Beech Tree News Network

My husband, Garey, loves telling a Jerry Clower joke that goes as follows: A farmer is driving down the road when he spots a pitiful old mule standing in a pasture, and he stops by to see if he can buy the poor animal from the owner.  The owner sells the mule to the farmer, who takes the mule home, feeds him, and gets him back on his feet.  A few weeks later, the farmer’s friend drives by and sees the mule in the farmer’s field.  He stops by and tells the farmer what a good looking mule he has and asks how much he wants for him.  The farmer says $100.  The friend pays the farmer and takes the mule home, where he brushes the animal down, fluffing out his mane and tail, giving him a very manicured look.  When the farmer comes by the next week, he is impressed by the mule’s appearance, and buys the mule back from his friend for $150.  The farmer takes the mule home, where he trims the mule’s mane and puts oil on his hooves.  When the farmer’s friend sees the mule a couple of weeks later, he offers to buy him back.  He gives the farmer $200 for the mule and takes him home, where he puts shoes on his feet and braids ribbons into his mane and tail.  A couple of days later, a stranger is driving down the road when he spots the mule.  He asks the farmer’s friend what he’ll take for the mule.  The friend says $250, so the stranger pays him and takes the mule with him.  A week later, the farmer notices the mule is no longer in his friend’s pasture.  “Where’s the mule?” he asks his friend.  “I sold him,” the friend replies.  “What the heck is wrong with you?” the farmer asks in disbelief.  “We were both making a good living off of that mule!”

     That joke reminds me of the guys at work.  They’re always trading vehicles or talking about trading vehicles or looking at vehicles on fb marketplace that other guys their age want to trade.  They read posts aloud to one another: 1985 Nissan 720, 5,000 dollars or will trade for a Jeep; 1980 Chevy C10, 4x4, four-speed, body has very little rust, 2200 dollars; 1995 Nissan hardbody, bullet hole wheels, 1500 dollars (why anyone would want bullet holes in their wheels is beyond me).  They argue about which trucks are worth the money or which ones are priced too high.  They disagree vehemently then call each other names I can’t print here, and one asks the other if he has been smoking crack, and on and on it goes.  The conversation entertains me immensely, as I sit at my desk paying bills and filing papers.  It is a welcome distraction from an otherwise dull task.

          Presently, Dillon seems to be the frontrunner as far as the most trades made.  When he first started working for us, a year ago, he arrived at work in a burgundy and white 96 Ford F150.  A few months later, he traded that truck for a solid white 2003 Ford F150.  Soon thereafter, he came to work in a blue Nissan pickup.  I asked if he had traded the white Ford for it, and he said, “No, the Ford is my main truck.  The Nissan is my trading truck.”  This was new information for me.  I tried to wrap my head around owning something for the sole purpose of trading it.  It must be a “guy” thing; although I have been wanting a Michael Kors designer bag.  Maybe, I should consider obtaining a” trading” purse.

          Dillon kept the blue Nissan for about five months before he either sold it or traded it (I lost track) for a white Nissan pickup he got from one of our former employees, Zach, who had owned the same truck five times before.  Dillon traded the white Nissan to his own dad for a red and black GMC Sonoma.  His dad traded the white Nissan back to Zach for a dirt bike and some cash, which means Zach has now owned the white Nissan six times—I guess he is making a good living off of it.

          Recently, I asked Dillon how many trucks he has owned in his lifetime.  The list is as follows:  one 1985 Chevy, five different Ford F150s, four Nissans, and one 1973 Ford F100.  “The ’73 Ford had a 302 in it, five-speed in the floor, and American racing wheels,” Dillon remembered fondly.  He was like an old man reminiscing about his lost youth.  “I didn’t have any place to keep it in the dry, but I kept it for a long time,” he said.

          “What’s a long time?” I asked.

          “Eight or nine months,” he said.

          Dillon is eighteen years old.  Eight or nine months is a long time for him.

          I get too attached to things to trade them.  I’m still mourning the burgundy and white ’96 Ford F150 Dillon traded for the 2003 truck.  When I told him as much, he said, “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll own it again one day.”

          “Not if the current owner puts new tires on it and braids ribbons through the front grill and tailgate,” I thought.