My Joe Cole Summer
It was June of 1958, during an eagerly awaited summer break from school. We heard him long before we saw the truck bouncing unfamiliarly down our rutted gravel driveway— the faded, nearly rusted GMC pickup parked under the big cedar tree near our front porch. Out stepped a somewhat aged, weather-trimmed cowboy. From his steel gray Stetson hat to the starched long-sleeved white shirt and khakis tucked neatly into a “Sunday best” pair of cowboy boots. He stepped up, hat in hand, politely introduced himself; speaking to my mother, he asked. “Ma’am, I am doing some surveys of old cemeteries in this part of the county. Do you know where the Rabb Family Cemetery is located?”
My mother responded with a hesitant “No,” but she looked back at me in question. I raised my hand and shouted out, “Yes, Sir, I know exactly where it is.” Ten minutes later, my younger brothers and I were standing next to his pick-up, surveying copies of maps and deed documents. Here I was, a ten-year-old, barefoot and in shorts, sharing vital information with an adult.
