My husband backed into a space at Carmax and we sat in the truck one last time. “Are you sure you want to do this? It’s barely got any miles on it. It’s much cooler than a minivan.” He just nodded and reiterated all the reasons why the truck no longer made sense for our life, commuting between two states with three dogs and a cat. I got out and looked back at it, seeing the succession of events that started thirty years ago which had converted me into an unlikely admirer.
The first time I ever saw a pickup truck that had four wheels across the back instead of two, I rolled my eyes and shook my head. “Ridiculous. Why does he need four back wheels? The guys here have absurd egos, and they pack them into these stupid oversized trucks.” I was behind a Ford F-350 after moving to the Eastern Shore of Maryland from a more cosmopolitan area where such vehicles were not commonplace. In some ways, it was a little like moving to another country where the culture and customs are all a bit different and you’re not sure you belong.
A change in my life brought me to this place as a youngish single woman. Dating was challenging and I mostly avoided it, at least with locals. The town was too small, and if you went on one bad date, there was no escaping. You’d see the guy the next day at the grocery store. But then I was introduced to Bill, a part-time resident, and when he came to pick me up for our first date, it was in a blue Ford F-350 pickup truck, four wheels across the back.
Okay, fine.
Before he backed out of my driveway, we sat a moment and, while organizing some change in the console, he said, “I cleaned the truck for you.” I looked around at the interior, not noticing anything special. “You did?” He nodded. “It was a mess before, but I knew I was coming to get you and I wanted to make it nice.” I shrugged. “Okay, thanks.”
We had to stop for fuel on the way to dinner and as he was getting out of the truck, I said, “I thought these things had two gas tanks.” He frowned. “No. Why did you think that?” “Isn’t that the reason they’re called ‘duallies’?” He had just stood up fully on the pavement next to the truck but my question sent him doubled over in laughter as he shook his head to correct me. It was the first of many times he would laugh that way at some absurd misunderstanding I had over the course of our short marriage and it always made me happy to be the cause.
As our relationship progressed, I learned how wrong I was about the truck. For him at least, it had nothing to do with ego. He’d started a business recovering historic trees that fell in storms or had to be removed because of disease. These were not just any historic trees. He had used his charms on the powers in charge of the estates of our country’s first presidents to repurpose the wood from trees planted by George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, James Monroe, and others. During our years together he curated a wood exhibit of incredible works each made by a different artist around the world who’d interpreted that president’s history through their artistic vision, including his own. These works found homes in the Smithsonian and esteemed galleries across the country.
One day we drove the truck back to the “more cosmopolitan area” where I used to live to run some errands. As we sat in a parking lot, I saw a middle-aged couple in a tiny car across from us pointing at the truck, shaking their heads and rolling their eyes. I don’t know if they realized we were still in the truck but I recognized their misunderstanding. It was me, all those years ago, sitting behind my first F-350. They had no idea how this truck was used. Retrieving and hauling tree trunks the size of skyscrapers on a flat-bed trailer in its tow. Preserving our country’s history into works of art, and saving trees from filling up landfills where they were originally headed. He was scheduled to give a lecture at Duke University the week after he died on the importance of urban reforesting to our environment. But all these people saw was stupidity and ego, as they sat confirming their own misbeliefs.
I stared at them in their little electric vehicle laughing at him for driving a big truck like he needed it to compensate for his manliness. When they caught me watching, they rearranged their faces and drove off, carrying their misconceptions and judgments with them. I couldn’t say much even if I’d had the chance. I’d once been them.
We moved the year before he died to a very rural part of Virginia and I was left behind on a tree farm with the truck. I had to learn to drive it so I could take trash to the dump and deal with the remaining wood from his business. So now I was the five-foot-three-inch woman driving a dually. I commanded respect from the locals any time I was on the road.
When I met my current husband, he drooled over the truck almost as much as me. He asked if he could drive it, and that’s all it took to win him over. That old blue truck was facing its own demise by then and we eventually traded it for a brand new black F-350. It still pulled the trailer, but for different reasons as my new husband hauls the rockets he’s made in it, almost as tall as the trees.
After ten more years of driving a big truck, our lives were returning part time to the place on the shore where I first saw one. Only this time our pack of critters brought us to it in the minivan.
That day in the parking lot walking away from my last F-350 was oddly poignant. I’ve learned lessons in life through some of the most innocuous ways. Dogs taught me about silent communication, death taught me that life’s greatest joy comes in small hidden moments, and a truck taught me never to misjudge something simply because it’s different. Those trucks were a common thread through two great loves. I’m grateful for the lesson.
p.s.: If you liked this story, please click on the heart at the bottom or top of the page. It helps others discover Our Hundred Years and makes me happy!
Really enjoyed this story. I had a Ford F150. Once I learned how to back in, I really liked it. I loved being able to look down on other people in their cars and also assess what was going on down the freeway. My husband forgot to mention to me that you had to check the oil often as it had over 150,000 miles on it. Sadly, I blew the engine.
Surely sainthood awaits those who forsake yon truck for... that vehicle... through kindness for the furry friends.