truck

“Make sure you whoa ‘er down going around the curves and when you come up to a stop.  It gets a bit wobbly.”

These are my instructions as I climb behind the wheel.  I honk and wave and tear out of the driveway --shouting warnings out the open window to the rabbits as I go.  It feels good to leave an honest cloud of gravel dust in my wake.

I love a truck.  I learned to drive in a truck.  I don’t mean a shiny new leather and chrome king cab with ac and satellite radio.  I’m talking about a FARM truck.  A little rusty and a lot dusty and smellin’ sweet and funky -- like hay -- dogs rolled in hay.  You have to hand crank the window up and down and it squeaks when you do.  There’s play in the steering and bounce in the ride ... and better hadn’t figure on the brakes to slow you down.  You need shifting skills.  You know -- an artful orchestration of the clutch and gearshift.

All this lends itself to a certain kind of travel.  I suggest the back roads, where you can go (just a little) slower -- narrow roads with more curves and cornfields, and fewer cars.  Sunset is nice, dusk is great, night-time is grand.  Cicadas, Crickets, Waylon, Willie -- maybe even a little Garth...

I cannot make up this kind of perfection.  This was the song that was playing as I rolled out: