"On The Things I've Learned From My Truck"

The Beauty

My transportation of choice the past two days has been a gorgeous, gas-guzzling 2014 Chevy Tahoe, the kind of SUV red-blooded males drool over, discussing horsepower and God knows what else.  This is unlike the reaction my '97 Ford Ranger pickup evokes, which would be none at all.

In all honesty, I can't really say it was my choice; it was the only vehicle available on the car rental lot.  They rented it for the same price as the compact car I had reserved, but I'm certain when I refill the gas tank to return it, that savings will disappear.

It won't be long before the guy at Avis, the rental lot, and I are on a first name basis.  When I walked through the door yesterday morning, he commented, "Is your truck in the shop again?"  He nailed it.  When problems occur with my pickup, I still need transportation for work, and that is how our relationship has developed. 

While heading home from a job the other day, I found myself thinking about the recent blog post about surprises.  My thoughts were rolling around the fact that we don't know how our day is going to unfold or what is going to happen, how little control we have over occurrences or our lives.  And then it happened--my very own surprise!

It was rush hour traffic, so I was driving with all my senses in gear.  Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed it.  It was the light.  If I didn't know differently, I'd say my little truck was participating in the Christmas-before-Halloween thing, as the "check engine" light shone brightly.  Nothing seemed amiss, so I headed on home, knowing a call would be made to the mechanic the next morning, with whom I am on a first name basis. 

The Workhorse

This red truck has been a part of my life for almost 12 years.  I have never named it.  I couldn't decide whether to attribute a male or female label, so I call it my workhorse.  I've clocked over 140,000 miles on it, with a current odometer reading of over 225,000 miles.  That means the two of us have spent a lot of time together--a lot of time.  You could say we have an on-going relationship, and  it has become an old friend.  Though an inanimate object, I have learned a lot from it, much of which is applicable to those of us who ARE animate, alive and well. 

An important lesson is that, just because a lot of highway has been covered and a lot of miles traveled, it does not mean it has no value or worth.  Granted, my truck isn't capable of participating in a NASCAR race, but there is something to be said about meandering the back roads of life,  taking one's time at a leisurely pace, absorbing and enjoying one's surroundings rather than doing laps at break-neck speed.  Yes, it is old, but it's not ready for the scrap yard yet.  It still has a lot of life left in it.

Nothing about this truck is perfect, including its exterior, its interior, and under the hood.  Each dent and scrape has its own backstory.  The gouge in the interior roof liner took place when I was trying to put my hedge trimmer in, and the angle was wrong; the scratches on the paint are from branches inadvertently scraping; then there's the dent on the side where Sophie backed out of the drive across the street and didn't turn in time.  I heard it when it happened.  

The same can be said of me.  While I don't carry wounds of war, the perfect body of infancy has been replaced by scars, each one a reminder of the incident that caused it.  The scar on my knee takes me back to second grade and a fall off the teeter-totter at school; the crown on a chipped tooth, the result of playing chase on the merry-go-round and coming up the loser; a scar on an eyebrow, caused while being the catcher in a ball game and learning what happens when standing too close to the batter and her bat.  Scars that comprise the story of my life, a virtual non-fiction book. 

My truck is well maintained.  Oil changes are performed regularly, belts and brakes are checked, tires rotated.  I do what I am told to do, when it needs to be done, by the lube-it place, the tire shop, and the mechanic.  I have learned, however, that, even with maintenance, parts wear out with time and need to be repaired or replaced.  Isn't that so true when it comes to us humans too?   Sometimes the body just breaks down, despite being nurtured and well taken care of. 

That brings me to the most important thing I have learned from my little red truck:  When the "check engine" light goes on, it must not be ignored.  As Nick, at the shop, puts it, "It won't repair itself.  It never gets better." 

We are in that same category.  While the body does heal and repair itself, there are those areas deep within that don't, those which aren't visible to the physical eye.  Ignoring them doesn't make them go away, they don't disappear, and they never get better.  They need to be faced, acknowledged, and dealt with.   Perhaps a hurt, an offense from childhood is still being carried; anger and frustration over an unresolved family situation; a fissure in a relationship and the resulting pain; grief due to the loss of a friend, be it a person or a pet. 

As humans, it sometimes seems easier to push all the feelings inside as deeply as possible rather than confronting them or having them confront us, getting them out in the open.  That is never the easier way, nor is it the better way.

While we don't have a "check engine" light that shows up, there are usually indicators of such problems.  As with my truck, ignoring them is not a solution.  Getting them out in the light of day, laying them out on the table is a good start.  God cannot heal what isn't acknowledged.

When the time comes for that 1997 Ford Ranger pickup to be set aside, I'm not sure how I am going to feel.  I have been holding on to it for quite a while.  As with the rest of my life, though, I have no doubt that I will know when it is time, and I will be ready.  My suspicion is it will coincide with the completion of this gardening gig. The allure of A/C in a replacement vehicle will no doubt help with the transition. 

Thank God for Ford Ranger pickups with their longevity and endurance.  This experience has been enough to convert me into a "Ford man"--or make that "Ford woman."  Add that to the list of "The Things I Have Learned From My Truck."