ST. SIMONS ISLAND, GA. | One of my callings in life is as a parking attendant at St. Simons Community Church.
I fear no evil. Big trucks are another matter. Try standing your ground with a Ford F-whatever coming at you. You see a Silverado looming you think you’ll soon be issued a gold harp.
Our grandson Benjamin Malone — Hey, quit complaining. I didn’t mention him in my Sunday column — has never seen an ordinary truck. When I’m driving him to the island some mornings, he looks out the window several times and observes, “Biiig, tuh-wuck!”
He’s not even 2, and he knows his twucks. Besides, big is all they make in trucks.
Trucks are so big now, you need a Sherpa and some ropes to get into one. I can’t wait until an elevator is an option on the Ford F950. Soon, you’ll need two Rhode Island counties to park one truck.
If your neighbor to the west buys one, you’ve seen your last sunset from the porch.
Tall vehicles are the reason I have to reach up at the ATM. I drive a Prius, but at least it’s a big Prius. I’m easy to spot. It’s one of the few that doesn’t have a fading Obama sticker.
I also have a truck that I drive to my garden. It’s an aging Nissan Frontier that needs rear shocks, the air is unconditioned and the windows crank up and down. But the tires are good and it’s a stick shift.
I admit I don’t take care of it. I’m thinking about driving it over to Brantley County High to ask the soil judging team in the ag class to assess the quality of the dirt accumulated on the floorboard.
Were I to drop some mustard seed inside and forget to close a window when it rains, I’d need a sling blade to find the clutch. I tried transplanting some stuff that came up in the bed, but I forgot to water it and it died.
In a recent reversal, I misjudged as I backed it sharply in reverse and the hitch on the boat trailer caught the passenger side of the plastic bumper cover and snatched it off.
That’s when we discovered it had been attached only in a couple of places — perhaps in its history — so I got some cable and re-affixed it. (To you purists, I didn’t have any baling wire.)
I started thinking about a new truck but there is the size issue. I don’t want to strike fear in the hearts of Mini Cooper drivers on I-95. I’m also not sure I can reach high enough to load stuff in the bed. Of course if we ever get a pool, I could back up to the deep end and use the tailgate as a high dive.
Another advantage is if I get one with a plastic chrome grill I can stand on my tiptoes before I go into the courthouse to see if my hair is combed.
I wonder if men buy big trucks to prove their manhood, but if you look inside you see carpeting, power windows, heated seats and an excellent sound system. You wonder who the interior decorator was.
Men drive their kids to work in huge trucks and then sit at desks all day in a tie.
Meanwhile, it’s like the old days for me. My left arm is getting a darker tan than my right from hanging out the window as I drive. I’m going to get the air-conditioner fixed, see what that “service engine soon” light is all about and buy some baling wire.
Maybe Benjamin will learn to say, “Gwand daddyth widdle tuh-wuck.”
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