Rick Long's Stories
December 21,
2004
2004
Treasure or Trash? Who Makes the Call?
By Rick Long
An old mechanic friend of mine, Tommy Windom, decided to move locations recently. Since yours truly owns
a pickup truck, guess who got the call!
I like hanging around with Tommy because I am, at heart, an old Southern storyteller. If you ever ask me a
question, let me know up front if you need a short answer. Otherwise, a story will ensue and the attempt on
my part to instruct and entertain will over-ride the need for a quick, concise, reply. Tommy suffers from this
affliction as well.
I’m over at his house one Saturday morning helping him pack up for the move when he asked me to help
sort through some boxes of old motorcycle parts. As the lids were removed from the storage containers, it
became evident that some of this stuff had been sitting out in wet weather and had become water damaged.
All of it had been packed away for years and was at least, in an advanced state of dilapidation.
My personal feeling about moving is that people should be ruthless when throwing things away. I think the
world would be a tidier place if we all had to move every five years and throw away the all the junk collected
since the last move. Tommy hadn’t moved in about twenty years by my guess. Anyway, here we sit, parts
boxes at hand, with a spot for a “Keep� pile and a “Junk� pile designated in front of us.
I reach down and pick up an old carburetor. This thing hasn’t seen gas in years, it’s engine nowhere
in site. “Treasure or Trash?� I asked aloud.
“Oh, that’s off my old Suzuki 650. My brother and me took a trip to Canada back in 1971 and I rode
that bike. We had a great time. We were riding late one evening and just at dusk my brother hit a deer. The
Royal Canadian Mounties that came to investigate the accident were kidding him that they were going to issue
a ticket for hunting deer out of season. My brother didn’t think that was too funny but the Mounties and I
sure had a laugh.�
I chuck the carburetor toward the “Keep� pile and pickup a grease-covered cylinder head. “What
about this?�
“Well, let’s see. Oh that! That’s off a BMW I bought new and rode to Florida with two friends
from the Navy. We were all single at the time had been deployed for six months so we hit the port in San
Diego with pockets full of money and all bought bikes. One of the guys had pictures of his girlfriend in Florida,
and she was a good looker too, so we all took off and made the trip together. What a time that was.�
The “Keepâ€� pile got a little bigger. This time I picked up a set of cylinders that appeared to match. â
€œWhat bike is this from?â€� I’m getting the picture now and starting to anticipate a bit.
“Bet you’ll never guess what they came off of.� I gave it an honest try but I couldn’t come up
with it. “Those are not from a bike. They’re off an airplane engine! My brother-in-law decided he
would learn to fly one time and bought this old Mohawk airplane. He hadn’t been flying very long before
he took me out to Catalina one weekend. It was beautiful flying over the water and then the island. We partied
all weekend and then the thing ran so rough on the way home that I was scared we wouldn’t make it to
the landing strip. He asked me to take a look at it and I ended up pulling the motor. He sold the plane a month
later “as was� before I could get the engine fixed.�
A couple of hours went by like this and as you may have guessed by now, the “Keep� pile was much
larger than the “Junk� pile. My friend isn’t in good health these days. I suppose sometime I’ll
get that call from one of his daughters that she needs help going through his things. You might think that I’d
be glad to help but I’ve already decided that I’m hiring a day laborer to carry away the boxes of old
parts. Why? Because he won’t know the stories. He’ll look in the boxes and it will all look like junk.
He will heave it on to the dump trailer and never know about the deer in Canada, the girl in Florida, or what
really happened on that weekend in Catalina. He will drive away and never know about the stories that will
live on in heart of another Southern storyteller.
By Rick Long
An old mechanic friend of mine, Tommy Windom, decided to move locations recently. Since yours truly owns
a pickup truck, guess who got the call!
I like hanging around with Tommy because I am, at heart, an old Southern storyteller. If you ever ask me a
question, let me know up front if you need a short answer. Otherwise, a story will ensue and the attempt on
my part to instruct and entertain will over-ride the need for a quick, concise, reply. Tommy suffers from this
affliction as well.
I’m over at his house one Saturday morning helping him pack up for the move when he asked me to help
sort through some boxes of old motorcycle parts. As the lids were removed from the storage containers, it
became evident that some of this stuff had been sitting out in wet weather and had become water damaged.
All of it had been packed away for years and was at least, in an advanced state of dilapidation.
My personal feeling about moving is that people should be ruthless when throwing things away. I think the
world would be a tidier place if we all had to move every five years and throw away the all the junk collected
since the last move. Tommy hadn’t moved in about twenty years by my guess. Anyway, here we sit, parts
boxes at hand, with a spot for a “Keep� pile and a “Junk� pile designated in front of us.
I reach down and pick up an old carburetor. This thing hasn’t seen gas in years, it’s engine nowhere
in site. “Treasure or Trash?� I asked aloud.
“Oh, that’s off my old Suzuki 650. My brother and me took a trip to Canada back in 1971 and I rode
that bike. We had a great time. We were riding late one evening and just at dusk my brother hit a deer. The
Royal Canadian Mounties that came to investigate the accident were kidding him that they were going to issue
a ticket for hunting deer out of season. My brother didn’t think that was too funny but the Mounties and I
sure had a laugh.�
I chuck the carburetor toward the “Keep� pile and pickup a grease-covered cylinder head. “What
about this?�
“Well, let’s see. Oh that! That’s off a BMW I bought new and rode to Florida with two friends
from the Navy. We were all single at the time had been deployed for six months so we hit the port in San
Diego with pockets full of money and all bought bikes. One of the guys had pictures of his girlfriend in Florida,
and she was a good looker too, so we all took off and made the trip together. What a time that was.�
The “Keepâ€� pile got a little bigger. This time I picked up a set of cylinders that appeared to match. â
€œWhat bike is this from?â€� I’m getting the picture now and starting to anticipate a bit.
“Bet you’ll never guess what they came off of.� I gave it an honest try but I couldn’t come up
with it. “Those are not from a bike. They’re off an airplane engine! My brother-in-law decided he
would learn to fly one time and bought this old Mohawk airplane. He hadn’t been flying very long before
he took me out to Catalina one weekend. It was beautiful flying over the water and then the island. We partied
all weekend and then the thing ran so rough on the way home that I was scared we wouldn’t make it to
the landing strip. He asked me to take a look at it and I ended up pulling the motor. He sold the plane a month
later “as was� before I could get the engine fixed.�
A couple of hours went by like this and as you may have guessed by now, the “Keep� pile was much
larger than the “Junk� pile. My friend isn’t in good health these days. I suppose sometime I’ll
get that call from one of his daughters that she needs help going through his things. You might think that I’d
be glad to help but I’ve already decided that I’m hiring a day laborer to carry away the boxes of old
parts. Why? Because he won’t know the stories. He’ll look in the boxes and it will all look like junk.
He will heave it on to the dump trailer and never know about the deer in Canada, the girl in Florida, or what
really happened on that weekend in Catalina. He will drive away and never know about the stories that will
live on in heart of another Southern storyteller.
