by Vern Zielke
Actually, the pickup was not
always black. It is likely that it came from the assembly
line with a coat of brilliant red. Born sometime in 1935
or1936, it was purchased by my dad, secondhand, at about the
time of the second big war. When this acquisition was made I
was eight or nine years old. Why it became black I do not
recall, but I do remember that the paint job was done
quickly and quite efficiently with a can of black paint and
a big brush. It would be fair to say that the pickup and I
grew up together, although it had a bit of a head start when
you consider the average life span of a 1936 Chevrolet
pickup truck.
Every farm needs a truck.
Our farm needed a truck, and had up to this point relied
mostly on trailers to haul things. If things were too large
for the trailer then someone would have to be called to
facilitate the moving of whatever goods were in need of
transport. Wheat, during harvest, was hauled by Uncle Hank's
truck and by Fred, an itinerant hauler who came around to
work for us in this capacity for several summers. I was
Fred's seatmate and confidant on many a trip to town and
back.
The black pickup was not a
large truck. It was a half-ton model with a four-speed
transmission, built for light work. By putting sideboards on
the box and using oversized tires, it was possible to haul
forty-five to fifty bushels of wheat. By mounting a
homemade, wooden stock rack on the sideboards, the vehicle
could transport pigs, calves, or even a steer to market. By
stretching chicken wire over the box, it could be used to
take a load of chickens to Klien's in Dodge City.
These were all utilitarian
uses for this truck. But as I said, the pickup and I grew up
together. More to the point, the pickup contributed to my
growth into young manhood by allowing me more independence
than my parents may have been aware of. After all, when a
boy can operate a vehicle designed for adult use, he tends
to develop a bit of an attitude somewhere between
self-confidence and a mild form of arrogance.
My first experience as a
motor vehicle operator came when I was very young. I was so
small that, as I sat in the driver's seat I could only see
blue sky through the windshield. My task was to drive slowly
along the pasture fence while my dad stood in the back and
dropped new fence posts where replacements were to be made.
This gave me lots of practice in starts and stops and
produced a few tense moments when the left front fender
grazed the barbed wire fence.
From this rather shaky start
I progressed rapidly. I was soon driving to and from the
field and on different errands to Uncle Hank's farm or even
to Uncle George's place. I became somewhat of an authority
on the performance of a '36 Chevy. I, at various times,
tested how fast it would run, how effective the brakes were,
and how accurately it could negotiate corners at fast
speeds.
Harvest time was, of course,
the most glorious of times for a young wheat hauler. I made
many a trip from the combine to the granaries on the
farmyard, and just as many from the combine to the grain
elevator in Meade or Fowler. No driver's license was
required during these carefree times, and no one was
surprised to see a small boy come wheeling onto the scales
in a black pickup. It was harvest, and everyone was expected
to help in whatever way they could. I recall no mishaps of a
serious nature and in retrospect, I question how I passed
unscathed through these years.
When I reached the ripe old
age of fourteen, the time came to consider a mode of
transportation to and from high school. My school was seven
miles away, and the dirt roads were often muddy, drifted
over with snow, or deeply rutted. My dad thought the black
pickup would make a keen school bus if he would design and
build a topper to fit over the box. This was before anyone
had ever, at least as far as I knew, thought of such a
thing. He proceeded to build a crude affair made of tin,
which would provide a cover for a number of passengers. Thus
the old Chevy made its contribution to the education of
several young students by getting them to the right place
more or less on time. I do not recall that a lot of
consideration was given to the comfort of the passengers and
it seems now that it must have been cold and lonely under
this canopy on a bleak winter's morning.
It was during this time that
my maternal grandmother had to move out her house because
she could no longer live by herself. Her sons and daughters
decided that it would be well for her to move from place to
place among the siblings, spending several weeks at each
place in turn. It so happened that on a cold winter's day it
was time for her to make the move to our house. I was
instructed to pick her up on my way home from school since
her time at Uncle Abe's house had expired. The roads were
very muddy, and deep ruts had been carved into the roadbed
by passing vehicles. The going was treacherous and I was not
sure if the pickup would be able to make it home. I was
faced with the question: what do I do with grandma if I get
mired down? I had just one remedy: drive as fast as possible
and keep the wheels spinning. Grandma hung on for dear life
as the pickup pitched and yawed, clawing its way through the
mud. Grandma had been through much in her life, including a
stormy sea journey to these shores when she was a child. She
may have considered this experience just another phase in
her rather tumultuous life. She had no comment. As for me, I
was glad to get home, and rather proud of my ability to
navigate under difficult circumstances.
Using the pickup as a school
bus lasted for one year and in subsequent years other modes
of transportation were devised and agreed upon, one of which
almost led to my demise. That, however, is another story.
Possibly the greatest role that
the pickup had in shaping my life was that of providing me
with transportation in my hunting expeditions. It was in my
fourteenth year that I acquired a gun. My father did not own
a gun. He said that he did not see a need for a gun and that
if he needed anything shot he would call Uncle Hank. Some of
my friends had guns or they had the use of their fathers'
guns. It so happened that one of my friends wanted to sell
his rifle and offered it to me for $10.00. I became the
proud owner of a Remington single shot bolt action rifle and
my dad reluctantly allowed me to keep it.
It so happened that a
portion of our pasture was home to a rather large population
of prairie dogs. They were great fun to have around and one
could spend hours watching their antics as they popped out
of their burrows, stood up on their hind legs, and barked
messages back and forth to each other. Farmers, however,
considered them a menace. The towns, which they developed,
could turn an otherwise lush pasture into a barren waste.
They were among the first developers to convert good
agricultural land into urban housing. Much time and money
was spent trying to eradicate the pests. The most common
method was that of forcing poison gas into the burrows, but
this was only mildly effective. Because of the network of
tunnels, which connected their subterranean living space,
the gas often did not reach much of the population.
The obvious solution to the
prairie dog problem was to stalk them and kill them one by
one. The black pickup became my steed, from which I could
patrol the entire expanse of prairie dog land. To facilitate
efficient shooting I removed both doors so as to make it
possible to get off a quick shot from either side. I spent
many hours playing the sniper, trying to outwit the wily
dogs. It was only on rare occasions that I could actually
retrieve my prey because even if I hit one of the little
rodents, they would dive into their burrows and either live
or die. While this saved on disposal concerns, it did make
it difficult to get an accurate body count.
Prairie dogs were not the
only targets. Sparrows, rabbits, skunks, and even occasional
coyotes were hunted and shot at from either side of the
black pickup. The rifle and I became almost constant
companions. No stray bullets ever found their mark in
livestock or people or passing cars, although the roofs of
the neighbor's farm buildings may well have harbored a bit
of lead. I was very much aware that the box of shells, which
I bought at the hardware store, contained a warning
statement, which informed the user that the range of a 22
long rifle bullet was one mile. I considered myself a hunter
who put safety first and I am pleased to say that nothing
serious ever occurred.
The day came, however, when
the black pickup was traded for a 1949 Ford half-ton truck.
It was almost new and I didn't miss the old Chevy too much
as I drove this newly acquired vehicle. As for the rifle, it
stayed on the farm when I went to college, and I would get
it out when I came home on vacation or in the summer.
Somehow it was not as much fun to shoot things anymore.
I decided to keep the old
rifle and teach my boys to become marksmen when they were
old enough to learn. As time went on, however, I became more
and more convinced that the world had too many guns as it
was, and that a familiarity with them was no great virtue.
One day a man offered to buy it from me and I gladly let him
have it. And so my dad was mostly right after all, as he so
often was. He never did push his point very hard, but the
drummer he marched to sometimes played a slightly different
beat. After all, he did invent and install the first pickup
topper I ever saw. And, oh yes, he did use my rifle
sometimes to shoot a young rooster rather than trying to
chase it down when mom sent him out to procure the main
course for dinner.
The black pickup and the rifle, among other things,
contributed to my coming of age. Conveyances of all kinds,
be it a horse or a camel or something with wheels, have
always given a measure of freedom and independence to the
young. The urge to move away from the nest seems to be the
way the world works. I shall always remember my black
pickup.
(copyright Vern Zielke)
