Watch Your Tracks by Don

In 1952 we had moved to Mississippi County Delta in the farm land. We lived on a gravel county road and farmed land on each side of the road.

At this time, two of my brothers and I were at home, and the other children had gone their way. One of my brothers, Darrell, was always finding trouble.

About a quarter of a mile from our house there was a stand of trees. Another farmer parked his tractor there where he had an elevated fuel tank. Darrell and his friend, Ray McGee, wanted to ride their bikes to the woods where the tractor was parked.

My Dad warned them about messing with the tractor because it was not theirs, and they could get into trouble.

One night after the conversation, it rained, and the next day Darrell and Ray rode over to the tractor. Darrell had a distinct track on his bicycle wheel that no other kid in the county had (a knobby tire on his bike). This tire was what eventually got him into trouble.

Darrell and Ray road their bicycles to the woods, even though they had been told to leave the tractor alone. They got the tractor started and were messing around with it and turned over the fuel tank that contained over 300 gallons of diesel fuel.

The next day the neighbor that owned the tractor came to check on it, and said the fuel had been overturned. He looked around the area, and then came to my house to tell to my father that he thought Darrell had turned the fuel over. His reason was there was track tires all over the place which he had traced by to our house.

When my Dad confronted Darrell and Ray, they both denied knowing anything about it. When confronted again, and told they might go to jail, Darrell broke down and said they had done it.
My dad told Darrell and Ray they would have to pay for any damages including the price of the fuel, and they would both have to work to pay for it.

Darrell was no longer free to ride around the county and his bike stayed at the house. It took Darrell and Ray all summer to work out the pay for what they had done.

Isn't it interesting how we remember stories of our siblings getting into trouble? Hmmm. Could it be possible we find some innocent pleasure in it? I'm not speaking for Don, but for myself! For sure, this story drums up my own memories of my brothers shannigans. Problem is, they have more stories to tell about me than I do them. Regardless, Don's memory of this account is enjoyable for the reader. Maybe we need to contact Darrell for some good stuff on Don! Keep up the good work, Don. And thanks again to Donna for typing these and sending them for me to post.

NOTE: The photo was taken from Google. You will never guess who this young man is. HINT: Old blue eyes!

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