Christmas with Tucker (11 page)

The memories of the days that followed, of working side by side with my grandfather, would carry me through other times in my life when I needed to heed the call not just to maintain roads but to maintain my life—times when I needed rules that would never let me down.

MY GRANDFATHER
took one task at a time and tried to explain as we moved down the road toward town. “The transmission exchanges speed and power. The lower gears give you more power to move heavier loads of snow, but with less speed. You’ll do most of the grading in third gear, unless the snow is deep; then, you should use second.”

There was a lever on the right of the driver’s seat that adjusted the blade height. “I want you to listen very carefully as I lower the blade just an inch.”

I felt the maintainer’s engine struggle and our speed reduce slightly. The sound of snow coming off the road was interrupted by occasional pings of gravel bouncing off the blade.

“Now look behind you at the stream of snow coming off the blade. What else do you see?”

“Pieces of gravel mixed in with the snow,” I said as I glanced over my shoulder.

“That’s right. In the summer months, Cherokee County spends a lot of money putting gravel down on these roads. They
don’t want the McCrays spending the winter months putting it in the ditch.

“Now listen again. I’m going to raise the blade a few inches above the perfect height.” The maintainer seemed to surge forward and the engine was less burdened. “Now turn around and look again. What do you see?”

“The maintainer’s tires are leaving a trail through the snow.”

“Good boy, George; that’s when you know the blade is too high. You shouldn’t be leaving enough snow for the tires to form big tracks.”

“Makes sense.”

“George, there is something else you need to know. This is a big, strong piece of machinery. If you take it where it’s not supposed to go, you will get into trouble.”

I was painfully aware that he was alluding to my dad, but I asked anyway. “What do you mean, Grandpa?”

“You’ve got to know exactly where you are on the road at all times. Too far to the right or the left and you can drop a tire into the ditch and get stuck, or worse. If you don’t watch ahead of you, you can hit a car. If you don’t watch behind you, you can’t tell if you’re doing your work right.”

“How can I watch all four directions at once?”

“You can do it. It just takes practice. Go slowly at first, until it comes naturally to you.” He slowed down, turned left down a county lane, and brought the maintainer to a stop by the side of the road. He opened the maintainer door, moved off the seat, and stood tall on the running board. “Well, scoot over and give it a try.”

I stood up from the small space to his left where I had been perched and settled into the driver’s seat. My grandfather nodded
at me to proceed, staying on the running board. Stretching my legs out so I could reach the clutch pedal, I placed the transmission in third, opened the throttle, and slowly let out the clutch until it reached the friction point. With the door open, snow and cold air was blowing into the cab, but I ignored it and tried to chart a course down the lane. I looked at the road in the rearview mirror and could see my tracks, so I inched the blade down a little.

Before I had gone too far, my grandfather gave me some more instructions. “Practice starting and stopping a few more times and try to keep the left edge of the blade in the dead center of the road. That way you’ll clean the entire road when you come back at her from the other direction.”

When I looked behind me, I could see that I was not staying on a straight course but was meandering on and off the center line. “I’m having a hard time keeping it straight.”

“You’re doing fine. Just draw an imaginary line on the side of the road and keep your right wheel right on top of it.”

By midday, after a few dozen instructions and corrections, my grandfather and I had cleared Moonlight Road, Prairie Center Road, and Four Corners Road. We were now ready to head home for lunch.

That morning it seemed my grandfather spoke more words to me than he had in the months leading up to December, and he seemed very pleased with my grading.

Over lunch, my grandmother went over the list of emergencies phoned in by locals.

“The Rathers’ daughter is pregnant and the due date is only a week off. They are worried about getting to the hospital and hope you can keep their road cleared.”

“Sherry Rather,” my grandfather mused. “That would be off of Waverly Road.

“Do you know Waverly Road?” he asked me. “It’s south of the highway and north of Lone Elm Road.”

“Sure, I know that stretch and I know right where the Rathers live.”

My grandmother picked up the next note. “Mrs. Slater only has two days of insulin left. She lives just off the highway on Crossing Trails Road.”

“Yeah, I know where that is, too.”

My grandmother turned to the last scrap of paper. “Old Mrs. Reed called and wants to make sure you don’t forget her.”

My grandfather rolled his eyes. “I just cleared her driveway two days ago.”

My grandmother laughed and said, “You know how those old people are, worrying all the time.”

“Cora, Mrs. Reed is only four years older than me!”

My grandmother smiled but said nothing. My grandfather took out a piece of paper and drew me a map. “George, take a look at this. Does it make sense?”

I looked it over and I knew exactly what he had in mind. “Sure, Grandpa. I get it.”

“Now, take your time and do a good job. I am going to sleep a few hours and when you get back, you rest up and I’ll do another shift. Do you have any questions?”

“Just one.”

“Yes?”

“What if I have a problem? A breakdown?”

“You’re never going to be more than about eight miles from home, since we’re in charge of an eight-mile radius of roads.
So, if need be, you can walk home. There are extra gloves and hats in the cab. Stop at any neighbor’s house, if you need to, and they can try to get you home. I’ve been clearing snow for twenty-five years with that old beast and she hasn’t let me down yet. I wouldn’t worry.”

He then turned to the sink and filled his tin cup with water and handed it to me. “Drink up.”

My grandmother gave me a sack of her chocolate chip cookies, refilled my thermos, and sent me out the back door to clear the roads of Cherokee County.

Forgetting all my fears and feeling as if I’d grown five inches that morning, I pulled open the door to the cab, put the maintainer in gear, eased out the clutch, and started down the driveway on my first solo job. Going a little slower than necessary, I built my confidence one step at a time, heading east.

As I passed Thorne’s shack, I slowed down to get a better look. His brown truck was there, but Tucker was no place to be seen. Thankfully, Thorne had enough sense to keep Tucker inside in this snow. I wondered if he was ignoring my note or even if he’d been sober long enough to think about it.

The maintainer thrust the snow away effortlessly. Still, I had a hard time keeping the blade centered in the middle of the road, and more than a few passersby must have wondered if old Bo McCray was losing his touch.

There were few drivers out that day, but those I did see waved and seemed surprised to see me behind the wheel. The sight of Bo McCray’s grandson on that giant maintainer was probably enough to discourage them from any further use of the roads.

While I graded, my grandfather did the afternoon milking. Around five o’clock that evening, approaching home, I slowed again near Thorne’s place and looked for Tucker. Thorne’s truck
was in the driveway and Tucker was tied up outside, but this time closer to the porch, where he at least had some shelter from the snow. He must have known it was me, for he pulled on the chain, wagged his tail, and barked in a familiar way. I considered pulling in but thought it might only make things worse, so I headed up the hill and called it a day. Before going inside, I checked with Grandpa to make sure he didn’t need anything. He sent me, sledge in hand, down to crack the ice on the pond.

Once a quick dinner was behind us, Grandpa headed back out to refuel the maintainer from the three-hundred-gallon diesel fuel tank we kept by the barn. With a full tank, he climbed back in the cab, pushed the throttle wide open, and didn’t quit grading until early the next morning.

Lying in bed that night while he worked, I remember being a little skeptical about Grandpa’s nighttime grading. I had tried to plow in the dark before. Even with headlights, it was very hard maintaining a straight line and an accurate plow depth. Grading in the dark would be even more difficult. Still, I had a lot of confidence in my grandfather and told myself that he was up to the task.

We repeated this same process the next day. It was still snowing, but not as hard, and Grandpa looked tired. While we did the milking together, he told me about the old days when he had to maintain the roads with horses, like Dick and Dock. He said it was slow going, but there were fewer roads.

The horses could not move snow this deep and the county would be left waiting for a thaw. It was different then; people were more self-reliant, and there was no electricity and no phone lines or ambulances in the county. It didn’t matter much if the roads were clogged.

He kept the harness and the old horse-drawn blade stored
in the implement shed along with other McCray prized possessions: an International Harvester and a Massey Ferguson tractor, plows, cultivators, seed drills, rotary and sickle-bar mowers, hay rakes and balers.

Some of the farm equipment was new, most was old, but all of it was constantly breaking.

The old road blade had not been pulled by horses for decades, but from time to time my grandfather would ride Dick or Dock, most always in the Crossing Trails Pioneers’ Parade each spring.

My guess was that he kept the horses and old blades around for a reason. If the maintainer ever broke, he was prepared to clear the roads with horses, though by 1962 they were far too old to do the job. If the horses couldn’t pull the blades, he owned countless shovels and we would get at it one scoop at a time. Some people might have described him as stubborn, but that was only part of the story—Big Bo McCray was a fighter.

THE NEXT MORNING
, after I finished milking the cows and clearing the ice on the pond, my grandfather and I went to the barn. He asked me to remove a milk can from the cooler and help him pour it into twenty sterile glass bottles. What was left in the can he took outside the west barn door and let spill out onto the ground. “What are you doing?” I asked.

“The dairy trucks can’t get through and the cooler is full. The dairy won’t accept milk that’s not fresh.”

“Aren’t we keeping the roads clear enough?”

“We’re doing fine, but the other county maintainers are behind. They have not been able to get north to the dairy road and the last six inches of snow has really slowed them down. The dairy can’t take the risk of coming this far out and getting stuck. If that happens, they lose an entire day of collection. It’s safer for them to wait until the roads are better.”

“Why don’t we help? We could do the road to the dairy for them. I can do it today. Right?”

“Getting through to the dairy might be what’s best for us, but there are others in this county that we have to think of, too.
How would it look if I did what was good for us and ignored all the other people that have needs?”

“Not that good.”

“That’s right. We have a list of priority roads that have to be cleared first and the road to the dairy does not happen to be one of them.”

After we sat down to a quick breakfast, he drew up another map and put two large milk crates on the table. Not only did I have roads to grade, but I also had deliveries to make.

“People can’t drive on the roads and we’ve got milk to give away. I will put twenty quarts of milk in the back of the maintainer in the crates. There’s already a box in there with eggs and other staples. I’m collecting extra food and supplies along the way from our neighbors and trying to redistribute to the families that don’t have enough. With more and more phone lines down, and roads blocked, people are short on basics.”