Today I saw someone put his manual shift S10 into neutral before turning it on. It reminded me if my dad’s S10 and how he loved turning it on long after we started rolling down the driveway, or how he’d shut it off and coast into the parking space a mile before we got there.
We used that truck for farming purposes for as long as I can remember, and I’m pretty sure it’s still running today. I don’t know if it’s ever been insured or the tabs ever were updated. That’s the beauty of living in the country. I started driving at 5 years old sitting on Dad’s lap. When I got too big, he just sat next to me and told me what to do.
My parent’s house is heated with an outdoor wood burning stove. It has a little shed, and before Dad starting buying a cord of logs, we went and gathered firewood from the woods with the truck. My brother and I would try to get into as much trouble as possible while working for Dad.
One time while fetching firewood, Dad had to run home to fix something on the chainsaw. Travis and I found a potato fork and decided to play a game our grandpa taught us.
The basic idea of the game is to throw a sharp object into the ground as close to your opponent’s foot as possible. Your opponent will slide his/her foot to the place where the knife/sword/potato fork stuck into the ground. This goes on until one of you fall. The faller wins, because the other couldn’t stick the blade close enough to the faller’s foot.
So Travis and I are chucking this potato fork at each other’s feet. I’m winning, because the fork is stabbing RIGHT next to his foot. In fact, it was making little cuts in the side of his shoe. My legs were getting further and further apart. I’m sure you know where this story is going. I threw a wild pitch, and I cut off my brother’s baby toe.
Or at least I would have if Travis hadn’t been curling his toes closer and closer to the opposite side of his shoe. Instead, I simply gouged out a healthy chunk of skin.
Travis and I raced home for him to clean up the wound, laughing the whole way and calling me mean names that I deserved. He put on a bandaid and proceeded to bleed through two pairs of socks.
We were back at the woodpile before dad had any idea of what was going on.
Image Credit: DeWit