My View from 1958

My dad delivered fuel to many farmers in the surrounding area for about 65 years. His first worked for COOP, then started his own business with the DX brand. He drove a fuel truck that would hold, I would guess, 1,500 to 1,800 gallons of diesel fuel or gas for tractors, combines, grain trucks etc.  He would load his truck, and then drive to farms and off-load the fuel into a farmer’s gas barrel (these usually held 200 to 300 gallons, see the picture below).  Farmers, of course, did not drive their tractor or combine into town every time they ran low on fuel, so the fuel was delivered to them. In the winter dad would deliver heating oil for the furnace to the farms.

The next picture below is from the 70’s. It shows my dad loading his truck with fuel for delivery to farms.  There are some pretty good stories from this time period. I often rode with my dad on his deliveries. It was amazing to fly down a gravel road at 50 miles an hour with dust streaming behind you like a contrail of a jet. We would speed over old bridges that I thought would fall down under our weight. Dad did not pay much attention to the signs about weight limits….he just raced across the bridge like no big deal. Thinking back today, this was just a bit risky.

It was exciting to see all the different farms and actually meet the farmers. They all enjoyed talking with dad and he enjoyed talking with them.  Topics were typically the weather, grain or beef prices and of course some gossip.  He built strong relationships with many of these farmers over the years, knew their families, and often ate lunch or had coffee with them when he stopped by with the fuel.  They were always offering vegetables from the garden, fresh meat from a butchered hog or steer, pie, or just some sage wisdom. Some of the best gooseberry pie was provided by these folks.

My dad had an amazing job.  He was his own boss. He was outdoors which he loved, driving to various locations or small towns in rural Iowa and shooing the shit with his customers and friends. You all have heard the saying I wish I knew then what I know now. When I was 18, I could not wait to get out of small-town America. Now that I am 67, I am back living in small-town America wishing in some ways I had never left.

One of the many stories that brewed from this setting is about a farmer I will call Ralph. Ralph was a bachelor farmer who lived near a very small farming community that has basically disappeared over time. Time is not kind to rural America. This small community was about 6 miles from my hometown.

This town Ralph lived near used to be a hub for the Wabash Railroad workers in the late 1800’s, in particular the Irish. As a result, there is (or was) a large Irish population that located there. Overtime many of the railroad workers settled there permanently and took up farming.  Now I think there is a bar, grain elevator, a Catholic church and a few houses. 2020 census shows a population of 39 people.  Many years ago, there used to be a grocery store, several churches, school, hotel, lumberyard, post office, couple of gas stations, farm implement dealer, a population of about 300 and of course at least 3 bars. It was thriving during the golden days of farming.

Ralph was a bachelor farmer, who lived with his mom in a huge two-story house. Ralph was the only sibling of that large Irish-Catholic family that never married so he lived with his mom. My dad delivered gas and oil to Ralph and that is how I heard of him, got to meet him and hear some of the stories. His mom must have been 75 or so and he was at least in his 50’s.  She watched over him like he was a teenager.  I always thought it was strange that a man of 50 would still live with his mom and let his mom still run his life. She told him when to go to town, managed the finances, probably managed the farm, cooked, cleaned and of course did not approve of drinking alcohol or carousing. This was a bit unusual for the Irish of this area, as they had a reputation for enjoying a nip or two.

 I can remember listening to conversations dad would have with Ralph. He would call dad on the phone and ask dad to get him a bottle of booze. Peach Schnaps is what he preferred.   At 50 some years old he was still afraid to let his mom know he drank.   So, dad would buy a bottle and when he delivered gas, he would hide the bottle in the corn crib so Ralph’s mom could not find it. Dad would always cuss and bitch about having to get booze for Ralph, but he always did it.  Ralph was a good customer and as a bachelor with minimal expenses Ralph always paid his bills with cash. I am sure that the peach Schnapps was one of few pleasures Ralph had……a Peach High.

On occasion Ralph would stop by my dad’s gas station and just hang out. He was a very quiet guy…kinda odd. Always wore coveralls like most farmers of that era did. Mumbled when he talked. He had big eyes that could stare through you. Large hands and a huge chest….and belly to match.  His skin was deep brown and of course like leather. In those days, farmers did not worry about the sun, dust, pesticides or herbicides. It was a tough and dangerous job.  I seem to remember chewing tobacco staining his teeth and the side of his mouth. The only reason he would come by the station was to get dad to buy him a bottle. I also remember a bit of an odd smell emitting from Ralph.  I would guess lack of a shower contributed to this.

Saturday was the big day of the week in my home town. All the farmers and their families came to town (the big city) on Saturdays……shopping, groceries, maybe a game of pool or a cold beer at the Underground Bar, Jerry’s Tavern or Harold’s Place. Ralph would be at dad’s gas station at least once a month on Saturdays, wondering around, not saying a word. Finally, dad would say, “Ralph, I suppose you want a bottle?”, and he would just grin. “OK”, dad would say, “wait a minute and I will grab you one”.  Soon dad would return with a brown paper bag which I am sure held that magic juice.  Ralph would grab the bag and hide it under the car seat, then wait nervously for his mother to return from shopping up town. I often wondered if that bottle ever rolled forward into her view at a stop sign….and what hell had to be paid if it did.