Goodbye is Never Easy
I have a goodbye to say tomorrow, and it’s making me sad – and truthfully, a little cranky. But before I get to the goodbye, let me give you a little back story.
I haven’t had a decent car since my roommate totaled my truck when I was 18. Not one that I really loved. I bought a Ford Focus after that, in attempt to be practical, and it was a decent enough car. But then I got married and my husband took it, leaving me with his duct taped Acura. (For the record, that wouldn’t fly with the 35-year-old me. I’m not really sure why I let it go then, but I digress.)
Since then, it’s been a string of duct-taped cars. If ever I do splurge for the car payment, I manage to find the lemon from what’s normally a decent brand. I bought a Corolla right before the recalls hit, and yes, mine was impacted. That’s actually my current car. It has all kinds of fun little quirks, including the fact that it repels hubcaps. I have no idea why, but they tend to fly off the car when I’m tooling down the highway. I’ve stopped replacing them, lest someone get injured due to my desire to have hubcaps. The car is covered with scratches, usually from flying hubcaps.
A friend once told me that my car looked like it’s been through a war zone. Sadly, he’s right. I tell myself that my little Corolla is one of God’s ways of keeping me humble.
Corollas aren’t known for being good farm cars, either. I live on a dirt road. I have horses, dogs, ducks, chickens – all animals which require hauling things like hay, feed, bedding and fencing. All things which are lots of fun to cram in the back of a Corolla that’s already busting at the seams from three growing boys.
So it could be said that I need a new car, preferably a truck. On a personal quest to live debt-free, I’m determined not to take on a car payment. Saving for a truck always gets derailed by things like massive droughts that make my feed bill go up by 566%. (That’s not an exaggeration.)
Alas, I’m truckless.
My dad just so happens to have a truck. It’s a silver Silverado with an extended cab, and it’s a blast to drive. My boys adore this truck. I adore this truck. He also happened to be out of town most of the summer. Usually, whenever he’s out of town, my sister snags his truck. She doesn’t need it; she just likes to drive it.
And while I can’t blame her, I was getting desperate, so I begged for my turn with Daddy’s Silverado. For the past two weeks, we’ve known the bliss of having a truck. I’ve stocked up on Chaffhaye for the horses, feed and bedding. I’ve picked up free wood from all over southwest Missouri, enough to finish my chicken coops, build a doghouse, and still have wood to spare.
Even if gas is $500 a gallon, it’s been amazing. (Okay, that number might be an exaggeration.)
More than the convenience, I love the rumble of the truck’s engine. I love the way it drives. And then there’s the cool-factor when I pick Dylan up from football practice. He much prefers swinging his gear into the bed of the truck instead of jamming it in the trunk of the Corolla. His little brothers love to sit in the bed of the truck to watch him practice, too.
In short, we love this truck. And tomorrow, I have to give it back.
Normally, I’m not a materialistic person. My joy comes from God, the sound of my boys’ laughter, and time with my animals. I truly mean that. Don’t get me wrong, I’d love a bigger house with a little more land. Occasionally I splurge on a cute purse or super cute shoes. I am human. But when it comes to having a truck of my own, I toe right up to obsession.
It hit me today as I was driving back from the feed store that this is my last day with Daddy’s truck, and a wave of sadness washed over me. So I did the only thing I could. I rolled down my window, cranked up my favorite Josh Turner song, and had a goodbye run over my favorite hills.
