By Ecklebob Chiselfritz
It wasn't often that our phone was on when I was a kid. Ma Bell had a nasty habit of shutting off service if you didn't pay your bill. I don't remember it ringing on that Sunday morning in 1967, but it did and my mother answered it. Our shack was small. I mean small. Mice looked at us as white trash and preferred to live in the barn. So yeah, I more than likely heard the phone ring and I listened to my mother's side of the convo.
My old man had gone on one of his benders and was stranded in Chicago with a flat tire and no spare. Being eight years old and a seasoned veteran of a tug of war between my mom who would always puke after one drink of any type of alcohol and my dad who would puke if he couldn't get hold of any alcohol I didn't have any questions or wonder why dear old dad was calling from thirty some odd miles away needing help. It was a change of pace from stepping over his prone form on Sunday morning in order to use the bathroom as was per usual. Doesn't every family have its rituals?
My mother couldn't drive. I mean she could not drive. The old man had tried to teach her how and on one lesson she buried the nose of his '63 Ford Falcon into the side of a grain barn.
She. Could. Not. Drive.
Plus, she was pregnant at the time with my little sister.
After five boys I'm sure she was ecstatic.
Mom always said that once she found out what was causing her to have babies she stopped doing it.
My mother hung up the phone and told my thirteen year old brother Zack he had to hustle over to neighboring farmer Al Schroeder's place and borrow his pick up truck and take the old man the spare tire that was in a corner of the pump house.
I was indifferent to the old man at that stage of my life. Zack hated his guts. And the feeling was mutual. My indifference led to me being ignored while one of my younger brothers was favored. Zack's hatred was my fathers excuse for beating one of my other brothers. And...it's complicated.
I doubt Zack told Al what was going on. Hell, everyone in our rural community knew what the score was concerning our family. It was early morning and Al had thirty some cows to milk.
I went out to the pump house and found the tire. It had to be Spring because that is just the way I remember the weather after all these years.
Then it hit me.
Zack had to drive all the way into Chicago?
We drove all over creation with tractors. It was a way of life for us. We were given limited access to cars/trucks. Yeah, we could drive the back roads from point A to point B.
But I-90 into Chicago?
Zack pulled up and told me to throw the tire in the bed of the truck and get in.
I obeyed and climbed in because he is my brother.
Age be damned, brothers instinctively know when one another needs help.
I knew we were going East because the Sun was in our eyes as it was rising. Other than that I don't know how Zack found the old man, but he did.
I don't remember what car the old man had at the time, but I'm sure it was a piece of shit.
I do know only three of the tires had air in them at the time.
He was standing in the street by his car when we pulled up with his toolbox open on the ground alongside the aggrieved tire.
The old boy was too drunk to help so Zack began changing the tire and told me to watch the truck. I didn't know what he meant. I'm eight years old. What does watch the truck mean?
But I watched the truck.
I also watched a short balding guy in shabby clothes pick the old mans tool box up and scurry down the sidewalk with it.
I thought he was putting it away for safekeeping.
So help me God I did.
I was too embarrassed to say anything once I realized Sparky wasn't coming back with it.
Alls well that ends well. We made it back home to Waltons Mountain and...
That would have been nice if true.
We did make it home with no incident other than Zack telling me the entire ride home what a prick the old man was.
To this day I have not told anyone about what happened to the old mans tool box.
Let's keep it between us.
Okay?
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