Dirt is a great bit older than we
Dirt is a bit older than our buds asleep within it
Dirt is us before us are
Dirt is our family, floor and home
Dirt is our womb and to it we go
Dirt will be stars anon and so shall we.


Our 1937 Plymouth Coup

I cannot think of a single boy known to me who has held a “Hot Rod” fresh off the press and not quested and drooled, succored plans to raise money,. On simple drive-by by a restored and painted with Caramel apple metal flake to a depth of some 25-30 hand polished layers,

The very paint of these metal temples shimmered with a life of it’s own the sun bleeding through shuttering cottonwood leaves elicited ghosts of teamsters past who stood one-footed, chewing and spitting dry dust into the dry sand.

Then there is the deep seated roaring through those awesome all chromed headers; the heat radiating from the stroked, bored, polished oversizes engine with the steady staccato of a full-race roller cam; the steady evil his of air sucked into the maelstrom or combustion…the steady low menace would shortly become the scream of a fiend screaming to capture enough oxygen to feed the insatiable engine.

The driver of this magnificent machine which could not be beater across a standing quarter mile, was highly confident and normally wore a laurel of arrogance. He slumped back in deep Naugahyde covered seats rolled and pleated to perfection.

Yes what young man did not envy owning that grandiose machine…the highest point of the engineering trade or the architects combined fantasies

My freind, Louise Jay DeNoya and I had undertaken a number of adventures over the years. Much to my shame a sizeable proportion of them were either immoral, unnatural, or outright illegal. I myself never went into an operation with the idea of causing harm or even scratched emotions. As a kind and loveable type fellow I attempted to navigate the straight and narrow which was in reality more curved and slicker than a 35 foot sixty year old intestinal work taken from an old Kiowa Indian after his death at 98 years old. It is sad that while the old Indian is forgotten and even his grave is lost upon the osage plains, the worm enjoyed some fame for several years after their masters dermise.

As I was saying Jay and I tried, and tried very hard indeed, to plan some fun little adventure which would not get us into trouble or bring the wrath of strangers upon us. From much hard experience we knew we did not want to undergo these perils.

So it was a pleasant surprise when we undertook a plan of action which would last more than a couple of days and “probably” would not cause even a minor amount of irritation to any other than us.

There was always a little ‘ticker’ in the back of our minds that good ideas has often gone horribly wrong like when Jay’s dad’s combine havesterd severa .22 caliber hole through the metal cab work and the battery which went very dead. Or, when we started a peaceful horseback ride up the Arkansas river & attached an innocent Girl Scout camp on the far side.

The plan at least for the initial phases seemed safe for us & those around us. Thumbing through a Hot Rod Magazine up in Jay’s bedroom we hit on the idea it was time for us to build our own personal hot rod for us to share, pickup girls by the trailer loads and smoke our tires in from of every fast car challenger we could locate.

Where to find the beginnings of this