I should have had some inclination of what was ahead when dating the guy who was to later become my husband. He used to pick me up and take me to school in an old farm truck. I had to hike my feet up on a floor full of rope, tools, extra coats, oil cans and all the other paraphernalia that goes with the farm. However, I gave it little heed, not thinking what might lay ahead, were I to become his wife.

After we were married, driving the farm truck, on occasion, seemed to become a part of my duties as help mate. But it was not without a certain amount of repercussions while I was under the wheel. It was not really my fault, I contended, but the circumstances that presented themselves as I drove. My husband, the skilled farmer, is a man of few words, therefore, he does not waste unnecessary time explaining the rudiments of performance just to take an ancient farm truck to town to pick up feed for the hogs. Never having driven the farm truck before, I wasn’t accustomed to all the knobs and buttons. A few miles down the road I noticed a shiny button on the dash. Was it a throttle to reeve up the engine a bit? I was going very slow. Curiosity got the best of me, so I pushed it. Suddenly the front of the truck bed began to ascend to the sky. I looked back helplessly. What to do? Finally getting the truck stopped with my ascended bed behind me, I sat there red-faced and quite embarrassed, along the main through fare where all good farmers travel. I was trying to push buttons frantically to get the bed in its proper road functioning position.
Very soon, a neighboring farmer stopped to help me with my dilemma. “They must have wired the hoist to that button,” he explained as if everybody did it. He was kind enough not to ask me why I pushed the button in the first place.

Another farm challenge was to take an evening meal to our farmers at a large lay of bottom ground. By then, we had been married a while and I now had acquired a passenger,our daughter,Laura. who was about six at the time. We headed out thru the bottoms, taking the most reasonable and shortest route, we thought. However, hubby of few words had failed to mention that in the middle of the bottoms was an area they called the Goose Pond, a wet lay of land that hardly ever dried up for spring planting. So, about midway across, I noticed the wheels turning very sluggishly “Hang on to the ice tea!” I yelled. Then I gunned it! Eventually we came bouncing through to our group of hungry farmers, truck and windshield all spattered with mud, and the tea container slightly less full than when we started, but never the less ready to serve our meal. Hubby just sat there scratching his head.
“You just came through the Goose Pond! No one comes through the Goose Pond in the spring!”he announced while the others doubled over with laughter.
“I did? You didn’t tell me anything about a Goose Pond.”
“I thought you knew.” was his quiet comment.
“Well, it just goes to show that where there’s a will there’s a way!” I said.

Not all of my farm truck ventures have been for the sake of the farm. One time my daughter decided she would like a white and gold princess style bedroom outfit with canopy. We finally located one at a discount store about 40 miles away. The only catch was we were going to have to pick it up ourselves in the LARGE FARM TRUCK.
“But Mom, you haven’t driven this truck very much!” daughter lamented as we started out.
“Never mind, I can get us there just fine. We’ll take the back roads.”
First we had to pick up the bedspread and ruffled canopy cover ordered from a catalog store nearer to us. Entering the town, I proceeded to take a shortcut across to the store, only to hear,
“Mom there’s a sign on this street that says LARGE TRUCKS PROHIBITED!”
“Well, it’s one way and I can’t get off now, so we’ll just have to proceed a few more blocks.” Luckily it was a street not heavily traveled.
Shortly we entered the mall where the catalog store was,
“There it is again, a sign LARGE TRUCKS PROHIBITED” Laura exclaimed
Well, they will surely let a large grain truck stay five minutes to pick up a ruffled bedroom set.
Did I just say something weird?

Finally we headed on down the highway to our other destination; the discount store, to pick up the pretty furniture.
I presented my purchase receipt to the man in the furniture department. Looking at it matter-of-factly, I was directed to drive up the the small door on the side.
“I don’t think that will work.” I stated very determined
“Well, why not?” he returned.
“Well, the bottom of my truck, will come about 3/4’s of the way up on your side door.”
“What kind of a truck do you have lady?” He looked at me strange.
“It’s a grain truck. Very large.”
“Sure.” he said strolling outside to take a look.
“Pull around to factory delivery.” he instructed, scratching his head.
We loaded up our feminine merchandise by hoisting it up into the huge grain bed. He was shaking his head when we left.
“Mom, these road trips with you are never dull.” preteen volunteered as we made our way home.

My last and final adventure led to my demise as a truck driver. After this episode, I resorted to other vehicles, mainly because our farm trucks had been run so long that only a loyal and faithful steer master would drive them.
One afternoon however, there was no other vehicle available, but our old beat up pick-up. I needed to deliver some curtains I had made for my Mother’s French window at her apartment in town. I was so excited to see how they would look. Surely I was up to the challenge of steering that pick-up that could sway slightly to the right when steering with engine that sometimes over heated but not often. So away I went down the highway to my Mom’s apartment fifteen miles away. Just before reaching my destination. I noticed the truck seemed to be getting hot. I quickly pulled to the side of the road just as the engine died.
Very soon a kind man. married to a teacher friend of mine, came by and offered to help. He told me he would take me to the nearest gas station, just three miles down the road so I could make arrangements to have the truck towed. So I thanked him, gathered up my curtains and we were on our way.We stopped at the garage to make the arrangements, then he delivered me a few more blocks more to my mother;s apartment. We were looking over the curtains when the phone rang.
“Mom, are you okay?” my daughter, now grown excitedly exclaimed!
“Sure, why wouldn’t I be?”
“Did you know your truck just burned up on St Rd. 41?

Well after that incident, I completely retired from truck driving. I’ve decided it takes a a special person to drive a farm truck. You have to “feel it” to be in sync with what it’s all about, That means being connected to all its irregular contraptions that have come on board unmarked through the long tenure on the farm. You must also be willing to take in consideration all the junk piled on the floor board that you have to kick away to reach the foot feed and brake. But most of all, a farm truck, with its dirty interior and hair on the seat from the dog that usually rides along, is a legend of its own and we’ll let it rest at that.
I now drive a corvette.