I'd run the '68 Chevy 4x4 as far as it would go into the snow drift. I'd get out and shovel till I got the snow cleared from under the truck, then on to the next drift. It sucked up the 70 cents a gallon of gas big time, powered by a 396 Big Block engine which had been pulled out of my cousin's smashed up '65 Chevy Impala. The Engine I had pulled out of the pick-up was a 327 4 barrel.
Street rodders loved that motor. I would keep it for a few years. I rebuilt and put the Big Block 396 in my '67 4x4, named it “Wolf”, cause she howled in 4th gear! Now it was fun, powerful, lotsa torque, fast 3/4 ton pick 'em up.
Out in this spring snowstorm, I had been asked to leave the house by wife number 2. Kicked out! I was ready this time. Don't go, get out! Fuck, I wish she would make up my mind!
Pullin' a snowmobile trailer with two Yamahas on it, the back of my pickup had a 69 XLCH Sportster and my pride, a stroked 75 Swingarm Shovelhead, a fiberglass topper. Everything I owned was stuffed in that pickup or tied to the snowmobile trailer.
Anyhoo, it would take me six hours and a 12-pack to drive the 18 miles into Park Rapids. The snow was wet and heavy. I knew there wasn't a cop on the road. This was before they were equipped with 4-wheel drive. I had my CB tuned to the cop channel. Workin' hard, I was sweatin' bullets. I had to get to the bank before it closed.
The reason I had left in a snowstorm was to get there first. The last time we split, wife number 2 had beat me to bank and emptied the joint account. She would buy a CHEVETTE with my Harley and truck rebuild funds! Have you ever seen a CHEVETTE?? Five deer would total it a few months later.
Anyhoo, as I topped the hill and entered a stretch where the snow wouldn't drift, I pulled the transfer case out of 4 low, shifting into two high. I got out to unlock the wheels and to piss. The last four miles I made good time. Arriving in town at 2pm, I drove to the bank and into the only open drive-up teller window. I handed the girl my bank book and ID.
”I'm closing the account!” I told her.
”Oh, how come?” she asked. We knew each other. So I told her I was movin' to St. Paul.
“How would you like the funds?”
“Green 100 dollar bills,” I said.
After counting out 53 one-hundred-dollar bills, I pulled ahead into a parking lot and locked 48 of them c-notes into the strong box which had been welded between the bucket seats, hidden under the counsel. I stuck the money below my 45 automatic, closed the door and spun the dial. Filled all three tanks with gasoline, I now had both saddle tanks and the behind the seat filled with 60 gallons of gas.
At the liquor store, I bought a few 12-packs of Miller. Looked up my dope dealer, I bought a $100.00 worth of crank. He gave me a free 8-ball along with $3,500 for the 69 XLCH Sportster. I had promised to give him first dibs' on The XLCH. I had purchased it for $1,800 and put it back to stock, painted it black. Ain't nothin' uglier than a Sportster with a Springer.
Helping me unload it, he saw the Smith Bros. and Fetrow Springer. How much? Made another $500 selling my spare Sporster parts. My days were gonna be better!! I still had a 75 Shovelhead.
I changed into a dry flannel shirt, but was forced to stay in Park Rapids one more night. Found a motel south of town with a vacancy. The rest of the rooms were packed with snowmobilers up from the cities. I put a ”for sale” sign on both sleds and trailer, $3,250.
Later, I heard voices out my door. A knock. I opened the door. After starting both sleds and a few questions, he offered me $3,000. I helped him hook the trailer to his pickup. I now had over $10,000! Plows would not bother to open the snow drifted roads south until it quit blowin'. It would be in the morning.
After a shower and a few lines of crank, I drank a 12-pack to relax. I didn't have to sweat any thieves. The guy who bought the sleds watched them all night. My tools and Harley were locked in the topper on my truck. I ordered a pizza, delivered by snowmobile. I relaxed. Feeling good. That old stress was leavin. I sat drinking, listening to the Allman Brothers, thinking about the last two years of livin' on the “REZ”. I liked the isolation, but what a mistake to bring urban kids to a rez. Her kids, they hated me for it, with no malls, 7-11s, or sidewalks fortheir skateboards. Rutted gravel roads, alcoholism, never getting to know anyone, they were considered outsiders. This was before cable, computers, Wii,or the X-Box.
Wife number 2 had been urbanized, having lived for 20 years in a large city. Now near her parents, they had unresolved issues. It wasn't “welcome home”. It was “What the hell do you want?” The little Ville of Ponsford was isolated and desolate, with only a post office. She would spend weekends driving 225 miles south where she could visit, shop, and finally, find herself a new man. He would be Number 4. He wasn't gonna move to the REZ for 10 years.
It was all my fault, as it usually was, so for me, movin' was a good idea. I have always been able to adapt. I had what was important to me, freedom to be myself, along with the confidence of a Combat Marine. I could and did handle most situations easily, that is all except marriage. I never did get that right... having tried it now twice.
A Harley and a truck, a few pairs of jeans, my leathers, and as good as gold, was a little card in my billfold that said “This is all you will need” as I was a paid-up member of the International Brotherhood of Teamsters. Being a member of this great union, I was willing, able and ready to work. December to May, I drew unemployment, so my time was spent watching TV and her kids while she went to the Cities. I went deer shining!
Anyhoo, I heard snowplows in the morning, so I followed them south to start a new life, confident all would be well. In two months I would be back to work at the gravel pit where I ran a noisy rock crusher. It was my job to keep enough sand, gravel and rock piled and in bins to keep 60 Ready Mix trucks operating daily. I worked alone, that's the way I liked it!
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