Trip Around the Sun First Leg

By Joe Colby

It was called the roaring twenties. Bars were known as speakeasies. Radio sped to the inquisitive ear news of the world, Ford sold over a million Model-Ts, and a hardworking man could feed a family of six on ten dollars a day - with a nickel left over.

The year was 1926, a time that a boy of thirteen - with his three siblings, his mother, and father - would take a yearlong travel from California to America's heartland, Missouri.

This is but one leg of the story. You'll experience the challenges endured by our thirteen-year-old-long before there were freeways, air conditioning, and even in places paved roads. When you're a poor, migrant, farm-working family, you may hope for a change or better conditions, but it's probably not coming. To complain about it only makes it worse.

The days turn into weeks for the family as they move firsthand through the elements of their travel. Rain, heat, dust, cold, rain, sunny days, starlit nights, rain - and, oh, let it be known, there was rain. All between each flat tire or breakdown of the car. A boy's character was built and rebuilt each new day.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Yorkshire Publishing
• Release date: Jul 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781957262482

Joe Colby

Born in Stockton, California, Joe lived and attended school there before moving to Merced and then Fresno. Growing up in the San Joaquin Valley, Joe has pulled from his childhood memories many events, stories, and personal experiences. In fact, many who know Joe say the protagonist in the story, Trip, is actually Joe's alter ego. Though Joe did wear bib overalls for a short time - while helping his father in construction - the retired army sergeant insists that is where the similarities end. Joe now resides with his lovely wife, Ami, in Burleson, Texas. They're proud parents of two grown daughters Hilary Zumbrennen and Elizabeth Rodgers.

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ISBN: 978-1-952320-95-8 (Paperback)

978-1-957262-48-2 (Ebook)

Trip Around the Sun: The First Leg

Copyright © 2020 by by Joseph D. Colby.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below.

Yorkshire Publishing 1425 E 41st Pl

Tulsa, OK 74105

www.YorkshirePublishing.com

918.394.2665

Published in the USA

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My loving wife, Ami, for her support and encouragement, without which I would not have been able to follow through with this task or even endeavored to take it on. Her example in striving and working toward higher goals is an inspiration. You are my light on the hilltop.

To my daughters, Hilary and Elizabeth, who have endured the many partial or uncompleted transcripts, the requests to support my ego (which sometimes was extremely fragile), till this day of finality. I give my most heartfelt thanks.

To a number one best-selling author and friend, Richard Paul Evans, for the example he has given in his writings and unselfish charitable work. May I be but 10 percent of what you are.

PREFACE

It was called the Roaring Twenties. Bars were known as speakeasies. Radio sped to the inquisitive ear news of the world. Ford sold over a million Model Ts. And a hardworking man could feed a family of six on ten dollars a day—with a nickel left over.

It was also a time in which Trip, a boy of thirteen, rode with his three siblings, mother, and father in their 1922 REO from California to America’s heartland, Missouri, and back again.

This is but one leg of the story behind the year’s roundtrip. You’ll experience the challenges endured by Trip and his family—long before there were freeways, air-conditioning, and the marvels we take for granted today. When you’re a poor, migrant, farm-working family, you may hope for a change, but your current state of affairs is what it is— and to complain only makes it worse.

Trip shares with you his experiences while on the journey, which includes his love for baseball and his fascination with trains. See how his experiences bring to him an awareness and maturity as to what the adult world is all about.

1

Slam! Like the cracking of a bat from one of Babe Ruth’s home runs, the old back door alerted everyone that someone had just entered the house.

Is that you, Trip? Mother yelled from the pantry. It’s me, I replied.

Mother and Father had rented this old wood-frame two-story when we moved to the area. Originally painted white, the house over the years had turned light brown from the dust storms off the delta. Located in town on a city block, the yard had plenty of room for two boys to find all the buried treasure or capture all the villains from the untamed Wild West. While the massive front door, with its elegant inlaid glass, probably welcomed a host of gentry from yesteryear, the back door was more suited for the working man as it led you into the kitchen—the heart of the home. I liked that the kitchen windows faced the south, because the slightest of breezes brought relief from the summer’s heat.

There wasn’t much grass around the property. The little there was surrounded the big oak tree outside mine and David’s bedroom window. Eight towering eucalyptus trees stood as sentries, protecting the property from the delta wind. Dad said that you could sit underneath them if you had a cold, and it would help clear your head. I’ve never had a cold since we’ve lived here, so I don’t know if that’s the truth. Mother thinks they helped keep the peat dirt down when the wind blows. Maybe they did both.

Peat dirt is actually some type of magic dust, or at least I think so. It’s the only dirt that I’ve seen burn—saw so about three weeks ago. People around here say it’s old ocean bottom, and it’s very rich for growing things. However, when the wind blows, it enters into the house through the tiniest of cracks. A house could be dust free at 9:00 a.m., but by 1:00 p.m., you’d think a housewife had never taken a feather duster to it.

My name is Theodore Roosevelt Ivan Prescott. You guessed it—my dad was a big fan of President Roosevelt. He said he saw him once when the president had gone on a hunting trip to Klamath Falls, Oregon. To hear Dad tell it, Mr. Roosevelt was staying at the Baldwin Hotel at the same time Dad was rooming there. Dad said he got to talk and even eat breakfast with the president one day before Mr. Roosevelt went out hunting.

Rather than everyone calling me Theodore, they took the first initials of each of my names and called me Trip. Though it wasn’t without its hazards, I didn’t mind. It set me aside from the typical Joes and Bills. A person might make a jab at being humorous, but after they got to know me, their gabble would cease.

It wasn’t until I was six years old that I understood who my namesake was. It was early in January 1919 when I saw Dad looking rather gloomy. It was the first time I recall seeing my father cry. We were living in the Bay Area of California when he announced that the president had died. That’s when he explained to me about meeting Teddy and why I had his name. I was impressed. I liked the tag or nickname Trip—more so than Teddy. Since then, I’ve actually grown into liking my name even more. So, Trip it is. Yeah, Trip fits me.

Get washed up for supper and tell your brother and sisters to come down and set the table. Your father will be home soon, Mother instructed. And don’t you dare take any of those cookies. It’ll ruin your dinner.

Reluctantly, I said, Okay.

I looked at the freshly baked cookies sitting on the cooling tray as I walked through the kitchen. The temptation was strong. But I knew that, out of nowhere, I’d get a wooden spoon on the back of my head should I even try to sneak one off the tray. If experience has taught me anything, it’s that misdeeds in a hot kitchen, on a hot August day, will get a fast reprisal.

August days in Sacramento, California, are always sunny and hot. Not much humidity, but hot just the same. The evenings would cool off with the breeze flowing over the Sacramento Delta. If one were outside during the day, that was all right, but the one place you didn’t want to be was in a kitchen—especially around a hot stove. Boy, am I glad I’m not a mother having to make supper and things for a family. Mothers sure deserve a lot of respect.

Most of the time, supper consisted of some type of light fixings—lots of salads, fruits, and cold cuts on bread. When you live and work in agriculture, you tend to eat what doesn’t cost much money—and what’s left over from not being shipped to the grocers.

I finally gave up on sneaking a cookie and walked down the hall, yelling, Ellen, David, Virginia, Mother says it’s time to wash up and set the table.

The conversation around supper that night was centered toward a letter Dad had gotten in the mail a few days before. I don’t know if we can wait any longer, Dad said in a sad, pleading voice. "Dad says Mom’s health ain’t very well.

At eighty-two, who knows how long she’ll be here. How long has it—"

Thirty years, Mother interrupted. She had heard Dad say over a hundred times how long it had been since he’d seen his parents and the fact that he wanted to go back East. Pass the butter, Ellen, Dad requested. I can’t see why we can’t go this year. We could leave after I get through with Mr. Bukella’s field. He’s got the Mennonites coming in September to get the harvest done, so he won’t need me after the first.

What ’bout school for the kids? Mother asked. What d’you mean school? How long would we be gone? Ellen asked, as she looked first at Dad and then at Mother. I could see in Ellen’s eyes that she wasn’t going to be all too happy going on the pilgrimage.

We could get some books for ’em to read and study ’long the way, and they could go to school back East, Dad reasoned. We done this when we moved before.

In 1920, Dad moved us from Oakland, California, to Broderick, a town across the Sacramento River from the state capital. All of us kids attended the Washington Grammar School; however, it’s only one of many schools I’ve attended. As a migrant farm-working family, we traveled all over the state, picking, harvesting, planting, and doing just about anything needing to be done on a farm. We moved about depending on where work could be found. Father always said, There’s no such thing as a free lunch, but at least in farming, you can grow it.

This past year had worked out a little different. Dad had taken a job with Mr. Bukella. He had a rice ranch in the Sacramento Delta. About seventy acres were in rice and another fifteen acres in peaches. Mr. Bukella had taken ill, so he had hired Dad to run the ranch while he recovered. This meant we actually had a house to live in and didn’t have to relocate every two weeks. It seems all Dad did during the summer was watch the water level along the levees and kill the muskrats that tried to make the levee their home.

Other minor responsibilities included watering, thinning, and then picking the peaches.

Last October when Dad accepted the job, it was right after harvest. I remember one Saturday when Dad took me out to the ranch. The harvest had been done about a week or two before.

Come on, Trip, we’re gonna get somethin’ out on the ranch.

Upon arriving at the ranch, Dad reached behind the seat and pulled out the twelve-gauge shotgun, a box of shells, and some rope.

This is a great time of day to see if we can get us a pheasant, Dad added. Mr. Bukella told me that they’d been pulling five to ten birds out of here each year for the past ten years or so—granted most of the time it’s with a dog. But since we don’t got one, we’ll use a trick the oldtimers used. Come on. I’ll show you what I mean.

With that suggestion, I followed Dad though a gate and into the recently harvested rice field. You could see rows and rows of rice stubble. The stubble is what’s left over after the harvester comes through. Later on in the year, they’ll burn it.

Dad handed me one end of the rope and said, Tie this around your waist. When you’re done, walk over to the other side of the second row of stubble.

I was pretty sure I knew what Dad was going to say, but just to be certain, I asked anyway. What’ll the rope do?

We’ll let the rope bounce along the tops of the rows. That’ll spook the birds, and hopefully they’ll end up in our pot for supper.

Dad finished tying his end, took two shotgun shells out of the box, and then put them into the chamber. Okay, I think we got it now.

I thought it was quite an act of genius, as birds might hear us coming, but that didn’t make them fly up. If there’s no dog, what one needs is something like a rope that’s going to get right on top of them and make them nervous. Dad and I took off walking—up and down the rows of rice stubble. When we got to the end of the field, we’d turn around and start back in the direction we’d come from— just two rows over. We walked up and down that check, or section of the field, two more times before we took a break. So this was hunting—well, at least pheasant hunting? We’d kicked up some blackbirds and saw a mouse