The Message and the Messenger

Yes, you have heard it many times before, "Don't shoot the messenger!" But were you really listening to what the messenger said?

As a teenager, I would accompany my father's workers in the company truck to pick up customer orders for windows, siding, awnings, insulation and other homebuilders supplies from the manufacturer. These were sometimes out of state travels, but mostly within my home state of Iowa. The trips were scheduled based on order delivery dates for construction job sites in Southeast Iowa. 

The drivers for these trips were often the brothers Johnson -- Teddy and Robby. These to guys were real characters full of life and laughter -- rough and ready types. Both were in their early forties and still single, though Teddy had a steady girlfriend he would later marry. During these work trips, these guys would keep me in stitches with their stories and shenanigans. They were farm boys who worked sunrise to sundown and loved the hard life. For them, babysitting me while picking up a truckload of building supplies, was a "HOOT" for them. 

On each trip, they would present me life lessons based on their own experiences. Everything from dating girls to building a street rod. Most of those that I can remember were nuggets of being good buried within a true event or story. They were great storytellers particularly good at providing word descriptions that could be visualized -- falling out of the boat while fishing, chasing bullfrogs, cutting a finger while whittling wood, falling off the back of a truck while traveling on a bumpy dirt road. Most were funny incidents that would have made great movie plots.

On one trip I remember we made a side trip for the brothers to drive in a local stock car race. These guys were great mechanics known for their abilities to soup up engines. In exchange, they were given driver status for sanctioned races around Iowa. This race track operated Friday, Saturday, and Sunday during the stock car racing season. The brothers arranged an overnight stay on this pick trip in order to race.

If you don't know it, back then weekend nights at dirt race tracks around rural Iowa were a big attraction. Not very sophisticated nor very well organized but fun to attend. In my case, I was able to remain in the pits to see this exciting event from the inside out. On this particular night, Robby Johnson was driving and was in a bad track wreck. We had to take him to the local hospital to have his broken arm set before we could load up the truck and head back home. What I did not know was the car Robby had crashed was paid for and sponsored by my father. Oh-oh!

The cab of the truck was uncharacteristically quiet during the ride back home. Teddy was driving but kept goating Robby about how he was going to tell my dad what had happened and that I was in the pits when it happened. Robby, needless to say, was not a happy camper.

Teddy suggested we stop at a convenience store to pick up a loaf of bread, some bologna, mustard, ketchup, and mayonnaise to make sandwiches for lunch at a roadside stop up ahead. This was a rare treat and welcomed by all.

While making our sandwiches at the roadside pull off, Teddy again egged on Robby about how to tell my dad what had happened the night before at the dirt track. Both seemed to be concerned about what my dad might say or do. In the spirit of cooperation and sympathy for their plight, I said I would tell my Dad I had driven the stock car and wrecked it and that Robby broke his arm while loading the truck. The brothers thought about it, looked at each quizzically and then agreed to the plot. for the remainder of the trip home, I rehearsed my story in my mind, knowing it needed to be believable to convince my dad. What on earth had I agreed to do?

Needles to say, my father was furious with me and with the Brothers Johnson. Not only did my dad have to pay to rebuild the stock, but Robby had a broken arm and would be of limited help for weeks. After a thorough tongue lashing from father, the brothers began to grin and then laugh. They said in unison, "Don't shoot the messenger." Suddenly my dad began laughing also. It seems the brothers had called my dad from a pay phone when we stopped at the convenience store on the way back and explained the details of what had happened the night before. They revealed my willingness to take the blame for wrecking the stock car and set up to joke on me with my dad.

My dad and the Johnson brothers were so impressed that I would take the fall for the misdeeds of the brothers, they had resolved the issue but could not resist teaching me a valuable lesson. Obviously, the lesson has stayed with me all these years, like most lessons learned in the Heartland.