Friday, January 20, 2012

The ol' F 150


It still makes me kinda sad when I go back home and the ol' rusty truck isn't out sitting beside the barn anymore. While I can't blame my dad for selling the rust-bucket, I sure had a lot of good memories wrapped up in that ol' ford.

For awhile, it was our only vehicle. Betsy and I sat on the tiny bench seat in the back: Betsy behind Papa, who always drove, and me behind mama, who was always in the passenger side. I only remember one time that Mama drove Papa somewhere, and that was when he had bronchitis really bad and couldn't hardly breathe. When the truck was still new and shiny, I spilled an orange drink all over the back seat (and my sister), causing my papa to have a conniption fit. A long time ago, the truck was washed and waxed on a regular basis.

The old truck started having problems when it was retired to a "farm vehicle." One cold winter day, papa was gone and Mama and we girls had to go to the Farm Bureau for something. As we were preparing to leave, mama was heard to say "Oh my gosh, I don't have any brakes!" she quickly shut off the truck and started to think. Papa was out of town and I don't think we even had a cell phone at the time to get in contact with him. So, mama figured the best thing to do was walk to the farm bureau's service station, just a little bit down the road.

Once we got there, the rough-and-tumble but helpful staff was more than willing to assist us. It was decided that the truck had a busted brake line, and the part was ordered from another local shop. The mechanic told the people on the other line that my mom was pregnant (which she certainly was not) just to get them to hurry up!

We walked to the local burger joint for lunch while the guys fixed our truck. A few hours later we were ready to roll again. The next week, Mama made the mechanics a pan of cinnamon rolls to thank them for their help. I still think they all flattered themselves to think she was a little sweet on them.

A few years later, I decided I must learn to drive or I would die. My poor patient Papa risked death by taking me out on the back roads, no doubt cringing with every stall and gear-grinding shift. I cried from sheer frustration, trying to learn to stop and start on the steep hills without rolling all the way back to the bottom. I am forever grateful for his teaching, however, because I finally learned, and to this day I drive a stick-shift.

After I finally mastered the art of stick, the old F150 became my commute vehicle. Several times a day, I drove down the road to the neighbor's farm where I fed lambs, calves, feeder steers, and the wicked demons known as hogs (I will have to elaborate on this at a later date). I pretty much trashed that old truck with my manure-encrusted boots. I also used the truck to run into town for show-lamb feed. With my new-found freedom, I cruised down the back roads, wind blowing through my bleach-blond hair. (I went through some kind of country beauty queen phase and was pretty vain about my appearance) The radio had this weird habit of getting really loud, and then fading out. But it played a Clint Black cassette pretty well. It was the only one I had, if I recall, but I remember singing along with "Better man" and "Killin' Time." I took myself and my lambs to the local fairs, one time getting lost in downtown Lexington with a load to frightened sheep. (not one of my prouder moments) I spent a good deal of that summer in that truck. Sitting in the bed one summer night, I broke up with a boy. I cried in the cab all the way home. Somehow, I drove that truck home after a calf kicked me in the knee. I probably came close to having a few accidents, and I backed into several stationary objects, denting the bumper a couple times.

If that old truck could talk, I bet it would tell some crazy stories. It would tell of chasing cows across the field, of hauling hay and feed and lambs, and of a crazy kid learning how to drive and learning about life. I bet there's still corn and manure from my boots on the pedals, and there might even be a hairbrush or a stick of lip gloss rolling around in the back seat.

So wherever you are, ol' F150, I hope you're still running, and if you're not, may you rust in peace.

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