Entries in Life

Dad loved taking a Sunday afternoon drive to see the country. In the 1980's, after his last child had graduated, he lived in the New Mexico side of the four-corners where he found his perfect job – delivering fuel to gas stations across the western landscape. On Mom's days off, she frequently accompanied him on a run. Below is in an edited excerpt she wrote of an early Sunday delivery to a gas station on the Navajo Indian reservation. She refers to my dad as The Trucker.

At 6 a.m., while The Trucker gets the truck loaded and paper work completed at the Plateau Rifinery, I walk up the road, enjoy the birds singing, watch the sunrise and view the mountains. Truck loaded, we go a short ways down the road and stop at the weigh station and then hit the road.

We haven't had our morning cup of coffee so we pull into the first open place. It tastes like cowboy coffee to me – I can't handle it without something to go with it. The Trucker decides he needs a sweet roll, too, and has me go back to the counter to get him one. As he says, "Get loaded. Get past the weigh station and settle down to do your own thing. Have a cup of coffee and hit the road."

Another stop at the Arizona border check, then we head for the Indian reservation community of Many Farms, Ariz. – until we have to stop for cattle on the road.

One cow ignores every message we give it to get off the road. We blow the air horn and she still looks straight ahead and walks very slowly in front of our big truck which is nearly at a standstill in the middle of the reservation. That cow knows no one dares to hit her. She moseys over and checks out a spear of grass on the other side of the road.

Afterwards, we keep a wary eye out for flocks of sheep tended by dogs and the occasional shepherd on a horse. In the morning, the sheep graze along the highway. In-between watching for cattle, sheep and horses, The Trucker must also watch-out for the pick-up trucks coming across the reservation which pull right out in front of us.

In spite of all that, nothing spoils this early morning run for The Trucker who bursts into song and then comments on the buttes and a flat mesa in the Four-Corners Area. He points out the Colorado and Utah skylines and adds, "back there is New Mexico and here we are in Arizona."

Because it is Sunday, traffic across the reservation is light. By 10 a.m. we are in Many Farms where gas is $l.459 for no-lead and $1.389 for regular. In Bloomfield, N.M., where we live, it has dropped to $1.029 and $.979.

At the gas station and convenience store, we see several older Indians dressed in native and modern clothing. Some stand around talking. Others wander in and out of the store. A couple of men sit on the sidewalk with their backs to the building, enjoying the sun, sipping soda, eating packaged cookies and greeting friends coming for groceries or gasoline.

In a half hour, the tanker is empty and so are we but, restaurants are few and far between out in the desert. The Trucker points out a sign for a new restaurant that is open on Sundays.

The place overflows with motorcycles and riders – most carry two riders. Several of the bikes pull trailers as if they just had an overnight camp-out. Their jackets proclaim they are from Farmington, N.M., a community near where we live.

The rest of the crowd came in identical cars – all with Michigan plates. We've never seen cars like them before. Their drivers and riders fill the restaurant and the parking lot where they walk around taking pictures.

We order coffee. It's not cowboy coffee. This time it's too weak – for even me.
Suddenly, the crowd is gone and we are alone in the restaurant – except for one Indian couple. Skipping over the breakfast options on the limited menu, we choose a couple of hamburgers. We will eat more when we get home.

We make one more stop in Shiprock, N.M. to complete the run and by 2 p.m. we park outside our trailer park.

It is much warmer than when we left before dawn, so draping our coats over our arms we walk back to the trailer to read and rest until evening. We won't be going for a Sunday afternoon drive to see the country this week. We were out early – compliments of a gas station that needed their fuel tank filled.

(The Trucker's daughter Joan Hershberger is a reporter at the News-Times. E-mail her at joanh@everybody.org)

The downpour of rain Tuesday pounded our roof as I packed food for work and fielded my husband's comments about the unusually poor drainage in our backyard.

Hydroplaning my way to the north end of town to shop before I clocked-in, I observed with astonishment the deep, swirling water filling ditches and overflowing sometimes onto the road.

Following another car, I headed down the hill to the mall. The other car splashed straight into a wide pool of water formed by the backed-up, overflowing storm drain. I assumed that if they could make it, I could. I followed them into the water.
The other car cut a spray of water and drove off. My car stalled in the middle of the wave-rocked pool of brown water. I turned off the radio to verify that my engine had stalled.

Listening to the rain drumming on the roof of my car, I considered my situation. I really did not want to get out in that rain and water. I pushed the electronic button to lower my window and waved my arm at passing vehicles.

An SUV pulled-up beside me. The driver said he would call the police – they would know what to do.
I knew what needed to be done – tow my sloppy, wet car to dry land.

I waited .... and waited. I wondered if the water would rise high enough to cut off the battery so I could not lower the window. I looked around to appraise my situation and noticed an inch of water covering the carpet behind me. Only the vinyl of the heavy plastic floor mat floating over the pool of brackish water kept my feet dry.
A high riding vehicle zoomed past me, rocking my car gently backwards in its wake. My car floated into even deeper water.

I pressed the button to lower the window and looked at the still rising water. I could not believe it would get worse. The water had to go down as soon as it stopped raining. We don't get flooding this far from the river.
We did Tuesday.

Someone called from the edge of the water that I should get out. With the heavens still dumping rain, I agreed. I tossed a few items I did not need into the back window – hoping it would be high enough to keep them dry. I grabbed the stuff I wanted with me and eased the door open. Brown water flowed into the car.

"It's going to be a pain getting this car dried out and cleaned," I thought as I stepped into the cool, dirty water and became one more flood victim forced to wade through mucky water to higher ground and a dry welcome.

Inside the department store, no one manned the cash registers. No customers strolled the aisles. Both customers and employees stood at the door watching the rain – and the spreading flood in the parking lot. An employee congratulated herself on having moved her car away before the flood waters gathered.

We stared at the last hold-out in the parking lot – a man sitting in his mini-van by the drainage pipe, waiting for the water to crest and drain. Fifteen more minutes, a couple more calls to come ashore and he too, abandoned his vehicle and headed inland from the parking lot flood.

I called home. Of course, in the short time it took for my husband to bring me dry clothes and a high riding vehicle, the rain dwindled to a drizzle and the water had drained below the bottom of the car.

My hair wet and frizzy, I arrived at work in drenched slacks and a sopping wet coat – very ready to clean up and put on dry clothes.

A call to a towing service and a nearby garage put my car under cover to dry out and assess the damage.

Once the rain quit pouring, the parking lot drained away all evidence of my emergency – except the bill for towing my car and replacing its starter.

An expensive lesson learned – take the long way around deep looking puddles – even if that other car does soar safely through to the other side.

(The now dry Joan Hershberger is a reporter at the News-Times. E-mail her at joanh@everybody.org)

I really didn't intend to cut off anyone's fingers last weekend – I just wanted to play home-ec teacher when I invited the granddaughters to learn how to use one or another of my three sewing machines.

They looked at me in total astonishment.

"I'm afraid I will cut off my finger," one explained.
"That's impossible!" I scoffed.

I coaxed and cajoled them and began setting up sewing machines, promising them that the needle would not, could not reach their fingers.

I don't really NEED three sewing machines, but having an extra one comes in handy when one breaks down and needs to go to the repair shop – or when I have company in the sewing room.

Using my garage sale machines and stash of fabric from the recently opened Fabrics & More on Main Street, MNM Creations & Quilt Shop south of Parkers Chapel, the closing of the fabric store and fabric department at the big box store ... and of course garage sales, I knew I had lots of options to offering them in sewing. I set up the spare machines and handed each a sheet of lined paper, took the thread out of the machines and told them to try to make the needle stay on the line.

Thrills of excitement followed as they experienced the power of the machine and the concentration needed.

"Oh, I'm so scared."

"Push the pedal, it won't hurt you. It's fun."
She did and then stopped every three inches to study her accomplishment with pride and ask, "Didn't I do good!?"
"That's wonderful. Keep on sewing."
The youngest, not quite 10, loved it. She wanted to sew everything in sight.
I suggested they begin by hemming a couple of tablecloths. I had fabric for a Christmas tablecloth and a brilliantly colored party tablecloth with balloons, confetti and horns in six different colors – with enough left over for party napkins.

I showed them how to iron a temporary hem to sew in place. They took turns sewing the permanent hems.

I cut eight matching party napkins. The youngest did a Suzy Homemaker routine and sewed all the napkins' hems while her older sisters wandered off to do something else.

The next day, they wanted to sew something else. I pulled out a pre-printed set of Christmas stockings. Four stockings, enough for one each and one for me to demonstrate the techniques needed. When we began cutting out their stockings, linings and stocking hangars, I discovered I need to buy left-hand shears – or one child will never be able to cut her own material.
Initial fears and hesitations gone, they raced to the sewing machines and fought over who got which one. Ten minutes later, I could not figure out why they could not stay on the half inch seam line – until I remembered when I began sewing as a child, I had pre-printed projects with the sewing lines stamped out for me to follow, as well as the trim and snip lines. We began marking sewing lines.
After one sewed the whole stocking together with the material offset a couple inches, I realized she had not pinned the fabric – she was afraid of being pricked. She took out all the stitching and began again – with the pieces pinned together.

Although I had lots of white fabric for lining the red Santa Claus stockings, one chose a polished pink cotton, another chose a violet print with cats and the third selected a bright red fabric to line her stocking.

They made a lot of mistakes in cutting and sewing – the worst we fixed. The rest I let ride – I wanted them to have fun sewing. We'll refine the skills later.
Sewing the hangars for the stockings meant teaching them how to turn a tube of fabric inside out. I had forgotten the frustration of working material over a safety pin or around a pencil. But they each did what had to be done and we slid the liner inside the stocking, pinned all along the top edge, secured the hangar with a pin and then I hovered over each as they top-stitched everything securely in place.

We won't need the Christmas stockings and tablecloths for a while, but we had a lot of fun and they had finished products to take home to show-off ... and for once I needed all three of my machines at the same time.

(Joan Hershberger is a reporter at the News-Times. E-mail her at joanh@everybody.org.)