An old truck empowers those around it, as we all should do. With four side-windows that each go all the way down - far enough down to wake Ralph Nader with night-terrors - mine trusts my family and me not to ride around like Labradors, with our heads out the windows. As of press time, all noggins remain attached.I have made one concession with my own ancient pick-up, however. A few years ago the radio froze and wouldn't resurrect, so I replaced it with a newer, CD playing, HD enabled unit. It really doesn't match the rest of the vehicle, what with its "disco lights" option, but I pretty much just listen to the folk/jazz station with it.
An old truck is nonjudgmental, accepting its passengers just as they are, not as it would have them be. I engage my safety belt, but not because my truck pings me with sonar from the moment I sit down. Like a wise teacher, it keeps a respectful silence, giving me time to make the right decision for myself. In gratitude, I buckle up.
Occasional Holy Man and Luthier Who Offers Stray, Provocative, and Insouciant Thoughts About Religion, Archaeology, Human Foible, Surfing, and Interesting People. Thalassophile. Nemesis of all Celebrities [except for Chuck Norris]. He Lives Vicariously Through Himself. He has a Piece of Paper That Proves He's Laird of Glencoe.
Monday, February 18, 2019
Manual Windows, Four on the Floor, and a Cigarette Lighter; Yeah, I Get It
No Presidents Day car sales for me: What I learned from John Wayne, C.S. Lewis and an old truck