Ode to an Ole Farm Truck : A tribute to Coach Al Houser
May 27, 2021
Charles B Moorman
This Ode is written in loving memory of my high school Coach, and dear friend of sixty-nine years, Al Houser.
Coach was born March 25, 1926 in the home of Orly and Sarah Houser near rural Hurley, Missouri, twenty-seven miles southwest of Springfield. Much about his life’s vocation achievements are presented n the Year 2000 edition of the Missouri State Sports Hall of Fame brochure when he was inducted into that Class. This World War II U. S. Marine Corps veteran of the Pacific theatre, wounded in action, passed away February 13, 2020, just over a month short of his ninety-fourth birthday. He was a longtime resident and cattleman near rural Crane, Missouri, living in Dodge Hollow. He is survived by his wife of over seventy years, Charlotte, three children, a bunch of grandchildren, and a big bunch of great grandchildren. He will be long remembered by thousands of former junior high and high school students as a man of honor and integrity.
ODE
In the summer of 1994, Coach was the proud possessor of a 1970 Chevy pickup truck. He had bought it second-hand a number of years ago to use as vehicle to haul wood from the fields, and woods. He also used it almost daily to make the rounds checking some forty head or so of cattle in three different pasture areas. The vehicle might have originally been greenish, brownish, orangish, grayish, off-yellowish or some combination of all these ‘ish’ colors. It was, for the most parts, indeterminate at this time what its true original color(s) was. It would prove almost impossible to add another scratch dent, or any other exterior mutilation to the exterior that would be noticed among the many already existing. This truck had run over or brushed against many a barn, fencepost, gate, cattleguard, barbed wire, ditch embankment, culvert, bridge abutment, tree, briar, bush, stump, or against cattle while herding them. Evidently, it had taken on ‘all-comers’ and won all these encounters to some degree, and at some cost?!? Both bumpers were badly distorted with one of the front ends pointing upward, and one of the back ends wrapped, shoved almost around in a U shape. The windshield was badly cracked with an equal number of small and large cracks running all directions. By ducking the head to the left, right, up, or down, the driver could get somewhat of a view in the direction he was driving. Views to the sides were uncluttered as neither side window would roll up. Forget the windshield wipers. Their arms were missing in action. Turn signals, and horn…nada (means none in Mexican).
The emergency brake handle was dangling loosely, uselessly from under the dashboard near the fire wall. Coach cautioned to avoid parking on a hillside without putting a rock in front and behind a tire. Great safety tip, this from the man still doing student driver education training in the summers! The vintage vehicle’s manual three-speed, column shift transmission was not one to place your trust in when parked! When stopped, ignition off and parked, even in first gear, the sly ole critter would wait a few seconds to fool you, then when your back was turned, would silently, slowly start to creep its getaway if on a hillside. It took some doing to stop, leap out and run around the truck to set a rock when operating the old vehicle. Charles learned it was best to back up to a tree on the hillside to control it from escaping work. Sometimes he had to just park it leaning against a tree when the terrain and fauna didn’t provide a handy downhill tree, stump, or boulder. Another method of operation that worked fairly well, if one didn’t dally, was to always carry a couple of concrete blocks in the truck bed as brake blocks, but you still had to hurry in placing them.
The right-side headlight housing was missing, having probably surrendered as a trophy to some angry bull, cow, or confused yearling calf. It was a good thing Coach didn’t have any mules, or horses to herd around. The left rear taillight assembly was almost successful in escaping from the dried, worn duck tape holding it to the vehicle, but the wiring harness was still holding it captive. The lights didn’t work anyway, just for show if one passed the law in the daytime on the road. The truck bed had several sizable rusted-through holes that were repaired by throwing a couple large pieces of weathered, ragged plywood in the truck bed. The holes were primarily caused by years of harvesting the new crop of field rocks every spring in the pastures. Charles and many other Houser family members could certainly verify this annual harvesting event, with Coach at the wheel of the Chevy directing activities. The tailgate was still loyal to the truck, though badly bent, and bowed, it was held on with many strands of straining bailing wire.
Some of the glass was broken out of the dashboard instruments. None of the instruments registered any movement when the ignition was reluctantly activated. There were several layers of leaves on the dashboard and the bench seat. The floorboard on both sides was rusted through in several areas giving the occupants a fair view of the passing roadway, dirt, or grass they were driving over. A radio, no way! That was just an empty, dirty slot on in the dash that was used by the passenger to view a bunch of wires sagging loosely. One had to keep your mind on your driving. The heater control level just slid willingly free from left to right. Fresh air from the open windows was healthy anyway, better than old hot, rodent smelling recirculated air.
Charles should have known better than to inquire about the motor maintenance of the Chevy creature feature. Coach said he might should check the oil and water since the ‘north forty (acres)’ was about three miles north up the country road, and sometimes smoke came out from under the hood when he drove fast. There were a couple of dried grass rodent nests, one near the manifold, the other near the firewall. There was no oil showing on the ‘dip stick.’ The radiator took over two gallons of water then belched up a soil-colored fluid. A trip to the Crane Automotive store might be in order was Coach’s opinion, but in another vehicle he allowed. An oil filter, six quarts of thirty weight oil, two cans of radiator flush (three flushes with Ozark creek water), and two and a half gallons of coolant later, Charles felt more comfortable in driving the ole beast. He had to use a rachet wrench on the oil and radiator nuts as the shoulders were too worn off to use a normal box-end wrench. There weren’t hardly any fluids to drain out no-how. Coach always said that all the minerals in that fine creek water plugged up the small holes in the radiator, and that too much oil would just blow past the worn out ‘rings.’ Oh yes, after the preliminary servicing and further inspection, a second trip to the automotive store necessitated a can of brake fluid, and a can or power steering fluid be administered, again with the aid of a rachet wrench. The battery terminals, and cables required much wire brushing with copious amounts of baking-soda water to remove the stubborn, years old, corrosion from the battery being overfilled, and boiling over. He wondered who had thought to check the battery fluid level in the distant past? No wonder the starter dragged when firing up the ole monster.
In driving the three miles north the automatic transmission was sluggish, but the vehicle could maintain a steady twenty-five miles an hour if one dared to force the transmission into third gear. Even that speed was a major challenge and accomplishment as the steering gear was loose allowing the steering wheel to rotate a good half a turn before catching. The truck couldn’t make up its mind about which side of the road it wanted to run off of, anywhere but straight ahead. It didn’t discriminate as it would continuously wander first to the left then to the right, seeking greener pastures than the ribbon of country-road asphalt it was on.
It sounded like a large earthmover going doing the road as there was no muffler or exhaust pipes. They had long ago parted ways with the chassis vis-a-vie rocks in the fields, and old stumps that had and continued to lurk in the grasses. A self-contained breathing apparatus would have been a welcomed drivers’ device. The open side windows were the saving grace from suffocation. He didn’t search very hard for the elusive transmission dip stick. If there was such a thing, he wasn’t terribly interested in finding its location. He didn’t want to get involved in trying to change out any antique fluid left in the transmission case. The tires were a bit different issue. The two back tires were current generation with lots of tread. The two front tires had graduated a couple decades earlier and were showing some cord. A cousin, three times removed, was running loose in the truck bed wasn’t much better, needing resuscitation once every week. Being an athletic coach, Houser always said, “You had to have good shoes on if you wanted much traction!”
He was always amazed at how such good a teacher, including still actively teaching driver-education in the summers, how such a good friend, and intelligent man could be so oblivious to maintaining his own every-day farm truck? Once, early on, when Charles closed a door, and it bounced back open, Coach said, “Don’t bother. I leave the doors open so the wind and rain will blow out the leaves and wash the seats off.” He truly meant it! He was a very practical man.
The appearance of the old truck didn’t detract from its utility. That year and for another eight or nine years the old beast faithfully hauled all the wood they could pile on it from the place of cutting wood to the wood stacked near Coach’s house. Charles always cut four to five cords of wood and stacked it. A cord of wood measures four feet wide by four feet high by eight feet in length. The last summer he cut over six cords of wood while Coach and his wife went on a six-day vacation to Illinois to visit their youngest son. The old truck faithfully hauled all of it off the steep hillside without a whimper or complaint. Like Coach, the ole farm truck was a testimonial to character, strength, ingenuity, and resilience.
The author, Charles B Moorman graduated from Marionville High School along with twenty-seven classmates in May 1956. They had enjoyed the privilege of being coached by Al Houser for three years. To be like Coach, Charles volunteered to join the Marine Corps at age seventeen, three weeks out of high school. He later earned several graduate degrees and made a career in law enforcement for over thirty-seven years in California at the local and state levels. Coach was second only to his Tennessee paternal grandmother, born in 1884, who raised him from age two years. They were the predominate shapers of his character and the successes that followed. He was so very blessed to have had them both in his life.
This Ode is written in loving memory of my high school Coach, and dear friend of sixty-nine years, Al Houser.
Coach was born March 25, 1926 in the home of Orly and Sarah Houser near rural Hurley, Missouri, twenty-seven miles southwest of Springfield. Much about his life’s vocation achievements are presented n the Year 2000 edition of the Missouri State Sports Hall of Fame brochure when he was inducted into that Class. This World War II U. S. Marine Corps veteran of the Pacific theatre, wounded in action, passed away February 13, 2020, just over a month short of his ninety-fourth birthday. He was a longtime resident and cattleman near rural Crane, Missouri, living in Dodge Hollow. He is survived by his wife of over seventy years, Charlotte, three children, a bunch of grandchildren, and a big bunch of great grandchildren. He will be long remembered by thousands of former junior high and high school students as a man of honor and integrity.
ODE
In the summer of 1994, Coach was the proud possessor of a 1970 Chevy pickup truck. He had bought it second-hand a number of years ago to use as vehicle to haul wood from the fields, and woods. He also used it almost daily to make the rounds checking some forty head or so of cattle in three different pasture areas. The vehicle might have originally been greenish, brownish, orangish, grayish, off-yellowish or some combination of all these ‘ish’ colors. It was, for the most parts, indeterminate at this time what its true original color(s) was. It would prove almost impossible to add another scratch dent, or any other exterior mutilation to the exterior that would be noticed among the many already existing. This truck had run over or brushed against many a barn, fencepost, gate, cattleguard, barbed wire, ditch embankment, culvert, bridge abutment, tree, briar, bush, stump, or against cattle while herding them. Evidently, it had taken on ‘all-comers’ and won all these encounters to some degree, and at some cost?!? Both bumpers were badly distorted with one of the front ends pointing upward, and one of the back ends wrapped, shoved almost around in a U shape. The windshield was badly cracked with an equal number of small and large cracks running all directions. By ducking the head to the left, right, up, or down, the driver could get somewhat of a view in the direction he was driving. Views to the sides were uncluttered as neither side window would roll up. Forget the windshield wipers. Their arms were missing in action. Turn signals, and horn…nada (means none in Mexican).
The emergency brake handle was dangling loosely, uselessly from under the dashboard near the fire wall. Coach cautioned to avoid parking on a hillside without putting a rock in front and behind a tire. Great safety tip, this from the man still doing student driver education training in the summers! The vintage vehicle’s manual three-speed, column shift transmission was not one to place your trust in when parked! When stopped, ignition off and parked, even in first gear, the sly ole critter would wait a few seconds to fool you, then when your back was turned, would silently, slowly start to creep its getaway if on a hillside. It took some doing to stop, leap out and run around the truck to set a rock when operating the old vehicle. Charles learned it was best to back up to a tree on the hillside to control it from escaping work. Sometimes he had to just park it leaning against a tree when the terrain and fauna didn’t provide a handy downhill tree, stump, or boulder. Another method of operation that worked fairly well, if one didn’t dally, was to always carry a couple of concrete blocks in the truck bed as brake blocks, but you still had to hurry in placing them.
The right-side headlight housing was missing, having probably surrendered as a trophy to some angry bull, cow, or confused yearling calf. It was a good thing Coach didn’t have any mules, or horses to herd around. The left rear taillight assembly was almost successful in escaping from the dried, worn duck tape holding it to the vehicle, but the wiring harness was still holding it captive. The lights didn’t work anyway, just for show if one passed the law in the daytime on the road. The truck bed had several sizable rusted-through holes that were repaired by throwing a couple large pieces of weathered, ragged plywood in the truck bed. The holes were primarily caused by years of harvesting the new crop of field rocks every spring in the pastures. Charles and many other Houser family members could certainly verify this annual harvesting event, with Coach at the wheel of the Chevy directing activities. The tailgate was still loyal to the truck, though badly bent, and bowed, it was held on with many strands of straining bailing wire.
Some of the glass was broken out of the dashboard instruments. None of the instruments registered any movement when the ignition was reluctantly activated. There were several layers of leaves on the dashboard and the bench seat. The floorboard on both sides was rusted through in several areas giving the occupants a fair view of the passing roadway, dirt, or grass they were driving over. A radio, no way! That was just an empty, dirty slot on in the dash that was used by the passenger to view a bunch of wires sagging loosely. One had to keep your mind on your driving. The heater control level just slid willingly free from left to right. Fresh air from the open windows was healthy anyway, better than old hot, rodent smelling recirculated air.
Charles should have known better than to inquire about the motor maintenance of the Chevy creature feature. Coach said he might should check the oil and water since the ‘north forty (acres)’ was about three miles north up the country road, and sometimes smoke came out from under the hood when he drove fast. There were a couple of dried grass rodent nests, one near the manifold, the other near the firewall. There was no oil showing on the ‘dip stick.’ The radiator took over two gallons of water then belched up a soil-colored fluid. A trip to the Crane Automotive store might be in order was Coach’s opinion, but in another vehicle he allowed. An oil filter, six quarts of thirty weight oil, two cans of radiator flush (three flushes with Ozark creek water), and two and a half gallons of coolant later, Charles felt more comfortable in driving the ole beast. He had to use a rachet wrench on the oil and radiator nuts as the shoulders were too worn off to use a normal box-end wrench. There weren’t hardly any fluids to drain out no-how. Coach always said that all the minerals in that fine creek water plugged up the small holes in the radiator, and that too much oil would just blow past the worn out ‘rings.’ Oh yes, after the preliminary servicing and further inspection, a second trip to the automotive store necessitated a can of brake fluid, and a can or power steering fluid be administered, again with the aid of a rachet wrench. The battery terminals, and cables required much wire brushing with copious amounts of baking-soda water to remove the stubborn, years old, corrosion from the battery being overfilled, and boiling over. He wondered who had thought to check the battery fluid level in the distant past? No wonder the starter dragged when firing up the ole monster.
In driving the three miles north the automatic transmission was sluggish, but the vehicle could maintain a steady twenty-five miles an hour if one dared to force the transmission into third gear. Even that speed was a major challenge and accomplishment as the steering gear was loose allowing the steering wheel to rotate a good half a turn before catching. The truck couldn’t make up its mind about which side of the road it wanted to run off of, anywhere but straight ahead. It didn’t discriminate as it would continuously wander first to the left then to the right, seeking greener pastures than the ribbon of country-road asphalt it was on.
It sounded like a large earthmover going doing the road as there was no muffler or exhaust pipes. They had long ago parted ways with the chassis vis-a-vie rocks in the fields, and old stumps that had and continued to lurk in the grasses. A self-contained breathing apparatus would have been a welcomed drivers’ device. The open side windows were the saving grace from suffocation. He didn’t search very hard for the elusive transmission dip stick. If there was such a thing, he wasn’t terribly interested in finding its location. He didn’t want to get involved in trying to change out any antique fluid left in the transmission case. The tires were a bit different issue. The two back tires were current generation with lots of tread. The two front tires had graduated a couple decades earlier and were showing some cord. A cousin, three times removed, was running loose in the truck bed wasn’t much better, needing resuscitation once every week. Being an athletic coach, Houser always said, “You had to have good shoes on if you wanted much traction!”
He was always amazed at how such good a teacher, including still actively teaching driver-education in the summers, how such a good friend, and intelligent man could be so oblivious to maintaining his own every-day farm truck? Once, early on, when Charles closed a door, and it bounced back open, Coach said, “Don’t bother. I leave the doors open so the wind and rain will blow out the leaves and wash the seats off.” He truly meant it! He was a very practical man.
The appearance of the old truck didn’t detract from its utility. That year and for another eight or nine years the old beast faithfully hauled all the wood they could pile on it from the place of cutting wood to the wood stacked near Coach’s house. Charles always cut four to five cords of wood and stacked it. A cord of wood measures four feet wide by four feet high by eight feet in length. The last summer he cut over six cords of wood while Coach and his wife went on a six-day vacation to Illinois to visit their youngest son. The old truck faithfully hauled all of it off the steep hillside without a whimper or complaint. Like Coach, the ole farm truck was a testimonial to character, strength, ingenuity, and resilience.
The author, Charles B Moorman graduated from Marionville High School along with twenty-seven classmates in May 1956. They had enjoyed the privilege of being coached by Al Houser for three years. To be like Coach, Charles volunteered to join the Marine Corps at age seventeen, three weeks out of high school. He later earned several graduate degrees and made a career in law enforcement for over thirty-seven years in California at the local and state levels. Coach was second only to his Tennessee paternal grandmother, born in 1884, who raised him from age two years. They were the predominate shapers of his character and the successes that followed. He was so very blessed to have had them both in his life.