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Roguing Beans and a '39 Plymouth
by Kent Fletcher
Driving through the Mississippi Delta always elicits memories for me, most fond, some tragic. Yesterday was one of the fonder ones.
When I was still in high school, probably '62 or '63, I worked for Jimmy Sanders Seed Company during the early parts of the growing season for soybeans. This was an after-school job, and I also worked occasionally on weekends.
A bunch of us -- Kenny Overstreet, I distinctly remember; maybe Rick Collins, maybe Mike Curtis, maybe Bill Havens, and a few others and I -- were called to work on a Saturday, roguing a soybean field, hand-pulling the beans which weren't hybrid to a particular field, and also any other weeds and foliage that didn't belong, which included cockleburrs and other weedy items.
For the life of me I can't remember the man's name we worked for, but he was leading us to a field south of Cleveland and west of O'Reilly. At this moment I also had my '39 Plymouth up and running with the newly rebuilt Chrysler engine I had purchased from George Campbell.
While the car was mostly held together with bailing wire and bubble-gum, for duct tape had not been invented at the time, I had not figured out the exhaust system. So the exhaust manifolds weren't connected to anything but air. Being high school kids, no one gave it a second thought.
We all met at the seed company up on North Sharpe Avenue, and were told to follow The Man out to the field where he would give us our assigned task(s) for the day.
For whatever reason, I was the designated driver for the day. Everyone, probably six or seven others beside myself, piled into the Bomb, as it was affectionately known, and took off for O'Reilly. We were cruising behind The Man but staying well back from him.
We started slowing down for the O'Reilly turn, then The Man applied his brakes. I did likewise, but nothing happened -- nothing, nothing at all. Now I started frantically pumping the brake pedal, but nothing was happening. I guess I was doing around 60 when I swerved by the rear of the car The Man was driving, and Kenny was screaming at the top of his lungs, "We ain't got no brakes! We ain't got no brakes!"
Took about a mile for me to slow enough to downshift (no synchronization) to second and to slow enough to turn off the road. I realized quickly what the problem was. The exhaust exited directly onto the brake line, and the resulting heat had vaporized all the fluid in the line -- thus, no brakes.
I finally turned the car around and headed back toward O'Reilly. To reclaim the brakes, I had to shut the engine down and coast for a bit to let the vaporized fluid reconstitute itself to a liquid, thus reclaiming braking ability.
The Man was waiting on the side of the highway, curious as to what was going on. I was able to stop behind him, then got out and explained the predicament to him. Of course, everyone in the car, including me, was sweating bullets only moments before, but now everyone had forgotten the situation, except for something they could tell their other friends later on.
We headed on out to the bean field to accomplish our task. We finished up around two in the afternoon and headed back to Cleveland, but this time on the back roads, not the highway.
Ah, the wonders of childhood and high school. It's a wonder any of us are even alive -- or intact to tell of them!
For more great stories from Kent Fletcher, we suggest:
Raisin' Delta Cain
Hot rods and High School
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