I love my truck. My red, mulch hauling, feed delivering, used oil returning, freedom machine. My truck does not have a name, it is not a "he" or a "she". The truck is more like a friend that lets me vent and lets me take a few swings to get things off my chest.
It's 10 years old, scratched up, has a few dings, and the upholstery has definitely seen better days. But there is almost nowhere I would rather be than behind the wheel, windows down, radio on. And if I am on my way to Tractor Supply, then that just about as close to perfection as I will get.
Even with a baby seat in it.
Yes, a baby seat. I turn the passenger side airbag off and strap in the kid seat. The little man rides along with me whenever I want to use the truck for something and he loves it. He is up higher and can see all the interesting things on the road, and every farm we pass results in him yelling "tractor! tractor!". He loves tractors.
But even with that baby seat, it still feels cool. Like I have a partner in farm-crime. Spending money on chicken crumbles and Urban Farm magazine; passing a rich brown field being plowed with white birds all over it and thinking it is pretty; driving down to Stuben County to visit my Grandparents farm and stopping at a back woods gas station that smells like beef jerky.
Saturday I went to pick up a load of straw bales for the chicken coop bedding. Is there anything better than seeing a pickup truck going down the road loaded with bales? Just one thing.
Driving the pickup truck loaded with bales.