Last Weekend's Column

The Patriot Ledger didn't put my column online last weekend, and I haven't had any time to do it until this very minute. Enjoy.

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I’m not the pickup truck type.

Now, many fine people drive pickup trucks, including my father-in-law, who has one for his contracting business. His truck is on the small side, but it does the job, and has been serving as my in-laws’ only vehicle for several months, ever since my mother-in-law’s clunker of a sedan went to that great junkyard in the sky.

Then they were invited to a family wedding in Key West, more than 1,500 miles away. A few weeks before the trip, my husband wanted to talk about it.

“You know how my parents are going to Florida,” he began.

“Mmm-hmmm,” I murmured, deep in a Google search.

“Well, I was thinking,” he continued, “that it might be nice to let them borrow our car for the trip.”

I tore myself away from the pursuit of knowledge and considered his statement. Since we needed the minivan for the kids, I knew he had to be talking about our new-to-us compact. The one with the USB port and the heated mirrors. The one that gets upwards of 30 mpg on the highway.

“Their truck won’t be comfortable for such a long trip, and they’ll save a ton of money on gas if they take our car,” he continued. “So maybe we could just trade cars for the time they’re gone.”

I stifled a sigh. He was right, of course. It wouldn’t really be an inconvenience for us, and would mean a lot to them. Besides, they’ve done so much for us over the years. Of course they should borrow our cute little energy-efficient car for their trip. I nodded my assent, and handed over my keys.

Earl left before dawn one morning to make the switch, returning later with the circa-2003, brown, no-frills, commercially-licensed pickup. He gave me the key, and cautioned that if I needed to adjust the side mirrors, I’d better do it before I left for work, because they weren’t electric. I got in, was pleased to note that at least it had an FM radio, and turned the key.

The truck roared to life. Here was a vehicle with muffler issues. I gave Earl a withering look as I lumbered down the driveway, wondering how such a manly, growling truck could simultaneously squeak like a baby carriage with a bum wheel.

My maiden voyage in the truck took about 20 minutes, during which I developed a new appreciation for my own car’s suspension. The pickup bounced and jounced its way over the proliferation of early-Spring potholes, leaving me clutching the loosey-goosey steering wheel and wishing St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, hadn’t been demoted to “Mister Christopher” some years ago. This Rough Rider could have used some saintly intervention.

Since that initial commute, I’ve gotten more used to the truck and its natural ebullience on bumpy roads. Now, while driving this vehicle that suits me no better than a Harley, I don’t exactly smile, but I do clench my teeth and think happy thoughts. In a few days, my in-laws will bring my car back, and the driving will be smooth for me once again.

Copyright 2011 GateHouse Media, Inc.