To haul city water during hot, dry Southeast Kansas summers, we pulled a four-wheel utility trailer behind our ’36 Pontiac. Sometimes we made multiple 10-mile round-trips daily to Erie, hauling our big water tank for the sake of thirsty cows, hogs, chickens, and the rest of us. I always liked pickup trucks, though. In 1956, when I was 16, I hauled wheat to the grain elevator in my uncle’s three-quarter-ton ’49 Chevy. It was my first real “ride.”
My mother’s parents had a Studebaker pickup. It was clean so I believe Granddad seldom hauled livestock in it. They mainly used it for running errands and going to drive-in movies, sometimes giving my brother and me a ride in the back.
One day in May 1949, Dad arranged to use Mr. Long’s pickup to haul hogs. My brother Tom, almost 7, and I, age 9, were sent along to “help Daddy.” I liked going to the stockyards and other places, knowing that eventually we would stop for refreshments before coming home.
After the hogs were sold, Dad headed for Erie, where we would meet up with Mr. Long and return his truck, when one of the tires blew out. Back then tires didn’t last long, especially when the tread was thin and the tubes had multiple patches. Needless to say, the tire was done for.
We limped in to B.F. Goodrich, where Dad bought a used tire for $8 plus tax, half the cost of a new one. Back at the cafe in Erie, we sat down to pie and nickel Cokes for Tom and me, and pie with coffee for Dad and Mr. Long. Dad told Mr. Long about buying the tire and thanked him for the use of his pickup. But Mr. Long insisted on reimbursing him. “At least take five dollars,” he said.
Dad would have none of it. They started pushing a $5 bill back and forth in a game of “Let me pay for it.”
I was impressed. That was big money! Never in my life had I even held a $5 bill in my hand.
Tom and I, sitting across from each other, spectated as tennis fans might, our heads turning back and forth, back and forth. “Here now, you take it.” “No, no, you loaned me your truck, it’s only right that I should.” “It’s the least I can do.” And so on and so forth.
Finally my proactive little brother, figuring that neither of them really wanted the money, slapped his hand on that five-spot and had it in his pocket before I could blink my eyes. Then Mr. Long piped up, “Well there you go, Jim! Your little Tommy made the decision for us!”
I don’t know how, but Dad had that money before we were home again. The strange thing is that Dad didn’t account for receiving the $5 in his account book, like he did the $8.16 expense for the tire.
