Arvin Cowboy
Life in Rural Arvin in the 50's
Real Name: David L. Norris Gender: male Member Since: June 17, 2007 Last Signed In: April 21, 2009 Profile Views: 411 Blog Views: 1526 Walking to the Library Mr. Barle and the Hearing Aid Trick-or-Treat The El Rancho Theater The Law of Supply and Demand The Contact Lense Locking your Doors Arvin's First Community Center The 500 yard Dash Accident Momma and the Pillsbury Poppin Biscuits July 07 August 07 September 07 October 07 November 07 December 07 January 08 February 08 March 08 April 08 May 08 June 08 July 08 August 08 September 08 October 08 November 08 December 08 January 09 February 09 March 09 April 09 May 09 June 09 July 09 August 09 September 09 October 09 November 09 
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In Memory of Old Trucks
In 1961, I bought my first pickum-up truck from Howard Wells; who was a janitor at ArvinHigh School. It was a 1951 forest green, deluxe cab, Chevrolet half-ton, narrow-bed, pick up truck. It only had a few problems when I got it. The 6-cylinder engine block was cracked and constantly leaked water. Also, the radio did not work, so I bought one out of an old Pontiac sedan in a Arvin junkyard, but with all the static from the engine wiring, it was not much of an improvement. The worse thing wrong with it was that the gas gauge either would not work or was very inaccurate when it did work.
This was not normally a problem since the gas tank was right behind the seat and the float bounced and continuously clanged against the wall of the tank or against the bottom when it got seriously dry. With my usual state of finances, I never kept much gas in the tank even though gas only cost 11.9 cents per gallon. There were rumors that the gas was going to hike all the way up to 15.9 cents per gallon, but no one seriously believed that would ever happen.
I became quite proficient in listening to the clangs of the float against the tank wall in order to guesstimate the quantity of gas I had left as you bounced down Arvin’s back roads or even after I parked in the back row at the Lamont Drive-In Theatre. I could estimate to the quart, how much gas I had left in my tank. You could also always count on a couple extra gallons left in the tank even when the gas gauge needle hit the “E” or the empty mark.
After getting married and starting my own business, I bought a new 1991 Ford F250, ¾ ton pick-up truck. On one trip to Los Angeles to visit my brother-in-law and his family, my wife Valerie, along with my two small children, Michael and Katie, were all crammed in the front seat of my new truck. We got a later than normal start heading back home, on a dark, moonless night. The rain beat mercilessly against the windshield. The windshield wipers hard pressed to keep the water off the glass.
Lightning constantly flashed, lighting the fields and hills for miles around my truck, as we sped past Lebec, crossing “The Grapevine,” on our way back to Bakersfield. We had just passed FortTejon when the engine began to cough and the truck began to lurch and lose power. I looked down to the fuel gauge resting sadly on the giant “E” as the truck began coasting slower and slower. I swerved the truck back and forth; wildly pumping the gas pedal, as if I were driving a pedal car, but alas with one last gasp and shutter the engine gave up the ghost and laid still.
You could hear the tires rumbling down the wet road at an ever slower and slower rate until we coasted to a stop along a narrow stretch of the highway with my emergency lights flashing. We waited for quite some time, then, I finally decided that I needed to walk for gas. As I exited my pickup in my light jacket and dress slacks, the wind immediately blew my baseball cap off my head and across a barbed wire fence. I never saw it touch the ground before it disappeared into the night.
I shouted through the window to Valerie to “hang tight”, that I was going to get gas. I looked back up the highway, just as lightning luminated the green sign on the far side which advised “FortTejon - One mile, No Services Available.” So I began walking downhill in the driving rain, buffeted by the high winds and splashed by the spray of the cars and trucks speeding past me, many blaring their horns and careening as they changed their lights to high-beams, forcing me further into the flooded gutter, my dress shoes were now totally soaked and full of muddy water. I finally gave up sticking my thumb out trying to hitch-a-ride when I realized no one would want a half-drowned rat in their dry car.
Finally the lights of the Union 76 gas station at the base of the Grapevine came into view, just as the batteries of my old two-cell Eveready Flashlight dimmed to the point it was no longer worth holding. I slipped the flashlight into my rear pocket. The rain had totally soaked my clothes. My socks had ridden down to the point, that they were now crammed into the points of my dress shoes. Rather than walking the entire cloverleaf exit, I figured I should just take a shortcut down the closest slope. When I started down the slope, the rocky mud gave way beneath me and my feet went over my head. I slid most of the way down.
Fortunately, my flashlight cushioned my fall and I left parts of my flashlight along with its batteries scattered down the entire slope. I picked myself up near the bottom and tried to regain some of my dignity as I limped closer to the station thinking to myself, “At least no one saw me do that!” Just then, I saw the station attendant and a tow truck driver who had been watching me from the station office, laughing hilariously, the driver slapping the attendant on the back and simulating my slip-and-slide adventure down the steep slope.
I started to turn and walk away, after all the next station was in Mettler which was only 12 miles away. After several moments standing in the driving rain, which had not yet let up, but was doing an effective job of washing the mud off the backside of my dress pants, I swallowed what was left of my pride and I went into the station where the two young men were still smirking and chuckling.
I explained my predicament and the tow truck driver offered to take me back up to my truck for only $35.00. As I got into the tattered rider’s seat of the tow truck, I tried to identify the sickening sweet smell emanating from the horshair saddle blanket which covered the springs in the upholstery bare seat. James, my newest found friend, jumped into the driver’s seat and as he was lighting a rum soaked Swisher Sweet cigar, he chuckled and made another off-handed comment about my spectacular arrival to the station.
He started the truck and then grinding the gearshift into first gear, he popped the clutch and the truck lurched forward into the black night, Merle Haggard blaring on the crackly speaker just behind my head. We finally got back to the truck where I put in the gallon of gas I had purchased in the old can that had previously been used to hold diesel, which now had gotten all over my clothes.
I gave James the can back and wiped my hands on my pants. Valerie and the kids had all been asleep when we arrived, but now both kids were bouncing up and down in the seat and Valerie leaned over and told me to hurry because everyone had to use the bathroom.
As I jumped in, the wind and rain still howling, they all looked at me and Michael said, “yewwwu! What is that smell?” I told him to “Shut up and go back to sleep.” I finally got the truck started and James rapped on the window and said he would follow me back to the station. Back down the hill, everyone headed toward their respective bathrooms. The attendant was on the phone to someone, wildly waving his arms and legs as he spoke. I was only glad that the Channel 23 Eye Witness News van had not arrived yet.
James said he would fill the tank as I got cleaned up. As we all came from the bathrooms, James said, “Did you want me to top off the second tank also?”
My wife wisely never mentioned this incident, unless she was in serious danger of losing an argument, which seldom happened, since I had now been properly instilled with an adequate quantity of husbandly dignity.
The End
4 comments from 4 users
1
posted by
motopoet
on Jul 8, 2007 at 10:39 PM
When I got my license in 1975 we had a '65' Chevy Pickup with teh 292 six and a "three on the tree" shift. Mom had taken me out a few weeks befire to acclimate me with the nuances of the shifting pattern. After I had driven a few minutes the linkage hung up in neutral and we sat out in a firld for some time before getting the damn thing working again. It wasn't long though before it became one of my favorite vehicles. Over the next few years it became the backbone of out little family motocross and desret racing team. We had a small bike/trash trailer we hauled all over and within a few years Tim(my stepdad)bought a big camper for it. WOW! The big time! The truck saw much action over the years and never let us down, although we DID work the clutch over in 1977 at the Mammoth Mountain MX when the line up to the track was on a steep uphill in stop and go traffic for about an hour. After I went to work for the railroad, my stepdad asked if I could score him a couple of telephone poles, which I was able to do. So, on my 21st birthday in 1980, I went to work(it was on a wednsday)and loaded a pole on each side of the rack since Tim had made it into his work truck. After work I hit a bar in Palmdale( I lived in Tehachapi)got plastered then drove that top-heavy old monster back home. It never missed a beat. To this day, everytime I see a 65 Chevy piockup I am swept away in nostalgia. I loved that truck and I miss it. posted by
Sloigo
on Jul 8, 2007 at 10:59 PM
Well, I am glad someone finally found my story. When I was in the FFA in Arvin, the Kimble's told Mr. Dake; my advisor, that he could have as much straw hay free as he could haul off on one truckload with his old Dodge half ton Pickup truck. He plotted, and schemed. We loaded, reloaded and rearranged the bales. Finally we left their farm with over 60 bales (2 tons plus) on his little half ton truck and brought it back from Hilltop clear back to the Arvin High School Farm. Fortunately there were no overpasses but boy did we have to take the corners slowly.
posted by
sagefever
on Jul 8, 2007 at 11:42 PM
I have been racking my brain for the correct make,age of my favorite old truck..but..it was that deep blue ,faded into a lovely patina with one smallish round back window..no key just punch at a knob on the floor~that thing roared,loved to ride around it back when I had cars..if I ever get one again its got to be a truck,do not know how people live without one.
posted by
redkernhero
on Jul 9, 2007 at 12:55 AM
The only old trucks I wish I had kept was a 1939 for pick up I picked up as a 15 year old kid for working in a telephone disposal junk yard. I kept it for years and traded for a 1956 Chevy with the small back window. I liked this old pick up even better and as I was self-elf employed as a high school student it was more reliable. Surprising enough, they were both green, the 39 an olive drab and the 56 a nice color dark green. I kept the 56 until 1978 when I was hired in the SF Bay area.
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