Memories..... sent to me by cousin Tom Poth

In the fall of 1952 my father bought a dark blue Ford F-1, 1/4 ton pickup truck. In typical male fashion I immediately memorized its vital statistics. It was a flathead eight with 145 horsepower @ 3600 RPM, with a three speed heavy duty center shift and starter button on the dash. It came with foam padding on the seat, insulation on the back of the headliner, sound deadener on the doors, 2 tone upholstery, 2 sun visors, locks on each door, a dome light, and a locking glove box. Another important feature was the ventilation system. It consisted of vent windows in the doors, a large ventilator on the cowl that deflected air onto passenger's legs, and a heater/defroster. We take these features for granted on modern trucks, but they were cutting edge in 1952. This was a vehicle that was solidly built from thick steel that was almost impervious to dents and could haul two horses without much of a strain. This was the last of the “old trucks” that Ford built and it was my main transportation and almost constant companion from the third grade until I graduated in the early sixties. It was scary fast in the quarter mile and vanquished all except the most serious farm dragsters. It ran hot and was always cold in winter. Those big flat fenders have always remained a thing of beauty to me.There were many stories that surrounded this truck. One of the first experiences was a “Hell's Bells, its hailing” moment when the Ford, Mom and I were caught in a vicious hail storm on the road to town. Mom’s only words were “Hell's Bells, it’s hailing!” That was all she said. I thought that strange because she was never at a loss for words and more often than not it would have been a prayer. She hated hail though, and those stones were huge and the sound they made was awesome as it hit the new truck. It was also one of the first times she had driven it, so to her, I guess, it really was hell. But, the event I remember vividly was “the great-ranch-flea-the-flood” episode. That was the first and last night we spent on the Metate Creek. Mom and Dad had always wanted a house or cabin on the ranch. A shack where they could spend a night or weekend and hear the coyotes sing. Such a place existed next to the log pens near the Metate Creek, in the form of an old two room camp house used long ago by ranch hands. This was at the far end of the ranch maybe three miles from the highway.For weeks Dad repaired the walls, roof and floors while Mom boiled water, scalded and scrubbed the entire interior before we painted it bright colors. Large windows were cut into the wall and hinged so that they would swing open. When we were finished the place looked as pretty as a roadside tourist court.That night, supper was eaten and we were ready for bed when a flea was discovered. Dad’s only thought was of typhus fever and that we had to get to a doctor immediately to get shots. This brought about a series of discussions of whether the insect was actually a flea (parents) or some innocent gnat-like creature (Jay Boy and I). The decision was flea, and this produced many references of docs and shots. It was a restless night of prowling coyotes outside the windows, dreams of needles and hordes of imagined fleas crawling in our beds.The next morning when we awoke it started to rain. Piling into the truck we started up the old road through the white brush and prickly pear until coming to a dry creek bottom where Dad stuck the truck trying to get up a small embankment. It started to rain harder. We found some old tin and put it under the back wheels for traction. Not good enough. Water started to flow slowly down the creek. Thoughts of dying from “flea fever” vanished as the creek began to rise more rapidly. The smell of burning rubber as the tires spun on the tin and brush was sickening, while mud flew backwards covering us as we tried to push a swiveling truck forward when it only could go sideways. At last mesquite logs and more white brush under the tires helped the truck free itself and suddenly pop up and over the bank. With Dad fighting the wheel, straining to see through fogged-over windows, Mom saying Hail Marys and everyone yelling directions, the truck went sliding and twisting up the road tearing through the brush and small mesquite trees. Each ditch and small incline became a major challenge. Finally, upon reaching the highway it became evident just how pathetic we all looked; caked in mud and wet clothes. The truck was scratched, steaming, muddy and a mess inside. We had made it, but Mom vowed never to go back there to stay again. The flea had won. Uncle E. B. lived in Pleasanton, and he laughed at the sight we presented him when we appeared on his doorstep to shower and dry off. Later, he would tease Mom about the great ‘flea the flood’ episode every time he saw her.We received our shots that afternoon.