Soapweed
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STORY OF THE LOST CHAIRS
By Steve Moreland, July 21, 2019
Back in my younger years, there were no cell phones, and not everyone even had a landline telephone. Local calls were handled by a telephone operator, who would connect the caller to whoever they wanted to call. The caller would ring the phone with a hand crank, and the local operator would say: "Number, please?" The caller would say the number, and the operator would plug a cord into the line of the recipient. Often times, before the call was ever delivered, the operator could inform the caller that the intended recipient was "over at such-and-such's place," or "they went to Martin today," or other pertinent information gleaned from simply transferring recent calls. This was useful knowledge which was appreciated by all concerned. Long distance calls were very cumbersome, time-consuming, and expensive, and were only done as a very last resort.
Not everyone had vehicles, so rides were shared whenever possible. We ran our whole ranch with one car and one pickup, along with five small tractors, and several saddle horses. Whenever anyone knew of someone else being in a distant town, requests were made such as: "Would you please pick this up for me?"
By the time I was in my early 20's, I had acquired my own pickup and was working with my dad on our ranch. On one particular day, I had gone to Gordon to run some errands. My folks knew which stores I would be inhabiting, and at one of these stops I was requested to call home. I called our house, and Mom answered. She said, "Lois Fairhead had ordered six new dining room chairs; they have arrived at the furniture store, and she wondered if you could pick them up. You can leave them at Grandma Grace's house in Merriman, and they will get them from there." That was fine with me, and I willingly complied. There were three cardboard boxes, with two chairs in each box. They were cumbersome but not heavy, and they fit easily into the back of my 1973 Chevrolet half-ton pickup.
All went well on most of the 30 mile drive from Gordon to Merriman, until I went by the Belsky place six miles west of town. An extra gust of wind caught one of the boxes, and through the rear-view mirror I could see it blowing out of the back of the pickup. I immediately slowed down and turned around, and went back to retrieve the chairs. The box was somewhat battered by the fall, but the chairs seemed unharmed. I reloaded them, drove a bit more cautiously, and arrived to unload my cargo on the front porch of Grandma Grace's house. The phone system had modernized by then, and I was able to use my grandmother's phone to dial "Aunt Lois" that her chairs had gotten as far as Merriman.
Lois sent her son John into town to haul the chairs six miles further north to their ranch. John complied, and loaded the three boxes containing two chairs each. When he arrived home, lo and behold, there were only two boxes on the back of his pickup. He immediately turned around and retraced his route. Another lo and behold—alas, there were no chairs to be found. All that was left was an empty box. Someone else had found them first, and they were forever gone. More matching chairs had to be ordered from the furniture store.
Moral of the story: Yes, in retrospect I should have volunteered to take the chairs all the way to Fairheads' ranch. At least 45 years have gone by since this incident, and it now baffles me why I didn't do just that. In my defense, I was following the instructions that were given.
By Steve Moreland, July 21, 2019
Back in my younger years, there were no cell phones, and not everyone even had a landline telephone. Local calls were handled by a telephone operator, who would connect the caller to whoever they wanted to call. The caller would ring the phone with a hand crank, and the local operator would say: "Number, please?" The caller would say the number, and the operator would plug a cord into the line of the recipient. Often times, before the call was ever delivered, the operator could inform the caller that the intended recipient was "over at such-and-such's place," or "they went to Martin today," or other pertinent information gleaned from simply transferring recent calls. This was useful knowledge which was appreciated by all concerned. Long distance calls were very cumbersome, time-consuming, and expensive, and were only done as a very last resort.
Not everyone had vehicles, so rides were shared whenever possible. We ran our whole ranch with one car and one pickup, along with five small tractors, and several saddle horses. Whenever anyone knew of someone else being in a distant town, requests were made such as: "Would you please pick this up for me?"
By the time I was in my early 20's, I had acquired my own pickup and was working with my dad on our ranch. On one particular day, I had gone to Gordon to run some errands. My folks knew which stores I would be inhabiting, and at one of these stops I was requested to call home. I called our house, and Mom answered. She said, "Lois Fairhead had ordered six new dining room chairs; they have arrived at the furniture store, and she wondered if you could pick them up. You can leave them at Grandma Grace's house in Merriman, and they will get them from there." That was fine with me, and I willingly complied. There were three cardboard boxes, with two chairs in each box. They were cumbersome but not heavy, and they fit easily into the back of my 1973 Chevrolet half-ton pickup.
All went well on most of the 30 mile drive from Gordon to Merriman, until I went by the Belsky place six miles west of town. An extra gust of wind caught one of the boxes, and through the rear-view mirror I could see it blowing out of the back of the pickup. I immediately slowed down and turned around, and went back to retrieve the chairs. The box was somewhat battered by the fall, but the chairs seemed unharmed. I reloaded them, drove a bit more cautiously, and arrived to unload my cargo on the front porch of Grandma Grace's house. The phone system had modernized by then, and I was able to use my grandmother's phone to dial "Aunt Lois" that her chairs had gotten as far as Merriman.
Lois sent her son John into town to haul the chairs six miles further north to their ranch. John complied, and loaded the three boxes containing two chairs each. When he arrived home, lo and behold, there were only two boxes on the back of his pickup. He immediately turned around and retraced his route. Another lo and behold—alas, there were no chairs to be found. All that was left was an empty box. Someone else had found them first, and they were forever gone. More matching chairs had to be ordered from the furniture store.
Moral of the story: Yes, in retrospect I should have volunteered to take the chairs all the way to Fairheads' ranch. At least 45 years have gone by since this incident, and it now baffles me why I didn't do just that. In my defense, I was following the instructions that were given.
