Something 'bout a truck - an Ode

Yep, I was there, smack dab in the middle of sprawling suburbia, minivans, luxury cars and soccer moms in workout suits. Without trying to sound negative or judgmental, the word "Stepford" comes to mind (and I cringe more than a little at the connotation). Then, one muggy August day, something happened. I got a wildhair. The our-kids-are-grown, let's-try-it, break-out-of-the-mold, it's-something-I've-always-wanted-to-do, unplug-me-from-the-matrix kind of wildhair! Now, I am prone to grandiose dreams and ideas, on more than an occasional basis, and I am equally prone to be the oddball hippie flower-child, Bohemian-eclectic type in the group of conformers, but my consistent and mild-mannered, although quite countrified, husband is not. He is the most content with the same thing for breakfast every day kind of guy. How I talked him into returning to his farmland hometown of Cross Plains and living in an old house in the tiny little historic district, while opening a store in the other half is beyond me. I think divine intervention had to have been involved.

As well, I had removed myself from country music for quite some time, tired of the equally "Stepford-ish" pretty girls and boys factory cranking out songs about things of which they had not the slightest clue - like living in the country and driving an old truck, smelling the freshly plowed dirt and eating turnip greens and fried cornbread, while drinking syrupy sweet tea. I instead would listen to jazz and drink a nice glass of wine while preparing a healthy Italian dinner in our new cookie cutter house.

But then, the last kid grew up and went to college, the house was empty, and my creative energy and restless spirit was rearing its head once again, and this time, there was no reason to say no. So... we went for it without hesitation ... well, at least one of us did. And here we are 1 1/2 years later, at Historic Corner House, on the corner somewhere between "culture and agriculture" as our local celebrity, Bill Cody, likes to say on his morning show on WSM 650. Heck, I even named a candle after him (Bill Cody's Creme Brulee').

A few good things went away, but they were replaced by another few equally good things. Namely, my "Daisybug", a VW Beetle Convertible that I drove everywhere with the top down, and usually some kind of antique or treasure in the back seat. She just wasn't cut out for the country life and hauling furniture, so we traded her...for a beautiful cherry red hoss of a boy, a Ford F150 truck. I thought I would be sad, but I was surprisingly excited. Big Red was a sign of good new things happening, a new chapter in life. Plus, I admit it, if you're gonna live in the country, you gotta have a truck. It's a necessary part of life out here.

Fast forward 1 1/2 years and country music or bluegrass will be playing on the radio in the store, and in my truck. Not because they know what they're singin' about, but because I, in fact, do now know what they are singing about! And all the stuff they sing about trucks is true. I have learned that a broken down old work truck crosses all social barriers in Cross Plains. It's just a plain ole' necessity, from the wealthiest to the regular Joe. It is a deep-rooted part of culture, necessity and tradition.

And you know what? Like the country song says, There IS something 'bout a truck! It is the quintessential icon of the country. It's the symbol of hard work, and authentic, real life people. The life where what you drive is not a reflection of who you want to be seen as, or a status symbol. It's a functional part of existence out here. And today, while I'm on the side porch writing this blog, if I were a counting girl, I'd be counting mostly trucks up and down the road. And a good deal of those trucks would have a window down with a dog's happy head poking out, the drooling co-pilot and elated chief wind sucker.

You don't see a whole lot of suits out here. Even the pharmacist at the local drug store and soda fountain is a farmer too, and yep, he drives a truck and you probably wouldn't find him in any attire different than a pair of jeans.

So when people ask me what I love about Cross Plains, one thing I'd have to say is the trucks and what they represent, all shapes and sizes, new or rusty, the ones that pull the cow and horse trailers and trailers piled high with bales of hay, the ones loud and dualed out by the local high school boys, the ones going by to take their own garbage to the dump before it closes at noon, the ones parked down at the meat-and-three for lunch in between plowing the fields or setting tobacco, the one across the street with the bed full of freshly picked strawberries for sale, and of course, the big red Ford in the back yard at Historic Corner House, pulling a load of freshly disassembled old tobacco barns up the drive, piloted by a big handsome country guy, and a happy old Cocker Spaniel co-pilot, head sticking out the window and sucking in the fresh air. It's real, it's authentic, it's hard-working men and women, it's agriculture mixed with culture, it's the Heartland, it's Cross Plains. And while you may not see a lot of StepFord wives, you will definitely see a lot of plain ole Ford wives.

And that's life on the corner today, Wednesday, April 18, 2012.
Teresa