I had been living overseas in asia for about a third of my life. That included all four years of high school. Yes, it was an American High School, but it was still far from what the typical midwest, never been out of the county, much less the state, farmbelt graduate had experienced. I went from a high school in a city of about 8 million people and an apartment complex of a hundred and some odd nationalities to a midwest farming college with a population of less than 10,000 (if that). It was home though. My grandparents were near, and my earliest memories were of that campus. They may seem a bit strange, but it is true.
Now I have always had strange and/or odd friends. I think it is due to the fact that I consider myself strange and/or odd. Maybe, I just think strange / odd is interesting. Regardless, it took me less than a week to hook up with another odd bunch. Besides me, there was the genius, the hillbilly, the boy scout, and a farm boy who reminded us all of Fred Flintstone. There were others of course, but those were the main players. This story is primarily about the Mr. Flintstone.
The second day I knew him. Mr. Flintstone had to run home to pick something up from his farm. I don't recall what it was. What I do recall was thinking that we were going a couple of miles out of town and ended up going about forty.
His truck was pure red neck. Imagine that you had five trucks on your lawn that dated back to the forties. Now imagine that you took the worst features from each and cobbled it together with bailing wire, duct tape, and chewing gum. That would be superior to this monstrosity. I liked the truck, but it roared like a beast, and we called it such.
I think I intimidated Mr. Flintstone. He wanted to impress me. As a result, in this before seat belt monstrocity, we flew down the road leaving a whirlwind of dust behind us. Country roads are nice and flat, but there are little things like rail road tracks that aren't meant to be taken at warp speed.
This dinosaur of a truck actually pulled a dukes of hazard and I felt air underneath the wheels of the beast as we cleared the ramp that went over the tracks. We pulled into town, and stopped at a filling station because the beast was making a very strange noise. Some bailing wire around the muffler and a conversation with a founding father (aka sheriff) later, we were once again on the road to his farm.
The place was a pit, and it became clear why my new friend had never mastered hygiene. His father was of the same generation as my great grandfather, and was basically immobile. He constantly harassed my friend, but it was clear that it was because he cared for him, and that was his way.
Anyway, we did a couple of chores, and looked it, before starting on our way back home. We never made it. About midway back, the speedometer starting dancing from left to right in a wild fashion. We were just about to stop and check the duct tape, when Mr. Flintstone decided that a tractor travelling America's biways ahead of him was a threat to his masculinity. He gunned the beast to go around him and we went into the ditch.
I remember being fascinated by this tire that I could see bouncing across the field beside us. It didnt register until after I was done holding on for my life that that was our tire.
The tire had ripped clean off of the frame, and we had made an impression on the highway about an 1/8 of a mile long.
We were in the middle of nowhere. Now, something else needs to be said here. The country is sparesly populated. There just arent very many houses, and the locales are very friendly to those they know and very suspicious of outsiders.
Remember, we had been doing chores, and looked like vagabonds. We were also about midway between his home and mine. No one really knew us here. Houses were about 1/2 mile apart.
The nearest house was of course one of the biggest in the area. No doubt it belonged to some rich doctor who decided that the country was the perfect place to retire. I can understand this as there is a definite charm about having a place where no one tells you that you can't paint your house x y or z color because it will bring down your property value.
However, the area of which I am speaking has urban legends of its own of mafia connections, and some of them are probably true. The midwest is not known for italian cooking except in one particular locale which is literally littered with italian restaurants.
Anyway, me and grimy flintstone, truckless, walked up to this very fancy house. I know we looked like death warmed over, but the look on this old womans face was priceless. In a place where everyone invites you in, she threw a cordless phone out to us from within a chained doorway. I guess we made lots of impressions that day, and Mr. Flintstone made quite an impression on me.
