“Sam, Hill”

I had a teacher once who had moved here to the coastal plains from her home in Pennsylvania. She related the story of being given directions, soon after her relocation: “just turn right after the hill”. Indeed, she might have driven all day and not found what passes for a hill in these parts. What we had in our backyard “back home”? It was good enough for the three Gadow kids. On a snowy day, break out the sled and head out behind the screen house. It would be a short ride, but a ride nonetheless, and with some drama at its end: our pond! This muddy home to ducks and turtles, bullfrogs and sunfish, mostly fenced off by my nervous father before we were old enough to walk. Mostly. Not the most rearward portion, at the bottom of our hill. I don’t know that any of us ever skid too far, but certainly it was on my mind. Of course, the pond would freeze in the dead of winter but I don’t know that the ice ever grew thick enough to please Pop. Walking on the pond was strictly verboten!

That portion of the pond, being fed by a forest stream, tended to fill up with silt and sand, leaves and muck. If one were generous they could call what developed a “beach” but, uh, no. Every so often Dad would shovel this out, working against Mother Nature to have the pond he wanted, not she.

Which brings me to a story.

My parents had, sadly, parted ways. I was now the closest thing to the man of the house, and at age 18-20, well, that wasn’t much. There were two projects around the old homestead that I realized needed attention: 1) potholes had developed in the driveway out by the road and, 2) that silt/muck was really piling up. I put 31/2 and 3 1/4 together and came up with 6 3/4. I never did do things the easy way! I more or less knew that that silt/sand wouldn’t make a good driveway patch. I believe at that point I had already heard my grandfather, the onetime Gravel Guru of Dorchester County, tell me enough about what made a good packing fill for a road bed and what would just sort of splash out in the first good rain. Somehow this did not deter me.

Parked way in the back was an old, rusty cart. I’m not sure how I got the tires pumped up enough to roll; probably some Fix-a-Flat. I hooked it to the back of the riding mower and drove it down by the pond, shoveling in a nice little mound of gunk. Off I went to the front with my first load-won’t Mom be proud! Back to the pond, imagining that I’m a dump truck driver headed back for my second big load of the day. I wheel that big old Mack into place and they crank up the steam shovel…it scooped, I mean, I scooped a little more on than the first go around. By the third trip I was growing a bit less patient, or perhaps just more bold. I really loaded that little cart up this time. I was making progress and quite pleased with myself. I yanked the starter on that Briggs, hopped in the seat…and all that little Snapper would do was spin tires. I tried myriad angles and tricks but, no, it simply wouldn’t climb that incline with such a load. Well, friends, what would you now do?

I could have removed some muck, a shovelful at a time, until the mower moved. I did not. This is ‘merica, my friends. This was the Desert Storm era. We don’t back down; we go only forward! This cart will move! Maximum force! More power! GRRRR!

My solution was simple: I merely had to bring my little pickup truck back here. Let’s see, hmm, how do I go about doing that? I’d once brought another, larger pickup truck back here and got it stuck in the mud above the drainage field for the septic tank… Another story for another day. It wasn’t easy having to gradually sneak the truck between a number of trees in the front yard. It took some backing up and regrouping a couple times. I did it. I made it. I backed that S-10 down the hill. I unbolted the cart from the Snapper and, with all my energy, drug it over to the bumper. Yep, all hooked up. You’ve met your match, boy! Jumped in the seat, cranked her up, shifted into drive.

Nothing. I’m not even sure if it spun a tire! Ah, ‘80s General Motors. Did I mention that the ground was dry? That the soil on that hill was clay, covered in crabgrass? The truck wouldn’t budge. What? Okay…regroup. Guess I have no choice but to drive the truck back around front. I should mention here that Mom was in the house and had no idea what I was up to. I’m fairly confident she wouldn’t condone my actions so far though she would have been gentle in her reprimand. So, I’ll sneak the truck back around and figure out Plan C, except, even with that cart unhooked…that blasted truck wouldn’t climb that hill!

Okay, okay, think, Bryan, you can figure this out. Okay, got it. You’ll ask Mom if you can borrow her car. Make up some lame excuse as to why you can’t use your truck. Drive up to Dad’s shop and get a come-along. And that is what I did. What is a come-along, some may ask? A simple device, just some heavy steel cable and a ratchet. With it you can winch things, for instance, up an incline. Back at the house I attached one end around one of the sturdy posts on our old screen house, the other end to the front of the Chevrolet. I started tightening it up and when it was taut I shifted the truck into neutral. Click-click-click, I yanked the arm on the come-along, and bit by bit the wheels began to turn. Click-click-click, click-click-click. Did I tell you there is a little “catch” that you disengage to let the cable out, then engage so that it will lock the ratchet into place after each round of “click-click-click.”? Oh, I didn’t? Well, probably not important. More clicks. I’d made it nearly ten feet! This worked. Boy, did it work! Just a bit further and I’ll give it a tr…CLICK WHIRRRRR SPLASH!

Wha?

That catch was important. And this cheap old come-along had a weak one. When the pressure was on, it waved the white flag. 10 minutes prior, the back tires of my S-10 were maybe 30 feet from the edge of the pond. They were now in the pond. This was not good. Okay, Mom doesn’t know. Alright. In the distance I hear our neighbor. I hope he doesn’t look over this way. I will figure this out!

Did you know that Bryan has this one fault (okay, I have plenty, but let us concentrate on just one at a time, okay?) and the fault is that he doesn’t like to ask for help. And I could have used it right then.

“Mom, I’m just going to run back uptown for a minute.”

“Is everything okay, honey?”

“Sure, Mom, just working on a little project.”

“Okay, sweetie! Be safe!”

Did I mention Dad never noticed me walk in and grab the come-along? Didn’t the second time, either. I sneaked right past his employees and grabbed all the chain I could carry. I noticed a newer, much nicer come-along hanging there on the wall. I left it behind. The rusty, greasy wad of chain got tossed in the trunk of Mom’s shiny white Mercedes. Back home. To the backyard. Once again I hooked everything up, this time using all the chain to reach the nearest tree trunk. Okay. This time it will work. Click-click-click, etc, etc. Soon I was out of the pond, if only barely. A thought crosses my mind: I could put something behind the tire, just in case. A 20 second walk would carry me to a big pile of old cinder blocks. A 22 second walk (give or take) would take me to a pile of firewood roughly the size of a Chevy Suburban. After a quick moment of quiet contemplation I poo-pooed this idea. Click-click-click. Click WHIRR SPLASH!!!

My friends, my dear friends. All four tires were now in the pond. God, thank you it was only 6” deep back there! Such a sight to behold! And, then, “Brian! What are you doing?!” It was the neighbor.

Sam Fearins. Volunteer fireman extraordinaire, hero to some, a big part of getting the new firehouse built in Preston. Good-hearted. Sam did, though, well, have a personality. I don’t think he knew what to make of the oldest neighbor kid, even on a good day. The kid who didn’t have a real job, who spent his time hauling home piles of junk TV sets, trying to fix them then setting the remnants on fire, smoking up Sam’s yard. Sam was standing in that yard, staring at Bryan and shaking his head.

The gig was up.

“How did you get that truck in the pond? How did you get it in the backyard?” No matter, he let me know, he was going to get me out. I don’t know how he got his 4×4 Ford back there; I was too embarrassed to watch. I honestly don’t remember any part of the extraction. I still feel my face turning red 30 years later. I’m sure I thanked him and he drove off. I never quite knew how to talk to him after that. I still don’t know that Mom ever knew; unless Sam told him, Dad never knew.
I needed a hand, needed it bad, but was afraid to ask. But, Sam wanted to help and though he might have sounded a bit gruff about the whole thing, I know it really thrilled him to put his Ford in 4 low and pull that puny Chevrolet up out of that pond and up the hill. I later did similar favors to others, pulling them out of a tight spot, and I know how I felt.

Mr. Sam left us much, much too soon. He gave a lot to his family and his community. Drive through his town tomorrow and look for him, on a banner hanging across from the town museum. A hometown hero, that man with a smile. He was part of a day that taught me some things, like patience, common sense, keeping a good sense of humor…and knowing when to ask for help. Because, you know, somewhere out there…there is always a Good Sam.