Pinned

There I was stuck, pinned to the ground.

My budding mechanical expertise had utterly failed me. How was I going to get out of this mess?

My eleven-year-old self had been so proud when Dad told me to go put the tire back on the truck. He had done something to the brakes and hadn’t quite finished up. I now had the opportunity to show him I could fix stuff.

I surveyed the task. Our ’50 Chevy pickup was parked in the back driveway with the right rear tire sitting on the ground next to it. It was up on blocks. No, not those new-fangled ANSI compliant jack stands that BMW technicians in white smocks use. These were good old-fashioned blocks. Well, 2X4’s, actually.

Nothing to it. I hefted the tire and slammed it up against the axle like a NASCAR pit crewman. The lugs didn’t line up. I rotated it around. They still didn’t line up. I peered through one of the holes. The damn truck wasn’t high enough off the ground. Easy fix.

I went into the garage and got Dad’s bottle jack. I would need it anyway to remove the blocks. I carefully placed it under the rear axle. I rotated the extension screw several turns until it got close. I checked to make sure the release valve was tight. Then I closed the gap with a couple of short pumps of the handle. I knew it had to be perfectly centered or the truck might fall off. A few minor adjustments and it was looking good. What could go wrong? Nothing. I had this.

I only needed to raise the axle about an inch. Shrewdly, I left the blocks under the truck just in case the jack slipped. I was getting good at this mechanic thing.

This time the tire went on easily. I used a trick I had seen my brother do. I put the end of the tire iron under it and levered it into place. I barely had to turn it to get it to line up. I grabbed a lug nut and threaded it on. The tire seated and I quickly spun on the other five nuts. Dad better buy me a coke for all this great work, I thought. I picked up the lug wrench and applied some torque. When the tire was back on the ground, I’d finish the tightening. That would take all the force my 78-pound chiseled steel frame could muster. Almost done, I carelessly tossed the tire iron behind me.

I was ready to let the truck down when I first noticed my mistake. I had placed the jack in a position where the handle would be directly under the tire when I released the valve. Oops!

I thought for a moment. Take the tire off, drop the axle back on the blocks and move the jack? Nah! Too much trouble. If I turn the jack handle very slowly, I can release the valve and pull the handle out with my lightning quick reflexes. Nothing can possibly go wrong.

Gingerly, I grabbed the handle with my thumb and forefingers. The first gentle twist wasn’t enough. I must have tightened the valve a bit too much. I gripped harder, but my fingers slipped. Damn! I’m gonna have to wrap my whole hand around that handle to get enough grip. OK, let’s get it done. Just let it down slowly and get your hand out fast.

I slipped my fingers under the handle and gave it a good solid twist. Nothing. It was stuck. Then I turned it with a bit more force. Not enough. OK, add more power. Not too much, not too little. Suddenly it let go. The jack dropped. Too fast! My fingers were caught under the handle.

I looked down at my hand, surprised it didn’t hurt. Must not be pinned very hard, I told myself. I tugged to see if I could free it. Then it hurt. Dad was a railroader. The driveway was covered with cinders from steam locomotives. They dug into the back of my fingers as I struggled.

I reached down with my left hand and tried to scoop away the dirt and cinders next to my trapped fingers. No luck. The ground was hard, real hard. I looked around for a tool, but I had pitched the lug wrench just out of reach. I sat and pondered what to do next. What would the mechanics at the Indy 500 do? Certainly not cry like babies. I needed help.

Now there are lots of advantages in living in the last house on the last street on the edge of a very small town. You get to enjoy the country on two sides. You don’t have to deal with a lot of traffic or nosy neighbors. You can watch the cows in the pasture behind the house. Shucks, we could go skinny-dipping  at Bare Butt Beach. At this moment in time though, I found myself wishing we lived in the middle of Times Square. No one could see me. The last Cavalry Trooper had left Montana around 1911. Nobody riding to rescue me.

I put my analytical mind to work on the problem. A coyote caught in a trap would just gnaw his paw off. Good thing I wasn’t a coyote. The thought of letting the air out of the tire would not occur to me for another 6 decades. There seemed to be no way I could get myself out of this mess.

OK, it is time to yell for help. If that doesn’t work, scream. When that doesn’t work wail like a wildcat. But, never, ever, let them see you cry. Sniff, sniff. Wah, wah! Only the Magpies heard me. They squawked back. I looked down at my fingers. They had changed from red to purple to blue. I thought about the Jim Reeves song. “They found him there at dawn. …Hands froze to the reins.”

I don’t know how long I was stuck. It was probably a lot less time than it seemed. Eventually, Dad came out of the house to check on me.

“What’s takin’ so long? You OK?”

“No! My hand’s caught.”

Sizing up the situation, Dad leapt into action. He grabbed the jack from the car and slammed it under the truck’s step bumper.  Within seconds the truck began to rise. I felt the pressure being relieved and pulled my benumbed hand out. Dad grabbed it and began to massage my swollen fingers, gently wiggling the joints.

“Does it hurt?”

Duh, of course it hurts, I thought. You don’t talk back to the Old Man though, so all I said was, “A little.”

By then, Mom had come to check see what was going on. She raced back inside to call Doc Smith. It was a weekend, but he said to put some ice on it and meet him at his office in fifteen minutes. By the time we got there my hand was looking better and I could move my fingers again. I could still count to ten on them.

I think Dad left that truck sitting there with the blocks and jacks under it for another week. When he finally needed it again, I was not asked to help.

The lessons I learned that day are obvious. Be careful when working alone. Provide adequate supervision to wannabee mechanics. Use proper equipment in the proper way. Let Dad fix his own damn cars.

LDT April 10, ‘24

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