The buildings in the Montreal neighbourhood of my childhood were heated with coal. The coal companies delivered the coal in large dump trucks manned by a driver and his sidekick. In each building, coal was stored in a space in the cellar that was accessed through a small window at ground level. The driver had to back up his truck so that a chute could be inserted into the window opening, after which the truck bed would be raised and the coal would slide down the chute into the cellar. The purpose of the second man was to help the driver position the truck. We children found this operation endlessly entertaining, partly because the trucks were huge and imposing; partly because there was a lot of noise involved and quantities of coal dust generated; but mostly because of the directions of the assistant. He would climb down from the cabin and position himself to one side of the open window. Then he would wave his buddy, the driver towards the wall while hollering to be heard above the engine’s roar and the crunching of the tires on the gravel, “Back up; back up; back up”. At this point there was invariably a large crash as the truck struck the brick wall. Only then did he shout, “Whoa”. At this point, we children would dissolve into gales of laughter. To this day, if I see a truck backing up, I can’t help thinking to myself…
Back up
Back up
Back up..
Crash
Whoa!