The cowboy who helped change a flat tire
In the previous installment, Mom and I visited Doris Anderson for Mom’s hair appointment while I played with her daughter, Candy; then we rode in Doris’s new Chevy to a swimming hole or a movie.
One warm July afternoon we were on our way to Kalispell for a movie.
We backed out of Doris’ driveway onto the narrow, graveled Highway 35, and headed north out of town through the wonderfully fragrant pines. Just past Ice Box Canyon, a narrow curve in the road that never got any sun because of the treed cliffs on both sides, the road opened out to a curvy roller-coaster route above the Flathead River flood plain.
About 10 miles out of Bigfork we turned onto Highway 2, near the turn-off to Lake Blaine. This two-lane blacktop weaved its way west, past McWennegar Slough, before crossing the mighty Flathead on a rickety steel bridge a few miles outside Kalispell. The bridge was a long span between the hill on the north side of the river and the low flood plain on the south side; the road made a quick, dangerous curve to the left after you crossed the bridge. White crosses marked the sharp drop-offs on either side of the river.
As the car approached this bridge, my heart chilled and tightened in my chest, then seemed to stop altogether, in dreaded anticipation of the danger ahead. In my imagination I could picture the car going out of control and landing nose first in the river, drowned bodies floating helplessly out the windows. Once past it, however, my heart warmed and recovered, the frightful images forgotten.
This time, though, something was wrong. We’d made it across the bridge and through the curve OK, but now Doris was pulling over, dangerously close to the edge of the gravel shoulder and the slough. She grabbed the keys from Eric, and inserted them into the slot to turn the car off. Then she opened the door and got out, refusing to address the unspoken queries fixed on her from the backseat as she walked first to the front and then to the back of the car.
“Damn!” she said, then came back and leaned in through the open window. “Flat tire!”
Mom slid over to get out on the driver’s side, telling us kids to stay in the car. Eric started to cry. Doris opened the trunk and rummaged through its contents. “Anne, could you jack up the car while I get the spare out of the trunk?”
“If I can figure this damned thing out!” Mom replied with a laugh, as she took the jack from Doris.
“Can I help?” Candy and I begged in unison through the partly open window.
“OK, Sugar.” Mom answered.
“Me too!” from Candy, as we pushed forward the backrest of the drivers’ seat, and climbed out. Eric was standing up on the front seat, bawling. He wanted out, too.
“Candy Jo! You get back in that car and distract your brother.” Doris yelled.
I was torn between desire to be Mom’s helper and loyalty to my best friend. But just then a beat-up pickup pulled over behind us. An old cowboy with dusty boots and oily Stetson got out of the cab and walked over.
“You gals sure look like you could use some help.” He was sizing them up and liked what he saw. Mom and Doris looked at each other, not exactly liking the cowboy’s glances. Mom handed him the jack while Doris abandoned the open trunk, walked around the cowboy, and opened the driver’s door to pick up Eric and still his bawling. Candy hopped out too.
We stood there, together, at the side of the road, watching the cowboy change the tire; feeling the breeze that rustled the cottonwoods and carried the sweet-smelling cottony fluffs like snow flakes in a winter sky.
He put the flat tire and jack back in the trunk, and slammed it shut, all the while leering at Mom and Doris. He walked toward us, taking in the chilly expressions on our faces, then raised his hat; “You gals have a safe ride now.” And he walked back to his truck.
We got back in the car, rolled all the windows down, and felt free as birds as we pulled away leaving the cowboy in our dust by the side of the road. As we drove into town, Mom said, "Doris, will you teach me to drive?"