Trip Around the Sun: Second 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: Aug 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781957262499

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 978-1-952320-96-5 (Paperback)

978-1-957262-49-9 (Ebook)

Trip Around The Sun - Second Leg

Copyright © 2021 Joe 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

Printed in the USA

Preface

I’m Trip, and this is my book. If you’ve been with me on first leg, you know I’m a fourteen year old farm boy, who’s being raised by migrant farm workers, with parents who sometimes can’t rub two nickels together, and freshly planted in the dusty mid-west. Here’s what you’ll see in this next leg:

How I tangled first hand with a felony bootlegger,

The real reason my family members refused to live close to each other,

Prejudice. Hearing people talk down about negroes and people of color

Have I got you hooked yet? Here’s more.

You’ll get a first-hand account of the 1921 Tulsa, Oklahoma race riots from a good friend and mentor

Learn how to hustle money from Christmas shoppers

Venture down old wagon trails of the mid-west, and parts of the newly completed Route 66.

Think of it. Where else does a fourteen year old boy get to experience so much? You now have a front row seat afforded you (perhaps with your own bag of popcorn) to read how I manage it all.

Chapter 1

What’s wrong, John? Mother asked.

Dad abruptly stopped, pulling the car, a 1922 Reo, over to the side of the road.

He opened his door slowly. Without saying a word he slid out of his seat and stepped onto the gravel road. Unlike many city streets, country roads are nothing but gravel and dirt. Perhaps twice a year they get oil sprayed on them, and that keeps the dust down. But as Dad says, They ain’t nothin but glorified wagon trails.

As he stood there, he placed his hand upon the windshield, looking beyond the front of the car. From where I sat, it looked like we were in the middle of nowhere—but then for most of our trip it seemed like that.

As if on cue, Mother turned quickly around in her seat and give us four kids one softly spoken, yet firm statement. Don’t any of you ask no questions of your father. I’m sure it’s all fine. We’ll let him have his moment, for now.

For now? I thought. It’s the first week of October, 1926, and we’ve been traveling east from California for six weeks. Just yesterday Dad said we were almost to our final destination. And now, now we sit along the side of the road, beside what’s not even a dot on a map. What gives?

Jarring me from my thought was the sight of Dad stooping down. Then he picked up a small gray rock and stood there, bouncing it up and down in his palm. You see that house up the road? That’s Mother and Dad’s.

After taking a deep breath and letting out a sigh, he continued, I ain’t no real deep thinkin’ man, but, I’m older. Older and wiser. He then adjusted his fedora so as to allow his full face become exposed to all. With the rock still in his hand he continued. "When I left home in ’88, I guess I was mad. I guess I was itchin’ to find my way in life. I could never hit my parents, but I could throw rocks at the life I was leavin’. So, figuring I was startin’ anew I threw a rock at my past.

Now, as then, I’m startin’ a new chapter. So, I’m throwin’ a rock back. Guess that brings me full circle.

Dad then moved to the center of the road, cocked his right arm and let the gray rock fly. He stood there for a moment as he watched the rock bounce three times, coming to a stop on the shoulder of the road.

Again, taking hold of his hat, he brought it forward so that the brim shaded his eyes. He walked back to the car. After climbing into his seat, he reached down and discharged the brake and began the forward movement for the quarter mile to the ole’ homestead.

Making the turn onto the dusty driveway the entire house became visible to all in the car. As if puppets looking over a fence, my brother, David, my two sisters—Ellen and Virginia and I crowded into the gap between where Mother and Dad sat to get our first ‘look-see’.

Was this it? I thought to myself.

Dad brought the car to a stop just in front of the farm-house. Though it had a high, pitched roofline, the building appeared to be but one story. It was white, though very faded and dirty from years of neglect. The overhanging roof helped enclose the wrap around porch both in depth and width. The six symmetrical shaped pillars that supported the roof were connected together by a three foot double-rail railing, all in the same color as the house, dirty white.

Between the overgrown, untrimmed hedges that lay along the perimeter of the porch I saw the typical gray colored floor. An unwritten rule must exist that a farm-house must be white, and porches must be gray. There sure are a lot of them.

Sitting in the car for a moment, the six of us looked around and scanned the area. Through the windshield, I saw what appeared to be a work project waiting to happen: it would mean replacing some of the shingles on the roof, especially the ones with moss growing on them, along with a fresh coat of white paint for the house.

I wondered how Dad was feeling now that we’d arrived. Were it me, I’d be nervous as all heck. I glanced over at Ellen. She seemed to sense the way I was thinking. She nodded her head and rolled her eyes towards Dad, though no words were spoken.

Six year old David and ten year old Virginia, were less sensitive to Dad’s ordeal. Both of them were kneeling on the floor board with their hands on the back of the front seat. It was David that actually broke the ice by asking, Is this where Grandpa and Grandma live?

Dad chuckled a bit and answered, Yeah, I guess it is, kids. I never thought when I left that it would be a grandparent’s house, if you know what I mean. Yep, it’s where your grandpa and grandma live. Shall we go see if they’ll let us in?

Yeah! Let’s go see Grandpa and Grandma! David was not holding back any of his excitement.

You should know that Grandma’s not well. Mother warned us. We might want to keep our noise down, ‘cause she’s very ill.

She gonna die? David’s inquisitive and yet six-year-old insensitivity was clearly on display.

I don’t know. She’s very sick. That’s one reason why we’re here. Just be quiet and stay calm ‘til we know what things are like. You understand what I’m saying?

Yes, Daddy.

How ‘bout you Virginia?

I understand, Daddy. I’m sorry your mother ain’t in good health.

Thank you sweetheart. With that, Dad turned to his right and reaching over the seat gave his youngest girl a pat on her hand.

We exited the car and as we stood there, rather nervous at the upcoming social call, Mother gave us all a ‘once over’. Straitening the straps on our overalls, dusting the dirt off of David’s knees, and then wetting her finger to slick down his cowlick, was her way of bringing us up to her standards. Even Dad had to endure her inspectional gaze.

I like the wishing well. Virginia had taken up a position next to me, looking away from the house, in the direction of the large white barn. In our view was a large rock formation. It sat on an island of ground between the house, the barn and the roadway. Well defined tire tracks circled the island.

That’s not a well, or not any more. It’s just a ‘round-about. Dad explained.

What’s a round-about’? Virginia’s interest had been stirred.

In this case, it’s where the well was. It’s nothin’ but a hole in the ground now. Before I left I remember getting’ a new well dug, back of the house. We’d drive around the well with the wagons. It looks like nothin’ but a big weed patch now.

It could use some fixin’ up. Mother’s opinion generally meant a chore was next in hand.

Could we make it a Halloween or Thanksgiving well? Virginia asked.

If that’s alright with your Grandpa. Don’t want to just do somethin’ without his say so. Mother gave the warning to us all. I see where we might be of some help to your Pa. I could put the kids to work on cleaning up the place. Do ya think he’d mind, John?

I suppose. When the times right we’ll ask. Dad was even starting to take in the grounds, noting possible projects.

There’s a lot of good the kids can do, if you don’t think your parents would mind? Mother, was like Santa’s elf making a list and checking it twice. If your mother ain’t in the mood to having lots of noise, the kids can be out here gettin’ rid of their energy and being productive as well.

That should work, Dad answered. As he continued to lead us to the front door, he added, Let’s play it by ear and see.

As we walked along the front walk, it was obvious the yard wasn’t a priority to Grandpa. Weeds and dead grass grew between the cracks of the broken cement. With each step I felt certain the four of us kids would find our hands full of tools, doing whatever tasks Mother could find.

I made it up the six steps that landed onto the gray colored porch, just in time to catch Mother and Dad exchanging glances at each other. Without a word said I knew what they were thinking, This needs a lot of work.

The hand rail was wobbly and loose. The six pillars that went from the porch to the roof, which at one time were probably white, had turned light brown.

We huddled together, just inches’ from the wooden frame screen door as Mother took a last chance glance at her brood. Then getting an ‘all clear’ signal from the ‘boss,’ Dad gave a firm, manly knock. He took a step back. We waited. The door opened after what was only a few seconds, though it seemed like an hour.

Dad, it’s me, John.

Through the dirty, rusty screen I saw the silhouette of an old man in bib-overalls. The darkness inside the house prevented me from telling the color of his shirt, though I saw that it was long sleeve. His hair, while a little ruffled, for the most part was combed straight back. Its silver color dominated the picture.

What? It was a gruff voice, as if we’d woken a bear from its hibernating sleep. The old man appeared to be upset.

Turning my head towards Ellen I whispered, This is going to be fun. In agreement, Ellen nodded her head.

It’s me, Dad, John.

What? the old man again asked. Then, upon my father’s words sinking in, his attitude changed dramatically. John? Oh my God! You made it! Oh, my God, it is you! Son, it’s good to see ya.

Soon the metallic click of the small bolt lock was heard and the screen door opened. Dad extended the elbow of his right arm out to keep the door from closing. The old man, now having been identified as my grandfather, grabbed his son at the shoulders with both hands, and held him at arm’s length. Then, without another word, he pulled my father close to him, forming a warm embrace, a bear hug.

Both men were the same height and of similar build. From my point of view, the only difference between my father and grandfather was the amount of gray hair I could see Grandpa having more.

When they separated, Dad was the first to speak. He held out his hand in the direction of Mother. Pa, this is Alice, my helpmate and the mother of our children.

Come here, daughter, the elderly man ordered in a friendly and light hearted manner. I’ve longed to know who would have put up with this young man for so many moons. Let me take a look at you. You’re beautiful.

Thank you, Mr. Prescott Mother’s formality was not what I expected. I knew she could charm the poison out of a rattlesnake, but I’d never witnessed it firsthand. I’ve been dyin’ to meet you for so many years. John’s always speakin’ flattering things about you and his mother.

Please, my dear, just call me Pa. Everyone else does. We’re family ya know.

Mother accepted Grandpa’s words with a smile and a nod of her head.

And who’s these? Came the next call of order.

Grandpa took one step out of the house and closed the front door behind him. With his left palm he caught the screen door as Dad backed away. It appeared obvious he wanted to close the screen but feared for any noise. He gently guided the door back into the door jam.

As we all stood on the porch it was Dad that picked up the conversation by replying to grandpa’s previous command.

These are what’s still living at home. This is Ellen.

She’s a beauty, John. Ellen blushed as he shook her hand.

This here is Theodore Roosevelt Ivan Prescott.

That’s quite a mouthful, son. I wasn’t sure his term ‘son’ was directed at me or my father. Guess it didn’t matter. Instinctively, though, my right hand left my side and extended itself. His calloused, firm palm clasped mine with the grip of a vice.

Dad continued the introduction while putting his hand on my shoulder and saying, We just call him Trip for short.

Hello, sir. I said.

Trip, eh? The pleasure is all mine. With those words my grandfather gave my hand two or three shakes and then released his grip.

And here we have Virginia Henrietta Prescott.

Young lady, I can see you’re going to grow up to be a real pretty one. Virginia was won over. Ever the precocious girl, she did a curtsey, while holding onto Grandpa’s hand.

And the caboose for the family is, Master David Lee Prescott, Dad concluded.

Hello, Grandpa. We’re glad to be here. David politely acknowledged. I was surprised he didn’t request to be Dave, as he did with Sgt. Garcia. Oh well, trifle point.

Turning about and then reentering the house, Grandpa added, I don’t think things have changed much since you left, John. Your mother’s in the other room, asleep. I gave her her medicine just before you came. She’ll be asleep for a lil’ while now. Come on in. Sit down. Oh, you can’t ‘magine how glad I am you came.

Like students following a teacher into a classroom, the six of us made a single file through the door. The room was dark, but as my eyes became accustomed to the indoor light, the room’s décor became visible. There wasn’t much clutter. It was simple. The rest of the house probably followed suit.

Along the window sat a reddish brown colored davenport, big enough for all us kids. Thick, dark curtains framed the window. Even though the curtains were pulled open, the room still wasn’t bright, perhaps due to the porch.

An RCA floor-model radio was the main focal point of the room. It sat between two of the room’s three overstuffed chairs. Perched like a pair of cranes, three matching floor lamps, each topped with a yellow shade and purple tassels, were positioned behind each chair. From the ceiling hung a Tiffany-style glass chandelier. Small conduits connected the chandelier to the wall switch, indicating electricity was added to the house after it was built.

A patterned wallpaper covered the room’s shiplap walls. It was hard to tell if the green-hued color was original. As I looked across from where I sat, the corners and edges of the wallpaper had come unglued.

Is that a spider? I whispered to Ellen. Knowing her fear of spiders, I wanted to tease my sister, if for no other reason but to keep from going to sleep.

Where? she responded. Her voice, while muffled, was surprisingly calm, nothing I was expecting.

In my effort to get a rise from her, I continued. Follow the wallpaper seam up to the ceiling, there on the right.

You know, I don’t really doubt that’s the only one. Ellen glanced around the room. My question prompted her to search for other critters, eight legs or six, imaginary or real. But, her calmness is what took me by surprise. Game over.

Grandpa sat in one of the overstuffed, mohair chairs. Mother and Dad had taken up residence in the other two, while we kids, knowing the drill, sat and listened on the davenport. David was patient, which meant he didn’t fidget too much. Virginia had found a magazine. She quickly grabbed David’s attention which helped the two of them keep busy, looking through the pages. Every so often a question would be directed at Ellen or me, but for the most part it was Dad and Mother bringing Grandpa up to date on the past thirty-five years.

Now my old age is showin’. I’m not bein’ a good host. Are you people hungry? Want somethin’ to drink? How ‘bout you kids? You hungry? Grandpa’s questions flowed into the air, without a pause or any time to reply.

Us kids looked at each other, and, without wanting to offend, sheepishly shrugged our shoulders and mumbled an inaudible reply. We looked at Dad for a clue.

Well, I think we could eat somethin’, Dad answered. "Do you think Mother is up? Would it be okay for me to look in on her?

Oh, sure. No problem. That’d be fine Grandpa answered Alice, would you mind fixin’ things in the kitchen? The icebox has cold milk for the kids. There’s a fresh apple pie on the table. Everyone can have a piece. The plates are up in the cupboard and silverware’s in the drawer. Better yet, kids you go ahead and make yourselves at home in the kitchen. Alice, you come with John and me. I suppose you want to see the wife, too. I weren’t thinkin’ there. That way, if she do wake up, we all can talk to her. Then she can go back to sleep if she needs to.

Mother turned her face toward Grandpa while nodding her head. At the same time she directed us kids to move forward. Ellen, you get everything going in the kitchen?

No problem. Come on guys. Ellen instructed.

Remember, keep the noise down. Dad warned.

Grandpa grabbed Mother by the arm and pulled her up out of the chair. The three of them walked down the hallway to where I suppose Grandma was.

Let’s get something to eat, I said upon entering the kitchen. David, Virginia, and Ellen lagged behind me—but only by a step.

As Ellen walked in, she said, "Grandpa said there’s milk in the icebox. David, can you get it out?

Where’s the icebox? David stood in the middle of the kitchen and spun around, looking at all four walls of the room.

Check out on the screen porch, I directed.

Virginia, help me clear these newspapers off the table. Ellen ordered. What a mess. Trip do you see a knife on the drain there?

No, I don’t see nothin’ here. I answered. I glanced among the counter and sink, even moving a towel that lay next to the sink’s edge. Let me look in the drawers.

Standing out on the screened-in porch, with the door to the icebox ajar, David searched the shelves, looking for the milk. While still in the bent over position, he raised his head and hollered, Do ya want the bottle or pitcher of milk?

What ya mean? I asked.

While still bent over and peering into the icebox, he answered, There’s a bottle of milk and then there’s a pitcher of milk.

Virginia walked out onto the porch to see what David was talking about. After a few seconds, I heard the metallic latch of the icebox and they reappeared, David carrying the ‘pitcher’ of milk.

The bottle of milk I think is Grandma’s medicine. I don’t think that’s somethin’ we want, Virginia chuckled.

Yeah, I think you’re right, Ellen replied.

"Here’s the plates and