While restoring our collection of antique trucks our cowboy daddy's top of list priority is brakes and tires, "Girl, this is easy enough to get your truck rolling, stopping your truck is problematic. This is like trying to stop an ancient iron horse locomotive."
Age of our old trucks creates many challenges in finding parts. A month of research we finally find a company which makes and sells tires to fit her GMC. Not much of a surprise this company is in China. We contact casual elder friends, a Korean wife and husband over in Los Angeles. Great old-school couple, we love them. They own an import and export business. They contact this company and speak Chinese to make a business deal; ship new tires to America. Not too bad, six tires and matching tubes and flaps only cost us two-thousand-six-hundred bucks, delivered to our workshop.
Her GMC sports fancy "spilt rims" which, by state and federal law, are unlawful for more than half a century. Tire shops, including big rig repair businesses, are strictly forbidden to work on split rims. We understand this, those rims are exceedingly dangerous; lot of injuries and some deaths directly attributable to working on split rims. Much of this is more modern mechanics have no knowledge of nor experience at working with these.
We have to dismount old tires and mount new tires on our own. This is not a problem, our cowboy enjoys direct experience with split rims since childhood, literally childhood.
Inside a truck tire of old is a rubber inner tube to hold compressed air and a rubber flap to prevent a rim from wearing a hole in a tube. During our early years now and then we see people floating along Mountain Fork river on a huge inflated truck tube. Been at least twenty years since we last enjoy such a playful sight; no tubes today, well, except on the Yangtze river in China.
Back in time we see trucks like our girl's GMC equipped with split rims. Never really take notice until our time to work on split rims. Back then old big trucks are used to earn extra money doing local spot logging. We are family farmers but grandpa will work logging to bring in some extra money. He is in our ancient photograph, your left holding a long logging pike. Looking at rear tires, two of four tires are completely bald.
Spot logging is more than dangerous, outright lethal. My best girlfriend, about ten years older than me, five year old son, tragically becomes a widow before she is eighteen. Her husband is killed spot logging - a log breaks lose from a truck then rolls over him.
Eagletown, our birthplace and hometown, is a real-to-life ghost town for several decades. Childhood, there is a old boy blacksmith. You know the type, firewood furnace, bellows to heat horseshoes, big anvil and a heavy hammer. Old school. Today his blacksmith shop is an empty shell of an endearing memory.
My momma dies when I am a toddler. Grandpa tells my then future husband, "The girl is your daughter, get to raising her!" He becomes my loving daddy, he is almost twelve. We share a bedroom and bed ever since, just like the three of us today - traditional.
Children love to walk up to the blacksmith shop to watch the old boy work. He is a kindly man who loves kids. While beating a red hot horseshoe and making sparks, he explains to us what he is doing, "Don't get too close, might done get a burned out eyeball!"
My cowboy daddy is visiting our blacksmith. He is working on a split rim. He asks, "Son, you ever work on a split rim?" This young boy husband of mine, he doesn't yet know he is my husband, is excited, "No, sir, can't say I have." Old blacksmith tells him, "You come over here, boy, and I will teach you. This will take a couple of days, I'll pay you a dollar a day to help me. You tell Cecil", our grandpa, "you're working for me for a couple of days. Two dollars back then is like two-hundred dollars today.
This old boy blacksmith enjoys an apprentice. He teaches my cowboy daddy how to take apart and fix a split rim flat. My husband learns of special tools, tire irons, to use.
Black and white photo on your right is my daddy and me. Ornery cowboy shows this photo to our daughter, "I'm teaching your momma how to sip white lightning from a fruit jar. She takes a sip, throws her hands up in air and waves, shakes her head, sputters and coughs but she wants more! This is why your momma is crazy like you."
Our daughter hits at her daddy, "I ain't crazy!" I laugh, "Yes you are, you're crazy as a loon just like me!" Over our years a zillion times I tell our cowboy we are married. A zillion times he says, "I ain't marrying no crazy injun girl!" Our girl, wanting to be just like her crazy momma, tells her daddy a zillion times "We are married!" He laughs, says a zillion times, "I ain't marrying no crazy injun girl!"
Two of us girls are factually crazy but we know what makes for a good man and husband. Our daughter marries her daddy much the same sneaky way I did: Hornswoggle.
Kitty-cats love our cowboy, they can't get enough of him. Always a kitty-cat or two hanging around with our boy. He sure enough loves his young good looking kitty-cats and treats those girls really good; he is a cat's meow.
Split rims on our girl's truck are factory equip since 1948 year. Tires are date stamped back in the sixties. Near a half century later our cowboy daddy must tackle those time rusted rims and tires and use his childhood knowledge learned from an elderly and kind blacksmith. Those learning lessons are priceless, we think of the blacksmith often.
Takes a full day of hard labor and dripping sweat to break apart a single rim and tire. This is his first tire, he is excited, comes charging into our house, "Y'all come down to my shop and look, I have a tire taken apart! Come on and look!"
His girl grabs our camera and we hurry down three flights of staircases to his shop. We live on side of a steep hill, keeps those Indians at bay.
Sure enough, there is an old tire sitting on jack stands, a rusty rim down on concrete floor and a split ring out front. Our cowboy daddy holds up his antiquated tire irons, makes muscles, hollers, "Yippy I O Ki Ay!" He is still a teenage boy, he grins at our girl, "Take a picture of me, girl, take a picture!"
We are good wives, we dote, we commend, pat at him but don't hug because he is sweaty and smelly and dirty. Our daughter is always graciously loving. She pulls up a memory of Cassius Clay stories her daddy tells us. Tiptoes, she leans into him then gives him a kiss on his lips, "Daddy, you are Muhammad Ali, you're the greatest!"
A handful of years back three of us are having fun at weekend yard sales. Our cowboy spots a couple of old tire irons made for working with split rims. Boy howdy, our husband grabs those faster than Trump grabs a kitty-cat. He pays five dollars for those two irons. Youngish husband in driveway tells our daddy, "Those belonged to my father. I don't know what those are." My husband, our daughter's husband as well, explains to this manicured fingernails Starbucks boy, "These are split rims tire irons from the forties, not made since." Plump latte husband-boy blank stares our cowboy for a few moments then asks, "What are split rims?"
Another day of work our boy is quite successful, first rim and tire are cleaned and painted and a new tire, tube and flap are installed and holding ninety pounds pressure.
We hang around like kitty-cats do, keep our cowboy company, crack jokes and tease him. Assembling split rims is much easier. All is clean, greased up and slippery as a horny middle aged divorced mother of three. We help him stuff a tube into a tire which effortlessly slides down onto a rim. Split ring snaps right into place. Our girl holds a valve stem while her daddy tightens a nut to rim. Rather fun, actually.
He is clean, rinses off with a garden hose, "You girls can hug me this time," he is ear-to-ear grinning, "Shoot some photos of my first split rim tire!" Our husband, who doesn't like Starbucks, makes a muscle man pose for us. Finishing his first tire bolsters his confidence, "I made some mistakes but all of what the old blacksmith taught me is back in my head. I know what to do!" Two of us girls give him hugs, kisses and pats on his cute butt. I reach down and give him a squeeze and a tug. He playfully bats at my hand, "That ain't a tire iron!" Our girl enjoys a wicked wit she learns from both her daddy and her momma. She adds, "As big and stout as you are, you could use that for a tire iron! Slips right into a split as pretty as you please!"
Our cowboy actually blushes for his girl, this is exceedingly rare, ain't easy to get his goat, not at all. My daughter gives me a secret look, a twitch of a smile and wink of eye. I know she has a prank planned.
Her daddy recovers with a big smile, "Girl, tomorrow you will work for me, I need help with these tires, five to go. Pay is a dollar a day, you might earn as much as ten bucks!
She does not let up, "Momma and I will make sure you get your money's worth!" He looks at me, looks back to our girl, "I know you will and that is what causes me fret. I never know you crazy girls will do to me!"
Yes, sometimes we do wear clothes but not often. First tire he realizes a mistake. No jeans, no shirt, other words nude on a hot sweaty summer day, this is hard on his knees and rough on his belly. Flakes of rust and road grit bite at his knees and muscling a hundred-fifty pound tire onto jack stands scrapes at his belly. Our cowboy needs to slip off his clothes to garden hose rinse off but this is better than suffering bumps and bruises.
Like a blacksmith of yesteryear, our girl's daddy slowly and in detail teaches her how to work with split rims. We teach her much so our girl can deal with whatever life brings.
"Slowly work your way around a ring to loosen. Don't pry to take off, just break the rust loose. If you pry the rust will suddenly break loose and this spring loaded split ring will fly off like Xena's chakram. Liable to slice your fool head clean off."
Her daddy explains most injuries are sliced and broken fingers, broken arms, "... and I read about a few who die from severe head injuries; hit by a flying split ring."
He is a good teacher, he cares for and loves his girl more than life. She will likely never need to do this but fully understands her truck tires and process of fixing. She is smarter for this and safer in life.
"Use this claw end to push the tire away from ring so you can squirt some oil in there. A few taps with a hammer will help. Back in the old days the blacksmith teaches me with a squirt can of motor oil but this spray can of WD-40 seems to do the trick."
Our attentive girl watches, listens, shoots photos and learns of this critical importance of cleaning off all rust and smoothing out rough edges, "This rust is sharp edged and will cut through a flap then slice into a tube. A flat tire on a big truck is really bad news. Takes two men and two eight ton hydraulic jacks to swap in a good back tire for a flat front tire. You don't carry a spare, tires on your truck is all you have."
Trivia you readers would not notice is third photo, flat filing a ring to smooth, our cowboy daddy is not wearing his jeans, just a shirt as Indians do out in brambles picking blackberries for a supper desert. We are adamant about not wearing clothes.
Fixing to black paint a primer gray rim. I know our cowboy is manhandling her by his dirty hand print on her arm. She pesters him. Sitting in shop watching and listening to those two, he tells his daughter, "Girl, I don't need you pressing against my back to know you have breasts, perky pretty breasts at that. Move back, I need room to paint. If you don't your boobs will end up painted black!"
She cups her breasts and jiggles at him then sasses, "I just knew you like my boobs!" Her daddy ignores her verbal bait and starts up spray painting.
And her planned prank. We are kitty-cat teasing our cowboy while he spray paints lug nuts a bright silver. Looks nice, silver nuts, black rim, matching silver split ring.
My daughter makes a secret face at me, she is going to be ornery. Our girl steps over then sidles up to our cowboy, slips an arm around his waist. He tells her to "...move back, I need room to paint." She doesn't, instead she suddenly reaches down, squeezes him and tugs a few times. We do this to him frequently just to be ornery.
Our husband straightens up, tugs at her arm, "You let go of me! Quit! You're going to make me drop my paint pot." He is exasperated, should he tilt his spray gun, silver paint will dribble out a vent hole and make mess. If dropped, big mess! Ornery girl has him in a pickle, has to keep his gun upright with this hand and fight with her using his other hand. She will not let go, squeezes tighter, moves her hand back and forth, "Daddy, I want to paint your lug nuts blue!"
She is kitty-cat teasing the boy. Finally she lets go, with a wicked laugh, steps over and sits by me at his workbench. She is grinning, quite pleased with herself. She whispers at me, "I hope he asks why!"
This cowboy of ours finishes his painting, unplugs his air hose then carefully sets down his spray gun. He looks at our girl, here it comes, her zinger! The boy asks, "Why blue?"
My girl butt nudges me then smiles at our cowboy, "Because sometimes you complain momma and me intentionally give you blue balls!"
With all my writing of daddy to both, husband to both, cowboy lover of the two of us girls, this is certain I have attention of readers. You are wondering, "What the Hades is going on in their family?" Well, you don't know, not with any certainty.
What is going on is highly typical of many traditional Indians. Hey, we are Indians, we are not Christians. We do not suffer this insane Christian sense of guilt and sin which is fabrication, deceit and hypocrisy intentionally designed so to enslave the unwashed and gullible masses.
Within most traditional Indian families no behavior is taboo and no topic is taboo. There are only actions and consequences both good and bad. There is no moral judgement, we are realistic, we are truthful. Our ways benefit our girl, she enjoys a best of a sex education beginning before kindergarten.
Our family, like other traditional families, displays natural behaviors; we enjoy a relaxed and comfortable intimate family relationship. We do not hide behind closed and locked bedroom doors.
We enjoy and much prefer wearing these clothes Mother Nature gifts to us, our skin. This is natural, this is healthy, this is what we should wear.
Easy to see Anthony is lying from both sides of his mouth. He is sweating this out, he is fretting the naive and gullible might figure out truth. Reminds me of a president, "I did not have sexual relations with that woman!" Monica and her blue dress tell a tale of tail which differs significantly. So do those girls Anthony sends endearing love letters.
Thousands of years back clothes come about as protection against the elements; hot, cold, prickly thorns and those blackberry brambles. Today clothing is pretentious.
Look at Anthony with sleeves rolled up, "I am a commoner just like all of you!" This is such an old and lame politician visual trick. The boy is lying. He is wearing a five-hundred dollar designer tie and strapped to a wrist, a ten-thousand dollar watch. Yet he sweats.
Clothing is pretentious posturing. Clothing is a status symbol. Clothing is offensive. Nude people do not have fake facades, they only have their minds and words to make good impressions upon others. Ah, but nudity is obscene. Why? Because God says so.
"Native Americans enjoyed a richly sexualized discourse ... evolved their own protocols for dealing with gender issues and sexual deviance ... written constitutions adopted in the nineteenth century by the Cherokee, Choctaw, Chickasaw, and Muskogee tribes made no provision for obscenity, apparently because it was never a matter of dispute...."
- Joseph Slade, "Pornography and Sexual Representation"
We traditional Indians do not see obscenity, literally do not see this. We see only Mother Nature and natural instinctive behaviors. If an obscenity, this is the American Indian genocide.
And White Man tells us how we must behave and dress.