“Well, in the first place, Frank,
I don’t have a gravel bed for my wagon and in the second place, it’s your
job to see that the road’s maintained, not mine.” Dad told him right off.
“How about if the county paid you?”
Frank asked.
“Now, that would throw a different
light on the subject. What’s your proposition?” Dad wanted to know.
“If you’ll build yourself
a gravel bed that will haul three cubic yards of gravel, we’ll do some business together.”
“Where’s this gravel supposed
to come from?” Dad asked.
“There’s a gravel pit back
in the woods at the Latta farm that the county’s been using for your area. It’s the first farm west of Ed Miller’s,
so it’s about two miles from your house.”
After some negotiating, Dad agreed to
a contract to haul gravel for the county for one dollar a load. It seemed reasonable.
It turned out to be one of the hardest contracts Dad ever tried to fulfill.
First off, he had to get the needed two
by fours and two by twelves from the Farver Lumber Company. As it turned out, they cost him as much as he got paid for the
first loads of gravel he hauled. (I don’t know how many.)
In the summer, all four of us boys went
along to the gravel pit to help Dad. I doubt I was much help, but I went along anyway. Actually, it was quite an adventure
for all of us. We spent a lot of what is now referred to as “quality” time together. Dad told us stories of things
that happened to him when he was a kid. We really enjoyed them even though it seemed somehow he always wound up telling us
how hard he used to have to work for his father--without any set pay.
It was a fair distance from the road
back to the gravel pit. I remember the lane that led back to the gravel pit ran alongside a long stretch of fir trees. They
had been set out some years before and the row must have been four or five trees wide. Their placement made them a good windbreak
for the farm buildings in the winter time. Anyway, once we got there, we all discovered that there wasn’t any easy way
to load gravel with a shovel. It isn’t like loading sand or even plain dirt. Gravel has lots of stones in it, of course,
making it very heavy.
Barney and Prince, our horses, were not
too pleased with this job, either. Not only was the gravel heavy, but the wagon was driven right into the loose gravel in
the pit. The wagon would always settle down a bit, making it seem even heavier. They always got out, though. Barney and Prince
were good horses who worked well together.
On the way back to dump the gravel, we
boys would ride on top and entertain ourselves by throwing rocks at posts or whatever likely target we could find. We’d
also pretend the yellow stones we found in the gravel were gold and save them in a can. We’d take it back to the house
with us.
At first, we unloaded the gravel at the
spots in the road that needed immediate attention. Dad would stop the team so the wagon was directly over a bad hole in the
road. Then, since the two by fours in the floor were loose, we’d keep working with one until it could be turned sideways,
and the gravel would start to run out. After we’d get one turned, the others would turn much easier. When the road wasn’t
in too bad of shape, the gravel that dropped down was often exactly the right amount for that one space. The length of the
wagon was how much gravel we spread each day.
Well, it turned out to be an all day
affair. By the time Barney and Prince were hitched up in the morning, the wagon was driven to the gravel pit, loaded, and
driven back to the road in front of our farm, and a load of gravel was dumped, there was not enough daylight left to go back
for another load. So, when all was said and done, we were hauling gravel for the county for exactly one dollar a day. Did somebody say those were the “good old days”?
