That Hopkins Kid

Oh, the times of backing that trailer into space

by Tom Brandt

Some people are natural born surgeons. Some are brilliant mathematicians. My dad? He was a gifted trailer-backer.

This is not a skill to take lightly. Backing a trailer is a specialized form of magic; an ancient rite performed with a steady hand, a sharp eye, and the patience of a saint. I, unfortunately, did not inherit this talent. My children can attest.

Every August, our family made the pilgrimage to the Missouri State Fair. For more than a decade, I broadcasted live from Sedalia during the fair’s 11-day stretch. Some years, we’d borrow or rent a camper and camp on the fairgrounds, cramming our version of “family vacation” into the heat, dust and fried food of the State Fair.

One such year, we brought the rented camper to the house so we could pack it before heading to Sedalia. My job was to back it into the driveway. That’s where things fell apart. The driveway had a slope. The trailer had a mind of its own. And my backing skills were…let’s call them “aspirational.”

Beth, in the role of spotter, did her best to guide me. It took multiple attempts. I got frustrated. Then more frustrated. And like most great marital stress tests, it all happened in full view of our kids, particularly our oldest, Morgan, who was around six at the time and soaking up every moment like a little sponge in sparkly shoes.

We eventually got the camper into place and packed up for what I lovingly referred to as our “11 days in purgatory.” Life moved on. But Morgan, as we’d soon find out, didn’t forget a thing.

Fast forward a few months later. My niece and nephew had outgrown their old backyard playhouse, and we thought it would be perfect for our kids. Dad loaded it onto a trailer and made the 50-mile drive to deliver it. We took down a section of chain-link fence to make a clear path for placement.

Then Dad went to work. From the street, down into the ditch, across the lawn, curving around the house, weaving past the Chinese Elm like it was choreographed, he backed that trailer with the grace of a ballroom dancer. One fluid motion. No hesitation. Not a word needed from anyone on the sidelines. He set the parking brake and hopped out to undo the tie-downs.

And that’s when Morgan, standing wide-eyed beside Beth, uttered the words that will live forever in family lore: “Momma, you should have married Grandpa. He’s  a good backer.”

Ouch.

It was one of those moments where you want to laugh, cry and enroll in trailer-backing school all at the same time.

That playhouse still sits in our backyard today. Just last fall, we cleaned it out for the grandkids; Micah and Shiloh even pitched in, hauling out old toys and brushing away the cobwebs. They haven’t had much time to break it in yet, but I can already picture the tea parties, Nerf battles, and popsicle breaks ahead. And when they do finally make it their own, I’ll be standing there grinning, because that little playhouse will always be the site of one of the most honest critiques I’ve ever received.

Somewhere up there, I’m sure Dad is smiling. Probably backing an angel’s hayrack into a tight corner just to show off.

Tom Brand, raised on a farm near Hopkins, has spent a lifetime collecting stories, some on purpose, others handed to him by his own kids. A veteran farm broadcaster and current director of the St. Joseph Community Alliance, he lives in St. Joseph with his wife, Beth, and still smiles every time he sees the backyard playhouse, and remembers the time he was outclassed by a 6-year-old’s honesty.