FIRE FIGHTER

One of the problems with living out in the country is the hazard of being away from emergency services. We hear all the time about a fire starting in someone's home and by the time the fire department arrives, about all that's left to do is try to keep the fire from spreading and to push the charred remains into the now opened cellar and fill the hole in. Begin again in a slightly different location. There was a couple of occasions on the old ranch where we had some devastating fires.
Back in '59 the barn burned down with much the same results as the aforementioned situations. Some time after the place was sold, fire broke out in the old shop and leveled the place. At that time the fire department didn't need to control the spreading as it was raining a deluge out there. The worst was the early fall of 2012 when a fire that started in a combine about nine miles to the west of the old ranch. There was a high wind blowing at the time and the fire headed east right into what was left of the ranch.

The barn that replaced the one lost in '59 was lost again. The corrals and the outbuildings also succumbed to the fire storm; the only buildings that were saved were the main house and garage, and a house that Dad built in around '67 for a hired man and his wife. Oh, and the massive trees that surround the main house survived with only a temporary loss of color. But there was a time many years before the first barn fire that could've ended up as a disaster.

Winters in the Chinook Belt are by nature easy to take. No real deep-freezes unless you consider that 104 day cold snap in the winter of '69 when the temperature never rose above zero (Fahrenheit) until almost spring. True we can get those Siberian Expresses that float way up above the polar ice cap and drop down on us causing the temperatures to plummet below zero for upwards of three weeks. It's kind of nasty, especially when you have to venture out every day to look after and feed cattle.

The ranch was reasonably mechanized. That is to say that we had means, other than horse and wagon, to feed the cattle. We had trucks that could be coaxed into life fairly easily--unless the block heaters weren't working or someone forgot to plug them in--and when the snow got too deep, Dad would simply fire up the wheeled tractor or crawler and hitch it to the hay sled to deliver feed.

One bright sunny day, in the very early fifties, a day that turned out to be far from mild, Dad ventured out from the warm confines of the old ranch house to look after his means of providing said old ranch house with the means to continue giving the warm confines. Simply put, he headed out to feed the cattle. It was cold out, the fourth or fifth day where the mercury just simply hid, shivering in that bulb on the bottom of the thermometer; it was so cold that the brass monkeys were considering careers in hairdressing. It was almost as cold as JC's ex-wife's side of the bed.

There was a lot of snow on the ground, and where the cattle were holed up, passage by truck was hazardous in that there was a good chance that there would be more time spent shoveling the truck out of a snowbank than feeding the cows. A standard tractor was nearly as risky but that's where the crawler came in. Fire up the D-2 Cat, hitch it up to the sleigh and head out. It was next to impossible to get the Cat stuck.

The Cat was in the metal clad machine shed. Dad went out to the shed, slid the doors open and prepared to start the crawler. Now I don't know if it's just me, or Dad, or all of us who venture outside to go into an unheated building in the dead of winter, but it seems that the interior of a typical machine shed is at least twice as cold as it was outside. Dad took one look at the D2 shivering just inside the door and realized that his chances of starting that thing in 30 below weather were slim to none unless some outside source of heat was brought in to help warm the engine up. Dad didn't waste his time, he just headed over to the blacksmith shop and came back with the tiger torch and a bottle of propane. He carefully positioned a piece of thick-walled pipe under the Cat between the tracks then set the torch so that the flame would direct its heat more rearward than up. In that way the heat would thaw out the entire machine so that, should you luck out and get the engine running, you could still turn the transmission over, and thus get the crawler to move so that you could actually get some work done.

Everything went just fine. Dad lit the torch and made sure that it was secured so that it would direct the heat as planned. Confident that everything would be OK, Dad left the shed and went over to the barn to check on a couple of cows that were going to calve early. It turned out to be a good idea because one of the cows was down and the calf had a leg back. Dad, being a vet, quickly tied up the cow then worked away at the calf's front leg, eventually getting it pointing in the proper direction. The actual birth took place soon after that; so Dad, confident that everything was OK in the barn, donned his heavy coat again and headed back to the shed.

It was a good thing he came back when he did because he saw that one side of the Cat's engine was ablaze. It turned out that the hose to the torch had a twist in it which pulled itself around pulling the torch in a different direction. Where it was perched on that piece of pipe allowed the torch to point up at the left side of the engine, which thawed out rapidly, then the heavy accumulation of grease reached its combustion temperature and presto, Dad had a hot Cat.

Well, he first shut of the valve at the propane tank then ran back to the shop and came out with one of those old brass-bodied Pyrene extinguishers, the type which had a T-handled plunger at one end and a nozzle at the other. To operate the extinguisher, you twisted the handle to unlatch it then pull it out of the body and shove it back in. Of course it would also be prudent to have the spray nozzle directed at the fire. He unlatched that handle then pulled the plunger out. Aiming the spray nozzle at the flames he gave a mighty shove and pushed that plunger in.

Now when there's a rush of air or gas into a semi-closed area, there's a rush of displaced air or gas that rushes right back out. In the case of the extinguisher, there was a lot more chemical sprayed than there was capacity for air. Flames rushed out; hot air rushed out; extinguisher fumes rushed out, and if it could, I think the unburned grease and scorched paint would've rushed out as well. All Dad could remember was this wall of hot gas and flame that rushed right out into his face just as he was breathing in. It sapped his wind and sent a burning sensation right down his throat. He felt that he was breathing his last and it was about that exact moment that Dad thought: 'to hell with the crawler, let the damn thing burn!'

He lost track of time for a minute or so but when Dad woke up, he was laying flat on his back on the floor of the shed, the extinguisher on the floor just inches from his grasp. He lifted his head to see the Cat, a little pall of smoke still rising from somewhere underneath. The fire was out and a quick check revealed only superficial damage. Dad fired up the small 'Pony engine,' which was used to fire up the main diesel engine and Dad was able to feed the cows that day.

There's more than one moral to the story: When using a tiger torch to warm up a frozen piece of equipment, don't leave it unattended. And when using a pyrene extinguisher because of not properly adhering to the first piece of advice, take a deep breath and hold it before discharging it. Failure to do so can do more than just extinguish the fire...

OF AIRPLANES AND CATTAILS

To many who volunteered for service during the war, what they got wasn't exactly what they thought they were getting into. So many entered, expecting to be deployed overseas but instead got assigned to posts in this country, and sometimes even close to home. But most could at least be happy they were put to work here, even if it didn't seem as glamorous. And it was absolutely necessary to have personnel on this side of the pond to help train those who were headed across. Still it could get somewhat monotonous; military work could get that way. Just the same there were times when things could get interesting and the boredom didn't seem to be so bad.

Don enlisted in the air force as soon as he was old enough to volunteer. After training he was assigned to several different air fields in Alberta and Saskatchewan where training of new pilots and crews went on at a feverish pace, but the station that had him the longest was Calgary. And that seemed strange to Don because his home was Lethbridge, just a hop skip and a jump to the south.

To go off in a bit if a tangent here, Don could get the occasional weekend furlough home if a crew happened to be flying down to Kenyon Field at that time. The only requirement was to check out a parachute just in case everyone had to bail out.

It was interesting in that Don had to take the bus back to Calgary and he looked a little silly carrying a parachute onto the bus for the return trip. A few drivers even mentioned that.

Aircraft maintenance was the task Don was given. Being more or less the junior of the squad, he found himself doing nearly every aspect of maintenance that could be imagined. And most of them were jobs that either the more senior of the enlisted men didn't want or physically couldn't fit in the often cramped spaces. Don cleaned the Plexiglas canopies, wiped the grease off the fuselage, checked the air in the tires, and more often than not, was the one assigned to clean the vomit from inside the cockpit, after a new pilot trainee lost the stalls and spins contest.

Every morning at precisely five AM, rain or shine, or snow, or ice, the base was awakened by the lone trumpeter. This guy must have loved his job because he seemed to play continuously, well beyond the usual time it took to wake everyone up. Everyone on the base (even the roosters at the neighboring farms) developed an extreme dislike for this untalented musician and everyone tried to come up with a way to sabotage his morning regimen. Ideas like whizzing in his bugle, or filling it with something more solid were passed around but the man kept such close tabs on that horn that access was impossible; they were sure he showered with it.

A new instructor was assigned to the base. This guy was the real thing; he was a combat veteran who had been up close and personal with the enemy, close enough to see the whites of their eyes. He had spent countless hours in the air defending England from the invading Luftwaffe, and then several posts in France and in North Africa. Finally, after receiving his second or third Ace medal, the Brass decided that he'd had enough combat experience and it was time to pass that knowledge and experience onto others. Thus he got shipped home, and on to Calgary.

It turned out that this Flying Officer's quarters was uncomfortably close to the place where the trumpeter began every day. Consequently the officer wasn't receptive to that damned horn screeching at five in the morning. He complained lots but it didn't get him very far.

Now, the trumpeter had an interest in flying; at least he wanted to know what it was like, to be up in the sky, floating high above the clouds, free as a bird... Well, at least he indicated that to his friends, like another trumpeter, because he likely didn't have any friends. One day, after he had finished annoying the entire base, he was strolling around and happened to see Don, intently checking out a single engine trainer.

'Say, Fisher, do you think you could get me a ride on one of those?'

Don thought about it for a minute. He gave a shrug. 'Sure. Might cost you three cartons of cigarettes.' During the war, cigarettes were often hard to come by. Since the majority of soldiers smoked, cigarettes became better currency than actual money.

'Three cartons? Too much. How about one?'

'Never fly.' If the truth be known, a couple packs of cigarettes would have probably sufficed, but this was a business deal, with an enemy, or at least someone who was about as welcome on the base as a turd in a swimming pool. 'Make it two cartons and I'll see what I can do.'

The deal was made and Don headed into the pilots' corner. The veteran flying officer smiled like the cat that was about to eat the canary. For a carton of cigarettes, he'd give that trumpeter an airplane ride he'd never forget.

Notice that the pilot only got one carton of cigarettes? Well, Don was a businessman. Besides, there was a little pain and suffering on Don's behalf that had to be taken into consideration.

Well, the trumpeter checked out a parachute and met the flying officer at the plane that Don had just finished checking off. They boarded and got belted in then Don engaged the starter which brought the big radial engine to life. With the roar of the engine and the blast of sand in the wake of the propeller they were on their way.

The flight lasted less than an hour, more or less the orientation time of a new student pilot. The Harvard landed and taxied back to the maintenance hangar. The pilot shut the engine down and Don couldn't believe his eyes.

There were cattail shards stuck to the rudder; more shards around the pitot tube (the tiny tube that protrudes out from under a wing or along the forward part of the fuselage) and a couple of pieces of stalk on one wing. But Don couldn't believe the shards that were wedged in between the cylinders of the engine and wrapped around the roots of the propeller. How the pilot managed to get large chunks of cattails jammed in around the engine and prop without severely damaging the propeller or crashing the airplane would be a mystery that would never be solved.

The canopy was slid back, probably as soon as the plane touched down. Once parked, the flying officer didn't waste any time exiting the craft. The passenger was another story, as he required help to climb out. Once on the ground he dropped down to his hands and knees and hurled his insides out again. He eventually managed to get to his feet and stagger off to his quarters where he stayed for the remainder of the day.

'Fisher,' the pilot barked out, 'there's an engine vibration around 1700 revs and a little problem with the trim on the rudder. And, uh, wash the puke out of the cockpit!'

Remember the aforementioned pain and suffering?

The next morning at 5:00 sharp, the trumpeter blew his usual wake-up call. For some reason he didn't seem to get the message but at least he didn't ask for another airplane ride.

COINCIDENZA

Coincidences happen all the time. For the most part we just smile and say: 'Wasn't that a coincidence?' Two events occur at precisely the same time and we're dumfounded. Of course there's the story about three clergymen, a Catholic priest, a Baptist minister and a Rabbi, who lived on the same street and all bought new cars--at exactly the same time--and got exactly the same make, model and color, all unbeknown to each other. The story goes on about how they individualized them, by the Baptist minister pouring a bucket of water over his car, thus baptizing it; the Catholic Christening his with a vial of Holy Water; and the Rabbi taking a hacksaw and cutting an inch off the end of the tailpipe. Yes, that's getting a little off the storyline but it's still funny.

How about when five of them occur? It might inspire one to go right out there and buy a pile of lottery tickets. This is a true story. Only a couple of names have been changed since the author cannot remember the proper ones.

It was in the late spring, a time when the days were fairly long and the sun was up long before most human members of the animal kingdom were even stirring. Well, 5:00 AM on a Sunday morning anyway. Urban was enjoying a few extra minutes of early morning slumber before having to rise, get dressed and ready to attend church and spend the rest of the day relaxing before enduring another week of punching the time clock. His moments of relaxation were suddenly cut short by the ringing of the telephone.

Urban picked it up, more to keep it from waking his entire household than to actually answer it. Suppressing an oath, he plastered on the best smile he could muster at that audacious time of day and greeted the caller.

"Hello?"

"Good morning, Urban," the caller greeted, "this is Father Patrice. I was wondering if Leona could play the organ in church today?"

Urban put off giving Father Patrice a large piece of his mind. After all Father Patrice was not only one of the best Parish priests they had ever had, he was a good friend. And it was Sunday; no doubt the Father was extremely busy and had a lot of work to do before services began.

"Well, Father, she isn't up yet, but I could ask her. She likes to play but she has a long way to go before she could really be up to your standard."

"I thought she was very good," the priest responded, "when she played at that concert in Augusta last Christmas, I was left speechless--"

Urban was puzzled. Augusta? What the heck was Father Patrice talking about? Leona had never played a concert in her life. She had only taken up the organ after their oldest boy had left for college less than a year ago. "Excuse me, Father, but I must be missing something. Augusta? The only Augusta I've heard about is Augusta, Georgia."

A brief pause. "Of course Augusta, Georgia. I was there before transferring to Atlanta."

"Atlanta? Georgia? Father this is going to really sound silly but this is Lethbridge, Alberta, in Canada.

"That's impossible. I just dialled your number from the parish member's list."

"Father Patrice, unless there has been some kind of time warp this morning, I've never set foot in any part of Georgia since the war."

There was a stony silence on both ends of the line while both men collected their thoughts. Father Patrice finally starting speaking again. "What's your area code?"

"It's '403,'" Urban responded.

Father Patrice let out an embarrassed laugh. "My area code is 770 but the code by your name is '404.' I can't believe it; I dial a three instead of a four, and get a parrishner named Urban, who has a wife named Leona, only they're two time zones away. Well tell me, since I'm paying for this phone call, what's the weather like up there?"

So that's got to be Coincidence Extraordinaire. But it actually happened, over forty years ago. I heard that Urban and Leona actually planned a trip to Atlanta to meet the other Father Patrice, and the other Urban and Leona, who had the same telephone number, save for a one-digit difference in the area code. 

NO POWER

 

 

Let me begin today's entry with a little bit of educational material from the halls of mechanical training.

A diesel engine burns diesel fuel, which is injected into the combustion chambers under extremely high pressure by the fuel injection system. The injection system is a composed of very precise components that require a steady flow of fuel and that supply of fuel absolutely must be completely free of dirt and other contaminants or the system will fail and the engine will fail to run. To keep the system free of said dirt and contaminants requires a system of filters that can sift out particles as small as three microns, which I am told is smaller than a grain of talcum powder. Of course I've never had occasion to measure a grain of talcum powder so there's always a chance that someone is pulling someone else's leg.

And if that's the case then I was pulling a lot of legs when I taught upgrading courses on fuel systems at the local college...

A tractor operating in a field, is always surrounded by dust, which can enter the fuel tank where it is carried by the fuel supply pump to the precision injection system. Fortunately the designers put the aforementioned filters in between the supply pump and said precision system to prevent damage, and so on and so forth, ad nauseum...

Farmers store fuel in large tanks, anything from five-hundred gallon tanks to vessels with capacities for thousands of gallons. Now this is all well and good but with the heating and cooling of the ambient air, and things like condensation, problems can result within the storage vessel itself. Rust and scale can form on the inside of the tank and this is also a source of contaminant, not only containing water, which is a major enemy of the injection system, but rust particles, which in themselves are abrasive. Now most of the time, the contamination level is well below the level at which fuel is drawn so it remains relatively stable. Unfortunately, when the bulk tank is replenished, it stirs up all the contaminant which can cause some troubles but after a spell of even a few hours, will settle out and the farmer can go back to business as usual. Some farmers will drain and flush out their tanks once or twice a year and, for an additional precaution, they will wait for a few hours after the bulk fuel agent has replenished their tanks before they fuel up their tractors. An added precaution is to also have a filter installed on the bulk tank.

But there are those who might think about it but never seem to get around to it.

JC's place of work was ten miles away from his home town. While he had few problems arriving earlier than usual or staying later than required, once he did get away and manage to close things up for the day, he hoped that maybe business was done and he could indulge in something else for the evening. However, there were occasions when he had to go back out in the field after supper. When spring planting was in full force, or when harvest was in full swing, he never really had much of a social life.

One spring evening, JC showed up at the coffee shop. He was greeted by those usual Coffee Row members already seated and took a seat at the table. Supper was served and the stories flowed. Then the phone rang. 'For you, JC,' Val called out from the kitchen. JC took the phone and began to listen.

'JC, it's Louis. All of my tractors are down; they won't hardly pull themselves. Can you come out?'

'Come out? As in tonight?' That was in reality a dumb question to ask. If Louis wanted JC to come out, it was tonight, or better yet, yesterday, before the problem occurred.

Well, JC had a pretty good idea what was happening, mostly because this wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't likely be the last either. Ol' Slippery, the bulk fuel agent had obviously been out delivering fuel. Louis would've had the fuel tanks of all three of his field tractors down to the stink of a grease rag and consequently would be all lined up waiting for a fresh supply of fuel. Louis and the boys would fill the tanks of the tractors and head back to the field where within an hour or two the filters would start clogging up with debris and by suppertime would hardly pull themselves.

Now, one thing I forgot to mention: When a fuel filter is new, it's at its worst stage; fuel passes easily through the element. However, as debris gets caught up on the element's surface, it begins to accumulate and jam together, each particle packing in tighter and tighter, thus adding to the filter element's capacity to sift out the particles. It finally becomes such a good filter that nothing will pass through, and that's when Louis' boys would realize that something is wrong.

Well, if it was plugged fuel filters (and JC was certain that was the case), then JC would have to drive the ten miles back to the shop and get new ones anyway so he simply headed up there in the first place. He knew the equipment that Louis ran so that was a no-brainer. But it was still annoying to drive up to the shop. JC seldom complained though. There usually was a good visit that went on during the service call, and often finished with a cup of coffee and a nice piece of pie at the house before he would be allowed to head for home.

Louis' place was ten miles the opposite way from town. By the time JC showed up, it was growing dusk. Being skilled at changing filters, JC still had the job(s) done and the tractors running before it was totally dark. He was even able to stop back at the coffee shop for a final cup before calling it a day.

The next day as JC wrote up the umpteenth work order for the previous trip to Louis' place, he pondered the perpetual situation; how could he fix this and not waste so much time? It didn't take long to formulate a plan. JC reached for the phone and began to dial.

'Hey, Darrel' (JC actually called him by his proper name because referring to someone his Dad's age as Slippery sounded a bit derogatory, even if it might have applied to Darrel's business tactics), 'it's JC. How goes the battle?'

'Just fine,' Slippery responded, 'how about you?'

'Can't complain--' That was a lie; no one would listen anyways. 'Say, Darrel, I need you to do me a favor.'

'Anything.' Slippery was always accommodating.

'Next time you deliver fuel out to Louis' place, would you mind giving me a call and letting me know?'

'May I ask why?'

JC told Slippery about the numerous trips to fix the same problems and added that if he knew when Slippery was delivering fuel, he'd simply take a supply of filters home with him, thus saving the trip back up to the shop.

They both had a good laugh, and Slippery said he'd let JC know.

Three weeks later, JC received a phone call from Slippery. 'I'm delivering fuel to Louis' place.'

'Thanks for the heads-up. I'll be ready.' It was a good warning because after supper, just as JC was having a second cup, the coffee shop phone rang, and the entire scenario would be repeated...

This went on for years. Every time Slippery delivered fuel to Louis' place, he called JC to let him know, and JC would come home prepared. JC actually started keeping a stock of filters at the house, just in case Louis phoned him on a weekend...

HUMAN TRAFFICKING

My grandfather was an avid rancher. He may have dabbled in politics, serving on the State Legislature and then for ten years, after he moved to Canada, as MLA for Alberta, but his passion was cattle and horses, and he was very successful. He began down in Southeastern Utah, in the somewhat green valleys of Teasdale. For years his herd would graze the lush meadows then in the fall, Grandpa would drive the herd over the southern mountains to the desert where they spent the winter. With the coming of spring, Grandpa would drive them back to Teasdale and the cycle would start all over again. That is until the spring of 1910 when Grandpa heard of wonderful ranching opportunities to be had north of the International Boundary into Canada.

Grandpa loaded up Grandma, two kids and one baby and headed north to the promised land. Well, sort of promised land. When Grandpa checked things out a couple of years before, a Chinook had blown into the region and it was warmer in southern Alberta than it was in Salt Lake when he boarded the train.

Ranching turned out to be somewhat different than it was in the Four Corners region. Rain could fall all year long and so could the snow, even in July. One could see an eighty degree temperature change in just one day; it could be thirty below in the morning and a Chinook could blow in raising the temperature to fifty above in a very short time. Of course the opposite could also happen too. But one of the most significant changes in ranching between southern Utah and southern Alberta was the need to put up feed for the winter months.

Back in the states, Grandpa had plenty of grass for the cattle during the spring and summer months. The desert actually offered some good forage for the winter but I have to admit that I'm at somewhat of a loss as to where it actually was. Hay production went on but not at the level that Grandpa was soon to find out. Simply put, in Alberta, one could count on spending the summers mowing, raking and stacking hay for the winter. It just went with the territory.

Grandpa was a progressive rancher too. He could see the importance of plowing up the native prairie grass and seeding it to tame grass which yielded a lot more for summer grazing and hay production. Trouble was, there was still some medicinal value to native prairie grass so making hay out of that was important as well.

Now Grandpa found a lot of meadows that yielded some good grass and he (and the older boys) spent a lot of time gathering in the crops but things simply got too busy. The alternative was to possibly buy some native hay from the locals which would benefit everyone.

Grandpa's first operation bordered the Indian Reservation to the east. He actually rented land from the Reserve and used it for feed crops and pasture. But, as mentioned before, the time factor, which turned out not to be that big of a problem after all.

There was a lot of native prairie grass on the reservation and some of the Indians were willing to put it up to sell off to the local ranchers. Grandpa, always eager to get along with them, was willing to do business.

It would start when a couple of guys would ride up to the ranch to tell Grandpa that they were putting up hay and they would deliver it for so much per ton. That was fine with Grandpa. The boys would head back and the next day, they returned with a wagon heaped with 'prairie wool.' They'd pull up on the scale, get weighed, then head over to the stack yard and, using large pitchforks, would unload it in fairly good time.

Grandpa would watch them from time to time. One day he was sure he counted only two of them driving the load but then noticed three of them stacking the hay. Then another day there were four busy pitching off the load. Then, not surprisingly, there were five.

Well, you've got to hand it to the Indians, they knew how to add extra weight to the load without having to actually sell it.

Finally Grandpa got wise. They would pull the wagon onto the scale then Grandpa would grab a pitchfork and start probing the load, not shoving the fork in too far because he wasn't actually trying to stab anyone. 'Who's in there?' he'd demand, and almost always two or more of them would come crawling out of the load.

But it didn't take long before the vendors got a little wiser. They say that necessity is the mother of invention, and that there is always a way around an obstacle. The two men pulled the wagon onto the scale and Grandpa probed the load with the fork handle. He got no response so finally concluded that there weren't any stowaways. The two men unloaded the wagon then brought it around to weigh empty to figure out the tare. Grandpa paid for the load and everyone parted company, satisfied.

For a spell.

Grandpa would send the boys to load up some hay and take it to the barn. When the task was done, one of them would inevitably ask about that huge rock that was next to the haystack.

Grandpa was always good natured about the whole episode. He simply joked that he bought a lot of
Indians... and maybe a few rocks...

FOR RON

 1929-2013

I've been truly blessed with good friends. A great many of them have been close buddies and confidants for my entire life while some have only been in my life for a short time. Nonetheless, my friends have been precious and it's always a personal struggle when the time comes to say good-bye to even just one. 

While I have known Ron all my life, we never got well acquainted until the seventies, while he was a customer at my place of employment. He was overhauling the engine in his small John Deere tractor and stopped at the shop to drop off the cylinder head for some machine work. He asked a couple of questions which sparked a conversation that practically never ended until his recent passing.

It turned out that he was every bit as passionate about old cars, trucks, tractors, airplanes, trains and ships as I was. He knew the histories of most of the vehicles around the Milk River area, going back to the mid-thirties.  I remember one time when the topic of discussion was 1942 Ford trucks. He told me who in the neighborhood managed to snag a new ’42 model before the war years curtailed civilian production.

‘My dad, and Ralph Beard, each got a Half-Ton, but there were three One-Tonners,’ Ron recalled, ‘GL Stringam, Art Loft, and—I think—John Reese, had those. Walter Ford bought a new Three-Ton—‘ Ron paused for a moment, ‘—I seem to remember that he had to get a permit to buy that truck because it was after the end of February.’

The conversation lasted longer than it should have, bearing in mind that I was still at work and should've been working, but I always made room for conversation with customers, and while it might have affected my personal bottom line come month end, I never regretted it.

Saturday evening, following that initial meeting I decided to deliver the finished cylinder head right to the farm. Now I’d just finished socializing with a bunch of friends and acquaintances in the Warner bar before I headed out but I wasn’t too worried because I thought that we’d just have a little conversation out in the shop and that would be it. I found the shop mostly dark so I just left the head on the bench and made my way over to the house, just to let Ron know that I’d dropped the head off and would be on my way. I was invited right into the house despite some protests from me claiming that I’d spent too many hours in the saloon and wasn’t in any shape for conversation in the house with family around. Ron wouldn’t take no for an answer and I was ushered into the house where we talked until quite late that night.

He talked about Ol’Smokey, a ’35 Ford pickup that his dad had for running around the farm, from wartime to the early fifties. It got its name because, quite naturally, it burned oil like it was going out of style. Ron sort of claimed that truck for his own and entertained plans to fix it right up and drive it. However, while he was on a job operating a bulldozer out east of town, his dad and brother took out the torch and cut the old pickup in two, making a trailer out of the bed and rear axle.

 

Ron was devastated. I don’t think he ever quite forgave his dad for doing that dastardly deed.

Ron always had an affinity for Cadillacs. His dad bought a ’58 model which is still in the family today. Ron bought a Cadillac for the family car back in 1975, and that’s still in the family as well. Sometime between the late seventies and early eighties Ron happened upon a ’41 Cadillac Model 75 limo down in the Midwest. He brought it home and immediately began a lengthy restoration on it.

I was called in to help out from time to time. Of course things like fixing the brakes and suspension often got interrupted by many stories and numerous pauses for refreshments. It seems to me that there was even a trip (unrelated to the project) to a farm auction in there some place.

His collection of cars (and trucks, and eventually a Rolls Royce) grew and grew until he started to run out of space to put them all. That forced the decision to build an addition onto the east side of the shop and later, to build a separate building. In no time at all those too, were filled.

Ron and Mary always enjoyed company. They must have because it seemed that someone was always out there visiting. Of course I kept up my appearances, which often happened around suppertime.

I recently heard a story about Mary having the kids setting the table for Thanksgiving dinner. Somehow, they ended up with an extra place. ‘Just leave it,’ Mary said, ‘It’s been a while since George stopped in; he just might stop in tonight.’

And George stopped in…

Sometimes I would be at home, watching TV or doing something mundane when I'd get the urge to drive out to the farm and see what Ron was up to. So many times, I'd get as far as the shop and see that the lights were on, which meant that Ron was working on some project. I'd simply stop there and in no time at all, would be involved in whatever the project was. Of course we'd share lots of stories. And that would carry on into the house. 

Ron enjoyed touring with our car club. He participated in the International Antique Auto Meets and local tours, especially the Little International where he would invite anyone within earshot out to his place afterwards for some more visiting and maybe a beverage or two on their way home.

And many of us went, and had a good time.

One of his favorite tours was the John Erickson Whiskey Gap Tour, held around the end of September each year. We’d meet for coffee in Milk River then proceed westward down Highway 501, through Del Bonita and just a few miles west to Whiskey Gap where we’d all stop and have a toast, a visit, then maybe one more (smaller?) toast before continuing on toward Cardston. That tour took place on sunshiny days and even when the weather closed in and dropped some snow on us. That's Ron, on the left, allowing Vic to measure the mix.
 

Seven years ago Ron lost his beloved Mary to a massive stroke. Even though she left a tremendous void in his life, he was determined to get out of the house and keep up appearances. He remained active and carried on; even restoring the very truck he learned to drive in some seventy years ago.  

 

Two years ago Ron fell victim to an inoperable brain tumor, which slowly drug him down until he finally lost the battle and left the bounds of this life to join Mary, and the others who had gone before. Even though he tried to beat the odds, he accepted the fact that his tenure on earth was coming to a close and even said so when he confided that he was ready to go home.

Despite the void he left behind, he still passed the torch to a wonderful and deserving family: kids who have established themselves and progressed with families and new adventures of their own. Ron’s life wasn’t wasted; he left a legacy of strong family values and good work ethics, as well as the ability to take time out for friends.

So, as I reflect on days gone by, I’d like to include a personal word of thanks, from one friend who was never forgotten, even during a time when my life got rather turbulent and visits were all but curtailed. True friendship carries on, despite all odds. True friends don’t have to keep in constant touch. Even after a lengthy absence, getting together is simply carrying on and continuing the conversation and good times as if there never was a gap.

I sometimes think I'm driving out east of town. Dusk has fallen as the sun settles to the western horizon. I turn north, up over the hill, and head for that farmstead with its massive shelter belt of evergreens. I turn in and drive up toward the shop, see that the lights are on and know that there is another car, or truck, or tractor that needs some tender love and care. I park my truck and head for that familiar weathered door. I open it knowing that beyond it the conversation will continue as before, when we talk about cars, trucks, families, friends and everything else that has given us so much joy.

Thank you, Ron, for welcoming me into your home; for allowing me to meet your family; for being a true friend. It's been a pleasure. May God bless.

Until we meet again…

         

Profound Apologies

TO ALL MY FRIENDS OUT THERE, it's been too long since I've been on this post. Things have become quite hectic in our neck of the woods as of late. My wife and I were the co-chairs for the 54th INTERNATIONAL ANTIQUE AUTO MEET, which our local car club hosted in Pincher Creek, AB just last weekend (July 2nd - 5th). Our little club, based out of Lethbridge, AB, hosts the event every ten years and has been planning this for the past five years and the last few months have been very busy. Fortunately we can pass the torch to Edmonton next year, and they'll be handing off to Saskatoon after that.

Along the way, my family was saddened by the passing of our father who left us after a courageous battle with heart problems on May 28th. I'm happy to say that he beat the odds by eighteen years and made it to the age of 90, while keeping reasonably active and his mind sound. I'm still heavily involved getting his estate settled and moving ahead with life but I'm seeing light at the end of the proverbial tunnel.

I've got more stories coming so please be patient. I'll endeavor to either entertain you or give you a good excuse not to read anymore. But I really enjoy writing and telling a story. And I enjoy knowing that I'm closing in on 10,000 hits since my first post. Who knows? Someday I might learn how to write...

Many thanks for your patience,
George M. Stringam