April Showers Bring . . . Dents!

 By Michael L. Alumbaugh © 2021

The two Saturday milkings had gone smoothly considering I was alone with a 100 head of Holstein’s. Thankfully there weren’t any freshened heifers to contend with. Believe me, there are much better ways for a sixteen year old to get his kicks.

My boss Gene, a gentle soul, his wife Maurine, and their son, my high school mate Tony, were on another weekend outing leaving me in charge of the dairy farm duties. They’d be back Sunday afternoon so everything needed to be spick and span. I’d fed and milked the cows, hosed down the stalls, cleaned and hung up all the milkers, washed out the vacuum lines to the bulk tank and was ready to go home. I was tired!

Finished, I stepped out the door onto the loading dock. A refreshing breeze wafted across me. I inhaled deeply. Ah, yes, fresh air. Suddenly, the placid stillness was broken by a thundering cloudburst!  KABOOM! The windows on the milk house rattled. Almost instantly I was enveloped in a torrential downpour. It was even hard to see my car just thirty feet away through the sheets of rain. I made a flying leap from the dock in the car’s direction and scrambled to my old grey two-door, a ‘50 Ford coupe. (It was my first car. I’d paid fifty bucks for it.) The large raindrops hit hard, pelting me as I hopped inside.

Slamming the door, the driver’s side wing swung out of place and fell to the floorboard. Rain poured through the hole! I grabbed the wing and pushed it into position but, as I pulled my hand away, the force of the water pushed it back out. Great! I’d have to hold it in place while I drove.

I fired up that flathead V8, turned the wipers on high, backed onto the road, and aimed it south, still holding the wing in place. There were three miles of sandy dirt road ahead of me with two bridges, a farm and a few fields, before reaching the main road. It would be smooth sailing the remaining five mile home. I hit the gas!

Gunning it the first half mile, I crossed the angular bridge, then slowed for the intersection. Those old style wipers left only about an 8 inch triangle to see through. I peered through the deluge in all directions. As best I could make out it appeared clear. I took my chances and mashed the gas pedal to the floor. The one farm was just ahead. Then, finally, the second bridge. It was a little concrete structure about the length of a small hay trailer. From there it’d be a mile and a half to the highway and then “Westward HO!”

Speeding toward the farmhouse, there was a sudden break in the storm. The timing was perfect. The road ahead was the sandiest in this section. It ran the next quarter mile, all the way to the entrance of that farm. From there, the ditches increased in depth on both sides of the road. As I backed off the gas pedal the car swayed back and forth, fish-tailing through the sandy slough. Still holding the glass, I managed to maneuver the old grey tank through the sloshy sand-filled ruts and pick up speed again.

I made it past the farmhouse entrance. What a relief! But just as quickly as the cloudburst had slowed another thunderclap resounded and a flood of rain exploded in front of me. The drops hit the metal roof in a deafening roar. It sounded like a hundred drummers drumming all around me. Once again, in youthful exuberance, I put the pedal to the metal and rumbled on down the road.

The next obstacle in my path was that concrete bridge. It didn’t really amount to much. It was basically a couple of concrete slabs about 4 foot high and 12 foot long jutting up from the ground on each side of the road. The problem it created was the narrowing of the roadbed to a single lane. Still holding the wing in place, I lumbered on toward the bridge. The rain pushed hard against the glass.

Then, as quickly as the downpour started, it stopped again. I spotted the bridge . . . and, near it, something else caught my eye. It was a farmer on an old red Massy-Ferguson tractor. He owned the house I’d just passed. He’d been disking the field and was exiting it in an attempt to escape the drowning flood, too. He was soaked to the bone! That tattered old red umbrella over him had seen better days. It had more holes than cover for him.

Making matters worse, by the time I saw him I was going way too fast to stop without hitting him. And the ditches weren’t an option either. They’d either flip me or run me smack dab into the concrete abutments. In the same instance he saw me and stopped dead in his tracks. The tractor’s front wheels and weights had extended out into the road as he turned north toward me.

Neither of us had time to improve the situation. Preparing for the worst, I grabbed the steering wheel with both hands, directed the car toward the gap between the tractor’s nose on my right and the concrete abutment on my left. Then, I slammed on the brakes! The car skidded toward the opening. Hopefully, I’d miss both objects and charge on down the road. The wing shot to the floor.

Flying past the tractor, the car’s front fender hit the weights on the nose of the tractor while the opposite front fender caught the concrete bridge abutment. It was like being stuffed into a small funnel. The impact of both obstacles forced me to a screeching halt!

My heart raced. Concerned for the farmer, I looked over my shoulder to see if he’d been thrown from his machine or if the tractor had been laid over on its side in the ditch. To my relief, both appeared fine. I jumped out and ran around the backend of the car. There the man stood, inspecting the damages.

In unison we exclaimed, “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” I stated confidently. He nodded, expressing the same.

Cocking his hat back on his head, he looked at me. “Man, with this rain I didn’t see you coming.”

“I barely saw you and it was too late when I did.” I remarked.

Looking back at the intersecting point of the two vehicles, he offered, “Let’s see what we’ve got going here.” My car had actually hit both the tractor’s weights as well as its right front wheel. The wheel was now pointing south while the other pointed north.

Looking at the car, the weights had sheared and crushed the metal on the right front fender from behind the headlight longwise all the way to just ahead of the passenger door. On the other side the concrete abutment had done basically the same on the left front fender.

Both machines now had limited steering capability. Everything else on them appeared intact.

“Well,” he continued, “I can manage my tractor over to the barn if you can figure out how to get over there behind me. I think I can get those fenders away from your tires over there. Whatcha think?”

“Let’s give it a try.” I replied. “”Not sure if  I could make it home otherwise.”

“Okay, let’s get going before the next monsoon hits!” He spoke with a smile, turned, climbed back onto the red tractor and, hitting the individual wheel brakes, headed toward the red barn behind his house.

Opening my door, the rainwater from my floorboard spilled onto the road. I scooted the wing out of the way and hopped back into the car. I turned off the wipers and, with limited steering, followed in reverse behind the tractor as best I could.

He left his tractor just outside the barn door and motioned me in. Once inside, I shut the old girl down. He studied the fenders for a bit and then walked over, grabbed his four foot farm jack , placed it sideways on the tire and slide the lift nose under the crumpled fender. Then, I held the steel jack frame in place while he worked the jack handle. The metal groaned as it contorted its shape away from the tire. In no time he had both fenders back out allowing freedom to steer normally again.

“Wow!” I exclaimed. “You made it look easy!”He just smiled and put the jack back.

“So, how are we going to fix your tractor? It looks pretty bad! I’ll be glad to help if I can.” I offered appreciatively.

“Oh, she’ll be fine.” he said confidently. “It just broke the sheer pin on that wheel. I’ll replace it and then check them both to make sure they’re okay.”

“Well, what do I owe you for the damages and all?” I asked.

“Nothing, son. I just hope your Pa don’t skin you when you get home.” He chuckled.

“Well, I should be fine . . . I hope.” and grinned. “Thank you for your kindness.”

“You’re welcome.” He spoke warmly, adding, “But you might want to slow down a bit from now on.”

“Oh, yes sir! I will.” I felt a bit ashamed but it was a valuable lesson learned. I couldn’t have had a better instructor. I smiled in gratitude, shook his hand, hopped into the car and drove out of his driveway for home . . . slowly.

Thankfully, my Dad understood the impetuous ignorance of adolescence. Later that summer, he found a buyer for my now damaged beast. He sold it for $50.

Raised Glazed Donuts (Stuck Up!)

By Michael L. Alumbaugh, © 2021

It was early Saturday morning. I was trying to get my shoes on when I heard, “Come on, hop in or we’ll be late!” It was my older brother Ronnie. “Get a move on!” he urged. Him being 16 and me 12, I knew I needed to get a move on. He was a busy man with places to go, things to do and people to see.

“Coming!” I shouted.

Mom handed me a couple of dollars from her nearly empty coin purse. “You’ll need that for your haircut” she said, and offered a loving smile.  I stuffed it into my pocket, scrambled out the side porch door, flew over the steps and hopped into the blue and white ’58 Bel Air. We backed out of the driveway like bandits, shot past the high school and headed out of town.

Ronnie had stopped getting his hair cut in town at Ritchie’s Barber Shop. I suppose it was because Mr. Ritchie only seemed have two styles of cuts in his skill bag: crew cuts and butch cuts. But he only charged 75¢. Whatever the reason, we’d skipped breakfast for an early appointment in Sterling 12 miles away.

We cruised into Sterling’s downtown business area, parked the car, and ran into the shop. “Hello boys, have a seat. We’ll be right with you.” It was the first “Clipper King” near the door: A tall, chunky man with dark hair, mustache, black apron and friendly smile. He waved his scissors in the air and returned to his customer. There were three barber chairs in the shop but only two barbers. The second barber, a younger thinner man, stayed focused on his client.

Ronnie was first. I waited my turn and looked at comic books. The thin barber called to me, motioning to the chair. I hopped in. Speedily he caped me, chopped and cropped, snipped and clipped, thinned and trimmed, and finally combed my noggin. He finished me in no time! We paid the men and scooted out the front door.

I turned to go to the car assuming next stop was home. Ronnie, on the other hand was apparently on a mission.  He headed in the opposite direction and started across the street. “Where are you going?” I called. Watching for cross traffic, he turned and motioned to me to follow, then trotted briskly to the corner donut shop on the other side. A donut shop? We never go to donut shops!

I ran across the street and hurried through the shop entrance. That wonderful fresh baked aroma almost knocked me over. The place hummed with customers sitting at tables chatting over coffee and munching on their delights. Ronnie stood eyeing the selection. They’d sold out of about everything except glazed donuts, some with colored sprinkles and some just iced. The icing glistened as it dripped off the sides of each one. He looked a little disappointed but ordered a dozen anyway.

The cashier didn’t have any more boxes with covers so she made do with a lid lined with wax paper and loaded up the treats. Apologetically she said, “Sorry, we’ve run out of napkins.”

“That’s OK.” Ronnie replied. He paid the lady, grabbed the lid filled with those confectionary delights and marched out the door.

Crossing the street, he commented, “Let’s get home! Everyone’s waiting.” The summer heat had turned the sedan into an oven. As we got in, he said, “Roll down your window.”  I happily complied. He slid the prized package between us, cranked up the Chevy and took off. The breeze was refreshing as we headed for home.

My mouth watered! I couldn’t wait to dig in. We sped down the highway and then turned off onto a back road. “This isn’t the way home!” I chirped.

“It’s a shortcut.” he responded warmly. With that, he massed the gas pedal to the floor.  It felt like light-speed as we zoomed down the road!

Suddenly his expression became stern. He instructed, “Grab the bottom of the seat and the donuts!”

 I had no idea what he was talking about.  Excited and confused, I thought, “The bottom of the seat?  Where? . . .  and why?” But it was too late. Straight ahead of us and coming fast was an elevated railroad crossing! Ronnie had the steering wheel to keep him in place, but not me.

The car shot up the grade, thumped the rails and went airborne for a few seconds, with me and the donuts floating toward the ceiling. We lofted, then descended, and slammed down hard into the roadbed. I flew to the top of the car, slammed my head into the roof, and crashed back into the seat! I saw stars!

Trying to regain my bearings, I rubbed my head and looked over at Ronnie as we continued racing down the road. “I told you to hang on to the bottom of the seat!” he said and snickered.

Excitedly, I looked down to where the lid had rested. Still in place, I gave a sigh of relief. But wait, some of the donuts were missing. Startled, I asked, “Where are the donuts?” He glanced around quickly and then looked up. Fastening his sight back to the road, he retorted, “You dummy! I told you to hang onto the donuts. They’re stuck to the roof!”

I turned my gaze to the top of the car and there they were, glued to the cloth headliner by their icing. What a mess! Hitting a washboard area of the road, the vibration began loosening the donuts from the fabric. Sprinkles and drips of white icing began pouring back into the box and seat below. And we had no napkins!

“Well, get them down and back into the box!”

A couple dropped back in. I caught as many as I could with the sticky masses clinging to my fingers. Carefully I rearranged them in the lid, licked my fingers and reached for the rest. The remaining ones had to be peeled off leaving their gooey remnants of icing on the ceiling.

My head had stopped throbbing by the time we swung into our driveway. Ronnie delivered the mangled treats to the kitchen table, and disappeared. He probably grabbed a wet cloth and raced back to his car to clean up the mess before the sugar solidified. The rest of the morning was a blur. I don’t think I ate one donut, and who knows what happened to the rest of them. But one thing is certain: now, every time I see a glazed donut, I smile.