Many of my memories of my dad are of his being a truck driver. He drove all kinds, shapes, sizes and types of trucks. He absolutely loved driving trucks. There was a period in which he drove an 18-wheeler dump truck. My story comes from that time.

I was not old, somewhere in my early grade school years. I was young enough that I always wanted to go with my dad in the truck. And I was young enough that I am sure I was an obnoxious pest about needing a snack or a bottle of pop or a bathroom stop.

But one fateful Friday evening my dad asked me if I wanted to go with him the next morning. He had to haul some rock to a nearby construction project. Of course I jumped on it. I was more excited than a dog at a cat show or an OSU fan at a national championship football game or Gayla the first time she saw me.

I laid out my clothes for the adventure. Cowboy boots. Wrangler blue jeans that were at least three inches too short. Decent shirt.
Cowboy hat.

That next morning my dad and I got in the truck. And we were off to the Dolese crusher just west of Sasakwa. When we got there, we found a long line of other dump trucks waiting their turn to get loaded. Dad pulled into
that line.

He then told me he was going to get out and work on something on the truck. He asked me if I wanted to get out. For some reason that made total sense to my young mind, I told him I would just stay in the truck. He got out.

It wasn’t long before I could hear him hammering on something under the truck. That was a particularly attractive sound. As I sat there listening, I decided my dad probably needed some help hammering. So, I climbed out of my seat, around the gear shifts, and onto the driver’s seat. I turned around and started climbing out of the truck.
I hadn’t gone very far. At all. When it happened. I slipped and started the fall. I had the hang time of an NFL punter. I fell for what seemed like minutes. You might have thought that my cowboy hat would have flapped around enough to slow my fall. But the size of my head overcame the aerodynamics of my cowboy hat. I was still gathering speed when I hit
the ground.

I landed flat on my back and that landing knocked all the air out of me. I’m sure I must have looked like a carp on a creekbank. I was sucking air for all I was worth, but I was not transferring any oxygen. I could not talk. I could not breathe. I could only make the weirdest little noise. I was certain I was dying.

I finally caught my breath enough to roll over on my left side and prop myself up on my left arm. From that angle I could see my dad under the truck. He was still hammering. Slowly, he looked my direction. Stopped hammering and asked, “Guess you decided to get out after all?” And then he went right back to
his hammering.

Here’s a couple of lessons for you. One, you can fix a lot of stuff with a hammer. Two, it is a long way from the cab of an 18-wheeler to the ground. Three, just because you fall doesn’t mean there will be someone to help you up even if someone is close by. Four, stating the obvious accomplishes little other than the obvious gets stated. Five, any carp will tell you that oxygen is much needed. Six, if you fall, try not to fall flat on your back. Land on your head or something.