Topic: Dailies

Dad's Day '07

by

Leo Crocker Rogers

I live on Dobson Ranch in Mesa, Arizona and somewhat far from a railroad line. However, there are times when it is evening-cool and the air somewhat heavy, that I can hear the train engine whistles some four or so miles away. When this happens, I often think of my dad.

It was in the mid 1950, and an early summer morning when Dad and I drove from San Diego, California to Saint Louis, Missouri. Just getting over the mountains outside of San Diego was a big deal. The narrow two lane road was often blocked by truckers who were standing on their running boards steering their rigs from outside the cab, just to get some cooling breeze. Near the peak of the mountains, Dad pulled over. It was still dark. From the place we parked the car, we walked a ways and then Dad stopped us. Dad told me to pick up a rock, throw it out in front of me, and listen for it to hit. I felt for a rock about the size of a golf ball, found one and threw the rock. I waited for the hit but there was silence. I waited and waited some more. Finally I heard the rock ricochet on the unseen canyon walls. I backed toward the car. For a young teen, in the dark and clearly at the precipice of a deep canyon, there was one thing I dearly wanted, my dad at my side.

Going through El Centro, California, the temperature dropped as we were in crop land, specifically onions. What a strong fragrance that stayed and stayed.

We carried gallons of water and drank some near the city water tank somewhat in the distance. The tankhad a horizontal strip around it wit the words "Sea Level." painted near the line. The our road, Highway 8, was below the line and the tank. Dad asked, "How is it possible we are not under water?" "Well", I said, "we have a mountain range between us and the Pacific ocean. Dad said nothing, but I felt proud. It was good to be able to answer dad’s questions with insight.

In Arizona, we stopped at what my dad thought was heaven on earth, the Stock Yards restaurant. The Stockyard restaurant and El Central had something in common. In El Central, the pungent smell of onions was ubiquitous, and now at the Stockyards restaurant, the flatulent odor of manure was just as omnipresent. We were in the midst of thousands of steers and their droppings. It was difficult for me to eat steak with that smell embedded in the table cloth and napkins, but dad had a huge steak and loved every bit. He called me a cream puff.

Driving through Texas, I shot my Daisy BB gun out of the car widow. Now, my dad was a straight-up, law abiding man, but when he had a teenage son going steer crazy being cooped up in a car, he simply said nothing. I shot at power poles that went zipping by. I never hit one. I simply could not overcome the wind. I could see the flight of the BB. They never got to the poles.

Now mind you, we were not busting the sound barrier with our traveling speed. We were at 50 mph or less from San Diego to St. Louis. In the mountains, 35 mph was interesting. There were rocks, trees, bushes, remnants of old roads, sometimes a shack, and even animals popping up here and there. But in Texas, at 50 mph with the same pancake flat landscape tens-of, twenties-of, thirties-of, and hundreds-of miles rolling on and on with nothing in sight but more concrete road, 50 mph felt slower and more isolated than a snail solo climbing the mountains of Pike’s Peak.

One time, again in Texas, the car almost stopped on the open desert highway. I asked dad why we were going so slowly, perhaps 30 mph. He said that was as fast as the car could go. I did not believe him. It is always a good idea to blatantly question the opinion of one’s dad. So he pulled over and stopped. He said, "Get out." Whoa there dad, I thought. Just because I questioned your assessment of a situation was no reason to leave me high and dry in Texas. We are, you know, a long, long way from home. He said again, "Get out." I put my hand on the door handle, and it clicked, but the door did not open. He said, "Get out." So I pushed my shoulder on the door. It barely opened. He said, "Get out." So, now partially mad, I really pushed on the door and managed to get it open enough to get my leg caught between the door and the frame of the car. I was stuck. I was embarrassed. Why was I so weak? I could not get out or in. I was jammed tightly. With a bit of pain helping me think clearly and the wind whistling as if we were traveling at 50 mph, I knew why the car was going so slowly. The head wind was mighty. So mighty that it held the door against my body so I could not get in or out. It was good that dad was there. He got out his side, he being stronger than I, went around to my side of the car and pulled the door open. I dove back in. Nothing more was said. Silence is golden.

In the distance, a long distance away, we saw something in the road. It could be a mirage. As we approached, it looked like it was going to be in the roadway. The closer we got, the more we thought it was an animal, but we were not sure because the ground heat waves distorted our view. Finally, we could see it was a man, but bent over with the front of his head facing the ground. He was in bad shape. We stopped along side the road. My dad got out. The man was leaning on the hood. He said he had been out there, in the Texas desert, three days without water. He begged for water. I was scared. He looked wrinkled, his eyes were almost closed, and he talked with a slur. For a young teen, this was discomforting. Then my dad refused to give him water. I was abashed. The man was dying of thirst and my dad refused to give him water. Dad opened the trunk where we had extra water. He took out of the trunk a gallon of water and a rag. The man groveled for the gallon jug. Dad refused. I almost rebuffed my dad, but the wind incident had tempered my audacity, not to say that I had forgotten that my dad had stopped me just in time from falling over the precipice in the mountains. Likely, he knew what he was doing, and I had no idea. What dad did do was soak the rag and give it to the man to suck on. Dad put the man in the back seat, let lim lie down, sort of, and then promoted me to be the guardian angel. I was to soak the rag and give it to the man every time he gave me the rag. I was not to give him the gallon jug. Now, I was the bad guy. Later in life, I personally learned the terrible consequences of jugging down water after being severely deprived. Such drinking can cause grave harm to a body. Dad did the right thing. Okay. Another one for dad. By the time we came to the next city, the man was able to walk. We bought him a meal, and maybe dad gave him some money, I am not sure. The man said that he wanted to stay at the restaurant, so we went ahead. Decisions seemed easy for my dad.

When it was about 4:00 in the afternoon, it was hot. I mean hot. The windows were down for of course we had no car air conditioning. The wind was like a hot knife stripping away our skin one mono-layer at time. Then we saw it – a road-side stand. Maybe they would have something cool. We pulled up. What they had was ice-cold water melon. Dad bought one. Good to have a dad along on a trip. A whole watermelon. Remember, however, we were in Texas. The salesman took a hug chopping knife (scared me) and powerfully decapitated the melon on six sides. All that was left was the red, cold heart of the watermelon. It was heaven on earth for me. Until that time in my life I had not know the meaning of "succulent". Dad gave me the word. Then dad had a whole melon and so did I – the inside only, ice cold, red, succulent watermelon.

On we went, and since I am over the word limit for such a story, I will bring it to an end. Well, almost.

We arrived at St. Louis. The reason for the trip was that I was to attend school there, and dad was driving me so he could say good bye there rather than put me on a bus and say good bye at home. Nice gesture, don’t you believe? Thanks dad.

I cried as he was about to leave. Dad hugged me. I cried some more, and he held me. Not a good feeling to see one’s dad drive away. I waved and said, "Bye, dad."

I was frightened and alone.

On the way home, dad drove many hours through the same states where I had given him company. But now he was alone. Not a good feeling. One night, he pulled over to the side of the road to sleep. It was about 2 a.m. Likely, while apart, we were sharing the feeling that the world was a bit of a darker place. Then dad’s world flashed like lightening and then went dark again like lightening at midnight, but there was no thunder. Was his world really coming to an end? The whole car lit up like it was on white fire then went pitch black again. Then the ground began to shake and then more blinding light and mightier shaking. The car was bouncing. And then he heard in a deafening blast a thousand time louder than the soft whistle that I hear today on the cool nights on Dobson Ranch, but for sure, it was a train whistle. Differently, his whistle was some 20 feet away from his ear drums. It scared the wits out of my dad – blinding intense light from the rotating train head light, his car shaking violently as the freight train car went stream by, and the blasting whistle right in his ears. Dad was unabashed when telling the story.

Dad are sometime frightened too.

The next time I saw my dad, I hugged him so hard that I thought I would pop his eyes. He was delighted to see his son too.

It was mom that said that she knew that it was difficult for me to stay in St. Louis and have my dad leave, but she said that my dad said that leaving me and having to drive home alone was the most difficult thing he had ever done in his life. Tough for both of us.

So tonight as I hear the train whistle, I remember my dad, a man who I loved and who loved me. My dad passed on some 40 years ago, but the train whistle still connects us.