Heaven and Red-eye Gravy

When I was in high school,one of my first jobs was as a go-fer for my Grandpa Tom in the oilfield.  I first worked on Saturdays during the school year with Grandpa.  We just did the odds and ends jobs that were left over from the week.  I think the main purpose of the job was to activate my "mechanical genes."  For some reason, I just never got it.  My brain understood the concepts, but just never connected it with the job at hand.  Electronics, I got.  Even electrical problems.  Not mechanics though.  Those aptitude tests where they show a gear turning one direction and ask which direction the fifth one in the series will be turning?  I'd get better results with a coin toss!  Grandpa tried to teach me some.  To his credit, I did learn to use some of the tools.  And how to work hard.  

I remember laying for what seemed like hours underneath one of the old trucks trying to figure out where to put the starter I held in my hand.  And I had just removed the old one!  I finally got it just a few minutes before he got back.  And to my relief, it even worked.  

One of the best benefits of working for Grandpa Tom, was lunch.  We came home everyday for lunch, and Grandma Mae could cook lunch.  No cold sandwiches or even leftovers.  She really cooked lunch.  My favorite was her chicken-fried steak and homemade biscuits.  One day, we had the best gravy ever.  When I asked her what was different, she said it was "red-eye gravy."  Red-eye gravy substitutes coffee for some of the milk in the gravy.  I think red-eye gravy is proof that there is a heaven.  Anything that good had to be divinely inspired. 

Grandma Mae joined Grandpa Tom in heaven yesterday.  I hope they are enjoying a good meal that includes red-eye gravy. 

More Childhood Pyromania

Like I said yesterday, one of my few regular chores was taking out the trash and as I got older, burning it.  In our small town, the city only picked up our trash a couple of times a month.  So, we burned it in our trash barrels at least a couple of times between pick-ups.  I don't remember if there was a regular pick-up schedule, or if Don just came by when he had time.  He was kind of the do-everything city employee.  I think he was the maintenance department, animal control, and waste management department combined.  Anyway at least a couple of times that I can remember, Don provided our entertainment on a summer day.  Burning trash in the barrel and an irregular pick-up schedule was a dangerous combination.  Trash burned the day before the pick up would not be flaming, but would be smoldering.  Smoldering trash compacted on top of the other trash would eventually produce a flaming garbage truck.  I remember Bobby and I racing our bikes down the street trying to keep up with Don as he sped through town to the city dump with flames trailing out the back of the truck.

I also remember a scary trash burning incident with Jeff. We had difficulty getting the trash in his alley to burn.  His parents had their own gas tank, unfortunately within fairly easy reach of the trash barrels.  After several failed attempts to get the trash to burn, we had the brilliant idea to pour gasoline on the trash.  The tank had a long hose and just reached the barrel.  A few cautious shots of gasoline were dumped on top of the trash.  Being reasonably intelligent boys, we took the hose back to the tank before trying to light the trash.  Jeff lit a match on the side of the barrel and tossed it in.  Instantly there was a fwoomp and the flames shot up out of the barrel, just like in the cartoons!  And just like in the cartoons, the trail of gasoline that dripped down the side of the barrel to the ground and along the wooden fence toward the gas tank also lit up.  I stomped on as much as I could and Jeff ran for the water hose, which of course reached almost to the fire.  Fortunately for us, the gasoline trailed out into the dirt of the alley before crossing back into the grass to the gas tank.  The gasoline burned off before the flames had a chance to get back to the dry grass.  That was end of my trash burning career, and probably for Jeff too.

Back to Don, the city worker, he also drove the truck that sprayed for mosquitoes in the summer.  That was another form of entertainment for Bobby, Jeff, and me.  We would chase behind the truck on our bicycles, inhaling the ddt fog that would keep the mosquitoes from carrying us away.  There's a line in a James McMurtry song titled, 12 O'Clock Whistle,that says about DDT, "that stuff won't hurt you none, the neighbor lady'd say, but encephalitis, now that'll ruin your day. "If you like country-folk-rock music, I'd recommend James McMurtry.  And this one,It Had to Happen, is my favorite album. For some reason, this song reminds me of spending time in the summer with my Grandma Mae. Besides how can anyone resist a song that successfully works "encephalitis" into its lyrics!

Childhood Memories

Like the protagonist in the book I mentioned a couple of days ago, River Season, I grew up in a small Texas town.  Gruver, in the panhandle of Texas, was very similar to Jim Black's Archer City.  One of the few chores I remember being required to do, was taking our trash to the barrel.  In the pre-environmentally conscious 1970's we burned our trash in the barrels.  That's what made the job worth doing!  I think all young boys are pyromaniacs at heart.  

I had a little sister, Lori, who was still eating baby food in the old Gerber jars when I was at my pyromaniacal trash burning peak.  Mom made sure I took the lids off the jars when I put them in the barrel.  One day I finally got curious enough to ask why.  Well, mom must've missed the mommy class that told about boy's pyro tendencies.  She said that if the jars were sealed, they would explode when they got hot.  With visions of mushroom clouds in my head, I ran to tell my best friend Bobby the wonderful news.  Bobby and I were a dangerous combination.  While I would come up with all kinds of destructive, dangerous theories, Bobby was a do-er.  I might plan and revise for months and never actually execute the plan.  I was happy just visualizing the massive explosions we could create.  Lori had at least three meals a day.  One meat, one vegetable, and a dessert at each sitting.  Now she wasn't a big eater, but we could count on collecting at least six jars a day.  Six jars times seven days (we burned just once a week and Don Evans emptied our barrel every other week)would be 42 jars!  That would be one heck of an explosion.  Again, being the planning type, I argued that we could stash jars in the garage and collect an extra week's worth jars. We could create an explosion that could be seen in Spearman, or maybe as far away as Guymon!


Well, like I said, Bobby was an action man.  He knew that if he let me collect jars for two weeks, I would convince him that four would be even better.  After four weeks, I would have visualized the explosion thousands of times and probably chicken out.  So at his insistence, we took the paper grocery bag full of baby food jars and lids out to the alley.  I started the fire while Bobby started putting the lids on the jars.  Well, a little not so common sense and caution came into our 11 year old heads in the meantime.  We decided to put just half the jars into the fire at first.  No sense in burning Hansford county down.  Once the fire was going really good, we folded down the top of the paper bag half full of jars and tossed it in and ran and ducked behind the pile of dirt left behind when the railroad track was laid.  We waited and waited and waited.  Finally there was a pop, then another pop, then another and another.  Each pop was followed by a ping as the metal lids smacked against the side of the metal trash barrel.  Not exactly the Hiroshima-like explosion we were going for, but still kind of cool.


By then, even I was getting a little braver.  I suggested that we toss the remaining jars in one by one.  Just for fun, you know.  So we, well actually Bobby first, with me following a little behind, started tossing jars into the burning barrel.  Pretty soon we had about a quarter of the barrel filled with Gerber baby food jars.  Pop, ping, pop, ping.  Then pop, pop, pop, pop, it sounded like the Jiffy pop popcorn on the stove top.  Then the red hot strained pea lids started raining down.  It was funny until I had visions of hot lids landing on the dry grass and setting the great plains on fire.  I was sure that our fire would burn all the way to Kansas.  Bobby's dad would tease that I was too cute to go to jail.  I didn't know what that meant and I didn't want to find out either.  For once, I was the quick action person and grabbed the cut out top of the barrel and risked life and limb putting it on top of the barrel.  I couldn't cover the whole top, or it would fall in the fire. I had to angle it across the top so it blocked enough of the opening that the lids stopped flying and started pinging again.  While I ran around stomping on hot lids, Bobby laughed until he was rolling in the dirt.  But he wasn't as cute as me, so he wasn't afraid of prison.