The Road Less Traveled

Where I was born in Bakersfield, The land is hot and desert like. Then, it was bare rolling hills covered with tumbleweeds and oil derricks, it was not quiet and still but always moving. The hot winds would blow the tumbleweeds, sometimes at a lazy pace and sometimes with a fury. It was kind of like you could tell the mood of someone sweeping off a front porch, study and methodical, or fast and furious with dirt flying everywhere. That's how I became aware of the land being alive,the moveing of the twmbleweeds. When they were green and growing they stayed rooted to the soil, but when summer came they dried out, and went with the wind. Along with the movement of the tumbleweeds was the stationary movement of the oilrigs pumping oil, their pace never changed and the sound they never stopped, and they smelled bad. They were not alive like the wind, and hills, the weeds. Oil derricks had no moods, they never wavered in their mechanical duty. I didn't like them, I would watch them, but thet never changed. I didn't trust them because they weren't real, that is, not alive. My dad worked in the oil fields for a time as a derrick-man. He had followed my grandma and grandpa out from Oklahoma to work for Shell Oil Company.

Bakersfield lays in the foothills of the Greenhorn Mountain Range, on the far end of the Sequoia National Forest. I remember the name of the road that wound its way over the mountains from the desert vally floor, it was called the Grapevine, and for good reason. It was a steep winding twolane road, which took its toll on the breaks of any vehichle that tried to climb or decend its narrow path. I had no trust in that twolane road, it was dangerous and life threating. Looking down over the cliffs you could see the cars and trucks that had failed in their attempt, they lay there, unburied bodies to rust and wast away in the hot mountain sun.
One of my earliest memories is of that killer road, and how close I had come to being a dead body in a rusting coffin at the bottom of a steep cliff. I must have been three or four years old, walking, talking, and beginning to understand the dangers in life, and how you had to stay aware to stay alive. The befores and afters I don't remember, it's just a small piece, a fragment of memory which I'll never forget.
It probably means alot to who I am today even if I don't understand it all. I guess that's why I'm writing about it now, to understand how it effects me, fifty some years later. I have always had less fear of dying than most people, not that I don't understand the precious gift of life, because I do.
My dad and I were in our old nineteen thirtys pickup truck. It was a faded dark green, so old nothing of its once polish suface remained. When you looked at the doors at just the right angle, you could see a faded black bell with a circle around it, and the letters of Pacific Telephone Company. The truck had lived out its life of usefulness and when its value was next to nothing my dad was glad to get it cheep.
I remember Judy was with us, she was a Walsh Corgey. I still have a picture of me holding her as a puppy. She was my first dog and I would have given my life to keep her from harm She was mine to care for.
I don't know where we had been that day, or why mom and my little brother David were not with us, because we were always together. Guess I was just to little to know. Dad, Judy and me were driving down the grapevine. I had to stand up on the seat to see out the windows. Judy sat in the middle between dad and me. Judy would move closer to me when dad was down-shifting. The gearshift came up from the floorboard, and divided the front seat in half, the lowest gear or compound brought the gearshift knob almost into Judy's nose.
Dad said the brakes were getting hot as the old truck wound its way down the mountain. I could smell the over-worked brakes, and Judy sneezed several times not liking the smell either. We pulled off onto the shoulder of the road at what dad called a vista point. I remember thinking, vista was a Spanish word, we weren't suppose to use Spanish words. I'll explain that some other time.
You could see the vast rolling hills and the valley below, you could also see how far up the mountain we were by the winding road below us. Dad got out of the truck to take a walk he said, which meant he had to pee. Judy and me stayed in the cab of the truck. I must have grabbed the gearshift knob and moved it like daddy did when he was driving. The truck started rolling fast. Dad yelled and I could see him running for the truck. I picked up Judy and stood up straight on the seat. Dad was running at full speed reaching for the handle of the truck door. He was yelling something at me and I could see the fear in his face. All I could think of was saving Judy. With all my strength I held Judy with out stretched arms for daddy to grab. The door was flung open and dad was screaming for me to come to him. I held Judy out for him; he couldn't grab us both. The truck was rolling real fast and I could see we were going over the edge of the cliff. Somehow dad grabbed the steering wheel and jumped in slamming on the breaks. I remember the dust and the feeling of the truck as it skidded sideways to the cliff edge. Holding Judy close, I was pushed hard up against the passenger door. Looking out the window through the dust, I could see an old rusted shell of a car far below.
Daddy didn't move for the longest time, his knuckles were white and the vanes in his arms stood out as he gripped the top of the stirring wheel. Slowly he slumped forward resting his head on his hands while still gripping the top of the stirring wheel. Sweat ran down his cheeks to drip off his chin. I could smell fear, dad's fear, Judy's fear, and even my fear.
Slowly dad looked at me and smiled, "What am I going to do with you chicken?"
"Just keep me daddy." He always called me chicken because I hunted and pecked at everything.
"You and that damn dog", he said. I could feel the pride in his voice and knew if I had jumped into dad's arms as he ran along side the truck, we would have lost Judy. The truck meant nothing, it was like those oil riggs, not alive, but Judy I loved with all my heart, like the wind, she was alive and real.
Dad ever so slowly moved the truck from the cliff edge up to the shoulder of the road. We all got out, Judy had to pee and dad opened a can of beer. He took out his red bandanna from his back pocket and wiped the sweat off his face. He picked me up in his arms and we watched Judy pee, she peed along time and we both laughed.
"We really scared the pee out of her daddy." I remember dad taking deep breaths and letting them out slowly as he held me tight.
"You scared the pee out of the both of us chicken", we laugh again and stood a long time looking at the view below.
Dad walked to the front of the truck and grabbed the canvas water bag that always hung in front of the radiator.
"Give your dog some water, animals come first, then you drink.", nothing else was said. I remember how important my decision was to me and I felt it was the right one to make...me and Judy, or nothing at all.