Uncle Otto, he had inherited a sum of money. It must have been a fairish sum, because he and Uncle Otto together
swung the purchase of that tract with no further trouble. Both of them were pirates under the skin and they got on well enough together. Their partnership lasted for twenty-two years — until the year I was bom, in fact — and
prosperity was all they knew.
But it all began with the purchase of those four thousand acres, and they explored them in McCutcheon’s
truck, cruising the woods roads and the pulper’s tracks, grinding along in first gear for the most part, shuddering over washboards and splashing through washouts, McCutcheon at the wheel part of the time, my Uncle Otto at the
wheel the rest of the time, two young men who had become New England land barons in the dark depths of the big
Depression.
I don’t know where McCutcheon came by that truck. It was a Cress well, if it matters — a breed which no
longer exists. It had a huge cab, painted bright red, wide running boards, and an electric starter, but if the starter ever failed, it could be cranked — although the crank could just as easily kick back and break your shoulder, if the man cranking wasn’t careful. The bed was twenty feet long with stake sides, but what I remember best about that
truck was its snout. Like the cab, it was red as blood. To get at the engine, you had to lift out two steel panels, one on either side. The radiator was as high as a grown man’s chest. It was an ugly, monstrous thing.
McCutcheon’s truck broke down and was repaired, broke down again and was repaired again. When the
Cresswell finally gave up, it gave up in spectacular fashion. It went like the wonderful one-hoss shay in the Holmes poem.
McCutcheon and Uncle Otto were coming up the Black Henry Road one day in 1953, and by Uncle Otto’s
own admission both of them were “shithouse drunk.” Uncle Otto downshifted to first in order to get up Trinity Hill.
That went fine, but, drunk as he was, he never thought to shift up again coming down the far side. The Cresswell’s tired old engine overheated. Neither Uncle Otto nor McCutcheon saw the needle go over the red mark by the letter
H on the right side of the dial. At the bottom of the hill, there was an explosion that blew the engine-compartment’s folding sides out like red dragon’s wings. The radiator cap rocketed into the summer sky. Steam plumed up like Old Faithful. Oil went in a gusher, drenching the windshield. Uncle Otto cramped down on the brake pedal but the
Cresswell had developed a bad habit of shooting brake fluid over the last year or so and the pedal just sank to the mat. He couldn’t see where he was driving and he ran off the road, first into a ditch and then out of it. If the
Cresswell had stalled, all still might have been well. But the engine continued to run and it blew first one piston and then two more, like firecrackers on the Fourth of July. One of them, Uncle Otto said, zinged right through his door, which had flopped open. The hole was big enough to put a fist through. They came to rest in a field full of August golden-rod. They would have had a fine view of the White Mountains if the windshield hadn’t been covered with
Diamond Gem Oil.
That was the last roundup for McCutcheon’s Cresswell; it never moved from that field again. Not that there
was any squawk from the landlord; the two of them owned it, of course. Considerably sobered by the experience,
the two men got out to examine the damage. Neither was a mechanic, but you didn’t have to be to see that the
wound was mortal. Uncle Otto was stricken — or so he told my father — and offered to pay for the truck. George
McCutcheon told him not to be a fool. McCutcheon was, in fact, in a kind of ecstasy. He had taken one look at the field, at the view of the mountains, and had decided this was the place where he would build his retirement home.