DAD’S RED TRUCK
© by Polly Smrcka
My Dad’s red International truck was a real standout in our farming community back in the Great Depression years. There were several other farmers who owned trucks but none were the glorious, fire-engine red, stake body beauties that Dad bought from a dealer on Market Street in Union City.
Although Dad knew absolutely nothing about driving a motor vehicle, he recognized the advantages of motorized wheels over horse and buggy travel from one place to another. He was confident that he could learn to operate the roaring red "monster." He had been a cavalry officer in the King’s Army in his native Yugoslavia in his youth and he was an expert handler of even the most ornery, balkiest farm team of workhorses. So, why should he not be equal to the challenge of the "horses" under the hood of a truck?
Mom did not share Dad’s enthusiasm of owning a motor truck but Dad was a persuasive man and he soon had Mom as excited as the rest of the family over the prospect of the horseless mode of travel. As soon as Mom capitulated, Dad hurried to the barn to harness his fastest gray mare and hitch her to the old spring wagon and head to town to secure a loan at the bank for purchase of the gleaming red International he had been eyeing for months at the local agency.
It was a slightly used truck turned back to the dealer from a buyer who gave up trying to learn to drive it. The dealer asked a cash payment of $650. That was a major undertaking for a poor farmer with a large family to support, to assume such a debt in those lean years, But Dad knew he was getting a good deal because the new truck price was $1600.
The dealer was happy to drive the prized truck to our farm. Now it was up to Dad to learn to drive. He paid a young neighbor to teach him the necessary basics of operating the truck. Fortunately, Dad could read English well enough to understand all the road signs. With some further help from my two oldest brothers he also learned to answer all the questions of the driver’s test. By trial and error and profound patience and perseverance, Dad eventually mastered the necessary driving maneuvers to attempt taking the official driver’s test.
We all anxiously awaited Dad’s return from the testing. A huge grin on his mustachioed face told it all. Dad was a brand new truck driver! A celebration was in order. Mom climbed into the cab with the youngest sibling on her lap. The rest of us clambered onto the wooden bed behind the bright red cab and away we went...touring the neighborhood dirt roads at the monumental speed of 20mph!
That day was to never be forgotten. How wonderful it was to cruise along on the back of the beautiful machine that did not smell at all like the tail ends of the horses behind which we used to riding.
It must have been a peculiar sight for the folks of our farm neighborhood when the Slovak family "with a lot of kids" rolling along the narrow, bumpy dirt lanes...the usual country roads back then...at the fantastic speed of 20 mph, barefoot boys and girls laughing and whooping every time the truck hit a rough spot and bounced the youngsters around the way popcorn hopped in the old mesh wire popper Mom heated over embers in the kitchen cookstove.
After the first celebratory ride around the neighborhood, the truck was no longer a pleasure vehicle. Dad drove it on the weekly trips to Union City for farm supplies and the very few groceries Mom needed from the A&P store, and for hauling farm produce to sell in Erie.
The fire-engine red International truck sported a wooden rack that came apart in several sections. Piled high with burlap bags of freshly dug potatoes..dug by hand... and crates of cabbages, the truck became a familiar sight on the way to Dad’s favorite peddling areas, mostly on Erie’s lower east side among Slovaks, Poles, Romanians, Russians and Ukranians.These were folks who ate lots of potatoes and made sauerkraut by the barrel. Besides, Dad was able to converse with all of them in their respective languages, which seemed to endear him to them. Dad was quite a linguist!!Spoke seven or eight languages.
Motor vehicles of that time lacked a great deal in the area of a smooth ride. A ride in Dad’s truck was only slightly less spine-jarring than riding in the old spring wagon behind a fast-stepping team of horses. All the same, it was a treat to be allowed a ride to town on the back of the truck. To cushion small backsides of his children for the 14-mile round trip Dad tossed a bundle of straw on the truck bed and covered it with one of the heavy, scratchy horse blankets he always carried under the seat of the wagon. He never knew when he would need to cover the back of an overheated horse to protect it from catching cold. None of us minded the horsey smell of the blanket.
Dad did not like driving on a paved road. He usually drove the shortest way to town which meant a narrow, dirt lane all the way to the town limits. The dirt surface was hard packed by steel-rimmed wheels of farm wagons, buggies and horses’ iron-shod hooves. We met several horse drawn vehicles along the way. We waved at everyone in sight and called out to every barking dog. At 20 mph, there was ample opportunity to note every tree, bush or flower and any wildlife in fields and by the roadsides. It was fun to see wild rabbits frightened by the strange, roaring monster scampering for cover. Horses did not frighten them but the truck was a different sort of animal!
Dad drove the truck only until Mike, my oldest brother was old enough to have a driver’s license. Dad gladly relinquished the steering wheel. He never considered driving the car he purchased later. He felt much more comfortable driving horses. He was of the same opinion as other drivers of his generation who lived in rural areas: A string of motor vehicles on the roads was an indication of mass insanity and the approaching headlights (which could not be dimmed in those days) were an unique form of torture for human eyes.
The red International served our family for many years. It provided my brothers with countless bouts of fixing flat tires, changing spark plugs, replacing burned-out bulbs in lights and brake shoes. It was also the driver training vehicle for several siblings. It was a grand old rattletrap when it was finally retired to the scrap heap.
