Date: Thu, 8 Oct 1998 21:33:38 -0700 From: Charlie Ford To: vintagebus@type2.com Subject: Warming The Bus Up (essay) This morning I woke up, dawned my cleanest dirty clothes since I don't have a job interview, and headed out the door and onto the gravel drive. I was headed over to Pat Hoffman's to haul some scrap metal to the junkyard. Gotta do something to make some money these days. As I walk I listen to the gravel crunch under my feet, naturally and almost instinctly I looked around to see if any item of value might have been displaced by some varmit during the night, human or animal. As I walked this morning I got to thinking................ As a child I enjoyed the dirt. I lived for it, drove Tonka trucks in it, ate in it, and would have bathed in it if my Mother had not threatened me with bodily harm and ever constant nagging and fussing. She was very good at it to, both parts. One hurt physically, the other just drove a person insane slowly. I personally didn't have a Tonka truck. My Mother did not see the importance of financing yet another new unit for me (at least till Christmas) since the last one in my posession had mysteriously been destroyed by an altercation with an M-80 firecracker, the old 'real' style. Supervised by my big brother of course. Believe me it was one heck of a crash scene after that bad boy did it's business, but I no longer had a daily driver, even if it was a toy. Out of desperation for a vehicle, I got myself a brick, red one, which I quickly transformed into a bulldozer. By magic of course. Yep, I was the Department of Transportation; the Highwayman; the guy that drives the big rig; the "road scraper", the brick man. I even painted my brick yellow so it would look the part, just like the one the County sent around every month to smoothe the dirt road that ran beside our house. Mr. Floyd drove that cool machine, and we all admired him as he passed. We would look up at him through squinty eyes fighting the sun to get a glimpse of this giant of a man sitting on his tall humongous yellow implement of destruction. {Place Tim Allen Growl here} he made our dirt road look un-used. Magnolia was a quiet little street and not much happened on it. There wasn't a Magnolia tree anywhere along it's borders, traffic seldom used it, but still we claimed it as our own, our playground. Our oasis from the house and chores and the like. Each day around 4:00 pm, just after school and immediately after my chums and I had designed our first street system, the turpentine trucks would come down Magnolia Street headed toward a "high place", a mystical and ominous place. Actually it was only about 40 feet high, but it was monstorous to us dirt devils. A sloping hill with ruts running across the top of it, that also pretty much defined it's width, drive off the path and you would plumett almost straight down and assuredly to your death. This place was known to all of us as the "tar hill" On the top of the tar hill there sat a building. More like a deck built on high stilts. The loaded trucks sagging in the rear would grind the gears to first, make their turn and commense to climb. The engine would rev high on the ascent. Some without mufflers would grow loud and belch out fumes of black smoke as the oil burned off the cylinder heads. At the top the workers would off-load the turpentine barrels onto the platform, get it weighed, and pay the jobbers for there bounty. This is what a lot of the poorer blacks did for money and occupation in South Georgia and although we were proud they did, that little fact didn't stop us from wishing they had taken a different route. For me and the citizens of the "Tonka community" each time the trucks came through meant a massive re-structuring of our minature metro area, so it naturally fell to me to re-build the highways, never the same as before but always with quality and creation. Inevitably, as all kids do, my cohorts and I would tire of playing on the dirt, in the dirt, and with the dirt that was within us so we would move to another activity. Bicycling, or making forts, or trying to think of new ways to make a lawn mower fly like a helicopter. Some days, when we were brave enough we would climb the "tar hill" and ride fast down one slope on our bikes. But we would only climb a little ways before turning around and descending with some amount of exciting speed. The tar hill was a high place of sticky ooze. The strong smell of pine permeated the air, and the men that worked hard and were always dirty. I think we all saw these fellows as hero's to a point, though non of us aspired to be them. The tar hill was also a place we were not allowed to go. We were told over and over again that it was a dangerous place, and terrible things lurked there. Still every now and then we excercised our God-given right of rebellion and childhood and did it anyway. Yet in still, never all the way. Well except for this one time........ None of my chums were around on this sultry hot south Georgia afternoon, and I was bored, bored sick. I was riding my bike on the dirt road in circles, staring down at my front wheel. I was mesmerized searching for excitement in the simple things. Suddenly a truck turned onto Magnolia, or "my street". I moved out of the road and stopped to wave at the driver and as he passed he waved back. I recognized him as a man my Grandfather knew. The only name I ever knew him as was Nate, but he knew me and called me by my rightful nickname, "Brother" as he passed. This made me feel comfortable and confident for some reason. I had been tempted several times to ride to the top of that big ole hill but the risk of death scared me off, plus if I got caught it would have meant being beat to death by my Mother. Still I decided that now was my time to make the big leap so I decided to set my coarse. I steered my bike anxiously in behind the truck, breathing in the dust but not caring. I was going to the top and nothing at all could stop me. I wheeled toward the goal. The truck geared to first and it was my signal the dangerous grade was at hand. I stood on my bike to get ready to force the weight and strength through my legs to make the climb. The truck revved and started upwards, lurching forward almost hopping from the torque and maybe a slipping clutch. I followed about 10 feet behind, driven toward a goal and not knowing whether I would live or die, now or afterwards at the hands of the person I called Ma. About half way up I took a moment and gazed off to one side, a shear drop to the right. I gazed to the other side, same thing. My legs were growing tired, but my drive was steadfast. As sweat of anticipation, exhaustion, and fear started to shine on my brow I felt the rise start to become more flat. The truck stopped and I almost hit the rear of it, i was gazing at the site before my eyes, the deck sat just to my right. I had reached the top. nate exited the truck and said for me to tell my Grandaddy hello for him. I waved and nodded to shocked to speak to anyone. The men that drove the trucks were mostly black and clad in overalls so dirty you couldn't tell if they were once blue or not. They wore flop hats, like the men that worked turpentine wore. I just know they all had a sweat band around the brim. The workers on the platform were a mixture of white and black. They went about their business hustling while listening to country music on the AM radio station, WVOH, the Wonderful voice of Hospitality, and the only radio station in Hazlehurst, Georgia. I stood around beside my bike behind my escort to the top. No one said anything to me for the first couple minutes, then I heard a bellowing voice yelling at me above the noise of the truck now sitting at idle. He was the cleanest one of the bunch and no doubt was the boss. He exclaimed, "Hey boy, what in the hell are you doin' up here?" I was shocked, first off he was cursing and secondly he was directing that curse at me. It scared me to death and I answered in a hoarse voice, "nuthin'. He says, "Well folks up here doin' something and that somethin' don't involve children!" I turned my bike around and started my descent wondering if he knew my Mother, and if he did would he tell her. I hoped not. I could here him laughing as I carefully rolled down. When I got to the bottom I road along the dirt road on my bike. I was scared and proud all at the same time. I had "been to the mountain top and I had seen the otherside", but was anyone going to find out? Glory without boast is not to glorious for one's ego. I am not sure why, but I decided it was no one's business but my own. I would keep this as my secret. In the next couple years they leveled the tar hill. They brought it right down and even hauled the dirt away to other places, probably for new homes to be built. I hardly even remeber it now, but I remember when I climbed it. Well anyway, I have reached Brians garage where the Mothership sits and waits. I slide my key in the locked door and turn it to raise the knob. I throw my left leg in hooking my right butt cheek and thigh over the seat and draw myself in being careful not to touch the accelerator pedal at all. I insert my key into the ignition, turn it two clicks north, and push the starter button. She usually spins twice then starts up. The valves click a little at first, especially in cooler weather, then a sound change happens, she lubes herself into a calm steady whir. I sit and listen for 30 seconds or so before doing anything. I light a cigarette, check my oil light (Is it going off?), and turn my ear toward the rear so as to listen more intently to the running engine. Are there any strange sounds, bad ticks, loose parts flying or being flung? I ease my foot onto the pedal and rev the RPM's about one half inch. She performs with flying colors. I ease her into reverse, plop my big right foot on the brake, left on the clutch, and release with no accelerator pedal at all. She eases down the slow hill and away from the garage. The gravel I had just walked over was now cracking and crunching under her weight. Ain't it amazing what you can think about while driving your bus, or even while simply walking to it? : ) Thanks for tolerating the ramblings, Charlie Ford "Lessons learned are like bridges burned, you only need to cross them but once." www.tiora.net/~keen/charlie/charlie.html "The Search for the Beginning of Wind"