Do you remember that company on Lyons Avenue across the tracks one block down from Shotwell called Milwhite? I really don't know what kind of business it was except there was always a lot of powder in those rail cars parked beside the plant. Think the powder was maybe lime or something used in insulation. There was always hundreds of bags of the stuff laying outside beside the tracks.

Everytime I went hunting down those tracks I would pass that plant and never stopped or even cared to know what was going on. It was just a large, dusty building with a huge vacant lot behind it that had "No Trespassing" or "Keep Out" signs all over the place but it was not fenced. I never went on their property. The signs kept me and other kids away.

One day as I passed by that vacant lot I saw an old truck with a flatbed on back with a few sacks of that "stuff" piled on the back. The truck was probably about a late 20's or early 30's vintage that had seen its' better days. It was covered with mud, the tires were flat, and one door on the driver's side was missing. I guess I was about nine or ten and that truck fascinated me. Wonder if they were going to abandon it?

There were no security guards around and the truck just sat there all summer long. School started but the truck was still there with weeds and underbrush growing up all around it. If you stood on the tracks the truck was barely noticeable. I figured it was left there as junk.

The following summer when school was out I checked and it was still there. I wanted to check it out, to see what was inside that cab, maybe see if it would start even though I didn't know a thing about cars. But there were all those signs "No Trespassing", but there were no guards, it was junk, no one would care, I just wanted to take a look. I finally talked myself into checking it out.

The next day early in morning I walked the tracks again, got to the vacant lot, looked both ways down the tracks for trains, and then started walking slowly toward that pile of weeds. When I got to the truck the adrenalin was really flowing. I wanted to clear the weeds and at least sit inside the cab. Finally I got inside and the musty smell of an old work truck filled my head. This was going to be my truck, to make believe I was a truck driver hauling those bags on the back, going down the highway, going to places I had never been before.

After that, each day I would manage to clear more weeds until the truck was fairly visible from the tracks. I even got some rags and started to clean the outside of that old relic the same way Dad would clean our old '33 Chevy. This was now my truck. It didn't matter that it had Milwhite Inc. painted on the other door, but I figured it belonged to me. The truck was abandoned I thought. No one paid attention to those signs. Little did I know that soon I would get into trouble because of that truck.

I never told any of my friends about that truck, and as time went by I became less afraid to cross that lot and climb inside. I pretended I was a truck driver and each day would go on a different journey, a different state, a different city, all without leaving Denver Harbor! My imagination took me to places like California, Oregon, Alaska and other places I only read about in Geography. At night I would hear those trains roar by with whistles blowing and I would always wonder where they had come from. Some far away place, some place I had never seen and I wanted to know what there was out there in the world outside of Denver Harbor. Our house was nestled beside the tracks while the outside world seemed to pass us by. Now in my imagination I was driving my truck to those places and it felt good. I felt free, free to roam the country and yet never leave the neighborhood. I was in a world of my own.

Finally one day while travelling to some far away place my journey was abruptly ended. While "driving" that truck and lost in my imagination I suddenly heard someone pounding on the window on the passengers side. I looked up and there was a police officer (actually a security guard). Milwhite had a security guard who had finally decided to check out that back lot and old truck.

I had never seen him before. I was terrified, speechless and as they say "caught red-handed". He seemed angry and started asking me a lot of questions. What was my name, what was I doing on private property? Didn't I know I was trespassing, couldn't I read all those signs? I just stood there, head bowed, while this man read me the riot act. I was a juvenile delinquent, probably get jail time, serve time in Huntsville, my mind ran on and on about the consequences.

I started to cry. I was at his mercy and started to beg to let me go. He just shook his head, reached in his back pocket, and pulled out what looked like a ticket book. He was going to write me up! Then he asked me again how to spell my last name.

"Hargus"... that name seemed familiar to him. Did my dad work for Hughes Tool at the strut plant on Wallisville Rd. during the war?? I nodded yes, yes, that was my dad. Then he said the words I will never forget "Son, looks like this is your lucky day!" It just so happens he was a security guard at the plant and had gone to work at Milwhite when the war was over. He knew dad, thought he was a nice guy, well liked by everyone.

Dad had saved my skin I thought. Then the guard said something that sent chills down my spine. He wanted to go talk to Dad and Mom about what happened!! I could probably face the police but I couldn't face or stand up to Dad after what had happened. There was always something about his sometimes stern stare after I had done something wrong that sent fear inside me.

Again I started to beg the guard to let me go, don't tell my parents, I would do anything, I will never set foot on Milwhite's property again. Then I got lucky again. The guard started to talk about how serious it would be if I were older, if I were not a minor. Then he put the book back in his pocket and crouched down low to look me straight in the eyes. He said he never intended to press charges, just wanted to scare me, to teach me a lesson I would never forget. Said I was just a kid who couldn't resist the temptation, but would probably never do it again.

No truer words were ever spoken. I never even came close to that vacant lot again.

Finally after thanking him several hundred times I turned around and ran home. Probably set the Olympic record for that mad dash to home.

When I got home everyone was already eating supper. I sheepishly sat down and had the strange feeling that everyone was staring at me. Finally Dad asked if I was feeling okay. Said I was looking like I was nervous. Had anything happened? I paused to catch my breath and finally blurted out that I had gone hunting and forgot about the time. Then Dad looked me straight in the eye with that serious look and said he didn't want it to happen again. And it never did! Two lessons in one evening were enough for me to maybe last a lifetime.

That just may be the legacy Dad left for me. He was a hard working man who never tolerated misbehaviour. You were supposed to go to school, study hard, get a job and take up where he left off. He belonged to the old fashioned hard working, a day's pay for an honest day's work work ethnic group that I think made Denver Harbor what it was. Just a lot of people who tried their best to raise families, made a lot of mistakes along the way, were completely honest, got teary eyed watching the flag go by in a parade, and believed this was a great country. Many years later that legacy is still with me. I only wish I had thanked him then.

So I will say it now "Thanks Dad for just being my Dad through it all"