The Dump Truck

The Dump Truck(Sylvia Skrmetta) The Dump Truck

My Pa taught all his boys to drive as soon as we could see over the steering wheel and reach the gas pedal. Mind y’all though, sometimes we couldn’t do both at the same time.

It was 1939, or theres about, in rural Alabama. I reckon I was about ten when I got my first shot at Pa’s old Ford truck. My older brother, John Henry, was a laughing his tailend off watchin’ me and Pa on the old dirt road in front of the house. I sat just barely on Pa’s lap, just so I could see better, while he worked the clutch and the brake pedals, I tried real hard to shift the gears. Mainly I gave her a lot of gas, and we sputtered and hopped all over that road in first gear. Pa said I had done real good, and that was good enough for me.

By the time I was twelve, I was a right good driver, and Pa would let me fetch feed from town in his old truck when none of the older boys was around.

Pa worked hard on the farm, and he taught all his ten children to do the same. So while the boys worked in the fields, and the girls tended to the cows, hogs, and chickens, and helped Mama out, Pa went to work for the county. Times were hard I reckon, and he had a lot of mouths to feed.
The best thing about the county job was that Pa got to drive the county dump truck home every night. I loved that thing, and Pa knew it.

One Saturday Pa asked if I could go to town in his dump truck and pick up a load of hoers. Now, I know some of ya’ll won’t know what a hoer is, but on our farm it was someone who used a hoe and dug in the dirt. I was so excited; I could have wet my britches. So I drives into town, sittin’ on the driver’s seat like a proud rooster, just a hopin’ my friends would see me. When I gits to Mr. Mason’s store, cause that’s where my pa said to go, I nearly killed myself jumpin’ out the truck. Well, I guess I wasn’t paying no attention on account of Mary Jane Lewis caught my eye. After wipin’ the dirt off my britches, I strut into Mr. Mason’s store like I was somethin’. “Well howdy Ford,” says Mr. Mason, on account of that was my given name. (I reckon Pa loved that Ford truck so much, he named a son after it.) “What can I do you for?”

“Pa needs some whores, Mr. Mason,” I says. He needs as many as I can git on my truck.

Mr. Mason was belly laughing so hard, he most choked himself to death. “Your daddy wants whores?”

“Yes sa, that’s what he told me to ask you for, a truck load of whores!”

About that time, ole lady Jenkins walks into the store and seems totally upset with the “vulga way” Mr. Mason was a laughin’, and turns herself right back around and stomps out the store.

Finally Mr. Mason catches his breath. “Ford, you done made my day son. But I believe your daddy needs some hoers.”

“That’s what I said,” I says to him. “What’s the difference?”

Again with the laughin’, “I reckon they’d be about the same, ceppin’ one works the fields and the otha….” He never would say nothin’ about the otha, just kept on a laughin’.

Well finally, Mr. Mason rounds up six or seven black folk that hire out for field work, and they git into the back of the dump truck. Now, I must tell ya’ll in my own defense, I really wasn’t out to do no mischief that day, but then again, I reckon I didn’t know I’d be drivin’ Pa’s dump truck. The idear didn’t come to me right off, nah, I reckon I was almost to the house before the dump bucket lever caught my eye. Now, I had seen my pa work that thing many a time, but I had never done it myself. So I did. Without even a thinkin’ it through, I stopped that truck and pulled that lever. It was only after I heard all the hollerin’ and the cussin’ that I remembered about those boys in the bucket of the truck. I knew right off, I had done done somethin’ I shouldn’t have.

Pa heard the hollerin’ from the house and came a runnin’ down the dirt road. All those black folk ran up to Pa at once, screamin’ and a hollerin’ somethin’ awful. All I heard was “Mr. Smith yo boy done…,” before I took off a runnin’.

Pa knew I’d be home sooner or later, and he was a waitin’ for me, and he was madder than a wet hen. Now ya'll must know that my Pa is a very big man, and when he gits mad, he gits even bigger, I swear. He grabbed me by my collar and lifted me clear off the ground. “What in hell’s name was you thinkin’ boy?”

“Pa, Pa, I can explain,” I cried, not havin’ an idear in my head. Then without much thinkin’ I said with a weak little laugh, “You always wanted a black-top road Pa!”

Pa looked at me like I had done lost my mind, “Yes son,” he growled, “and you’s gonna be the white stripe down the middle!”