Hi Yo Orangey Away!

Published in The Christian Science Monitor

            I didn't like to sell the pickup.

            It had been Guy's pickup. Long retired on a disability pension from the army, Guy left the farm in Southern Oregon, and drove to Whitney in the spring as regularly as migratory birds returned when northeastern Oregon's hard winters loosed their grip on the high valley in the Blue Mountains. He parked across the graveled county road from our house, unloaded his gear, and set up housekeeping in the small cabin until enough snow on the mountain melted and he could get up to Greenhorn.

            Then he loaded his belongings again, drove up the mountain, pitched his tent, and stayed through the summer. Then, "When the geese go south, I go south," he said, and he headed for warmer winters in southern Oregon.

            Guy was well into his seventies when we moved onto the ranch in 1976, and he had moved with the seasons for about twenty years.

            The last several years he came to Whitney, he needed more and more help. I went with him and cut his firewood. He loaded the wood and unloaded it at his cabin. But one year, he wasn't able to get the wood into the pickup, so I loaded it.

            We drove back to his cabin, and Guy said, "I can unload it. Thank you for the help." He offered me a five dollar bill.

            I thought about it. He might be in better financial shape that I was. I decided that was irrelevant. He needed help, and I could help him. I liked doing it. I said, "Put the money back in your wallet, Guy."

            I helped him get water in five gallon containers. I helped him set up his stove pipe. His wood-burning heater burned through. I said, "I have to go to town tomorrow. Tell me what you want, and I'll find you one." I found one he could afford and brought it back and set it up for him.

            He never asked for help. He just said, "I got to go cut me some wood. I'll be out by tomorrow."

            I said, "I'll go with you," When we found some good dead wood, I cut it, loaded and unloaded it and split the biggest pieces for him.

            Guy's driver's license expired when he was eighty-three. He said, "I'm going to have to stop rambling and live with my sister in town, when this season is over." He asked me, "You want to buy my pickup?"

            I needed a pickup, but I figured I couldn't afford it. I asked him how much he wanted for it, and he said, "Four hundred and fifty dollars, or three hundred, if I take the winch off."

            "Guy, that pickup's worth about a thousand dollars, even if it needs a lot of work done on it."

            "If I sell it to anyone else, I'll get a thousand dollars for it. If you want it, it's four hundred and fifty, or three hundred if I take the winch off."

            "If you're sure you want to sell it for that, I'll get the money rounded up by tomorrow."

            "If I wasn't sure, I never would have mentioned it."

            He'd never say it, but the low price was from gratitude, and I deeply appreciated him putting the much-needed pickup within my reach, but I thought he wouldn't want me to say too much about it, so I got the money, paid him, and said "Thank you, Guy."

            He said, "You're entirely welcome." and we helped him enjoy the spring in Whitney Valley before he moved to town and lived with his sister.

            I got the pickup into shape, and it served as our family transportation and as my work truck for ranch work and for cutting firewood.

            I enjoyed the winch on the front of the pickup. I cut a small notch in the frame every time I pulled out someone who was stuck. By the time I decided I didn't care about numbers and quit cutting notches, I had 18.

            I looked down a sideroad and saw a van stuck in a mudhole, the woman pushing, the man behind the wheel, children gathered to the side on dry ground. I didn't ask why that arrangement, just got into position, fed out cable, hooked up, and pulled them out.

            A friend got stuck in the woods, trying to pull out a trailer load of wood. I pulled him onto ground where he had traction.

            A stock truck with a load of cows couldn't get out of the corral for spinning wheels on slick ground. I kept the pickup on the gravel road, took the cable through the corral, hooked up, and pulled the truck onto the gravel road.

            A pickup went over the embankment, down by the river, and I pulled them back up to the road.

            Winter was my busiest season. Cars slid off the road into the snow bank left by the plow. It was usually a matter of five or ten minutes to pull them out. If people offered money, I usually said, "I don't want it. I like to think people help each other. If you feel you owe, help somebody who needs help."

            A man in a new car, in the ditch from relying too strongly on expensive tires at midnight on an icy road, said, "I'll never have time nor opportunity to help anyone out of the ditch. I want to settle the debt now," and he pressed a reasonable amount of money into my hand.

            I said, "Thank you."

            One woman said, "My husband is not well. Without your help, we may have been in very serious trouble. Money may not be the best expression of gratitude, but it's the only way we have right now to attempt to thank you. A tow truck would have cost us much more than this. Please accept it." I did, with thanks.

            My daughters and I made up a small story, ending with people whose vehicle had been pulled out of the ditch standing in the road, asking, "Who was that bundled up man in the orange pickup?"

            "That was no bundled up man. That was the orange stranger." While, from down the road, to the fading away rumble of a V8, came the call, "Hi Yo Orangey, away."

            The pickup would no longer comfortably contain the four of us as our daughters grew. We were moved to a place where we were no longer the only possible helpers by in an hour or more. We needed a car and found one that worked well for us.

            We couldn't afford to keep a rarely used pickup. We have our memories of Guy, and we always will have. We have the memories, and we understand what it meant to help people out of stuck spots. We let go of the pickup easily and held on to memories and meaning.