“My grandpa’s daddy was a trucker, I guess you’d say. He drove a massive thing called a Kenworth with a trailer bigger than our house to haul freight. My grandpa was a trucker, but with farm goods, with this very same flatbed Dodge truck we’re working on now,” Eli explained as he leaned over the long swooping fender of the antique old truck. Jedidiah looked up at him from the wooden toy trucks he was pushing in circles in the dirt with bright blue eyes, a reflection of Eli’s. He smiled and made one of the trucks jump over another as he asked,” Uncle Eli, how come you gotta drive it? You been working the mules on this farm for poppa all this time. Can’t those folks in the next town grow their own farms?” Eli answered from under the hood of the nearly one hundred year old truck while grunting as he tightened a hose fitting, “ Oh Jed, they probably do have a good farm connected to that town,” Eli took a grimy, hot pink, heart shaped locket out of the breast pocket of his striped overalls and looked at intently before continuing. “ Your cousin Macy needed medicine, Jed. Wasn’t nobody round able to make the trip to get it in time. I tried but mules can only go so fast, especially pulling a wagon with a sick girl inside. Then there’s bandits on the roads nowadays, where’s there’s roads,” Eli’s eyes clouded as he fought back memories and unconsciously rubbed a scar that ran the length of his forearm,” it’s just safer and quicker to use a truck. Delivering some trade goods just helps pay for parts at the swap meets. Besides the moonshine we’re making to run in the truck can be used to make medicine, too!”
“Maybe another Macy can be ok, uncle Eli?”
“I hope so. Boy, I sure hope so”
“How come there’s only like a dozen people in town but there’s roads all around it for miles. Is that so the farmers can haul their chickens easier when they build a new place?”
Eli looked at the six year old boy and smiled. This was the only world he’d ever known, of course it didn’t make sense to a child. “I reckon that would make sense, but no. No Jedi, these little towns like ours used to be full of thousands, sometimes millions of folks working in tall buildings. Those roads were how they went from one building to the next to earn money then spend it all. They had lots and lots of money when my dad was your age. But then they spent more than they had for so long it all became worthless. Eventually they had so much money it wasn’t worth much and people started to run out of food. Then they couldn’t find anywhere to live. After that they figured the government was why and the fighting started all over the world. By the time I was your age the big cities were all destroyed and people were starving to death in the streets. If we hadn’t owned this little old farm, well, we wouldda starved too. Your dad and I got this farm from our poppa. It used to be a big outdoor shopping mall but a battle was fought here that broke up all the concrete so daddy got it in exchange for cleaning it up. That’s when he found this necklace and gave it to momma. She gave it to Macy just before she and daddy got the fever. Hop in!”
Jedidiah crawled up the step plate into the old truck rigged to run on grain alcohol. The turquoise was gone on most of the metal and only a rusty patina rubbed in grease and oil remained. With a grin and a wink Eli turned the key and the engine made a rurrurrurr then popped loudly and started.
“Wheeeeoooo, Jed! We done it!”
“Yeeeehoooo, let’s go for a drive!”
The truck lurched forward and shuddered as the old engine tried to remember how to run, then it coughed, puffed a big cloud of black smoke out the rear, and died. Eli grinned like a possum,” Don’t you fret Jed, it’ll be delivering taters by week’s end and medicine from out East in a month!”
“Race you home, uncle Eli!”
“Oh you’re on, boy! I could run through a troop!”
The two raced for the little faded white farmhouse built out recycled lumber and corrugated sheet metal, laughing and tumbling and giggling the whole way. It was a memory Jedidiah held dear and thought of when joined the new county militia as a transport driver. Around his neck he wore his young wife’s ring, around hers she wore an old, hot pink, heart shaped locket.
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Raging Bull and the Fence of Destiny
It was the summer break of my Junior year of High School. The sun burned hatefully above the grass and trees as they yellowed slightly from a short-term summer drought that was a nearly annual occurrence. The hay crop had been put up for this cutting. It was too hot to fish. It was too hot to sit in our Southwest Missouri home with no air conditioning. The water in the creek was too low and smelly for swimming. Wandering aimlessly about the farm and through the woods in and out of shade trees and tall grasses was the only solution to a seventeen-year-old boy who was out of gasoline and had nowhere to drive anyway. There was no breeze. The birds did not sing during the daytime, only the mosquitos, grasshoppers and flies buzzed around to fill the air with sound and annoyance. I sang to myself, loudly, in Gospel hymns and country songs to entertain myself. The rabbits and squirrels I encountered would scurry off a short way into the trees then turn and watch and listen with interest. I imagined that they were critiquing my musical ability. I was actually quite talented. I had several singing competition medals 1 and 1+ mostly. There was a 2 that lay on the trophy shelf instead of hanging next to the others. These summers on our little Missouri farm were my favorite thing. I worked hard and lots of hours with no ‘pay’ other than living in my parent’s home. I knew that I was working for their livelihood and my own inheritance. What I would inherit, someday, I would have the satisfaction of knowing I had earned, and I had wandered every inch of it. I knew every tree and shrub. I knew each cow and every wire stay on the fences. This was not some impersonal trust fund, this was my family’s life and sweat, blood and tears, laughter and labor. The cattle were quietly grazing the shady areas of the field along the treeline when I crossed the five-wire fence. At 75” inches tall and weighing more than a newborn calf, I was a big fella to crawl through a fence so I always had to climb over at a corner post. I was not only a singer but was active in football and powerlifting in my small school. Every now and then a calf would run with its tail lifted high, playing an impromptu game of catch with me. I was fast for my size and figured the sprinting practice was helpful, so I raced the young calves and then laughed when they inevitably outran me. I grew up on the farm. I had always been around livestock and never had a bull act aggressively. I ran and played with the calves and the cows lowed with concern for their young as they ran with me, a familiar, but not bovine, sight in the herd. Our red bull that had always been calm, ran past me, grazing my elbow. It wasn’t difficult to tell that he was not playing. Head down to the ground, he spun 180 degrees, kicking up dust with his hooves in the process, to face me. He pawed the ground angrily. I walked slowly, calmly, away from the cows, while keeping this unusually irritated bull in my field of view. I walked at an angle for quite some ways, making it across much of the field. I relaxed and began walking at a normal pace in the direction opposite the livestock. Then I heard thunder. I quickly glanced behind me, barely in time to sidestep the charging bull. He threw his head to try to butt me. I was in the middle of the field, with no safety in sight. I ran. I ran to the fence by the road. Perhaps as he ran past me and realigned trajectory I could get the gate opened. There would be no such luck today. He turned and charged directly behind me and, again, sidestepping him only put him between me and my escape. I turned and ran parallel to the barbed wire barrier. This distanced me from the gate, but I would have no time to unchain it anyway. I could taste my sweat and it dripped from my eyebrows into my eyes, blinding me. The bull wouldn’t give up. I was against the fence. My back was literally against a wall as was possible in a field. Again he charged. I had nowhere left to run. In desperation, I stepped forward and punched him in between his eyes. I take no joy in harming an animal, but I was amazed, and deeply impressed with myself when he fell to the ground and slid past me. The bull lay dazed, panting, blowing bull snot all over the ground. I ran to the gate and loosened the chain. The bull was back to his feet. I left the field and closed the gate. We sold that bull soon after. He charged my dad while we were working cattle. I told my dad of my incident and discovered that there is a soft spot in the head of a cow or bull that only takes a light impact to daze them. All of my teenage bravadoes melted away. I wasn’t super strong, nor was I some sort of natural martial artist. I was lucky.
By litningrod744 years ago in Petlife
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