By Bill Butcher
I began my adult life working for Amoco or—as it was called back when my grandfather Herman P. Reardanz worked there—Standard Oil. Because it was the standard. There I was out on my job, new here in Minnesota having recently transferred from Illinois. I was at a job site literally in the middle of nowhere; the nearest home was over two miles away, maybe more.
The sun was setting as the construction crew was winding down their equipment after a long day putting in water and drain tiling. It was a muddy mess. I was doing some measurements a bit further down from the main work. I had to document everything for my reports to both the state and our own engineers to document the crossing of our pipeline. I got lost in my task and hadn’t realized the world around me had gone quiet except the sound of old man winter blowing across the muddy ground. The crew had all left; I hadn’t noticed but thought little of it as I took a last few measurements and packed my gear up to leave.
As I did, the snowflakes began coming down light at first, then as the wind picked up, it was as though they were dumped down from the heavens above from some giant dump truck. I raised the collar of my coat against the biting wind and finished packing my gear away. Locking my hubs into 4-wheel drive, I made my way up to the front of the site and my exit home. As I did, I was slip-sliding and bucking around. The frost in the ground was like ice with mud on top, about a good foot or so for good measure.
As darkness was now in nearly full bloom, my headlights had to cut through not just the darkness but the thick white that was coming down in sheets. Through my wipers every now and then I saw a break in the snow as mud would come shooting up with it… then the wipers would clear to a smudged brown, so I gave them a blast of windshield cleaner and noticed what was once the entry road was gone, hidden in a bowl of thick coffee with creamer kind of molasses.
I was heading right for it, so I panicked and hammered the gas thinking my ole Ford could blast me through. I spun, sloshed, slid, and the truck began to buck as it fought to grab anything solid, but all it found was frozen ground and more mud. A few feet to go, almost out. More spinning as my engine revved and my tach rose… nothing, no movement, just spinning as I turned the wheels, frantic for any traction, but found none. So I stopped and tried backing up. More spinning was my reward. I tried again and again. I hadn’t moved an inch, if a mile. I was stuck. Now darkness fully engulfed the landscape.
My mud-coated headlights now barely cut into the snow at all. It was like holding up a match in a pitch-black stadium. I was alone; the guys had gone and forgot I was still down the hill. I had no phone—they were not a thing yet. All I had was a two-way radio and no one within range to hear. I was stuck, it was cold, and the snow now covered my tracks. Even my stomach got into the act; it growled a memory of being full hours ago, now empty.
I got out, made sure my exhaust was clear as I was sunk down to my running boards. It was bubbling in the whitish-brown soup. So I took my shovel and started the exhausting chore of setting the exhaust pipe free. I will need to run the truck from time to time to keep me warm, it’s going to be a long night, I grumbled in my mind. Stressed and now tired… I started to trudge through the thick fudge back to the warm cab. Each step harder than the next. It was as though the ground had a hold of me and wasn’t about to let me free… what a predicament.
I had no idea I was left behind. Could I have gone through this mud differently like my cousin Paul in his old black Ford? It was unstoppable… but here I was, 1,000 miles from home in Minnesota in winter, stuck… What a great start to my career here, I thought as I inched closer to the door… just a few more feet… Ugh, if you’ve never waded through mud, it’s like wading through 3 feet of snow an inch at a time—quite the workout and extremely exhausting… It’s where moving 10 feet feels like you’ve walked 10 miles… it’s crazy tiring.
A few more steps. I had reached the running board, which was barely floating on the thick mud. I climbed aboard and the ole truck shuddered slightly in my direction as I tried to lop off the mud glued to my leather boots. My Red Wings now coated in an inch of goop. It was then through the howling wind I heard a strange noise. The noise seemed to grunt and groan as it fought through the loud gusts of wind. It was winning, I thought, as the strange noise grew louder and heavier. It sounded like some immense beast hidden in the grayish white that was the night.
My imagination ran wild: What the heck could it be… a pack of wolves? It was an odd groaning noise like it struggled in its own existence. It was forever gaining ground, seeming to come from below the hill off to my right where occasionally between the dull gray white of the snow I could faintly see the glow of a barn light.
I opened the cab door, sliding inside, then turning the key to fire up ole Nellie for some much-needed warmth. I sunk into the seat, exhausted. Maybe the shoveling helped, I thought as I again tried leapfrogging from drive to reverse, hoping to bounce her into some traction. After several tries, nothing. Then I thought, What if I wedge the floor mats under the wheels? That might work just enough, I thought. So I trudged back through the fudge pit, putting the mats down behind and in front of my rear wheels. I began wading back to the truck, not throwing in the towel—it wasn’t my nature. It has to work, questioning myself.
I could see the snow as it blew across my headlights, a funnel of yellow and white. Almost on the running boards as I stepped up, I noticed an odd object seem to cut through the curtain of white to this play called Stuck in Frozen Mud Hell. The odd reddish rust was followed by the odd groaning noises, now more of a put-put-put, a steady stream of puts followed by a rattle. Even over the wind and my engine idling, I heard a burst of laughter, a deep chuckle so unexpected. It was as though Santa Claus had stepped out of the wall of white snow. He surely was chuckling like a man full of jelly, or maybe stew.
There, sitting on top of an old Farmall tractor, sat this old fella in light blue-and-white OshKosh or Dickies overalls, with a fur-lined cap pulled thickly over his ears. He spat, then looked over at me with the biggest grin I had ever seen. It was an old jack-o’-lantern, but with more teeth. He reminded me of John Candy the actor, but in a farmer outfit. I was shocked to see anyone, especially this late and way out here. He looked over at me with light, clear, big eyes that screamed rescue, as he shouted loudly so I and everyone down the valley could hear, “You stuck, Standard Oil man? You look stuck! Ain’t no one out here!”
And just like that, laughing as he chucked a large chain over to the drier side of my truck… with a loud series of clanks as the links settled onto the frozen ground: “Hook up, Standard man! I’s will pull you out!” He sounded like a Norwegian version of Shaw from Jaws. I hooked it up, and with a few chugs and more laughter, he effortlessly idled me out of my predicament, with a few pops of his exhaust that was a mere pipe with a coffee can on top, and I was free to join the living.
I unhooked the chain and gathered it up and handed it to him. He smiled taking it; he had that look that said, Boy, you is crazy, and like he had rescued the president himself. I said thanks, and he turned, laughing as he chugged into the darkness: “Glad to, Standard Oil man, glad to! Now you keep it on the road now!” And he disappeared down the hill, swallowed by white and darkness… a hero.
I swear I could still hear him laughing between the echoing pops of his old but valiant tractor as it faded to the distant barn light. As I cautiously made my way the 40 miles or so back to my new home, white knuckling the whole way, I kept seeing the old farmer, well into his 80s, alone out there as many are that outlive their wives. I could hear him say, “Standard Oil man.”
Knowing we were now Amoco, it struck me the huge way a company affects, helps, and shapes the land. I later learned Standard was popular here as everyone grew up using it, and our pipeline—like this farmer—went carefully through their land, and it was a watchdog against any damage by a joint effort between them and us together. It was a thing of pride. I thought back to my grandfather, the real hero of the story, as this was what brought me back to my Grandpa.
Standard Oil became Amoco; it served the communities and worked with them—not perfect, but they tried. Other companies have become mostly all profit and forget the very people they serve.
Look for Part Two by Bill Butcher
Braidwood Beginnings 