Butch and His Brother Take a Trip to Town

Many of you regular readers know that when my brother Gary and I were young, we often tagged along with our father when he went to town. He usually took a daily break from farming to buy a pack of cigarettes, drink a bottle of Nehi pop, and visit his friends. Many times he also drove the old Dodge truck back to town in the evenings after supper to play cards at the Legion hall or shoot a game of pool at the cigar store. On one such evening in the summer of 1960, Gary and I took a seat at the poolroom and watched Dad chalk up his pool cue for a game. I was 11 years old, and my brother was 8.

   There were five or six other “regular loafers” also watching, as Dad was an expert pool player. I don’t recall anyone ever beating him, but someone was always willing to give it a shot. One of the men sitting there was another farmer who I knew quite well. He lived near us, was married, and had three sons who were slightly older than me. He kept a little bottle in his hip pocket, and every so often he pulled it out and took a swig. After a half hour or so, he told my brother and me that he was going to Crawfordsville, and he asked us if we wanted to ride along. “Sure, we’ll go!” Dad trusted him and gave us permission. We hopped in the bed of the man’s pickup, stood up behind the cab, and enjoyed the breeze on that hot and humid evening as he headed west out of Darlington.

   It was a 25 minute drive to Crawfordsville. As the sun was setting, he pulled into a trailer park and shut off the engine. “You boys stay here in the truck…I’ll be back in a few minutes.” We watched as a woman, dressed in a nightgown, welcomed him inside the house trailer. We saw the two of them through the trailer window, talking to each other for a minute or two, and then they both disappeared from sight. My brother and I sat there in the bed of the truck. We talked, swatted mosquitos, and soon were bored. We waited…and waited…and waited. It became dark outside, and we began to be worried that something was wrong.

   Forty-five minutes later, the middle-aged farmer finally came out of the trailer. The woman smiled and waved good-bye, “Hope to see you real soon again!” Well, we were very curious, and my brother piped up, “What were you doing in there?” The man lit a cigarette, smiled, and said, “Well boys, always remember this…If you can’t get any good cooking at home, you have to go out and eat.”

   At our young age, neither my brother or I had any idea what he was talking about, so my brother then quizzed him further, “You mean you have to drive all the way to Crawfordsville to have supper?” The man took a swig from his bottle, “Boys, I’ll tell you all about it when you’re a little older,” and we headed back to Darlington.

   Yes, when I was older, Dad explained to me what was going on. The fellow was married, but was having an affair. The woman was his high school sweetheart who was divorced. It had been going on for many years. His wife knew all about it, and was not concerned. I knew the man’s wife. She did not appear to be the “lovable type.” She had bore him three children, and evidently concluded that her love-making days were over. His were not. Dad said that she was actually pleased that there was one less “chore” for her to do. Sure seemed strange to me.

   Through the years, I discovered that there were other men and women in our little community who had the same “arrangement.” Most people knew, but they didn’t talk about it. Many of these couples were regular churchgoers. There were also women whose husbands were boring and inconsiderate “duds” who showed no love or affection. Like some unfaithful husbands, these women sought affection elsewhere. But surprisingly, back in those days very few married couples divorced. They had taken a vow and remained together till “death do us part,” unlike today in which the divorce rate hovers around 50 percent.

   I realize that there are all types of marriages…some happy, some not so happy, some pretending to be happy, some downright crazy. And there are also both men and women who would smile and turn themselves in to the police after they shot a spouse who they had caught cheating.

   I will never forget that trip to town in the summer of 1960. Nope, they sure didn’t teach things like that in school.

John “Butch” Dale is a retired teacher and County Sheriff. He has also been the librarian at Darlington the past 35 years, and is a well-known artist and author of local history.