The final days of Old Blue

The other night Jake and I were driving to Tractor Supply in our old, beat-up blue Chevy pickup truck. There is nothing fancy about this truck. It’s on the smaller size. The cabin is cramped. It rides somewhat low to the ground.

The truck was given to us a few years ago by Jake’s dad, who I guess had no more use for it so he generously pawned it off on us when we needed an extra set of wheels.

When we got the truck, it was already in its twilight years, but at 257,000 miles, according to last night’s odometer check, it’s still managing to hang on. Granted, stepping on the brakes sounds like an old man in the midst of a satisfying fart, and the engine emits these gasping, wheezing noises whenever it’s laboring to transition from third gear to fourth, but this little truck has come to exemplify—to us, anyway—the little engine that could. (Who said Chevy doesn’t make good vehicles?) It accompanies us on every outdoor chore—planting trees, hauling 50 pound bags of feed to the chicken coop, mulching the garden, running over our dog’s foot (an accident, I swear, she was fine)—it almost wouldn’t feel like home without it.

Old Blue accompanies me while I attempt to build a grape trellis last fall (and yes, that is a pair of insulated workmen's overalls I'm wearing)

It was pouring rain. Sheets of the stuff were coming down, making it look like the windshield was melting. We were going 35 miles per hour, a.k.a. overdrive. Jake, who was driving, had the radio tuned to a country station and Carrie Underwood’s “Jesus, Take the Wheel” was playing, a song I loathe….but I suddenly felt wistful. Something about the rain, the maudlin lyrics, the dying noises emanating from under the hood. I realized the end is near. This truck isn’t going to be with us much longer.

“I feel so close to you whenever we’re in this truck,” I said, in an attempt to sop up the sentimentality of the moment.

Jake looked at me skeptically from the corner of his eye. “Uh, that’s cause we are really close whenever we’re in this truck.”

I looked down, and this was true—the stick shift in its fourth gear position just separated my thigh from his.

“Still,” I sighed, staring forlornly out the window. “I’ll be sad when Old Blue goes.”

“All good things must come to an end eventually,” he said.

We made it back from Tractor Supply, but I fear a funeral is coming.