I asked my dad one day, “Does Grandpa Bullard know how to drive?” He answered, “Oh I guess he could drive a little if he had to, but he has always been very careful with his money and if he had a car, he wouldn’t want to buy gas for it.” That was beyond my comprehension. He farmed 210 acres in Leflore County. How he “horse farmed” all that was a mystery to me. His farm had lots of rocks, was sort of remote and enjoying a trip to town in his Studebaker wagon, with its red bed and yellow-spoked wheels drawn by two black horses he was proud of, was an all-day trip.

When he broke a field or planted or plowed, it took the efforts of two ill-tempered mules who didn’t work free. They could devour lots of feed along with many gallons of cold hand-drawn water from the deep well down at the barn. Took their time, too. In addition, the two obstinate mules had mental problems and often had to be spoken to often using “muletalk” language about their work ethic. If left alone, they would have done nothing but stand around. His two horses were different and knew it. They didn’t have to undergo the indignities of being hooked to a plow and were sort of proud. Mostly, they pulled the wagon and one served as a saddle horse. None of the four animals required any gasoline.

The time all these thoughts were taking place in my 10-year old brain, and Gerald’s too, was right after WWII. And did you know for this war, our country had bought thousands upon thousands of jeeps? These little 4-cylinder wonders were now being sold off cheap and farmers were snapping them up. Some even used them to pull plows and other equipment. They could do about anything if you weren’t in a hurry. It was about this time our piano player (Carl) at the First Baptist Church of Stonewall bought one. He bought it just to drive. Loved it.

So did my brother Gerald. “Where did you get this?” Gerald asked Carl. “Tinker Field in Oklahoma,” City said Carl. “Want me to get you one? This one just cost $45.00 and had only 22 miles on it. Has one bullet hole in it too. They must have a million more and they are selling them off every Saturday.” Gerald was electrified by this news. He told dad we had to get Grandpa Bullard one of these. Then he and grandma could drive to church in Wister, they could go to town. Trips to the doctor would be a whiz, Gerald pointed out. Dad too was sort of interested but warned Gerald not to get his hopes up. “You need to borrow this jeep and let your grandpa see and drive it. He may not want it even if it’s free.” Dad said, “if he wants one, I’ll buy it and give it to him.”

It wasn’t long before Gerald and I were on our way to Goat Ridge. In Carl’s Jeep. Sure enough, with a very few instructions, grandpa was able to drive it and drive it very well. He kept looking at it with Gerald and me extolling how this would enhance his and grandma’s life. We then drove down the ridge to Victor which consisted of at least two or three houses, a church, and Uncle Herman’s Conoco Station. Grandpa looked at the gas pump and the price of gas, about 18 cents a gallon. He asked us several questions of how much gas would it take to go to Wister and back. How about a long trip, like to Poteau? Eighteen miles. Cost you about a quarter to go to Poteau, we ventured.

From that point on grandpa’s face changed. He took on the looks of a Sphinx. Like dad had said. Grandpa valued his pennies more than either of us could imagine. Gerald drove the jeep back up to Goat Ridge Road. Our sell job was over. The Studebaker Wagon’s job future was secure as was that of the mules and horses. We took the heroic jeep, and its bullet hole back to Stonewall. Dad was right. Grandpa was very careful with his money.

Be sure and go to church Sunday and be sure and give generously. And you don’t have to be as careful with your money as my grandpa was.

Wayne Bullard, DPh

cwaynebullard@gmail.com