Maybe I've been wearing my cowboy boots a little too often. Maybe it's the environment. Or maybe it's the thrice-weekly trips to Hope Depot, as I inadvertently referred to it in a recent email to my husband, the subject being my surprise at finding an entire aisle of drill bits, and my subsequent dismay that not one had flashing lights and loud sirens announcing that it was precisely the right 1/8 inch drill bit for my Makita, a brand that doesn't seem to warrant much shelf space in these here parts.
Whatever the reason, I've had trucks on the brain. Not just any old truck. What I have in mind is an old, funky truck. (But one that, in my fantasy, is already beautifully restored and runs perfectly.) Kind of like the one Clint drove when he was romancin' Meryl in Bridges of Madison County.
Besides the obvious aesthetic appeal, I want to be able to toss things into the back and not worry about it. Like flea market finds, furniture, a bike, or tree stumps, for example, like the ones I "found" last Sunday.
OK, I suppose liberated is the more appropriate way to put it. I had walked into town to see what was supposed to be the demolition of a landmark building.
Beloved icon to some, dangerous eyesore to others, it's still the tallest building in town, and, decrepid or not, you have to admit it has a certain falling-down charm.
Had the demolition gone as planned, I would have missed it completely, as it had been scheduled for 6:30 a.m., not 10:30 a.m., which was when I sauntered by. Apparently some 200 townsfolk had gathered earlier, and an enterprising coffee and donuts seller, too. But much to the crowd's chagrin, there were no explosions. No bulldozers. No heavy equipment of any kind.
Later I read that it was your run-of-the-mill (pun gleefully intended!) delay, something about proper permits not being pulled. Not the eleventh hour "Save the Old Grain Mill" governor's pardon that I had hoped for.
Still, with the crowds long gone, the opportunity to poke around -- and how many more would there be? -- was irresistable. As I made my way toward the abandoned Panhandle Milling Co. Hi Quality Feeds Seeds building, unbidden thoughts raced through my mind. Like how all this old wood could surely be put to (my own) good use.
If only I had a truck.
It was at that exact moment that it kicked in. The truck lust.
If only I had a truck. No one would miss a few pieces of this old rotten wood, or even a truckload, for that matter. They were just going to bulldoze it anyway, for cryin' out loud. It'd be kind of like a little souvenir. Everyone does that. I'd put on my work gloves, grab a few select planks, toss them in the bed of my truck, and speed off to my doesn't-exist workshop. Where I'd no doubt craft pricey "primitive" furniture made from the genuine remains salvaged from one of Idaho's oldest grain mills.
Oh, the sheet metal. I could envision how I'd use it to panel my unfinished garage, kind of This Old House meets Orange County Choppers.
And that fan. It's a work of art in itself.
Reassured by my creative duty, I ducked under the string roping off the perimeter, with barely a glance at the No Trepassing sign. Inside the not-quite-gutted structure were even more treasures. I was so involved imagining my interview with Katie, and the subsequent influx of new clients that I tripped on said genuine remains, narrowly avoiding a nasty encounter with some exposed nails.
I advanced more gingerly. So much raw material.
If only I had a truck.
Not that I would ever give in to such evil thoughts. How's that for willpower? And luckily I had walked over. Besides, there were limits to how much I could cram into the trunk and back (leather upholstered) seats of the Volvo.
I was about to leave the scene of my would-be-crime when my gaze landed on the tree stumps. I picked one up. It wasn't as heavy as it looked. My eyes narrowed. They would be mine. They would become found Zen sculptures. Truck or no truck. But why walk home shouldering a tree stump, which might arouse suspicion? Besides, I could only carry one at a time. I wanted all five.
So later I returned, my heart racing, in the Volvo. It was still light. Clearly, desire had emboldened me. Amazingly, no one else was around. Where were all the other bounty hunters? I hauled my stumps, one by one, flicking off dirt, spiders, and carpenter ants with uncustomary aplomb. Back home, gazing from the hammock at my stumps, I felt nothing short of triumphant.
I know. I'm going straight to hell.
That being the case, why go in a handbasket if I can go in a truck? And suddenly, it appeared. This very afternoon. I was driving with my son, whom I'd picked up at the Spokane International Airport earlier in the day. We were practically home, about 12 miles south of Sandpoint, when to my left I saw a brilliant flash of red metal and gleaming chrome, just resting there, waiting in a green meadow, as if in a dream. I slammed into the middle turn lane and spun a fine u-ee.
A gravel road took me to it. I got out, and walked across the grass. And there it was. Preening between the road and the entrance to the Cocolalla Corner Antiques shop, which I'd never even noticed before. (And a very nice shop it turned out to be, with an equally nice proprietor, Donna Johnson.)
Yes, a 1964 Ford F100. A classic example of American automotive engineering and styling. And one of the best-selling trucks of all time.
You can imagine, then, my delight at seeing this:
Why the price was going up instead of down, I don't know. I didn't care. Inside on the dash was another sign. "It's going to be painted in April or May July or August, then the price goes up to $2,900."
Damn. I called my husband as soon as I got back on the road. "You're not going to believe the truck I saw," I said. "This may be the one."
Oddly enough, in this strangely parallel life we lead, my husband had also spied a truck he thought would be perfect for me. A truck, as it turned out, that was also a Ford F100. Random coincidence? Perhaps. Or are the transportation angels telling me to get my butt in gear before Earle Scheib gets a hold of it. The truck that is.
And now, more beauty shots.
So there's a little paint damage.
And it needs a new windshield.
Just look at those wheels, those hub caps!
It even comes with the camper and an extra set of tires!
(To be continued.)
I watch “Laguna Beach,” the so-called reality show on MTV, with the same mixture of horror and fascination you feel when you’re slowly driving by a really bad car crash. You don’t want to look, but you can’t help it. 
