As you may recall, last time I began the tale of how we were moving an old truck to get at some things in storage …

When Doug cleared most of the spider webs away so I could get in the old beast of a truck without getting totally creeped out, he had rolled down the driver’s side window so I could hear him if he hollered, which he has been known to do since I flunked Farm Hand Signals 101 miserably. As I settled onto the yucky seat, I took a quick inventory of my immediate dusty surroundings.

I turned my attention to the driver’s door. The cranking knob to roll down the driver’s side window is missing but the handle is there so Doug managed to roll it down anyways with just a little extra effort, The chrome lever that both opens the door when pushed one way and locks it when pushed another is at an angle that is probably not quite right but is as shiny as if it were new yesterday.

It was then that I noticed the inside door panel itself; the same baby blue as the outside of the truck but the paint completely worn off down to bare metal along the bottom of the window ledge. I ran my hand along its sleek, smooth length. It was as soft as the expensive clothes made from micro-fiber silk fabric I can’t resist touching in some of the spendy-er stores.  I wondered just how many sleeves of exactly how many denim jackets had leaned an elbow out that cranked down window to wear the paint off in such a manner.

I recall my grandfather wore long sleeved blue chambray shirts all the time when he farmed. A fair skinned man of German decent, I cannot ever remember seeing him in anything but long sleeves except for a glimpse or two of him in his stark white t-shirt before donning his shirt to head out in the mornings.

How many chambray cloaked arms had hung out this very window to chat at the elevator, waiting to unload in a bumper-to-bumper line? How many heads rested on a bent elbow arm here while waiting to be summoned by the combine driver that he was full and ready to unload? How many times had the window been left down allowing a passing shower to wet the seat and help time and the sun rot away the fabric? How many a gloved hand had reached up and grabbed onto this very spot where the paint is missing to help hoist them up into this very truck?

How many loads of corn or wheat or beans had been loaded and unloaded in this very truck? How many mouths, human or livestock, were fed because of it? This truck had seen dry land farmed local corn yields go from 70 bushels per acre in 1965 to 190 plus in 2009.

To some it is a sort of junky looking 45-year-old grain truck and to others it is memories in the making. I would be willing to bet my husband can tell you when, where and how much he bought this truck for at whose auction and, most likely, the names of anyone who has ever driven it since he has owned it. There is value in that alone. It is priceless.

When you see something worn just so like the door of this farm truck I want you to think of how it got that way and the history involved. Touch it. Absorb it. Some things outlive their usefulness and some day this truck will, too. It is my wish that some day, at some sale on some farm somewhere, someone is able to run their hand along the top of this door where hundreds of arms have rested and say a little prayer for all who helped it get that way.

Safe in the shed this farm truck waits as the time to harvest draws ever near,
Rest your arm on the place with the worn away paint, I’ll close the gate, you steer.

Strange things fascinate me. I find myself looking at things from statistical and probability points of view and I want to know how things got to be the way they are.

For instance … in order to get the barrel train out of storage for our church picnic and the combine out to get it ready for harvest we had to rearrange the storage shed we were using. It was my job to crawl into the seat of the old 1965 grain truck we fondly call the “Ton-er” and steer it while husband, Doug, pulled it out of the way with the tractor.

In case you didn’t know it, I am a girl and getting into the seat of a truck that has been sitting in a farm building for a good nine months or so without moving is no easy task. First of all, there are spider webs stringing from the outside mirrors to the box going past and weaving through the door handles, and though no arachnids are apparent, I know they are there somewhere just laying in wait to attack whatever is planning to disturb their spun homes. Secondly, this is not what you might call a sealed vehicle and the creatures that have surely made their homes in and under the seat and around what’s left of the floorboards are also waiting to assault the unsuspecting female instructed to disturb their abodes.

I am not disputing the value of this truck. It starts right up, runs and drives well when equipped with a charged battery. The hydraulics dump the box with the best of them, the sides are sound and it certainly has worth. The baby blue exterior would shine right up with some wax, I’m sure. However, the seat and interior have seen better days. The sun, time and just outright use have taken their toll on the inside of this vehicle ... I’m just saying.

I try not to be a wimp, and I really do attempt to do as instructed. "Get in the truck and steer it while I pull it" should have been much easier than it was turning out to be. I quickly scanned the area for a stick, a rag, anything that I could use besides my hand to clear away the webs blocking my entry. I thought of kicking them out of the way but considering they were about or over chest high, that option was quickly dismissed as my high-kicking days have diminished to rare occasions and I had planned to walk the next day. There was nothing.

Suddenly, my knight in shining armor (jeans and a t-shirt) noticed my obvious hesitance, dismounted his steed (tractor) and calmly cleared away the webs and opened the door so we could get on with the task at hand. I glanced at his retreating back instantly wishing he had offered to remove his shirt to cover up the seat with the rotting foam rubber exposed and full of Lord only knows what kind of creatures, but no such luck.

I tried not to look at the mouse-poo laden floor; “Buck up, little soldier,” I told myself, held my breath, climbed in, pushed in the clutch, moved the shifter to neutral and the pulling commenced. I flashed back to a time several years ago when the same scenario was taking place and Doug said that the brakes in the truck didn’t work. He was pulling me down a back street in Steen and I decided to test his statement. The first time I hit the brakes they went to the floor with no results but the second time! They grabbed like a child’s hand in a candy jar and about yanked the man off the seat of that tractor. Suffice to say he was not amused. I vowed this time I was going to use all my will power to keep my foot off the brake and, trust me when I say; it took about all I possess.

I noticed several things on this little trek and I really can’t wait to tell you about them, however….

They limit the number of words I can use; I’ve taken up the space that is mine,

I guess I’m just forced to leave this gate open and finish my story next time, hands dirty!