Beech Tree News Network

I’ve told my husband, Garey, if he passes away before I do, I will sell his nice green Chevy truck then use the money to restore his old 1990 red and white Chevy pickup.  The red and white truck has sat idle for the past year—it needs brakes and other important repair—and that’s grieving me.  I miss it.
    Sometimes, vehicles take on personalities of their own, and that truck definitely has personality.  Remember when I wrote about the time I got out of our pickup, leaving it running and in gear, pointed down the hill, with Garey riding in the bed, along with various pointed objects?  It was that truck he bounced around in all the way to the tree line before the truck decided to stop.
    Most of the work on our farm has been handled by tools and supplies the old truck hauled around for us.  We fenced in forty acres together, Garey, me and that old truck.  It tagged along as we hacked our way through under brush and unrolled and strung countless strands of barbed wire. 
    That truck hauled our dog, Scout, to McDonalds for his sausage and biscuit, carried Garey around the neighborhood searching for him when he got in one of his rogueing spirits, and finally hauled him to his burial site after he’d been hit and killed by a car.
    Our granddaughter rode around in the cab of the truck with us, out onto the farm one evening when we went looking for my horse that hadn’t come to the barn with the other horse.  She had dressed herself in a tee shirt, panties and rain boots.  I can still see her anxious little face leaning out of the window, her eyes searching the surrounding field then the look of relief when we found him.
    That old truck often pulled a trailer loaded with an even older tractor and finishing mower to the lot we own next to our business when it was Garey’s turn to mow.  This year, Garey got a zero turn mower that fits handily onto a smaller trailer, pulled by his green pickup, but I will always treasure the picture of Garey on that old tractor, the guys who worked for us at the time grinning and shaking their heads at Garey’s old fashioned ways. 
    The bed of the old red and white has carried hoes and shovels and rakes to the garden for us, the front seat reserved for seeds and hats and water bottles.  Garey uses the space behind the seat for storage, which means I have to sit on the edge of the seat when I drive, for fear that if I move the seat forward, everything behind me will come tumbling out.  I don’t mind.  I drove it around for my children when they were youngsters, raising their crop of cantaloupes and water melons to sell for extra spending money.  I can still see them sitting on the tailgate with their hand-lettered sign, Natlie telling Nikki that she would hold the melons up and appointing Nikki the role of Vanna White to point and direct everyone’s attention toward her.
    The paint is peeling on the old Chevy.  It has some rust spots, as well, and the muffler is way too loud, but its sound is instantly recognizable.  I can hear its approach when Garey turns in on Woodbury Loop, a good three minutes from the house.  I miss that sound.  It is an “I’m home” announcement, unlike the stealthy crunch of tires on gravel the green truck makes, a sound like every other pickup that comes up the driveway.
    When Garey bought his green pickup, I put the first scratch on it, driving it through the drive-through at the bank.  The truck is an extended-cab, long bed.  For me, it’s like driving a tank, and I’m a nervous wreck every time I climb behind the wheel.  The red and white Chevy has the weather-worn look of an old soul.  That’s what draws me to it, much like the ease I feel when approaching an old person.  It’s like the truck announces, “Climb on in.  I’ve seen it all.  What’s the worst you can do to me?”
    If Garey doesn’t get the old red and white in working order this year, I’m going to take matters into my own hands.  I have junk that needs hauled off, junk the green truck is too persnickety to allow in its clean, scratch-free bed.  The old truck won’t mind.  Hopefully, you’ll see us soon, going through Morgantown with a load of scrap.  Listen for the muffler.  You’ll hear us a good three minutes before you see us.