I miss the truck.We had two vehicles on the farm.  A car, suitable for taking the family too and from church, running errands around town, or making the trek to Fargo or Minneapolis as needed, was the main mode of transportation.  I can remember a Chrysler station wagon, then the old Chrysler LaBaron, then the Buick LeSabre.

The second vehicle was the pick up truck.  In our case, it was the old Ford F-150 that was about as old as I was (1977 model, versus me being a 1975 model).  We worked well together.  That old pick up truck was my means of transportation - my means of freedom, for most of my high school years.

She wasn’t the classiest ride in town.

By the time I got to her, most of the letter and the white stripe was off the side.  Large rings of rust surrounded the wheel wells, and the right front fender had been replaced where my brother had slide into another truck deer hunting.  The floor boards had all but rusted away, and you had to be careful not to drop anything on the floor.  Nails, bolts, tools, and small farm animals could fit through some of the holes.  But it was entertaining to drop cheese puffs through the floor and onto the highway while going sixty miles an hour - they just left an orange puff behind the truck.

The old pick up’s condition continued to deteriorate once I got a hold of her.

There was the day driving to school when I heard a thump coming from the box behind me.  Turning around, I noticed that the topper had literally rotted off the - the side posts and bars literally turning to mush and topper was sprawled across the box like a calf on the ice.

Then there was the day that that tailgate came unhooked on one side while driving into school while doing fifty miles an hour down the gravel road.  That kicked up some dust.  The box was rusted so bad that the sides were shaking and literally couldn’t hold the tailgate in place any longer.  Into the box the tailgate went, then out to the garbage pile.

I started driving it to town regularly the spring of my junior year in high school.  Dad and Mom were making regular trips for Mom’s cancer treatments, so having the pickup meant that I could do errands around town, bring my sister to some activities.  Swing by the elevator and pick up feed as needed or parts from Cenex or Napa.

I did try to keep her in good condition.

When I was going to take my date to prom in her my junior year, I washed and waxed her and her old forest green paint shone in the spring sunshine.  I put cardboard down over the holes in the floor and some carpet squares on top, cleaned out the two decades worth of dust and grim from the cab.

When my Dad got home from Fargo that night, it was the first time I had ever really seen him that mad.

“What did you do to that pickup?” Dad demanded.

“What are you talking about?” I asked, “You know that is all I have to take to prom if you want to go and see Mom on Saturday.”

“Well, yeah, but you didn’t have to go out and get it painted!”  Dad said in anger.

“I didn’t pain it!  I washed it!” I exclaimed.

“Huh,” Dad said, still a bit taken aback, “I forget it was that color.  Well, anyway, once you get that protective layer of dirt off, she is just going to rust all the faster now!”

Dad was probably right - the old girl did seem to rust a little faster after that.  But I think even Dad appreciated the fact that she was a lot warmer in the winter with those manholes in the floor covered up with those carpet squares.