The Trefoil Muse

“I left her in the gully,” he disclosed sullenly.  “She wheezed, gasped, coughed and died on the trail comin’ home. I pushed her too hard and no amount of grinding her gears or sweet talkin’ was gonna get her to climb that hill. In the end, her heart gave out – it just blew up. Guess you could say I killed the old girl.”

“You did not let your son or any of your relatives or friends know she’d passed, correct?”

“Naw, there wasn’t any point,” he shook his head sadly. “Nobody really cared about her ‘cept me so there was no call for grievin’ or letters of condolence.  She had a good life. I’ll remember her fondly.”

“Tell me what you remember,” the inquisitive young man encouraged. “And, why did you leave her in the bottom of a coulee?”

The older man leaned back against a fence post, stroked a day’s worth of whiskery growth on his chin then pulled his well worn cowboy hat down over his forehead. A wry grin spread across his face.  He crossed his long legs clad with faded denim jeans and Tony Lama boots which had clearly seen better days then reached into the pocket of his shirt to pull out a pack of cigarettes.  He lit one, drew deeply then exhaled staring toward gulley. There wasn’t an ounce of regret or guilt to be seen on his weathered old face.

“We called her Old Blue,” he stated simply.  A twinkle had developed in his brown eyes.

“She was a 1959 Dodge Step-Side D-100, with a flathead six motor.  Three on the tree shift on the steering column.  Manual steering or as we liked to call it back in the day, strong arm steering!”  A wide grin had spread across the cowboy’s face.  He shuffled forward on his Tony Lama’s and crushed the butt end of his cigarette into the prairie grass, fully extinguishing it.

He cleared his throat.  “She was navy blue in color and would have been a beaut new, but she’d already been fairly worn in by the time my Dad brought her home.  She was weathered; some of her shine was worn off.  It didn’t matter none to us.  We were more than proud to have her.  Anyhow, her being dull and worn, that’s why we dubbed her Old Blue.  She would have been ten or twelve years old when Dad drove her into the yard, ‘cause my sister and I started driving her when we were only about nine or ten ourselves.”

The cowboy’s face changed and his voice turned more serious. 

“Things weren’t as regimented as they are now.  Parent’s needed the entire family’s help on the farm.  We grew up quicker – stronger and freer, you could say.  The land here on the Alberta prairie was wider, more open, less fences.  Most roads were gravel or non-existent which meant you followed someone else’s rough trail or made your own through the country.  And, a lot of times, we did just that – especially in the winter – roads would be completely drifted in for miles, so we detoured across the prairie where we could at least dodge the large snow drifts or buck through the smaller ones.  You see, out here, the wind is vicious. It pushes snow along the flatland until it catches something to cling to or it will accumulate or settle into low lying areas like gulley’s or coulees. The gravel roads became impassable because the snow would accumulate in the ditches and drift across the road.  Graders were few to none in those days.  People always carried shovels, chains and tow ropes in the winter months. We didn’t take the old girl out much in the winter.  Her heater didn’t work well so we bundled up tight and sat close for warmth. But, I’m getting ahead of myself,” he stopped talking and leaned back against the fence post. “My point is that parents started their kids driving and the like a lot younger back then.  They had adult responsibilities and were trusted to certain jobs without constant supervision.  We were a lot freer when I was growing up and we worked hard.  Now days, people want to bubble wrap their children and do everything for them.  They don’t learn how to be responsible.  But, I digress, you don’t want to hear about that,” he pushed up his cowboy hat and scratched his head revealing a thick swath of silvering hair.

“Back to Old Blue,” he continued.

 “As I was saying; I was only about nine or ten when I started driving Old Blue, ripping up and down the prairie fields.  Her top speed was about 70 mph but I never dared to top her out.  She was a rough old girl with leaf springs and a straight axel front end.  Driving her was like trying to herd a bunch of cattle down the road. You had to be quick thinking to even keep her on those old dirt roads! If you hit a pot hole too hard you’d rap your head on the inside of the cab! The clutch, brake and gas pedal went straight through the floor.  The rubber around them had rotted away and you could see the ground below as you drove.  At times we got completely dusted out because the tires would kick the dirt right up through those holes.” 

He started to laugh.

“And, the passenger door flew open if you took a hard left!  Back then, there were no such things as seat belts, so at times, you had to reach over and yank the passenger back in to save their life!  That old truck took a lot of abuse.  The passenger fender was all bent up and bolted back on because my mother had Old Blue in reverse accidently then backed her into a tree and tore it off. For reverse, you pushed the clutch in with your left foot as you pulled the shift on the steering column towards the steering wheel and up. For first, you pulled toward the steering wheel then down.  Second shift was push up towards the dash then third was toward the dash and down. You had to push that clutch down before you shifted every time and give ‘er the gas especially for first or reverse or she’d stall out. My mother was famous for stalling that truck out going up hills.  I’m actually surprised to this day that I’m still alive to tell the tale – my mother was an atrocious driver which is why my sister and I were determined to start driving!” The old cowboy chuckled and shook his head. “She even bounced us off of the end gate a time or two while berry picking. We’d pick ourselves up off of the ground spitting dirt and go running after the truck because she never thought to check the mirrors to see if we were still there!”

“Anyhow, starting that truck,” he paused, “we weren’t very tall yet when we first started driving, so we had to shimmy forward on the seat to reach the pedals.  Vehicles now days are all fuel injected, mostly you turn a key or push a button and they start immediately; everything is computerized. Being a ’59 Dodge Step-Side, Old Blue didn’t start that way.  The first thing you did was turn the key.  If it was cold, you pulled out the choke located on the dash then pumped the gas pedal twice – on the left side of the floor above the dimmer switch was another pedal that you pushed with your foot, which was the ignition.  Normally, once you depressed the ignition she’d fire right up. Of course you needed to push the choke back in and give ‘er some gas to keep her going until she idled down.  The trick was not stalling it after putting her in gear. We gave ourselves whiplash to begin with! As soon as we figured that out we were gold. Slowing her down and getting her to stop was easy.  To slow down, you only needed to push on the brake. To stop, you pushed in the clutch and depressed the brake. At first, we were only allowed to drive Old Blue around the farm and out into the fields either to take meals to the men or to go to work ourselves.  I’d take her out and go stook bales during haying season or check cattle in the spring, summer and fall.  Sometimes, I’d take her out hunting gophers and the like. After I got a bit older and grew a little more, I drove all over the back roads and ripped up the prairie trails with my buddies.  During the hot summer days, we would all pile in Old Blue and go down to the river or to an irrigation ditch swimming. There was no such thing as air-conditioned vehicles.  You rolled the windows down and put the pedal to the medal,” he chuckled. “The back of the box would be filled with inner tubes and kids, the adults would pile in the front seat along with the smaller children and picnic lunches.  You can’t ride in the box of a half-ton anymore either – safety reasons apparently.  But, we did it all of the time back in the day. That old ’59 Dodge had a good life!  She was mine for many a year. Sometimes, I think she went downhill faster than she ever went up one – sometimes in reverse!  She didn’t quite have the power needed to crawl up steep hills. Especially on the day she died.  She wheezed, gasped, coughed, choked and rolled down the gully into a bed of wolf willow before I could stop her. That’s where she died. Is there anything else you want to know about her?” the old cowboy looked at the younger man bemused.

“Why didn’t you tow her out of there?” The younger man questioned.

“Well, she had smoke billowing out of her engine, I sorta felt like she’d just had a heart-attack. And, I felt ashamed, kinda like I’d murdered a friend. The plan was always to go down and get her but that year we had an early winter with a ton of snow.  In the spring it was too wet and as life is, I just got busy.  She wasn’t a priority I already had a different truck.  One that was newer.  In the end, I thought it best to let the prairie claim her. It’s where she belonged.”

“Did you know that between 1957-1959 Dodge only produced about 2,500 of those trucks and that they are a highly sought-after collector’s item?  I mean the market value due to their rarity if they are well-restored, can reach high prices! One 1957 model, for example, sold for over $85,000.00,” the younger  man stated incredulous.

“Well now is that so…,” the old cowboy reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his pack of cigarettes then lit one in an attempt to hide his amusement.  The younger man was dressed much like himself except for the ball cap on his head and work boots on his feet. Judging by the insignia on his newer Chevy 4 x 4 he was coming from the oilfield. The cowboy wasn’t sure what it was about this young guy but he liked the set of him. He seemed to have some grit and looked to be a hard worker. At the moment, his face was animated and his blue eyes sparkled.

“Old Blue isn’t much of an heirloom where she sits now son,” he chuckled.  “But, if memories were dollar bills, I reckon she’d be priceless.”

“Would you sell her?”

“Oh hell no,” the cowboy laughed. “You look like you have integrity.  Are you a man of your word?”

“Yes, sir,” the young man nodded.

“Well then, if you’re looking for a big restoration project, I’ll help you tow her up out of the gulley.  The deal is once she’s refurbished and if you’re able to get her running again, I’d sure like to go for one last ride in her. If you’re amiable, we’ll shake hands on it. The way I was raised, people trusted their neighbors and they looked out for one another.  If you shake hands, that means keeping your word same as any contract now-a-day.”

The younger man reached out and calloused hand met calloused hand. A firm hand-shake ensued.

Before he left the younger man reached into the top pocket of his shirt and handed the old cowboy a card with his name and phone number. 

“I’ve often wondered about the story that rusted, abandoned truck had to tell.  I hope I’m able to make a few more stories for her in the future.  Thanks for telling me about her.  I’ll be back in a couple of days for Old Blue if that’s alright.”

The old cowboy smiled, tucked the card in his pocket behind his pack of cigarettes and bent down to  pick up a pair of fencing pliers, “I look forward to it son. Thanks for the trip down Alberta’s prairie trails better known by this ole cowpoke as memory lane.”

Thank-you for following, reading, sharing and commenting – The Trefoil Muse

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