I find that people just don't understand about trucks. Not their fault, I reckon, that many look at an old pickup and see a junky old pickup.
I tend to see my youth, some of the good times with my Dad where we'd drive around the Nebraska backroads heading to this sale barn or that horse-trader's corral. From the AM radio to the smell of cross-county dust mixed with cigarette smoke, I love old trucks.
About six years ago I sold off my truck in order to purchase a used, but entirely reliable and much more kid-friendly blue station wagon. I'd resigned myself to the necessary sacrifice. My kids were worth it. My wife was worth it. The truck was in the end a selfish luxury in those days.
But there's a bit of humiliation mixed in with the grief of losing a truck that way. Call it machismo (and those who know me in real life know I have precious little of it about me), if you must. I don't know how to explain it.
But when my birthday rolled around last month and I finally had a few extra dollars and the blessing of my bride, I was elated to buy an old truck. The odometer read 98,000 miles -- which was a good sight short of the miles actually travelled by that glorious, well-armored old frame. We brought her home December 4th.
I drove that truck to the store. I drove that truck to church on Sunday mornings to preach. I drove that truck to Macy, to the nursing home, in order to visit the elders and lead worship there. My truck!
I named her Selma...
Today, she's gone. Barely over a month has passed. I'd just become comfortable in this last week feeling the bit of play in the steering wheel, typical of old Ford pickups like her.
Selma took me about 50 miles away for a pastors' conference. She brought me home. I'd been in the house for all of 20 minutes before I stepped back out the door, ready to run an errand to town. But then I saw the smoke curling up along the windshield from under the hood, and spotted the firey drops dripping down from beneath the engine. I was helpless, staring in horror the whole while I dialed the fire department.
Selma was afire. And now she's gone.
Parting is such sweet sorrow. Who ever heard of a truck spontaneously combusting like that? But somehow, perhaps, it's a little better to watch Selma go out in a Blaze of Glory than to have to send her away because I signed a bill of sale.
I'm going to miss that truck. A whole lot.
