PM's. Fear not, I'm still here, and the rustbucket tale is far from over. Just trying to deal with some medical issues and haven't felt up to writing. Hope to be back in the groove soon.
Carry on,
Lee
Good to know is all well commander I'm still patently waiting
Vae Victus
Posting more than I know
Yep, we are all still here. Nothing to do but wait.
Seriously, feel better. Go take a long drive in your 40, maybe that'll help. Warm weather, flowers, girls in skirts....
Seriously, feel better. Go take a long drive in your 40, maybe that'll help. Warm weather, flowers, girls in skirts....
Sorry to hear about the medical issues, Lee. Like everybody else, I'm excited for the tale to continue but health is more important!
Get yourself healthy first Lee!
The story can wait, though I have to admit Im pretty excited for another chapter.
The story can wait, though I have to admit Im pretty excited for another chapter.
My71FJ40
SILVER Star
LandBruiser69
It feels good to be lost in the right direction.
LOVE THIS!!!!
Vae Victus
Posting more than I know
Hey Gentlemen, thanks for the PM's. Fear not, I'm still here, and the rustbucket tale is far from over. Just trying to deal with some medical issues and haven't felt up to writing. Hope to be back in the groove soon.
Carry on,
Lee
Give us a quick update Lee. How are you?
still patiently waiting for the next amazing chapter to the best "book" i believe ive ever read. hope all is well commander. need to stock up on some good ol moose drool. did i tell you your the reason i even tried it in the first place? great beer, even better story. currently sittin in the back of the turtle enjoying every mile marker from the begining to the end. get well soon my friend.
-Shawn
-Shawn
It's taken me several days to read through this thread. Sea Knight, while your writing trumps all, the comments left by others have largely only enriched this storytelling. This is incredible. Since reading I've experience the following:
I've noticed that in the writing you always speak from the perspective of "we" or "us". I'm not sure if you just mean yourself and the 40, but your writing style has me believing I'm part of the "we". Thanks for that.
Regards,
Joel
- Purchased Townes Van Zandt's "Live At the Old Quarter" album… amazing!
- Doubled-down on the search for the FJ40/45 of my dreams
- Reminiscing on the life of my late grandfather, Vern Frazier. A member of our greatest generation. He fought in the Battle of the Bulge and left behind a wife, four children, eight grandchildren, and 2 great-grandchildren. He'd have gotten along well with Army.
- Pondered my love and admiration for my own father and all the love of cars he fostered in me.
I've noticed that in the writing you always speak from the perspective of "we" or "us". I'm not sure if you just mean yourself and the 40, but your writing style has me believing I'm part of the "we". Thanks for that.
Regards,
Joel
- Thread starter
- #1,373
Catching Up
Thanks for your concern Gentlemen. I sustained some head injuries when I rolled the rustbucket a couple of years ago. Concussion, brain bleed, broken jaw and lost a couple of teeth, but nothing life threatening. I'm OK now, just feel wonky some of the time, and after a couple of false starts, the doc is still trying to rebuild my jaw. When they're finished I'll have the equivalent of a mini-Birfield holding my mandible together, better than new, so no worries. Just a temporary inconvenience.
Appreciate the compliments Shawn, yours and all the others. Yeah, Moose Drool rocks, and every sip brings back memories of the epic road trip. Fortunately it's available in Texas now. We're heading for 90 degrees and sunny skies this afternoon. I may have to go out and find a 6-pack, for medicinal purposes only of course.
I agree, MUD comments enrich this tale and make it more interesting, and more personal. I think that's the reason the thread has lasted so long, because everyone can identify some piece of their own life in here somewhere.
To your question about the use of "we" and "us", I'd say you have it figured out. About the time I rescued the turtle from the middle of the highway, and I'm talking about the actual turtle and not the 40, I started thinking of the truck as my partner in adventure, an old chunk of iron with a personality and a soul. At that point it became "we" and "us" rather than "I" and "me." Obviously I wouldn't have made the drive if not for the truck and let's face it, the central character in this tale isn't me, it's the old Land Cruiser. A few chapters later someone, I think possibly Kelly, commented that he felt as though we were all crammed into the back of The Turtle, experiencing the ride together. I like that image, and I'd like to think that's what's happening here, that all of you are rattling down the road with me, feeling every bump and pothole, meeting every colorful character, and experiencing every emotion along with me. As long as that's happening, I'm doing something right.
I do have another chapter, finished early this morning. At first pass it looks too long and probably needs editing, but I think I'll just post it now and edit later. It's not perfect, but you'll get the gist, and it'll get us out of Butte and back on the open road.
Comin' right up.
Cheers,
Lee
Thanks for your concern Gentlemen. I sustained some head injuries when I rolled the rustbucket a couple of years ago. Concussion, brain bleed, broken jaw and lost a couple of teeth, but nothing life threatening. I'm OK now, just feel wonky some of the time, and after a couple of false starts, the doc is still trying to rebuild my jaw. When they're finished I'll have the equivalent of a mini-Birfield holding my mandible together, better than new, so no worries. Just a temporary inconvenience.
Appreciate the compliments Shawn, yours and all the others. Yeah, Moose Drool rocks, and every sip brings back memories of the epic road trip. Fortunately it's available in Texas now. We're heading for 90 degrees and sunny skies this afternoon. I may have to go out and find a 6-pack, for medicinal purposes only of course.
I agree, MUD comments enrich this tale and make it more interesting, and more personal. I think that's the reason the thread has lasted so long, because everyone can identify some piece of their own life in here somewhere.
To your question about the use of "we" and "us", I'd say you have it figured out. About the time I rescued the turtle from the middle of the highway, and I'm talking about the actual turtle and not the 40, I started thinking of the truck as my partner in adventure, an old chunk of iron with a personality and a soul. At that point it became "we" and "us" rather than "I" and "me." Obviously I wouldn't have made the drive if not for the truck and let's face it, the central character in this tale isn't me, it's the old Land Cruiser. A few chapters later someone, I think possibly Kelly, commented that he felt as though we were all crammed into the back of The Turtle, experiencing the ride together. I like that image, and I'd like to think that's what's happening here, that all of you are rattling down the road with me, feeling every bump and pothole, meeting every colorful character, and experiencing every emotion along with me. As long as that's happening, I'm doing something right.
I do have another chapter, finished early this morning. At first pass it looks too long and probably needs editing, but I think I'll just post it now and edit later. It's not perfect, but you'll get the gist, and it'll get us out of Butte and back on the open road.
Comin' right up.
Cheers,
Lee
Last edited:
Great to hear all is well looking forward to the engine roaring back to life on this road trip
- Thread starter
- #1,375
Butte--Part 6: Payin' It Forward
"You have stumbled on in darkness, you have been pulled in opposite directions, you have faltered, you have missed the way, but, child, this is the chronicle of the earth...we who have been maddened by the unknowable and bitter mystery of love, we who have hungered after fame and savored all of life, the tumult, pain, and frenzy, and now sit quietly by our windows watching all that henceforth never again shall touch us - we call upon you to take heart, for we can swear to you that these things pass.” --Thomas Wolfe, You Can't Go Home Again--Thomas Wolfe, You Can't Go Home Again
"In the order of nature we cannot render benefits to those from whom we receive them, or only seldom. But the benefit we receive must be rendered again, line for line, deed for deed, cent for cent, to somebody." --Ralph Waldo Emerson
Johnny wants me to know that he was an average kid, probably not so different from me. He bagged groceries at Safeway after school to save money for his prized Chevelle, had a steady girlfriend named Alice and a black lab named Fred. At Butte high he wrestled and played baseball. He didn't care much for school, not the books and studying part, but in his senior year he took a welding course that caught his interest. His instructor said he had a knack, a real talent, and after graduation he landed a cherry job as an apprentice welder. Pay was good, and before long he was talking marriage with Alice. Then came the draft notice; he wasn't quite nineteen. I already know the rest of this story, or enough of it, and it's not the direction I want to take, so I try to steer the conversation toward something upbeat. I ask what he does with his time, other than bumming spare change and spinning yarns in front of the M&M bar. I'm joking, but it's a fail. He's offended.
Johnny: "Bull*hit. I don't ask those people for nothing, except a drink or two. Or a cigarette."
Me: "Sorry. I was kidding."
Johnny: "Yeah, well it wasn't funny."
Me: "So what do you do with your time?"
Johnny: "Help my Mama keep up the house. Watch a lot of TV, mainly old movies. I don't like the new stuff. All special effects and no story, ya know."
Me: "Yeah."
Johnny: "One of our neighbors works for the cable company. I guess he feels sorry for us, 'cause he hooked us up for free. We get about two hundred channels so there's always something on. We can't get out much in the winter, Mama and me, so it's good to have cable."
Me: "That's good."
Johnny: "And I hang out at the library. It's a nice quiet place and it don't cost anything. I'm what they call a voracious reader."
Me: "What do you read?"
Johnny: "Fiction mostly. Hemingway. Everything by Kerouac, some of it two or three times. Old Zane Gray westerns. I tried to read Faulkner but I don't really get him. Not much modern, but I like Elmore Leonard. Lately I've been into Cormac McCarthy...the man can flat write.There's a guy named Tim O'Brien, wrote a book called 'The Things They Carried.' It's about grunts like me. Read it several times. Once a grunt, always a grunt. And sometimes I'll go for the Bible."
So Johnny is a closet literary scholar. Who'd have guessed.
Me: "That's an impressive list."
Johnny: "I guess. I call it 'Johnny's self improvement program.' "
Me: "And sports? You watch football? Basketball?"
Johnny: "Nah, just baseball. America's pastime. It's the only complete sport.The other ones bore me."
Me: "I don't follow baseball. What do you mean?"
Johnny: "Takes more different skills than any other sport. In my opinion anyway. You gotta have great reflexes, coordination, strength, speed, and most important, it's a mind game. Like chess, but physical. I played a little myself, ya know."
Me: "Yeah, you mentioned that. Were you any good?"
He looks wistful, glances down at his arm...
Johnny: "Yeah, I guess I was. Made all conference shortstop, second team. Won a Golden Glove trophy. Coach thought I might be good enough to play semi-pro ball, but it didn't work out...hell, nuthin' worked out.You ever see On The Waterfront, with Marlon Brando? From the 50's?"
Me: "Yeah, years ago. Why?"
Johnny: "There's a scene where Brando is talking to somebody, I think it was his brother, and he says 'You don't understand. I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am, let's face it.' I watch that and I think, hey, that's me. I coulda been somebody, not famous or anything, but I think I coulda played some ball. I know I'd have a family and kids, like a regular person. Instead of what I am, which is worthless."
Me: "Come on, I barely know you and I know you aren't worthless."
Johnny: "Uh huh, sure. Like you said, I hang out in front of a bar and tell stories to tourists. That's what most folks would call worthless."
Me: "You're the man in control. You could change that."
Johnny: "How? I can't do physical work. I got no education. I can't do nothin' but what I already do."
Me: "Two ideas off the top of my head. You could volunteer at retirement homes, maybe a veteran's hospital if there's one in Butte. You could read to people who can't read for themselves. And you could coach little league baseball."
Johnny: "You think I could coach?"
Me: "If you were as good as you say, sure; you have a lot to offer. I know you could read to disabled vets, and the elderly. You might even meet someone who knew your Dad. You'll never find anyone more appreciative, and those people have a lot to give back. You'd find it rewarding. Maybe even inspiring."
Johnny: "I dunno man. I'll think about it. We should go. I'm gone too long and Mama worries. Say, could you drop me off at home? It's only a couple of blocks off Main."
He asks me to go slowly and The Turtle is happy to oblige, creeping down Granite Mountain in 2nd until finally we take a sharp right onto Copper Street, then wind our way through a neighborhood of old frame houses, some immaculate, others showing their age, probably unchanged since the 1920's. Johnny is unusually quiet and I wonder if he's thinking about coaching kids baseball, or still lost somewhere in time. I follow his directions until he tells me to pull over in front of a little white Craftsman bungalow. There's a tiny front yard, a wide porch across the front bordered by well manicured flower beds, and an unpaved driveway beside the house leading to a ramshackle single garage in back. I see an old gray Chevy in the driveway, and there's a lady standing in the front yard. "There's Mama," he says. "Come on, I'll introduce you."
Not that I ever had much of a plan to begin with, but this definitely wasn't part of it. With Johnny in better spirits and home safely, I thought I'd do a rolling stop, he'd hop out, and I'd be on my way. But there's his mother, at first looking puzzled by the strange green truck at the curb, then smiling broadly when she recognizes her son in the passenger seat. And now she's approaching. I suppose I could have paid my respects and driven off, but I couldn't move. I blink several times to be sure I'm not hallucinating and sure enough, I'm not. She's a dead ringer for my Mom.
She's thin, small and stooped, wearing an old sweater over a long dress, blue KEDS tennis shoes, and holding a pair of scissors in one hand, ordinary household scissors. The dress is faded and looks as though it may be home made, a sensible work dress, and there's a scarf tied around her hair, white hair, not gray or silver, but brilliant snowy white. As she nears the truck, underneath her sweater I can see a dowager's hump, but it's her face that draws my attention. She must be late 70's but her face is unlined except for smile wrinkles framing her mouth and eyes, clear blue eyes, young eyes. It's a kind face. She reaches through the passenger window and pats Johnny on the arm, quietly mouths "I was worried about you," then walks around The Turtle, extends her hand and says " I don't believe we've met. I'm Johnny's Mother. Please call me Ruth." She notices the scissors in her hand and explains. "Johnny planted some Iris bulbs for me last summer. I was just tidying up my garden. If mother nature cooperates we should start seeing blooms next month. Can I offer you some coffee? There's a fresh pot in the kitchen."
Johnny looks uncomfortable. He reaches behind the seat and retrieves the bag of leftovers, says "Mama, we ate breakfast at the M&M. I brought you some ham steak and biscuits. I'll put them in the refrigerator." Before she can answer, he's out of the truck and halfway down the sidewalk. Ruth watches until he's out of hearing range, then asks "How is he today? He's been gone since early this morning. I was worried." Suddenly I get it. She doesn't realize that we just met. She thinks I know him, and I guess I do, probably as well as anyone does.
Me: "He's good. We just met this morning, at breakfast. He gave me a guided tour of Butte."
Ruth: "Oh, so you're not from Butte."
Me: "No Ma'am. I'm from Texas, just driving through on my way to Seattle. I'm delivering this truck for a friend."
Ruth: "Well you're a long way from home, but your trip sounds wonderful. This is beautiful country, much to see."
Me: "Yes Ma'am there is."
Ruth: "Do you know a lot about cars? Are you a mechanic?"
Me: "No Ma'am, I'm not a mechanic. I just tinker with old trucks. I know just enough to keep me out of trouble."
Ruth: "Well...I appreciate your giving Johnny a ride. I know he appreciates it too. He doesn't have many friends."
She looks toward the house, says "I'd better go see what he's doing," and excuses herself. Several minutes later they both emerge, Ruth carrying a big ceramic mug of steaming black coffee, a barely visible Anaconda Copper graphic on the side. She hands me the mug and as I reach for it, I remember the last time a woman brought me coffee. It was this morning just before sunrise, at Jen's apartment in Bozeman. My mind begins drifting back to that place, to a place it shouldn't be drifting, to Jen standing on her balcony, watching as we drove away, the little wave goodbye, and then I hear Ruth saying "I hope you take it black. We're out of cream and sugar. I haven't been able to get to the store for a while." She makes a subtle little eye motion toward the Chevy in the driveway. It's something my Mom would do, a gentle hint, and I get it. I slurp some coffee, feel a caffeine jolt, and climb out of The Turtle to get a closer look at her car. It's a plain looking old Bel Air, probably late 70's vintage, a battleship gray four door sedan with badly oxidized paint, steel wheels with little chrome hubcaps, and sporting a couple of bumper stickers. One of them is illegible, the other says something about the Catholic Women's League of Butte. There's weeds sprouting up around the tires.
Me: "What's the problem? Won't it run?"
Ruth: "It's a flat tire. I must have run over a nail. Johnny says he can change it but I don't think he can, you know, because of his arm. He's too proud to ask for help, so it's just been sitting there."
Me: "I'll change it for you. Won't take a few minutes. Johnny can help."
I know this car. My Dad's last company vehicle was a '77 Chevy Bel Air with a puny 305 V8 and a sluggish Turbo-Hydramatic tranny. It was the same industrial gray color as Ruth's car, with the same fast oxidizing paint. When Army retired in '83, he bought the car from Chevron, and it became his preferred knock around transportation, not quite a beater, but well on the way. He called it the Old Gray Mare and when it started showing its age and parts started wearing out, he'd pop the hood, shake his head, and belt out a few lines of the old folk song, "The old gray mare she ain't what she used to be..." He rarely drives now, shouldn't drive at all, but he can't bear to part with The Old Gray Mare. When I left Oklahoma City several weeks ago she was parked in the driveway, collecting dust. I've done every kind of maintenance and minor repair on this car that can be done by a two banana mechanic, and I could probably change the tire in my sleep. This should be a piece of cake.
Johnny grudgingly agrees to help and opens the trunk, exposing a long set of jumper cables, a full size spare that's seen better days, and an old school bumper jack. The jack looks like a modified Hi-Lift. There's a notched steel bar that sits on a metal base, and a lever with an integrated socket that operates the jacking mechanism and doubles as a lug wrench. The flat is on the front passenger's side, and there isn't much space between the fender and the side of the house, barely enough room for me to squeeze in.
I set the jack in place, bend over to loosen the lug nuts, and the problem with this tire is immediately evident. It's not a nail. It's old age. The tires are ancient, and they have terminal dry rot. The sidewall is badly cracked and chunks of hardened rubber are crumbling away from the tire body, exposing the belts. There's no way it's repairable. I take a quick look at the other tires. The driver's side front is in the same condition, but not completely gone. Both rear tires appear to be newer and in decent shape.
I decide to mount the spare and see where that gets me. Hopefully it's aired up. The lug nuts feel like they were attached with Loctite and I have to stand on the wrench handle and bounce up and down in order to break them free. Johnny and his Mom combined couldn't possibly have gotten these nuts to budge. I have the spare mounted in minutes and fortunately it seems to be only half flat. The car should be drivable, but just barely. So I'm thinking to myself, would I want my frail 82 year old mother to drive this car, on these tires, even to the corner grocery store? Hell no I wouldn't. I ask when the car was last driven. Ruth says she thinks maybe it was a couple of weeks ago. Johnny says "No Mama, it's been more like a couple of months," and the weeds growing up from under the fender wells tell me that he's probably closer to being correct. I suggest that we start her up. Johnny tries to turn the engine over and of course, nothing happens. Dead battery.
This is a job for The Turtle and the trusty 8274. I pull into the driveway, spool out the winch cable, crab under the Chevy, loop a snatch strap around the axle, and attach the hook. I ask Johnny to get behind the wheel and put the transmission in neutral, and make sure the wheels stay straight while we winch the car away from the house and down the driveway. Now we're gettin' somewhere, and we have room to work. I open both hoods, run their jumper cables from The Turtle's secondary battery to the Chevy, and tell Johnny to fire it up. He tries again and this time there's cranking, but no combustion. I check the fuel gauge and it reads almost empty. What little gas is left in the tank is probably bad, and I'm certain that after sitting for weeks there's no gas in the bowl, so on to step two. I know very little about carbs, but I know about priming and I happen to have a five gallon Jerry can full of cheap Oklahoma gas in the carrier behind The Turtle. I remove the air cleaner lid, pour some gas into the little Rochester, tell Johnny to try cranking again, and the old V-8 comes to life. More or less. The old girl is belching and shuddering and an impressive plume of smoke is billowing out her tail pipe, but she's running.
I pour the remainder of the Jerry can gas into the tank and the idle gradually goes from rough to almost smooth. So what now? I tell Ruth and Johnny that I'd like to take her out for a short road test, and air up the tires. Johnny asks if he can come along and I say I'd prefer that he stay and stand guard over The Turtle. I tell them that all my gear is inside, and I can't lock the truck. I must have built some degree of trust, because I get no argument from either of them. I park the truck on the street, back the Chevy out, and limp back to RD's Travel Stop. I know the old timer I met this morning won't be there, but some other locals will be, and pulling in to the pumps I see a half dozen trucks parked in front of the store. I go inside and buy a two dollar bottle of carb cleaner, pour it in, and fill the tank. I pick out a middle aged guy at the next pump filling his pickup, make sure he has a Montana license plate, and walk over to get a recommendation. I ask if he knows of a place I can buy used tires. He looks at the Chevy's half flat tires, back at me, and says "You drove that here, like that?" He looks at me like I'm the village idiot and shakes his head. I can see that I'm developing a reputation here at RD's. He tells me the best possibility will probably be Lisac's Tire, on Yale, and gives me directions. It's only a couple of miles away. As I pull away from the pump I see him talking to another guy and pointing at me. He doesn't think I'll make it, and I'm not all that confident myself.
Karma has things under control because I make it to Lisac's, and the first thing I see is a rolling rack of odd tires in front of the store with a sign: "Used Tires, $20 and Up." There's another big stack of tires, also used, just outside the door. Plenty to choose from, and there's a half dozen service bays, most of them empty. This is good. I enter the store and the first person who offers to help is a pleasant looking forty-something guy with a name tag that says he's Mel, the assistant manager. I ask if he has any used tires that fit the Chevy. He checks his computer for size, 215/75-15, and starts telling me about their tire specials. I say again that I just need a couple of good used tires. He says he doesn't know what he has, used tires aren't listed in his computer inventory, we'll have to go outside and look. He plunders through the stack and quickly uncovers a couple of newish looking P225/75-15 Coopers.
Me: "Those will work. How much?"
Mel: "$40."
Me: "For both?"
Mel: "Are you kidding? No, each. Plus mount and balance."
Me: "Come on, those are take-offs. I can buy new tires at Walmart for $50, with a warranty."
He isn't pleased.
Mel: "Then why don't you just get in your car and go over to Walmart?"
Hmmm, bad move on my part, a dumb move. I need to do some quick damage control, back off and try a different approach.
Me: "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound like an ass. This car belongs to an elderly lady from my church. She doesn't have much money. I'm just trying to help her out."
All right, so it was a lie. But it was a lie with good intentions, actually only half a lie, so I rationalize that it's only a minor sin, that I won't be struck by lightning. He walks over to the Chevy and looks at the front tires, walks around the car and sees the Catholic Women's League sticker. He crosses his arms, circles the car again. He's thinking...maybe he's thinking about his mother, or his grandmother.
Mel: "How much can she afford?"
Me: "Not much. $40 for both, mounted and balanced, and that's stretchin' it."
Mel: "All right, I'll do it, but cash, no credit cards."
Me: "Done. You don't look busy. Can you mount them now, while I wait? Blackwalls out."
Mel sighs, says "I guess we can. Gimme your keys."
Twenty minutes later and I'm out of there, semi-new Coopers on the front, and the old girl is almost purring. I find my way back to Ruth's house, pull into the driveway and park in the same spot alongside the house. Ruth is sitting in a chair on the porch, Johnny's in the street, leaning on the 40's front bumper, holding court, talking to a couple of teenage kids. I get out of the Chevy and hear him saying "Yeah, we had to pull it out of the driveway with this winch...and then jump start it...." I walk to the porch and hand the keys to Ruth.
Ruth: "Is everything all right? You were gone a long time. We were getting worried."
Me: "Yeah, everything is fine. I wanted to be sure the tires would hold air, so I drove around for a while. I think you're good to go."
Ruth: "Thank you so much. I never imagined this would take so much of your time. Will you stay and have supper with us?"
Me: "No Ma'am, I really can't stay. I have to deliver this truck to Seattle by Wednesday, and I should be halfway to Spokane by now. I appreciate the offer, but I'm gonna have to get on the road."
I turn to go but haven't quite reached the steps when she stands, says "Wait," and extends her arms, motioning me back. She meets me halfway across the porch and gives me a hug, a warm motherly hug, and whispers "God bless you. You're welcome in our house any time." This is a little awkward, and unnerving, because I'm beginning to feel emotional about leaving. Must be fatigue. Whatever, I just need to get out of here because as Army would say, "Son, we're burnin' daylight." I walk to the truck and the teenagers have left, but Johnny is still there, sitting on the bumper,staring at the ground. I'm not good at leaving. I never know what to say, other than just "Goodbye," which always seems inadequate.
Me: "Um...Well, it was nice meeting you, and thanks for showing me the memorial."
Johnny: "I've been thinking about what you said."
Me: "Yeah?"
Johnny: "Yeah. I'm gonna give it a try. I don't know about coaching kids but I'm gonna investigate volunteering at retirement homes. Reading, like you said. I think I could do that."
Me: "I hope you do. Don't sell yourself short. You've just gotta suck it up. Get out there, and pay it forward. You won't regret it."
Johnny: "Pay what?"
Me: "Pay it forward. Go help someone. Take care of yourself and your Mom, then go help someone. Sorry, but I've really gotta go now."
I pat The Turtle on the hood, grab the roll cage and hoist myself in, fire up the mighty 2F and ease away from the curb, Johnny and Ruth standing in front of her Iris bed, waving.
To be continued....
"You have stumbled on in darkness, you have been pulled in opposite directions, you have faltered, you have missed the way, but, child, this is the chronicle of the earth...we who have been maddened by the unknowable and bitter mystery of love, we who have hungered after fame and savored all of life, the tumult, pain, and frenzy, and now sit quietly by our windows watching all that henceforth never again shall touch us - we call upon you to take heart, for we can swear to you that these things pass.” --Thomas Wolfe, You Can't Go Home Again--Thomas Wolfe, You Can't Go Home Again
"In the order of nature we cannot render benefits to those from whom we receive them, or only seldom. But the benefit we receive must be rendered again, line for line, deed for deed, cent for cent, to somebody." --Ralph Waldo Emerson
Johnny has the shakes and now I'm getting them too. It isn't just the cold. It's the wind, Montana mountain wind. Gusts are rolling down the mountain and across the plaza, buffeting us like icy sucker punches. I'm still hinting that we need to go but he's indifferent to the weather and keeps talking, and talking, and talking. It's one of those one sided conversations where he'll say something, I nod, and he goes on and on, oblivious to the elements. It could be my imagination but it looks as though his nose is beginning to turn blue. His voice is quavering so badly that I'm having trouble understanding him, but he seems determined to tell me his life story before we leave Granite Mountain, even if it means frostbite for both of us. I finally stop protesting, but as a compromise suggest that we sit inside the truck. He says nothing, turns, and starts trudging down the path toward The Turtle like the patrol point man he once was. I follow.
Johnny wants me to know that he was an average kid, probably not so different from me. He bagged groceries at Safeway after school to save money for his prized Chevelle, had a steady girlfriend named Alice and a black lab named Fred. At Butte high he wrestled and played baseball. He didn't care much for school, not the books and studying part, but in his senior year he took a welding course that caught his interest. His instructor said he had a knack, a real talent, and after graduation he landed a cherry job as an apprentice welder. Pay was good, and before long he was talking marriage with Alice. Then came the draft notice; he wasn't quite nineteen. I already know the rest of this story, or enough of it, and it's not the direction I want to take, so I try to steer the conversation toward something upbeat. I ask what he does with his time, other than bumming spare change and spinning yarns in front of the M&M bar. I'm joking, but it's a fail. He's offended.
Johnny: "Bull*hit. I don't ask those people for nothing, except a drink or two. Or a cigarette."
Me: "Sorry. I was kidding."
Johnny: "Yeah, well it wasn't funny."
Me: "So what do you do with your time?"
Johnny: "Help my Mama keep up the house. Watch a lot of TV, mainly old movies. I don't like the new stuff. All special effects and no story, ya know."
Me: "Yeah."
Johnny: "One of our neighbors works for the cable company. I guess he feels sorry for us, 'cause he hooked us up for free. We get about two hundred channels so there's always something on. We can't get out much in the winter, Mama and me, so it's good to have cable."
Me: "That's good."
Johnny: "And I hang out at the library. It's a nice quiet place and it don't cost anything. I'm what they call a voracious reader."
Me: "What do you read?"
Johnny: "Fiction mostly. Hemingway. Everything by Kerouac, some of it two or three times. Old Zane Gray westerns. I tried to read Faulkner but I don't really get him. Not much modern, but I like Elmore Leonard. Lately I've been into Cormac McCarthy...the man can flat write.There's a guy named Tim O'Brien, wrote a book called 'The Things They Carried.' It's about grunts like me. Read it several times. Once a grunt, always a grunt. And sometimes I'll go for the Bible."
So Johnny is a closet literary scholar. Who'd have guessed.
Me: "That's an impressive list."
Johnny: "I guess. I call it 'Johnny's self improvement program.' "
Me: "And sports? You watch football? Basketball?"
Johnny: "Nah, just baseball. America's pastime. It's the only complete sport.The other ones bore me."
Me: "I don't follow baseball. What do you mean?"
Johnny: "Takes more different skills than any other sport. In my opinion anyway. You gotta have great reflexes, coordination, strength, speed, and most important, it's a mind game. Like chess, but physical. I played a little myself, ya know."
Me: "Yeah, you mentioned that. Were you any good?"
He looks wistful, glances down at his arm...
Johnny: "Yeah, I guess I was. Made all conference shortstop, second team. Won a Golden Glove trophy. Coach thought I might be good enough to play semi-pro ball, but it didn't work out...hell, nuthin' worked out.You ever see On The Waterfront, with Marlon Brando? From the 50's?"
Me: "Yeah, years ago. Why?"
Johnny: "There's a scene where Brando is talking to somebody, I think it was his brother, and he says 'You don't understand. I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am, let's face it.' I watch that and I think, hey, that's me. I coulda been somebody, not famous or anything, but I think I coulda played some ball. I know I'd have a family and kids, like a regular person. Instead of what I am, which is worthless."
Me: "Come on, I barely know you and I know you aren't worthless."
Johnny: "Uh huh, sure. Like you said, I hang out in front of a bar and tell stories to tourists. That's what most folks would call worthless."
Me: "You're the man in control. You could change that."
Johnny: "How? I can't do physical work. I got no education. I can't do nothin' but what I already do."
Me: "Two ideas off the top of my head. You could volunteer at retirement homes, maybe a veteran's hospital if there's one in Butte. You could read to people who can't read for themselves. And you could coach little league baseball."
Johnny: "You think I could coach?"
Me: "If you were as good as you say, sure; you have a lot to offer. I know you could read to disabled vets, and the elderly. You might even meet someone who knew your Dad. You'll never find anyone more appreciative, and those people have a lot to give back. You'd find it rewarding. Maybe even inspiring."
Johnny: "I dunno man. I'll think about it. We should go. I'm gone too long and Mama worries. Say, could you drop me off at home? It's only a couple of blocks off Main."
He asks me to go slowly and The Turtle is happy to oblige, creeping down Granite Mountain in 2nd until finally we take a sharp right onto Copper Street, then wind our way through a neighborhood of old frame houses, some immaculate, others showing their age, probably unchanged since the 1920's. Johnny is unusually quiet and I wonder if he's thinking about coaching kids baseball, or still lost somewhere in time. I follow his directions until he tells me to pull over in front of a little white Craftsman bungalow. There's a tiny front yard, a wide porch across the front bordered by well manicured flower beds, and an unpaved driveway beside the house leading to a ramshackle single garage in back. I see an old gray Chevy in the driveway, and there's a lady standing in the front yard. "There's Mama," he says. "Come on, I'll introduce you."
Not that I ever had much of a plan to begin with, but this definitely wasn't part of it. With Johnny in better spirits and home safely, I thought I'd do a rolling stop, he'd hop out, and I'd be on my way. But there's his mother, at first looking puzzled by the strange green truck at the curb, then smiling broadly when she recognizes her son in the passenger seat. And now she's approaching. I suppose I could have paid my respects and driven off, but I couldn't move. I blink several times to be sure I'm not hallucinating and sure enough, I'm not. She's a dead ringer for my Mom.
She's thin, small and stooped, wearing an old sweater over a long dress, blue KEDS tennis shoes, and holding a pair of scissors in one hand, ordinary household scissors. The dress is faded and looks as though it may be home made, a sensible work dress, and there's a scarf tied around her hair, white hair, not gray or silver, but brilliant snowy white. As she nears the truck, underneath her sweater I can see a dowager's hump, but it's her face that draws my attention. She must be late 70's but her face is unlined except for smile wrinkles framing her mouth and eyes, clear blue eyes, young eyes. It's a kind face. She reaches through the passenger window and pats Johnny on the arm, quietly mouths "I was worried about you," then walks around The Turtle, extends her hand and says " I don't believe we've met. I'm Johnny's Mother. Please call me Ruth." She notices the scissors in her hand and explains. "Johnny planted some Iris bulbs for me last summer. I was just tidying up my garden. If mother nature cooperates we should start seeing blooms next month. Can I offer you some coffee? There's a fresh pot in the kitchen."
Johnny looks uncomfortable. He reaches behind the seat and retrieves the bag of leftovers, says "Mama, we ate breakfast at the M&M. I brought you some ham steak and biscuits. I'll put them in the refrigerator." Before she can answer, he's out of the truck and halfway down the sidewalk. Ruth watches until he's out of hearing range, then asks "How is he today? He's been gone since early this morning. I was worried." Suddenly I get it. She doesn't realize that we just met. She thinks I know him, and I guess I do, probably as well as anyone does.
Me: "He's good. We just met this morning, at breakfast. He gave me a guided tour of Butte."
Ruth: "Oh, so you're not from Butte."
Me: "No Ma'am. I'm from Texas, just driving through on my way to Seattle. I'm delivering this truck for a friend."
Ruth: "Well you're a long way from home, but your trip sounds wonderful. This is beautiful country, much to see."
Me: "Yes Ma'am there is."
Ruth: "Do you know a lot about cars? Are you a mechanic?"
Me: "No Ma'am, I'm not a mechanic. I just tinker with old trucks. I know just enough to keep me out of trouble."
Ruth: "Well...I appreciate your giving Johnny a ride. I know he appreciates it too. He doesn't have many friends."
She looks toward the house, says "I'd better go see what he's doing," and excuses herself. Several minutes later they both emerge, Ruth carrying a big ceramic mug of steaming black coffee, a barely visible Anaconda Copper graphic on the side. She hands me the mug and as I reach for it, I remember the last time a woman brought me coffee. It was this morning just before sunrise, at Jen's apartment in Bozeman. My mind begins drifting back to that place, to a place it shouldn't be drifting, to Jen standing on her balcony, watching as we drove away, the little wave goodbye, and then I hear Ruth saying "I hope you take it black. We're out of cream and sugar. I haven't been able to get to the store for a while." She makes a subtle little eye motion toward the Chevy in the driveway. It's something my Mom would do, a gentle hint, and I get it. I slurp some coffee, feel a caffeine jolt, and climb out of The Turtle to get a closer look at her car. It's a plain looking old Bel Air, probably late 70's vintage, a battleship gray four door sedan with badly oxidized paint, steel wheels with little chrome hubcaps, and sporting a couple of bumper stickers. One of them is illegible, the other says something about the Catholic Women's League of Butte. There's weeds sprouting up around the tires.
Me: "What's the problem? Won't it run?"
Ruth: "It's a flat tire. I must have run over a nail. Johnny says he can change it but I don't think he can, you know, because of his arm. He's too proud to ask for help, so it's just been sitting there."
Me: "I'll change it for you. Won't take a few minutes. Johnny can help."
I know this car. My Dad's last company vehicle was a '77 Chevy Bel Air with a puny 305 V8 and a sluggish Turbo-Hydramatic tranny. It was the same industrial gray color as Ruth's car, with the same fast oxidizing paint. When Army retired in '83, he bought the car from Chevron, and it became his preferred knock around transportation, not quite a beater, but well on the way. He called it the Old Gray Mare and when it started showing its age and parts started wearing out, he'd pop the hood, shake his head, and belt out a few lines of the old folk song, "The old gray mare she ain't what she used to be..." He rarely drives now, shouldn't drive at all, but he can't bear to part with The Old Gray Mare. When I left Oklahoma City several weeks ago she was parked in the driveway, collecting dust. I've done every kind of maintenance and minor repair on this car that can be done by a two banana mechanic, and I could probably change the tire in my sleep. This should be a piece of cake.
Johnny grudgingly agrees to help and opens the trunk, exposing a long set of jumper cables, a full size spare that's seen better days, and an old school bumper jack. The jack looks like a modified Hi-Lift. There's a notched steel bar that sits on a metal base, and a lever with an integrated socket that operates the jacking mechanism and doubles as a lug wrench. The flat is on the front passenger's side, and there isn't much space between the fender and the side of the house, barely enough room for me to squeeze in.
I set the jack in place, bend over to loosen the lug nuts, and the problem with this tire is immediately evident. It's not a nail. It's old age. The tires are ancient, and they have terminal dry rot. The sidewall is badly cracked and chunks of hardened rubber are crumbling away from the tire body, exposing the belts. There's no way it's repairable. I take a quick look at the other tires. The driver's side front is in the same condition, but not completely gone. Both rear tires appear to be newer and in decent shape.
I decide to mount the spare and see where that gets me. Hopefully it's aired up. The lug nuts feel like they were attached with Loctite and I have to stand on the wrench handle and bounce up and down in order to break them free. Johnny and his Mom combined couldn't possibly have gotten these nuts to budge. I have the spare mounted in minutes and fortunately it seems to be only half flat. The car should be drivable, but just barely. So I'm thinking to myself, would I want my frail 82 year old mother to drive this car, on these tires, even to the corner grocery store? Hell no I wouldn't. I ask when the car was last driven. Ruth says she thinks maybe it was a couple of weeks ago. Johnny says "No Mama, it's been more like a couple of months," and the weeds growing up from under the fender wells tell me that he's probably closer to being correct. I suggest that we start her up. Johnny tries to turn the engine over and of course, nothing happens. Dead battery.
This is a job for The Turtle and the trusty 8274. I pull into the driveway, spool out the winch cable, crab under the Chevy, loop a snatch strap around the axle, and attach the hook. I ask Johnny to get behind the wheel and put the transmission in neutral, and make sure the wheels stay straight while we winch the car away from the house and down the driveway. Now we're gettin' somewhere, and we have room to work. I open both hoods, run their jumper cables from The Turtle's secondary battery to the Chevy, and tell Johnny to fire it up. He tries again and this time there's cranking, but no combustion. I check the fuel gauge and it reads almost empty. What little gas is left in the tank is probably bad, and I'm certain that after sitting for weeks there's no gas in the bowl, so on to step two. I know very little about carbs, but I know about priming and I happen to have a five gallon Jerry can full of cheap Oklahoma gas in the carrier behind The Turtle. I remove the air cleaner lid, pour some gas into the little Rochester, tell Johnny to try cranking again, and the old V-8 comes to life. More or less. The old girl is belching and shuddering and an impressive plume of smoke is billowing out her tail pipe, but she's running.
I pour the remainder of the Jerry can gas into the tank and the idle gradually goes from rough to almost smooth. So what now? I tell Ruth and Johnny that I'd like to take her out for a short road test, and air up the tires. Johnny asks if he can come along and I say I'd prefer that he stay and stand guard over The Turtle. I tell them that all my gear is inside, and I can't lock the truck. I must have built some degree of trust, because I get no argument from either of them. I park the truck on the street, back the Chevy out, and limp back to RD's Travel Stop. I know the old timer I met this morning won't be there, but some other locals will be, and pulling in to the pumps I see a half dozen trucks parked in front of the store. I go inside and buy a two dollar bottle of carb cleaner, pour it in, and fill the tank. I pick out a middle aged guy at the next pump filling his pickup, make sure he has a Montana license plate, and walk over to get a recommendation. I ask if he knows of a place I can buy used tires. He looks at the Chevy's half flat tires, back at me, and says "You drove that here, like that?" He looks at me like I'm the village idiot and shakes his head. I can see that I'm developing a reputation here at RD's. He tells me the best possibility will probably be Lisac's Tire, on Yale, and gives me directions. It's only a couple of miles away. As I pull away from the pump I see him talking to another guy and pointing at me. He doesn't think I'll make it, and I'm not all that confident myself.
Karma has things under control because I make it to Lisac's, and the first thing I see is a rolling rack of odd tires in front of the store with a sign: "Used Tires, $20 and Up." There's another big stack of tires, also used, just outside the door. Plenty to choose from, and there's a half dozen service bays, most of them empty. This is good. I enter the store and the first person who offers to help is a pleasant looking forty-something guy with a name tag that says he's Mel, the assistant manager. I ask if he has any used tires that fit the Chevy. He checks his computer for size, 215/75-15, and starts telling me about their tire specials. I say again that I just need a couple of good used tires. He says he doesn't know what he has, used tires aren't listed in his computer inventory, we'll have to go outside and look. He plunders through the stack and quickly uncovers a couple of newish looking P225/75-15 Coopers.
Me: "Those will work. How much?"
Mel: "$40."
Me: "For both?"
Mel: "Are you kidding? No, each. Plus mount and balance."
Me: "Come on, those are take-offs. I can buy new tires at Walmart for $50, with a warranty."
He isn't pleased.
Mel: "Then why don't you just get in your car and go over to Walmart?"
Hmmm, bad move on my part, a dumb move. I need to do some quick damage control, back off and try a different approach.
Me: "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound like an ass. This car belongs to an elderly lady from my church. She doesn't have much money. I'm just trying to help her out."
All right, so it was a lie. But it was a lie with good intentions, actually only half a lie, so I rationalize that it's only a minor sin, that I won't be struck by lightning. He walks over to the Chevy and looks at the front tires, walks around the car and sees the Catholic Women's League sticker. He crosses his arms, circles the car again. He's thinking...maybe he's thinking about his mother, or his grandmother.
Mel: "How much can she afford?"
Me: "Not much. $40 for both, mounted and balanced, and that's stretchin' it."
Mel: "All right, I'll do it, but cash, no credit cards."
Me: "Done. You don't look busy. Can you mount them now, while I wait? Blackwalls out."
Mel sighs, says "I guess we can. Gimme your keys."
Twenty minutes later and I'm out of there, semi-new Coopers on the front, and the old girl is almost purring. I find my way back to Ruth's house, pull into the driveway and park in the same spot alongside the house. Ruth is sitting in a chair on the porch, Johnny's in the street, leaning on the 40's front bumper, holding court, talking to a couple of teenage kids. I get out of the Chevy and hear him saying "Yeah, we had to pull it out of the driveway with this winch...and then jump start it...." I walk to the porch and hand the keys to Ruth.
Ruth: "Is everything all right? You were gone a long time. We were getting worried."
Me: "Yeah, everything is fine. I wanted to be sure the tires would hold air, so I drove around for a while. I think you're good to go."
Ruth: "Thank you so much. I never imagined this would take so much of your time. Will you stay and have supper with us?"
Me: "No Ma'am, I really can't stay. I have to deliver this truck to Seattle by Wednesday, and I should be halfway to Spokane by now. I appreciate the offer, but I'm gonna have to get on the road."
I turn to go but haven't quite reached the steps when she stands, says "Wait," and extends her arms, motioning me back. She meets me halfway across the porch and gives me a hug, a warm motherly hug, and whispers "God bless you. You're welcome in our house any time." This is a little awkward, and unnerving, because I'm beginning to feel emotional about leaving. Must be fatigue. Whatever, I just need to get out of here because as Army would say, "Son, we're burnin' daylight." I walk to the truck and the teenagers have left, but Johnny is still there, sitting on the bumper,staring at the ground. I'm not good at leaving. I never know what to say, other than just "Goodbye," which always seems inadequate.
Me: "Um...Well, it was nice meeting you, and thanks for showing me the memorial."
Johnny: "I've been thinking about what you said."
Me: "Yeah?"
Johnny: "Yeah. I'm gonna give it a try. I don't know about coaching kids but I'm gonna investigate volunteering at retirement homes. Reading, like you said. I think I could do that."
Me: "I hope you do. Don't sell yourself short. You've just gotta suck it up. Get out there, and pay it forward. You won't regret it."
Johnny: "Pay what?"
Me: "Pay it forward. Go help someone. Take care of yourself and your Mom, then go help someone. Sorry, but I've really gotta go now."
I pat The Turtle on the hood, grab the roll cage and hoist myself in, fire up the mighty 2F and ease away from the curb, Johnny and Ruth standing in front of her Iris bed, waving.
To be continued....
Last edited:
1911
chupacabra
Insist on genuine Longfield chrome moly parts!
Hope it gets better cousin, and thanks for the last installment.
myquestoyota
SILVER Star
Thanks
ah, we're moving again, a nice chapter Lee
77mustard40
SILVER Star
Thanks Sir! As brother Willie would say...
"On the road again
Just can't wait to get on the road again
The life I love is makin' music with my friends
And I can't wait to get on the road again
On the road again
Goin' places that I've never been
Seein' things that I may never see again,
And I can't wait to get on the road again"
"On the road again
Just can't wait to get on the road again
The life I love is makin' music with my friends
And I can't wait to get on the road again
On the road again
Goin' places that I've never been
Seein' things that I may never see again,
And I can't wait to get on the road again"
- Status
