A trip to the farm was not something that appeared on the kitchen calendar after a family planning session. It was always wonderful, but it just up and happened. My father would call home toward the middle of the day on a Friday and announce to Martha that we were off to Knox County. As soon as elementary school turned out, I would be piled int the back of the car, rushed home and shortly thereafter, off we would go, speeding east out of New Mexico toward my aunt and uncle’s farm in Texas. 

It was about a 5-hour trek. If we got going quickly and only stopped once for a bathroom break, then we got there in time for a late meal.  Course, when you crossed the New Mexico/Texas border you automatically lost an hour. So supper was going to be late, no matter how fast we went. The time change seemed to fuel my Dad’s focus on getting out the door. 

“It’s 4:30 in Texas!” he would holler out to no one in particular, as he waited at the back door for my mother to get whatever we needed to travel with.

Once, after we had got going and were traveling down the road, I heard her say to him:

“Bill, scooting out the backdoor on short notice for several nights in Knox County isn’t like running into town for an ice cream cone at Dairy Queen. Things have to be collected and packed. The car has to be taken care of. I have to get a snack packed and coffee made for the thermos. And you don’t give me any warning.”

He listened and then said quietly, “You make too much of all this, Sugar. When I call and say we are going to the farm just get yourself and the boy together and I’ll take care of the rest.”

There was a long pause before my mother responded: “Okay, fine.”

My Dad never seemed to get that phrase. They were married almost half a century. I never saw him snap on the reality that “okay, fine” actually meant that retaliation was looming. He never got this. Never. Well, he wasn’t getting it this time either.

It was on our next trip to the farm, some months down the way, when the ax fell on my father. 

I came out the backdoor of Will Rogers Elementary at the final bell and there my mother was in the car parked along the curb in approximately the usual place. I remember vaguely having a plan to go down the road to one of my bud’s house to ride bikes after getting home.

“No,” mother said. “We’re off to the farm.” 

That was fine with me. I loved to go.

I immediately noticed a difference in my mother as she drove us home. She was remarkably pleasant. Absent was the kind of tension that always came with the scurrying about that was required to get us off on these trips. She asked about my day and listened attentively.  We talked about the books I would need to take on the trip because, farm or no farm, I would have to get my homework addressed over the weekend.

When we got to the house I expected to be told to get out of the way, so she could tilt around the house like a whirlwind before my Dad rolled in. It didn’t happen. We walked in the back door, she went down the hall and shortly emerged with her small travel bag and a little cosmetics container that she always called her ditty bag.

She then turned her attention to putting together my little suitcase. She even called me into my room where she was working and very pleasantly engaged me in conversation about what I would like to wear.

After we packed my little bag she said, “Let’s have a cool drink and wait for your Daddy to get here.” We retired to the kitchen and she poured us both a tall glass of iced tea. I sat at the table and watched her calmly drink her tea and smoke a cigarette. 

Presently we heard my father’s old work car leave the pavement and roll up the dirt and gravel road to the back door.  At these sounds she began to clear the table and tidy up the sink area. When he walked in the back door, she had finished and collected our things. We stood ready to depart. 

My father breezed right past us with hardly a glance on the way to the bathroom. When he returned, my mother had installed me in the backseat of the car and the little dab of luggage was tucked away in the trunk. She stood outside the car and smoked another cigarette.

Coming out the backdoor, my Father had a puzzled look on his face. He looked at her and she said, “Lock that back door. There’s the boy and I’ve got what I need.”

For just a moment he looked startled. But that passed quickly. He locked the back door and scurried down the steps and into the car. We were on our way toward Texas.

We had just rolled into Seminole, not far over the Texas line, getting ready for the longer run over to Snyder when my Dad happened to glance at the fuel gauge. He was surprised to notice that it didn’t indicate full. 

“Gas gauge says we’re nearly out of gas,” he exclaimed. He then looked over at my mother with a kind of look that seemed to indicate that he expected some word of explanation would issue forth from her lips. But she simply continued to gaze out the window with a casual and serene countenance. 

He pulled into the Conoco station on the outskirts of town. I slipped out of the back seat and found the rest room. I didn’t need to go all that much, but when my Dad was driving on trips you didn’t want to pass up an opportunity. My mother stayed in the car. Shortly, we pulled out of the station and the trip was resumed.

Another hour into the trip and we were really into rural country. It was dinner time now, and my Father asked for his thermos of coffee. And maybe it was time to have a sandwich? Martha said there wasn’t any.

Dad was puzzled. Nothing? Really?

Martha shrugged and looked out her window.

I could tell Dad was puzzled and working on how this turn of events came to be. I watched him carefully. He just kept staring straight out the window, watching the road. But his hands were working on the wheel in an agitated manner. He finally took a plentiful breath, gave a long exhaling “well” and then lapsed into silence. We were all quiet now.

Finally he announced, “We’re almost to Snyder, and I’m hungry. Guess we’ll stop there and get a little something. How would that be, Shorty?”

I was enthusiastic, of course. A second stop on a trip was unprecedented, let alone getting to eat out somewhere.

We made to the farm about an hour and a half later than usual and settled in for the night right after.

I came around the corner into the kitchen the next morning to find my father sitting at the table, cup of coffee in hand and a perplexed kind of look on his face.  My uncle, Charles Meek, sat on the other side of the table with his chair tilted back against the wall, his arms folded across his chest, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Aunt Gladys was at the stove and Martha was serving biscuits onto the table. 

Bill looked up at her and said, “You didn’t bring any of my things?  Nothing?”

“Well, like I said, no, I didn’t bring any of your things.”

My Dad turned his face and gazed at his brother-in-law who, still grinning, nodded almost imperceptibly.

My Mother continued, “Bill, you told me to get myself and the boy in the car with whatever we needed, and you would take care of the rest.”

“Well,” my Dad said and then just let that word hang in the air like an orphan.

“You know,” my uncle offered, “it sure is nice to have a wife who will obey.” He continued to grin broadly.

My Dad looked over at him and said quietly, “Yeah.” Then, “A blessing sure enough.”

Aunt Gladys approached the table with the eggs while my mom got the rest of the things in place. “You boys eat some breakfast and we’ll get you outfitted while Charles is out tending to chores” my aunt directed.

By now I had taken my place at the table and noticed my Dad was wearing the same clothes he had driven down in, that he needed a shave, and that his hair wasn’t all that tidy. But he was quite a sight to see once he had been equipped with a new wardrobe and kit for the weekend!

Dad usually wore his fishing cap, which was really an old ball cap that was stashed in his tackle box which was, of course, back in the storeroom at home. One of Uncle Charles’ straw work hats fit after a fashion.

A cotton work shirt, again from Charles’ closet, was pressed into action. It served but did not fit all that well.  It was more than big enough around the chest and girth. Charles was a stockier man than Bill Pharis. He was a good deal shorter as well. So, the shirt was bigger and baggier than needed, and the sleeves were short. Real short. That was remedied by simply rolling up the sleeves.

It was not so easy to disguise the height and weight differential when it came to trousers. Charles had plenty of denim work pants not being used. But the same challenge had to be faced as with the shirt. The waist was plenty ample. Gladys produced a length of rope that allowed Bill to cinch up the waist. But the legs were a different matter.

“Why you look pretty good in pedal pushers, Bill,” chortled Charles when Bill appeared from the bedroom with breeches legs that barely covered his calves. He still had his long black socks on that he had worn to work the day before, so these covered up the exposed part of his legs. 

It was spring so no jacket was required.

The problem of shoes could not be fixed. Bill had exceptionally long and narrow feet. He would simply have to make do with his dress shoes he had worn down. 

“Let’s look on the bright side,” he said to Charles.  “Man can’t do chores in dress shoes.”

“Fair enough” Charles said with a grin.  “Don’t want to see you sloshing around near the hog trough in those” pointing at his shoes. 

The process was complete when Gladys produced a toothbrush still packaged up which she had back in the closet. Bill and Charles could share a razor.

On Saturday afternoon Bill, my uncle and I piled into the truck and went down to Paul’s Store to pick up some bait before heading over to Lake Kemp for some fishing.

My Dad’s dress caught Paul’s attention the minute we walked through the door, but he didn’t say anything. Charles just grinned when he caught Paul eyeing my Dad. “Town folk dress funny,” Charles remarked. 

My Dad took the invitation to tell the tale. The men all joined in commiserating about the challenge of dealing with wives.  They ended the whole thing with the old proverb: “women — can’t live with them and can’t live without them.” It was good natured. 

The next time an occasion to go to the farm presented itself, my Dad’s approach was a good deal different. 

It was a Monday morning at breakfast. My Dad said to my Mom as he was reaching for another biscuit, “I’m thinking about calling Charles and seeing if he could do a little fishing this weekend if we ran over there. What do you think?” 

Mom looked thoughtful for a moment. “You talking about going on Friday after work?”

“That’s my thinking,” Dad said.

“I believe we could,” she said.

“You up for that, Shorty?” my Dad asked me.

“You know it.”

“Good,” my mother said. “It’s settled. I’ll have everything packed and ready when you get in on Friday.”