The Summer of Love

The Layover

Somewhere in Illinois we took a wrong turn somewhere and we were now in southwestern Iowa, only minutes away from Missouri or Nebraska.

It was a lot of open country. Either cornfields or grazing land for cows. We just needed some directions, but admittedly I didn't want too. Luckily, I didn't have to ask for directions. I had to ask for gas, because we ran out on top of some gravel road hill.

It was about 7 or 8 in the evening. George and I walked down the steep road and saw a house off the side of the road on a small hill, covered from sight with trees all around. There was a fair amount of cattle, horses, and other barnyard animals.

I was cautious, hoping that some hick wouldn't come out with a rusty old double barreled shotgun, but instead what I did see was a man in his garage under his truck, working on it.

The man seemed not to notice us. George got his attention with an "Excuse me, sir, could you please help us?" The man got out from under the car and stood up. A handsome white man a few years older than me. He had a strong physique, no doubt it came from a lifetime of farm work.

"How can I help you boys?" He said. I explained our situation "We're passing through and our car ran out of gas on top of the hill back there, do you think you could give us a lift to the nearest gas station?"

"Sure." He said while wiping his oil covered hands with a rag. "Where you boys headed?" "San Francisco." I told him. "We're trying to get back on I-80." The man was good with directions. "You can get on it in Lincoln, about an hour away. I can draw it out for ya once we fill you up."

George and I thanked the man. "No problem." He said. He stuck out his hand. "John Prater." He said. I shook his hand firmly. "Trey Washington." And my friend did the same. "George Mason." The door to his house opened up and we saw a woman with a baby and a little girl who appeared to have Down Syndrome. "John," she called, "what's going on?"

John hollered back. "These boys ran outta gas, I'm gonna run 'em into town." He looked to us and introduced his family. "That's my wife, Arlene." We waved. She could not wave back with the baby in her arms.

"That's our little girl, Gena." He pointed to the young girl with Down Syndrome. It couldn't of been easy on him or his wife. Lastly, he pointed to the young baby that his wife held. "And that's our newest. Little Jayson." The baby was very young, 2 or 3 months old or so.

"Well," he went on, "I'm working on the car right now, but I can ride you boys into town on my tractor. That alright?" It was fine with both of us. A free ride was a free ride.

"Great!" He said. "I'll go get a couple of gas cans. He did so. He walked to the side of the house and his wife and children went inside. I heard him yelp, and I saw there was a black snake. He threw a gas can and it hit the snake, causing it to angrily slither toward him ready to bite. I saw George reach for his gun but before he got it, John smashed the snake's head on the cement driveway and splattered its brains as it wriggled and shook around as it was dying. One thing was clear. John Prater did not like snakes.

John got onto his tractor and George and I sat and clung onto the metal sheets over the tires. John said he'd take it slow. We chatted a bit more on our way to town, a small hundred year old town called "Hamburg." Iowa was full of German immigrants. I bet they had to change their name during the World Wars.

"Where ya boys from?" He asked. George awnsered first. "Cleveland." And I awnsered with "New York." John was shocked by our answers. He had probably never met someone who lived so far away. "Long ways from home." Then he chuckled. "Me, I'm from Burlington Junction, real small town in Missouri about half hour south of here."