Читать книгу No Excuses - J. Larry Simpson I - Страница 9

Story 1

Life on the Road

The fire was roaring on this cold November day as we gathered together to enjoy—yeah, even rejoice for our many God-given blessings as family.

Just getting back from taking clothes, canned goods, and such to a wonderful local Christian center, which help those less fortunate, we stoked the fire, added some oak logs, and talked, some softer and others louder.

“Pass it to me, boys,” I barked as Caleb spun the old-faded football straight toward me. Snatching it out the cold air with my left hand, pulling it swiftly to my stomach and covering it with my right arm, I took a step or two as if to run.

“Here I come,” I said loudly, scratchily crying and “hobbled” a few steps with a reminiscing dash for a touchdown.

“We’ll block for you, Granddad!” Walker (named after my daddy) shouted, catching me as I fell to safety into his strong sixteen-year-old arms with Joe Mac standing close by.

As I managed my way back to my warm chair, in this thirty-nine-degree sweet afternoon with the sun beaming, the grandsons traveled, grinning with me.

“Fffuuaah,” blew out of my mouth while I plopped down recklessly into my half broken-down faded green-and-yellow summer chair.

Micol Anne was looking way off through her daddy blue eyes all the way back to Mississippi, softly singing with Ricky, her husband, picking his old guitar to Jimmy Reed’s “Baby What You Want Me to Do,” playing on my well-used jam box.

“Boys, Granddad could do it!” Joe announced as Tony anxiously spoke up, “Dad, we’ve heard you tell some of your old-time stories. Tell us about traveling with the trailer and Granddaddy’s green Ford truck, where you lived, the Mojave desert, the muscadine highway, Harry, Marie, Aunt Jeanie, Hoppy, and all the others.”

“Son, son, it was ‘Happy!’ Sure, sure, tell us the stories.”

And all began to gather in a little closer.

“Keep the fire hot, and I’ll need some black—I said, black coffee.”

“Come on, Granddad,” Regan insisted as Tara, my youngest, and her three girls, along with Hannah snuggled in a little closer.

Piersen couldn’t be here because he had to work on that heartfelt day, but my Sandy put her warm hand of love on my aging shoulder.

Lizzie, also so sensitive and caring, said, “Dad, it’s black, double black and hot as fire, enjoy.”

*****

First, Dad bought a big 1950 Buick and a thirty-two-foot trailer. Two adults and four children, ages six to five months, all riding in that car, and the gray house on wheels trailing us relentlessly and weaving just a little.

In the next ten years, we would live in nine states, and I would attend fourteen more schools.

Life on the road brought a world of good people—some hard times and an education all its own.

Trailer people are often considered less than “house” people. Some are. We weren’t.

Both Dad and Mother were raised in God-fearing homes. Dad’s people were landowners, farmers, the salt of the earth. He was raised by a progressive college-educated mother and a grandfather who read his Greek New Testament every night. Granddaddy Eddins died in 1930. A very stately gentleman taught Dad to be a little man, and Grandmother taught him proper decorum.

My father was a man of his word, a hard worker, and he loved my mother and his children.

Mother was raised by Mississippi farmers, some of whom were sharecroppers. They were fun-lovin’ people and strong individualist.

Dad and Mom together were a good team. They taught us to be thankful, show respect, say “Yes, sir” or “No, ma’am,” and to pray.

God blessed us with outgoing personalities, strong views of ourselves, honesty, and some athleticism.

We made friends wherever we went.

People seemed to “take to us,” and we them.

We learned many things on the road.

The highway was our schoolmaster.

In Monroe, Louisiana, in a new trailer park, I was outside playing in the dirt. My eyes startled, blinked two or three times, and I said to Jeanie softly, “Look.”

Jeanie looked. We looked back at each other and whispered, “A bald-headed girl?”

Yes, a bald-headed girl. We became fast friends. Shirley wanted to be accepted as normal. We accepted her. Sixty-six years later, I don’t know what caused it, but I knew it wasn’t good.

We learned people are different and that we should accept them that way.

Uncounted memories flood my mind.

Now living in Kaplan, Louisiana, in 1952, Dad took me out on the job with him. He was keeping the “Euks,” as we called the Euclid earth movers that hauled dirt and kept road graders going.

“Son, do you want to ride?”

I beat him up on that huge earthmover, and away we went. Black diesel smoke rolling, the engine growling, and Walker (Dad) steering it and shifting gears like a race car driver.

I’ll never forget it.

On the road meant good times.

Back when there was only two-lane roads and we weren’t worried about danger like today, we would stop on the side of the road, set up a folding table, chairs, and eat on the “road.” Baloney, lettuce, tomatoes, mayonnaise, and cheddar cheese with sweet tea on ice. We loved each other and the open road.

By 1952–1953, a long, long trailer, “The Liberty” was introduced. It was fifty feet long and eight feet wide. Dad bought one of the very first ones. There were three bedrooms.

Our car could not pull such a vehicle, so we bought a 1953 Ford F-350, and Dad made a dually out of it eventually. That green fifty-three ford Dad kept until 1972. Wonder what stories it has to tell?

Years later, 2007, I drove up in the driveway of my best high school buddy’s drive in a 2006 Ford F-350 dually!

Harry later said, “Like father like son, now you’ve got a dually.”

Thank you, my good friend!

Being Thankful

Our living had been meager. Six people but two beds, this must have been a little trying to me because I cannot remember how we slept—I guess, I wiped it out of my mind.

What I do know is that when Dad pulled that trailer into a trailer park, we were happy to tears. Three beds now and the envy of everybody.

Being thankful for what seems to be normal is a great life experience and builder. Thankful for a bed for two brothers, two sisters, Mom, and Dad.

Life on the road and its freedoms would now be better. There’s no excuse.

The greatest glory of a freeborn people is to transmit that Freedom to their children.

—William Howard,

Regis a Tragedy, act 4, scene 4