We’re going to the dump, to the dump, to the dump, dump, dump. A typical precursor of excitement that was our made-up mantra. We started that chant when our father had announced that the barrels standing in the alley were full and needed emptying.
It was another time, the late 50’s and early 60’s. Our small town had a poorly maintained garbage dump about four miles outside of town. The eyesore sat in a low-lying area just about three hundred yards of the state highway; the main connector of many small communities in a north south direction from Great Falls, the big city in north central Montana. The dump, as everyone called it, had a single dirt roadway that was slightly elevated, and eventually gave way to a couple of branch roads off to both sides. Every six months or so, the city maintenance vehicle, which was really a pickup truck with a push blade in the front, would clear the buildup of trash dumped unceremoniously on the actual road and force it down into the tall grass and weeds that grew unchecked.
The typical resident of our farming community had many vehicles including at least one pickup truck. The usual refuse container area, was filled with yard clippings, branches, and household garbage. Fifty-five-gallon barrels, the typical garbage can for the area could be found in almost every alley. They may at one time been filled with fuel or oil but repurposed. The top was cut off and the barrel was a sturdy long lasting household garbage container.
Burning bans were not in existence during those years and common sense was the rule. Trash was incinerated if the barrels overflowed. As kids we stood around and watched the flames, as if it was our own personal campfire. Conscientious home owners would toss some kinds of screen over the barrels to prevent flaming debris from flying out.
The seagulls instantly appeared when we approached the dump, and the smell of the area was a signal of drawing near. I wondered what highway travelers thought as they drove by our dump. That was just the way it was back then.
I never did figure out what was so exciting about taking the drive to the ultimate resting place of unwanted piles of junk, but I never missed a chance to journey there. I imagine anyone following my dad down the back roads with a full load would be bombarded with limbs, grass clippings, and ashes from the uncovered barrels.
My mother would complain that dad would inevitable come back with more stuff that he left with. She was often right. He was a tinkerer; his love was old radios.
“Why this is perfectly good, or, all this needs a new plug on the cord, or, the radio works fine without that plastic cover, or, I have some tubes I think will fit this one.” He would announce in justification to add to his hoard in the garage.
Occasionally he would get one working and we all had to marvel at his genius. He gave me one small radio he had resurrected, and I kept it on my night stand. The first night I turned the thing on, it threw up a big puff of smoke, a bang, then went dark. The next day it was back out in the workshop being examined and resurrected.
Now I’m getting sidetracked a bit too much. I wanted you to get an idea of the times. There weren’t container trucks built specially for trash, or container cans approved by the city, or certain days for pickup. There were certainly no rules for trash burning in the city limits. The garbage got emptied simply when the barrels were full, or the roads were reasonably clear of winter snow, and someone had a truck available.
My dad, as well as a large percentage of the fathers in my town, were Word War II veterans. They came back home to take over the family farms, set up mechanic shops, worked in farm implement stores, and other businesses endeavors. Almost all started families, their kids were friends of mine. The Baby Boomers they called us.
Everybody knew everybody and everybody’s business it seemed like. It was a town of three hundred and fifty people. So, you can imagine. It was also a community that would lend a helping hand when needed. One farmer was laid up and unable to harvest his wheat. The others in the area abandoned their own fields and brought in the entire crop in one day. That’s how it was.
Again, I can’t seem to get to the point, but you get the idea that these folks were salt of the earth.
One day a new man came into town. He rented a small three-room house right near the edge of the community reservoir. His name was Jake Funkhouser. Jake was of slight build, prematurely white hair that stuck out like a haystack under his pith helmet. You know, the one that all the rich people on African safari wore. The helmet had a little ribbon on the front of it.
My dad told me it signified a person had earned a Marine Crop silver star citation for his action of bravery and gallantry during the war. Dad explained the decoration to me in his words with an air of respect. I had no idea if that star was a big deal or not, but I guess it turned out to be the case.
I never saw Jake wear anything but dark blue bib coveralls and a white tee shirt. Never.
The man kept to himself, exchanging short conversations with people, but not making an effort to prolong their interaction.
Dad said the man was probably suffered from shell shock, explaining to me that sometimes the pressure, tension, fear, and seeing death on a major scale affected a guy’s mind, and it took a while for him to get straightened out. Today it is called PTSD, post-traumatic stress disease.
The people gave Jake his space and privacy. That’s how it was for a short time.
Jake drove around an old truck that was popular with the Army during the war. Dad called it a “deuce and a half transport”, which apparently meant a two and one-half ton truck. It looked a bit like a jeep, but didn’t have anything fancy on it. Just a plain old truck. The insignia on the truck was that of a REO. Some of the farmers in the area drove the same make vehicle but they were grain trucks. Jake’s truck was painted olive drab, the favorite color of the United States Army. Dad figured he bought it at an auction, a sale of surplus equipment from the war.
Jake’s landlady, a really old woman who came to our church on Sundays, was quite a baker. Everyone lined up early when her cinnamon rolls were being sold for some community fund raiser. She also baked a ton of bread, giving it to needy people and friends. She was a nice woman. Apparently, she had mentioned to Jake that the man who usually ran to the dump for her had torn up his leg in a bailer accident and she was concerned about how she was ever going to get her garbage containers emptied. And that is actually the beginning of this story.
Jake began to haul trash, junk, and garbage for the people of the community. Word of his service traveled quickly in the small town. And he refused to take payment. At least payment of money. He was bombarded with foodstuffs, baked goods, hot dishes, and fresh fruit and vegetables. He was given tickets to spaghetti dinners, the Lutheran lutefisk feast, school functions, and vouchers for gasoline. But never money.
Jake kept the work up, without complaint or conversation. He didn’t drink as far as anyone knew, was an avid reader and traded books with various people in the town.
One day his truck pulled up in front of our house. My dad went out to talk to Jake for a brief moment. I watched dad turn away and walk toward the garage. He had three radios of questionable condition under his arms. Jake had made a point to bring dad a treasure trove from the dump. A big smile shone on my father’s face. I never did figure out how Jake had known what my dad’s passion was. Somebody must have said something.
One week Jake didn’t show up on his usual route. A few men came around to his house and found he had injured his back. Apparently, it would be some time before he could help the people with their trash. A few fellows borrowed his truck, under the guise of covering for him until he got better. In reality, a bunch of the town mechanics and metal workers, and farmers installed a hydraulic lift on the back of his old REO. No more lifting those big barrels into the back of the truck.
If Jake showed up at a church dinner of some kind, the church ladies descended on him like a flock of birds. I watched him at one dinner. I thought he was a little bit embarrassed but he sure put away the food set in front of him. Polite, appreciative, and quiet. Wearing the same clothes as always.
He was once asked why he chose our town to hang his hat. He said he had been traveling the state, drove by the town and noted a military service being conducted in the cemetery, the city graveyard situated right beside the highway. He stopped to pay his respects, heard the twenty-one-gun salute and the final end of day melody of taps. He thought this might be a good reverent town that honored those who had served in the armed forces. Why not, he said.
Jake lived in our town for about eight years, then one day was gone. He left no notes, forwarding address, or anything else. It was quite a topic of conversation for some time. A mystery.
The town started to forget about Jake Funkhouser, until one day an event brought to the forefront his memory. High school graduation was nearing and a stranger visited the school for a brief time. He was invited to come back and speak to the graduating class.
The tall ramrod straight speaker was about the age of my father. He talked with a slight southern accent but was easy to understand.
He explained that his brother, Jake Funkhouser, who had lived in our community for years, had passed away from cancer shortly after leaving this area. The brother said that Jake didn’t want to burden the community with his illness. The man also went on to tell other details of his life.
His family had a successful business in Texas, an oil processing corporation. Jake had the opportunity to be a high-level manager, but, after the war, had no desire to be involved.
Jake was a decorated war hero. He had won a Silver Star citation.
The brother went on to tell the story:
Jake’s platoon, one of many on Midway Island, was being impeded by cross fire from machine guns. Jake crawled and ran through the maze of bullets, tossed a grenade into one machine gun nest, then race on to engage in hand-to-hand combat and silence the other machine gun. Jake saw so many of his fellow soldiers die that day and for days afterward. It had a great effect on him and he closed himself off from much of the world. I’m sure many of you saw that part of him. He was a gentle soul, a hard worker, and a great friend. In the days before death, he talked about the kindness this community had shown him, a stranger in the midst.
He wished to show his appreciation in some small way. I have directed the local bank to manage a large money fund that will be used for future scholarships for this community’s high school graduates. The Jake Funkhouser Memorial scholarship will be awarded to any young man or woman who has aspirations of serving with Uncle Sam. If the recipient continues to be enrolled in the college or university and remains involved in the reserve officer training corps curriculum, all expenses will be paid by the scholarship. He loved the Marine Corps.
My brother was also an avid reader. He told me that he often exchanged books with other readers in the community. My brother has set aside an amount of money for the city to use to build and maintain a public library. His only directive is that the words, “Behind every Great Community is a Great Library” be displayed somewhere on the premises.
Jake was buried with full military honors near Austin, Texas. He was a good man.
The brother, on completion of his talk was given thunderous applause. I have to think, though, the ovation was for Jake, the garbage man.
Left To Write 