Friday, August 28, 2009
ode to my truck
I tell people often how much I love my truck, and I realized I have never given it its due respect here. This is a 1989 Toyota pickup. The same year I graduated from high school. We bought it with cash and it runs like a champ. Sure, it's ugly, rattly, and the smallest, most beat up truck in the F.S.F.S. parking lot, but I love it. In fact, everyone who sees it loves it. It carries everything I need it to carry and has never let us down. Once, on our way home one night, the belt broke and my husband had to rig a replacement. It was after dark and we were too far from anything to get a part or a ride. This truck (along with my husband's ingenuity) got us another 20 miles home on a belt made of ROPE. Seriously. Check it:
Before its incarnation as a farm truck, it was a commuter for a Dockers-and-loafers suburbanite. But I like to imagine this truck in its fresh-faced youth. I'm fairly certain that when it was new and shiny and pin-stripey, there was an 18-year-old boy with acid washed jeans and a mullet, blaring this out of the crappy speakers. You know I'm right.