Small Town, Idaho

Keith sent me a note about McCall, Idaho the other day that reminded me of one of the times I broke-down in the area . . . the other times can wait for another day. On this occasion, circa 1990, I had bought a 1966 Ford for a friend in Cottonwood. I was headed for Boise with it, and I made it past Riggins, I think, before it quit. I got it going again and limped it into some little town—New Meadows, Council, Cascade?—before it quit for good. It was after business hours, but I was able to find a mechanic to help me. He came in, drunk, to his shop in the evening, and figured out that I was sucking rust out of the gas tank and into the engine. We pulled the gas gauge out of the tank and went in through the hole to rig a filter and tube system that by-passed the plugged fuel lines. He charged me nothing for his help and I spent the night behind a Grange Hall, smelling like gasoline and sleeping on the seat of the truck.

Those were the days when you could wake in the cold dawn, rub your face—sticky from the vinyl, get the truck going, and find some greasy spoon that opened at 5:30. The waitress would grab the Folgers off the Bunn warmer and pour you a cup without a word. Usually, for not much more than about $2.50, you could sit there and eat eggs and toast. The coffee would keep pouring, a few truckers would come and go, and you could warm up. After a while, you'd look around, realize you felt almost human, and go out to see if the truck would start again.