Truck Love

 

I am revelling in the purchase of another truck these days. Fans will recall my saga with a dear deer, and when I got out of my truck, I said, "Oh dear; oh deer." (Well, actually, I said nothing of the sort: It's hard to be witty at 6:30 in the morning.)

Anyways, to make a short story long (I need the copy to fill the space), I finally replaced the silver thing with a black thing. I knew I had made the right choice when Mr. Eighteenyearsold gave his approval--or at least I think "cool" still means good.

I have come to learn that Dodge and Chev are the trucks of choice in the upper regions of the County of Forty Mile. My students will be disappointed when I show up with non-Dodge item, but my neighbours are undoubtedly delighted. You see, farther south and west, Ford appears to reign.

And just to make everyone mad at me, I have no idea why I even buy Fords. Of the last nine purchases over the past ten years, six have been Fords—be it 15-passenger vans, minivans, teensy-weensy, knees-in-your-cheeks Tempos, or now, pick-ups.

Next to my greatest source for life and living (the Bible, Maurice), I confer with Uncle John's Bathroom Reader. My motto: It says it, that settles it. One those brief lines at the bottom of a recent read declared that the F-Series was the number one American-made vehicle...ever. Ever, as in a long time; ever as in the time before before a Flames Stanley Cup championship.

That didn't colour my thinking, but it certainly confirmed it. What colours my thinking is the colour green, as in money, as in whether I have enough, or must go into debt, or put it on my plastic, only to dread the end of the month. If possible, I avoid debt like a poison.

In this case, it was simply take the settlement, and buy within my means. It takes a little more footwork, a little more time, but working within one's financial parameters is actually not a bad thing. It is, in fact, something we have dealt with before in this space. I'm thinking we'd all be better off if we all could at least attempt to live by those principles.

Driving a sleek black F-150 makes me feel like a kid again, say, 26 instead of 56. It makes me feel like popping in my Beach Boys eight-track, putting on my extra cool bellbottoms, and going for a soda at the local K-Mart. I'd like to slick back my hair, but now we're into the realm of fantasy.

Most macho guys need their trucks to move hay or cows, furnishings or toys—and not necessarily in that order, either. The younger one gets, I suppose, the most showy and less practical the truck can be. That places me firmly in the middle: While I am no spring chicken, I am certainly not a fall duck. On the one hand, I like the optics of this new set of wheels, but I don't want to put hay, cows, furnishings or toys in the back (or the front, for that matter). I'd get an old Chev for that privilege.

There are perks with this thing that I don't really need, perks like heated leather seats, six coffee holders, and a matching box top. I don't need them, but they came as part of the deal, and I didn't want to argue with the seller. (Just for the record, in terms of the heated leather seats, I have been on the hot seat many times before, but it's never been this pleasant.)

So if you're cruisin' down main street someday and you see this cool dude in a sleek ebony F-150, it might be Ole' Funstuff himself (that would be me, Maurice). But how do you look hip when you're bald and grey is beyond me...way beyond me.

You'll know for sure it's me when you hear the CD blaring: "She's real fine, my 5-point-4."