Oh, for the love of an old-school pickup truck
When I was a teenager, my mother was vehemently against me owning either a Jeep or a pickup truck. She was convinced either would lead me down paths less traveled — any of which could end in some sort of trouble.
My first car was therefore a two-door Chevy with chrome wheels, a kick-butt stereo and swivel bucket seats. Mysteriously, and much to my mother’s dismay, I was still able to find some sort of trouble anytime I so desired.
Ironically, there were a couple of times when having a pickup might have actually gotten me back out of trouble without her ever knowing about it — you’re a lot less likely to get hopelessly stuck in the ruts of a muddy, rural two-track with a pickup truck. Nevertheless, I was bound by honor and economics to obey my mother’s wishes until I turned 21, at which time I was able to convince Mom I just might be capable of navigating the narrows of life behind the wheel of a pickup. For the next 36 years, I was never without one.
I don’t want you to get the wrong idea here. The pickup thing was never about pride. The big, shiny, loud and expensive trucks were for other guys. There has never been a fancy truck in this guy’s stable. I’ve never needed a truck to boost my ego. I wanted it to haul duck boats and muddy dogs out of the swamp and later on to carry firewood, lumber and playground sand to my backyard.
Most of the trucks I’ve owned were limping out their last few laps before the metaphorical glue factory. Still, every one of them was more than capable of fulfilling the mission of hauling tree limbs to the compost center and composted mulch on the trip back home, along with any other duties that might arise.
If there’s a poetic epitaph for the trucks in my life it is this: Old pickups never die. They just rust away.
About a year ago, what was to have been the last of my pickups left me as a rotting cripple, sporting a clean break right through one of the rails of the frame. Even at that, a guy much handier than me saw the promise of an engine and transmission with “only 200,000 miles on it” and determined the whole mess was worth the $700 I was asking. The truck was limping like a three-legged pony as he drove it home. Still, he is probably driving it around happily today with a plywood bed and four mismatched tires.
I was to be done with trucks. With my wife’s SUV in the garage and a fleet of bicycles in the basement, my transportation needs appeared to be fully met. Then winter came and stayed. I ran low on firewood and quickly learned throwing wood into the bed of a truck is infinitely simpler, quicker and more convenient than carefully stacking the same in the back of a fancy SUV.
Next came spring, when I took a hard lesson on hauling mulch in the carpeted cargo bay of a glorified passenger car. With autumn closing in and a dog that loves a good run in the mud calling me his best friend, I knew what I needed to do. The hunt for a “new” truck was on, and it would be an adventure all its own.
Come back next week to follow the ups and downs.
Kristin and John Lorson would love to hear from you. Write Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email John at jlorson@alonovus.com.