by Laura Pearce
San Dimas, CA
My mother, Alma Peterson-Martin, never learned to drive. I remember the few times she tried, nervously herding our old farm truck down windrows, while my dad stacked hay bales pitched to him by my Uncle Gene who followed in the field. She ground gears, sped up when she should have slowed down and mashed hard on the brakes flinging Dad backwards onto the hard, stubbley ground. To her, the idea of driving on the county road, much less in town, was far-fetched, something akin to co-piloting the Mercury capsule and orbiting the earth with John Glenn.
Our farm was small and there was never a question of keeping a hired man, we couldn't afford it. Our trucks and equipment were old and unreliable. My dad, W.D. Martin (1923-1994) faced constant repair challenges that he met with replacement parts and bailing wire ingenuity. New equipment would have meant incurring debt, a concept that no one in our family has ever willingly embraced. An ancient Ford flatbed and a tractor we called 'Poppin Johnny', had to suffice. (Poppin Johnny was, curiously enough, an Allis Chalmers…..Go figure.)
My brothers, Keith and Jim were pressed, along with myself, into service doing the less hazardous driving chores when we were very young. Pressed might not be the right word…..we couldn't wait.
Teaching small children to drive is not for the faint of heart. The boys and I did our part by being willing pupils, leaving the more technical aspects of the mission in the capable hands of our Dad and the Portland Oregonian.
The Sunday Oregonian was delivered to our farm hours before church while it was still dark. The Sunday paper was enormous because it held the shopper adds, an extra real-estate section and the Parade Magazine. Fat red rubber bands held the whole thing together for delivery. Only six editions were required to boost us high enough to see over the dashboard.
Dad cut the ends off 2x4s and fixed the wood blocks to the floor pedals with the sturdy Sunday rubber bands. This extended the reach of our legs and we were soon accelerating smoothly, braking evenly and shifting with a fluid grace that would make any Nascar driver proud. In a nutshell…..we were naturals.
From first to sixth grade, my brothers and I attended a small, two- room country school. We could either walk or take the bus, but walking was quicker. It wasn't far, as the crow flies, cutting diagonally across a 60-acre rye field and following a ditch road for a quarter mile. We could easily get our chores done, eat something, wash behind our ears and scoot to class well before the first bell. School let out at 3:00 PM……Plenty of time before dark, to eat something and….get our chores done.
In turn, both of my brothers boarded the school bus to start Junior High in town.
The faithful old Laidlaw collected them in front of the house at 6:45 AM.
The boys lived for after school sports, FFA and general 'dinking around in town' with 'town kids'. All the 'bright lights-big city' stuff they had erstwhile been denied.
The 'activity bus' (a fairly broad term, even back then) didn't drop them off until 5:20, leaving me home alone with an overworked dad and a vehicularly impaired mom for something like two hours…..every afternoon.
It was my big chance.
I'd already been doing 'slow driving' chores since God was a boy. The cow feeding, manure spreader pulling, pasture harrowing, three to five mile-an-hour chores that my brothers were too good for. But this was something else again….
This was driving to the feed lot, a whole mile away, alone on the county road…..Just me and my dog with the wind in our hair, three bales alfalfa and a bucket of grain.
If Mom had regrets about her little girl driving some broken down, rattle-trap 1 ton jalopy, God knows where…..to do heaven knows what…….. she kept it to herself.
She didn't want to know.
I believe she reconciled herself to the arrangement eventually, secure in the knowledge that until I started seventh grade, she wouldn't be called upon to get behind the wheel herself. She watched me shrug into coveralls and follow Dad outside, with Sam, our ancient, arthritic dog, in tow.
Sam was a hunting dog. A German breed with a smooth, gray flecked coat and docked tail. He would, at least try, to point at anything…cats, bugs, pigs, geese…..He froze, head, back and tail all at a level plain, right leg bent at the knee, defying his prey to blink first. They always did, of course….. then the chase was on.
When Dad loaded hay for the steers, Sam stood poised and ready every time a bale was shifted. Some mighty interesting things can live in a haystack, ask any dog.
Anyhoo…..
With the truck loaded, Sam and I set off for the exhilarating trek, unencumbered and unaccompanied….down the county road.
I remember that driving on pavement felt like flying. In a mile, I could reach speeds of thirty-five miles an hour or more. After slow driving in the fields, this seemed like fantastic velocity, and I was often admonished for going faster then I should.
The county road made a sharp bend just past our house. Even though I knew Dad couldn't see me, the sound the old truck made when I shifted gears carried to the house. My father's opinion held that climbing to fourth gear was extravagant considering the brevity of distance.
He was probably right.
Arriving at the feed lot, I ground into reverse and backed up to the feed bunks. Using the large, square mirrors that stuck out from the rusted doors, I manipulated the old Ford into position. At first, the fence and mangers took a fierce battering, but with practice, my technique improved.
Fetching a pair of wire cutters from the jockey box, I climbed on to the bed of the truck and went to work. After cutting all of the wire that bound the bales, I kicked the loose hay into the feed bunks for the dozen or so hungry steers that were being fattened for slaughter. After gathering up the cut wire and twisting it together, I found the old broom under the seat in the cab and swept all of the remaining hay into the feeder. A farmer only grows so much hay in the summer. If this hay does not last through the winter, more must be bought. The importance of not wasting feed is instilled in a farm kid from the get-go. When I had dumped grain into the bin and checked the level in the water trough, it was time to head back to the house.
Sam always rode up front with me. He would have liked to ride on the back, but time and again, this had proved to be a bad idea. Something would catch his eye and he would dive off the truck for a closer look. It only happened once on the county road. Sam saw a pheasant in the tall grass next to a ditch. He jumped from the load of hay and skidded on the pavement for several yards before coming to a stop in the weeds, covered with bloody scrapes. He laid next to the wood stove for three days, too sore to move. I hated to see my poor dog hurt that way. I felt like it was my fault for driving so fast, but I didn't want to drive slower. From then on, Sam rode in the cab.
More often than not, farm dogs are off someplace rolling in something foul. Coupled with the inevitable stuffiness of an old rig, the smell on a warm autumn afternoon can be overpowering.
On one such afternoon, in early September, I finished my feeding chores and called for my stinky dog. When I'd gotten him corralled in the cab, and lowered the windows, we crossed over the cattle guard and eased onto the pavement.
Looking down the road to the sharp bend, we began picking up speed. For an optimum view, Sam liked to ride standing on the seat with his front paws on the dashboard peering through the windshield.
When we had gone only a short distance, I noticed something on the road ahead of me. I saw that it was it was a snake….a really BIG snake.
By the time I was close enough to see it was a really big rattlesnake, it had slithered over into the on-coming lane. I purely loved running over rattlesnakes. (Who doesn't?)
I was willing to 'bend the law' a little and cross over the centerline…. it was a big snake.
Maybe I didn't think it through.
Swerving to the other side of the road, The truck's tire hit the snake in the exact center of the long body. In a split second, swerving back to the right side of the road, I saw a dark form out of the corner of my eye.
The truck tires had flipped the snake in to the air.
The snake had landed on the metal bar that held the big mirror to the side of the truck.
The snake was still alive and through the open window, he (or she) was about two feet from my head.
This was all…..I don't know…..bad.
In an instant the stunned snake recovered from the shock of being run over and coiled itself around the bracket. Trying to keep the truck on the road, I reached down and started cranking up the window as fast as I could.
That's when Sam saw the snake.
He dove across the cab of the truck on to my lap and just missed getting his head caught in the window. I pushed him back and had just managed getting the truck to the side of the road when the big snake saw Sam and me through the glass.
I could see plainly where the trucks tire had run over the snakes middle, and though this part of his belly was smashed, that snake was very much alive. I cut the engine and even over Sam's wild barking I could hear the buzz of those rattles.
With his body securely wrapped around the mirror, the snake's head began to weave back and forth. His red tongue flicked in and out as he looked straight into my eyes. Sam was going crazy, barking and howling. I was too scared to move. I was hypnotized by the movement of the snake's head. Slowly, the snake opened its jaws wide, exposing long, curved fangs. In the back of my mind, I knew we were safe in the cab of the truck, but when the snake struck, I screamed and jumped to the other side of the cab, pinning Sam against the door. Again and again the furious snake struck at the glass. Each time, Sam and I jumped in the seat.
When at last the snake had worn himself out hitting his nose against the window, he moved on to the hood of the truck. He was hurt, and the engine had made the metal warm. (warmth is no doubt, 'soothing' to a smashed snake)
He was in no hurry.
Sam finally settled down and we sat for a long time looking through the windshield at the giant Diamond Back, wondering what to do next.
The way the snake was positioned on the hood, the weight of his body would keep him where he was, even if I drove away. I figured that the injury to his middle would eventually kill him, but that might take hours. I considered driving back to the house with the snake on the hood, letting Dad kill it when I got there. After some thought, I decided against it. Mom wouldn't like me bringing a live rattler into the front yard, even if I couldn't help it.
Before long, the snake decided the question for us. When the hood of the truck cooled off, the snake moved to find a warmer place to die or spend the night.
This presented another problem. While looking at the snake through the windshield, I had counted fourteen buttons on his tail. (That's a big snake) My family collected rattles from some of the larger snakes we'd killed over the years. They were stored in a cigar box that Mom made us keep in the tool shed. (Snake parts have an odor) That was one more button than the biggest rattle in our collection.
I wanted that rattle.
When the snake crawled down the side of the truck, I looked out of the passenger side window to see which way he would go. Immediately after touching the ground he slithered under the truck. I didn't have a shovel with me, and knew I would have to smash his head with a rock. Ordinarily this isn't a good idea, but this snake had been run over and probably wasn't feeling real perky.
It's a cardinal country kid rule… 'Lay off perky snakes'
I started the truck and pulled ahead until I could see the elongated body on the pavement in the rearview mirror.
Getting out of the truck without Sam was a battle. Sam hated snakes in general and this one in particular. I looked off the side of the road trying to find a rock big enough to do the job. My dog was in the cab of the truck making a ruckus. He couldn't believe I wasn't going to let him help.
Medium size boulder in hand, I got to the snake just as he started into the tall grass. His smashed middle was starting to ooze and he was moving very slowly.
I threw the rock down hard on his head and left it there.
That snake wasn't going anywhere.
Sam watched the whole thing through the back window of the old Ford. He was excited when I got back into the truck. He climbed onto my lap and licked my face. I felt congratulated and kissed him on the top of the head.
Looking up the road, I saw my father's pickup easing around the bend.
I'd been gone a while.
He pulled over on the side of the road just missing the dead snake. I rolled down the window.
"It's almost supper time." He say's. "Where you been?"
I got out of the truck holding Sam by the collar and led Dad over to where the snake was. He let out a low whistle.
"That's a big one." " We'd better put Sam in the pick- up before we take care of it."
We loaded up my unhappy dog and I told Dad the story. He got a shovel from the back of his pick-up and lopped off the snake's head, leaving it under the rock. Then he took out his pocketknife and cut off the big rattle. He scooped up the limp body with the shovel and flung it into the weeds.
"The coyotes might want that for supper" he say's.
"What do you care?" I ask him. He liked coyotes about as much as he liked snakes.
"Better your snake than Mom's chickens", he say's. "Ya gotta eat".
That night, while we ate, I retold the story for my Mom and brothers. It was a glaring omission on my part, but I didn't mention crossing to the wrong side of the road.
I reasoned that I hadn't been asked.
Laura Pearce
San Dimas, California
Copyright 2002 Laura Pearce
Published U.S. Legacies
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