The boys are always ready to ride

I crest the ridge and open the door to the truck and get out to close the gate. I stand there for a minute taking a leak as I watch the clouds building in the west. My shirt is wet through with sweat and sticks to me, now suddenly cool on this sweltering afternoon. The hayfield around me neatly cut, the farmyard below in order, I’m put in just the right frame of mind as I get back in, shut the door, and restart the engine. I have a big grin on my face as the truck bumps across the field in time to Marty Stuart’s “Hillbilly Rock” blasting out the speakers. Damn the soaring global temps and depleting fossil fuels, I do love a farm truck.

Out of the pasture, past the farmhouse, I just keep going. The tank full of gas, a couple of chainsaws rattling around in the bed alongside some salt blocks and a square bale of hay, I stop long enough at the gate to call Max and Buster. They jump in the truck cab and we turn out onto the road.

We tool past the old Cook’s Mill right as Marty launches into “Now That’s Country.” I’m not going anywhere; it’s just me and two dogs enjoying a hot summer day. We hook a left onto Johnson Valley and poke along, taking in the sights. The windows are down and Max sticks his massive head out far enough I’m afraid a stray branch might lop it off. Buster sits between us, like a kid with his parents, staring straight ahead. Both are drooling with the excitement. Apparently we all agree: the destination isn’t important. And anyway, in the long lonely years since Galyon’s community store closed, there isn’t anywhere close by to stop, even if for no more than an ice cream sandwich.

A farm truck shouldn’t be a pretty truck, tricked out with bells and whistles and buffed to perfection. Frankly, it helps if it is dirty and a bit beat up, particularly if it is going to inspire the pure bliss of a summer afternoon’s aimless ramble. It also doesn’t necessarily have to be old to have character. Like Indiana Jones says, “It ain’t the years, it’s the mileage.” My farm truck smells of sweat and ground-in dirt and pig and sheep manure, and the ripped cloth seats are covered in dog hair — a mirror of sorts to the farmer and, as such, an ideal mode of transport for which no shower is required before entry. Almost as important, it has to have a half-dozen CDs crammed into the console, with a music selection curated for the backroads, mainly country, bluegrass, and Southern rock. Because, let’s be honest, somehow Miles Davis just doesn’t cut it for a hands-keeping-rhythm-on-the-steering-wheel good time.

We turn onto Raby Town, and Marty and Randy Travis begin a duet of “This One’s Gonna Hurt You (For a Long, Long Time).” The dogs get into the act as I sing along with the boys, and start vocalizing their own rendition of the song. We rumble past the Cedar Fork cemetery, extending a tip of the hat to Mr. Kyle before making the few turns that put us onto Lynn Road.

Man, the three of us are over the moon, and I’ve picked up speed and I’m driving faster than is reasonable on the one-lane road. Marty sings us back out to Stockton Valley with “Western Girls.” Max has given up drooling out the passenger window and has pushed little Buster out of the way. All 90 pounds of him has climbed into my lap. I’m laughing like a maniac as he tries to lick my face, and I’m trying not to run off the road. Another five minutes and we pull back onto the gravel drive and head up to the barn, where the dogs dive out the open door and I head inside for a much-needed shower.

…………………………………………….

Reading this weekend: Homer (the one with pretty boy Paris).

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