Country singer (more accurate Texas Country) Chris Knight has a song that is pure Americana. It is a story telling song entitled, “Going Down the River.” I love this type of song because it tell story drawn from the canvas of the everyday lives of everyday Americans. Our stories chiseled in granite, carved upon the rocky hill sides of American life, the Rushmore of ordinary Americans. We find it easy to relate to them because we see ourselves in the story and the song becomes our own story. I have my own down to the river story but it is not mine alone it belongs to several branches of the Phillips family. It is the story of when we all went “Down to the River.”
One hot hill country Summer Daddy, Uncle Jimmy and Uncle Otis got a job hauling hay, this is not unique because they hauled hay and chopped cedar all their young adult lives. This one was, however, a fairly long term job, one that would last several weeks or more. Our fathers loaded up families and went (as usual) to where the work was so that they could provide for their families. The plan on this occasion was for the families to camp along the river for as long as the job lasted.
Daddy (Doc) and Uncle Otis teamed together to haul hay. They came up with an old government surplus truck one with six wheel drive called a “duce an a half.” It had a short flatbed and the tall wheels and tires that they used for rugged terrain in the military. It was from the Air Force and the reason I know this is that it was painted Air Force blue and you could just barely read the “United States Air Force” decals still painted in white on the hood. It was not a truck ideal for hay hauling because of the short but high bed (it must have been 5ft off of the ground). They would “buck” (use you knee to bump it up to about chest high and use your arms to throw it onto the truck) the bales of hay up onto that old truck and stack them “seven” high (meaning seven bales high on the truck bed).
My oldest brother Danny, who was the oldest of the children, got to go the hay field with them and work. His job was to drive the truck in the field. I say drive but actually what he did was hold the steering wheel and guide the truck between the rows of bailed hay. That old truck moved so slow in low gear that you would have to drive a stake in the ground to see if it was moving. They would get to the end of the row and Daddy would jump in the truck and turn it around to head it back down the field an action repeated over and over again on these large fields.
Uncle Jimmy had his own truck and partner. I am not sure that my memory is accurate but it may have been Pickle Goins that helped Uncle Jimmy. Pickle worked for him a lot of the time and even drove truck of him when Uncle Jimmy was running more than one. They were running buddy’s and may have even been related in distant way. The men put in a hard day’s work in the hay field. It was hot, dusty and dry work; they wore long sleeved shirts to hold in the sweat and help keep themselves cool. They all smoked cigarettes as most men of their generation did. I remember Daddy having a metal case to keep his cigarette pack in to keep it dry, because it was hot and they would all sweat profusely. Daddy smoked Camels, Uncle Jimmy smoked Lucky Strikes I don’t remember what Uncle Otis smoked but I am sure that none of them had filters. These were their usual smokes but sometimes when money was short Prince Albert or Bugler roll your own were a good substitute.
While the men worked in the hay field the families camped out along the river. The women cooked over an open fire. They cooked beans, taters, eggs, bacon and sometimes even fish all in cast iron skillets and the coffee was always strong, black and hot. Each family cooked their own and lived in their own little camping area at night but still close together. Sleeping outside under a canopy of stars, listening to the river as the water rushed past our sleepy little lives, cascading over the rocks and falls, singing us to sleep at night, a lullaby of real Americana. All of us “kids” sent as much time as possible in the water. We would have stayed all day and all night, until we wrinkled up like prunes if our mom’s would have allowed it, but even down on the river there were rules, dishes to be washed and chores to be done and of course you had to wait at least an hour after you ate to go in swimming.
These were days filled with joy, fun, laughter and your best friends who were also your first friends (your cousins) as we skipped rocks across the water, played tag or hide and go seek, splashing water on each other, fishing or just sitting on the bank with your toes in the water. Life does not get any better that this, because our needs were few, our dreams were big and we were surrounded by those we loved.
At this point you are probably wondering if I am ever going to get to the title of this little story that I boasted about as real Americana. Well your wait has ended. I am going to share with you one of my most fond and endearing memories of that summer on the river and even during my early years. My younger brother Maynard, cousins Tommy Joe and Jerry were all the same age, born within months of each other. When I think back over the vast expanse of time to those simpler times one picture that always come immediately to the album of my mind is of my cousin Jerry wearing an old beat up, battered, tattered, ragged straw cowboy hat. The brim of the hat folded and bent going in more directions that one would think possible. You could always find Jerry; all you had to do was find the hat. He wore it to the river to go swimming. You could see him wearing it as he walked along the banks of the river with a fishing pole over his shoulder (fishing poles that were little more that long sticks of wood with a piece of string and a hook). I often wondered if he wore that old hat to sleep at night. I still think of him that way, some pictures in your mind never fade.
It is fitting that Jerry is now a “Singer, Songwriter” a story teller in four/ four time who loves country music and Americana. The only thing that his current picture is missing is that “tattered, battered, ragged old hat.” It was a great summer that I will always remember. I journey often in my mind back across the currents of time and smile as I live again that beautiful, simple summer down on the river. Love you cousin.
Bob Phillips
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