Ep. 109: THIS COUNTRY LIFE - Country Vehicles

country vehicles. This week we're talking country vehicles. Your signature slid that gets you from the casa to the woods and back. Now, whether you're fixing fence, feeding cows, or chasing critters that ravel amongst the flora, how you get to and fro says a lot about who you are. It's your statement without making a statement, and it's for everybody else's eyeballs. We're going to talk about what makes a good one and where you might find these units.

But first I'm going to tell you a story. My first truck was a six cylinder standard Ship three speed nineteen seventy three Ford F one hundred long wheelbase pickup. That inline's six cylinder motor didn't have enough power to pull a greasy string out of a catch behind. But it was easy to maintain, and it cranked from the seat, which is always a plus. It was powdered blue, and outside of the gun rack id installed in the back glass. It was as basic of a vehicle as you could get.

If it had been a pack of smokes, the outside of the package would have been white and the black print would have only said cigarettes. No air conditioner. The only air turning in the cab was a direct result of how much glass you rolled down inside the door. It was not fancy. I bought it in nineteen eighty two, when I was sixteen years old, with money i'd made hauling hay and trapping. It cost me seven hundred dollars. The dimmer switch for the headlights was on the floorboard.

It had an AM radio that could get the local radio station in Warren, Arkansas. But it also the grand old operator on WSM all the way from Nashville, Tennessee, clears a bell on Saturday night if I jobbed a fresh sweet tater down on that five inch nub of

an antenna that had survived my ownership. I remember that we'd all gathered up on a back road and built a fire one time, and while I was trying to fine tune the dial to get the music to play, one evening, someone found a sweet Tater in the bed of the truck and as a joke, stuck it on there and Wila sounded like we was right on the front row. So every Saturday night that we gathered, someone would fresh tater the radio and we'd light a fire.

I remember not long after I bought it, that I was taking our old cow dog Luke to the vet for a check up over in Monticella that was sixteen miles away from warn and twenty two from our farm. I'd ask a young lady whose company I was currently partial to to go with me and her mom and daddy said it was all right. So when I got to town, I scooped her up, and with her sitting in the middle next to me and Luke, loving life and seeing the sights of town from the bed of

the truck, we took off from Montecella, Arkansas. It was a big deal for a young man to have his own vehicle back then, especially one that he'd bought and paid for himself, and I was feeling plumb, growed and like a big deal and more than a little proud of myself as we rattled down the highway, fitting the image in my mind of just about every country song that faded in and out of that single speaker in the middle of the dash. Pride is said to go

with before a fall. That actual quote is from Proverbs sixteen eighteen. It says pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall. Well, in my case, it was pride goeth just like the tailgate that fell off your seven hundred dollars truck and is now sliding down the highway behind you and under the wheels of that log truck that only a moment ago looked to be

a safe distance away. Apparently, the bondo that had repaired and hit a previous owner's damage on the left rear quarter panel had vibrated loose, releasing my tailgate from its vehicular bonds and send it to its doom along the highway like a blind folded armadella. I pulled over and loaded what was left of the tailgate in the back of the truck, put Luke up in the front with us, and we went on to the vet. I decided how to work on fixing that. When I got back to

the farm. Now on the way back, on that same stretch of road, and with old Lucas checked out and good to go, and the embarrassment of that tailgate situation behind me, I felt that old familiar pride for feeling sneaking back up on me. And why not? My cow dog was healthy. I was cruising down the highway with a pretty girl, and the truck we were riding in was paid for and belonged to me, And so did that muffler that had just come loose and slid off the highway and into the clean river, never to be

seen again. It seems old Uncle Rusty had overtaken the exhaust system of my chariot of fire and separated the muffler and a good portion of the tailpipe from its designated spot at a most inopportune time. I ain't had that truck long enough to get it real dirty, and with every turn of the wheel it seemed gravity was

working against me. That last four miles back to her house with no muffler on the truck was so loud I didn't hear her say goodbye when she jumped out of the truck at a stop signed about half a block from where she lived. Oh well, Luke's Dave was me till died, and when he did, that old truck was what I used to tell him to his grave. And that's just how that happened. Now, getting to where

we want to go is important. Getting back home, now, that's important, and folks will have their drouthers about the best way to do that. Their loyaltis to a specific brand of vehicle is intense and unmovable. You hear them say forge stands for found on the road dead, or that Webster's definition of dodge is to avoid and go around Chevrolet, Toyota, GMC, Nissan, all of them. They've all got their supporters and detractors. And that's not what we're

talking about here. We're talking about not walking. And I'm a fan of any conveyance that saves me steps. I used to work with a fello in the woods who'd shake his head in pity and say, whenever we passed by somebody walking for exercise on the road, look at that idiot. The good lord on it gives you so many stiff in your life. And that moron is burning his up on the side of the highway. So to keep from burning your steps up unnecessarily, we need some wheels.

And guess what, it ain't even got to be a truck. There were several of us that worked in the woods together, managing timber on different crews. And one fellow was a hog hunner. And when I say he was a hog gunner, I don't mean he hunted hogs occasionally. Saying Harry was a hog hunter was like saying sometimes I eat when I'm hungry, because sometimes I eat when I eat hungry. What's hungry got to do with it? If we got victuals,

let's eat. That's how Harry felt about hog gunning. Harry's hunting rig was a car, a two door or mute of blue nineteen fifty nine Rambler with the rear seat removed to accommodate his dogs. The hood came from the factory with two chrome ornaments that looked like front sights on a cold peacemaker. They were placed side beside inches off the center line of the hood. Now Harry had removed them and replaced them with the tusk of a

big boarhog, and he'd wired them through each hole. He had a pair of ground grip tires on the back that would sing going down the highway, and even though it wasn't a four wheel drive, that little lightweight car was unstoppable in the woods, especially when Harry was properly motivated by the boys in Milwaukee, causing him complete disregard for the paint on the fenders or the bark on trees. There was no mistaken when Harry drove by. He made

a statement, your rig needs to serve your purpose. It should enhance your opportunities in the field and add to your comfort, safety and security. Many nights I slept in the seat or on a dog box in the bed of my truck, waiting for a hound to come back, or to just have a jump start on a spot where I thought a turkey might be gobbling. The next morning, now old Harry had removed a hole rear seat from his little Rambler customizes his rig to fit his mission

profile carry beating system. On the other hand, Michael Roseman, the owner of Sunspot hunting lights, the man who had the vision and wherewithal to say, Hey, why don't we put the light and the battery on the coon hunting helmet that electrical wizard of sunshine and literal light. My friend, my coon hunting buddy, his first hunting rig. It was

an eighty model two door old mobile cutlass. It's been said that poor folks have poor ways, and old Mikey, like a lot of us, comes from humble beginnings, but through hard work and perseverance, he's risen to the top of his game in the coon hunting world and become a successful businessman. And that his first hunting rig might have been what lit the fuse on his methodical rise

to glory. Michael told me about him and his best friend Timmy borrowing that cutlass from Timmy's aunt and how they'd load the dogs up in the trunk and leave to go hunting. He said the rear deck speakers had long been removed from that car, and hounds would take turns poking their heads up through the holes to see where they were going. I'm sure that was the sight, and one that makes me laugh every time I hear Michael tell that story. It's a feel good story to me.

Two young boys finding a way to do what they loved to do, and one of them loved it so much he now makes a living inside the coon hunting world. They don't get much better than that. God bless America. There's two examples of a country boys having rigs that suited their needs, even when at first glanced you wouldn't think so. Because if I ask you to picture a hog hunting or a coon hunting ride, I'm gonna go out on limb and say that neither one of those

conjured up a modified rambler or a cutler. Harry and Michael, they beat the system. Gary Nukelemb, you know Gary Nukelemb daddy to Clay, patriarch of the Newcomb Covey seer of panthers and other mythical creatures. Well, Gary says the measure of a man is directly tied to his ability to buy a used vehicle. I tend to agree it's as imported a skill as knowing where North is and being able to build a fire. Now, if you can do those three things, you can drive, survive, and navigate the

better places and friendlier people. Be bad at buying a car and you could end up walking everywhere you go. Moo it at the speed of flip and flop will get you nowhere fast and having you depending on others for transportation. And since I don't recall ever seeing the city bus rolling down the country road picking folks up and toting them places, you best acquire that skill stamp.

I recall my dad and I driving through Kingston, Arkansas, birthplaced a Johnny Cash on our way to Rising, where my dad's office was, and we picked up such a fellow once. This man was unknown to us, but back then it wasn't uncommon to give folks to ride you didn't know. There wasn't a whole lot of meanness going on, and my pat wasn't never out of reach of a pistol if some sort should someone take a notion to try to rob us. Anyway, this fella was what we'd

call him, an in between her. He was in between where he started and where he wanted to go. He was in between jobs and in between baths. He didn't need no money to ride with us, but since it wasn't raining and he smelled like a goat, he was assigned to sit in coach, which was the bed of the truck. He had an extra big straw hat on that was covering him well in the heat of the day.

When we picked him up, my dad told him hop in the back, and with the grace of a Boston ballerina, that rascal hopped up in there and sat down on the edge of the bed. My dad hollered at him to sit down inside, but he stayed perched up on the edge like a crow on a lightlight, one hand holding the edge and the other holding the crown of that big old hat. Now, my dad told him to sit down again, and as we pulled out on the

highway for safety, but he didn't budge. It was then I could see my father took this as a direct challenge to his authority as being the captain of this flight. He looked at me and said, he's going to sut down or I'm going to blow that hat plumb off his head. And away we went. At sixty five miles an hour, the brim with that hat started to ribrate to where you could notice it a little bit, but

that man never flinched. At seventy five, it was flopping up and down like a jackhammer, and he was mashing it down so hard with his off hand that you couldn't see his eyes. Ten minutes of eighty five miles prior, and the brim of that hat was hanging around his neck like a bouquet of flowers for winning the Kentucky Derby, and the crown of that hat looked like one of

my grandma's shire caps. We had to slow down to almost a complete stop to let someone turn off the highway, and I guess that fella had had enough and decided to d plane. Before we reached the terminal gate. He bailed out there like it was on fire, and the last time I seen him he was lighting a shuck across the ditch into the woods and cussing up a storm.

We felt bad about his hat, but had he had sense enough not to be walking and depending on other folks for his transportation, or if he had just sat down like my dad told him to, he'd still be sporting that cover. So where are we going to find you? A rig at word of mouth in somebody's yard Unless you know the used car salesman, steer clear and hunt for the deal where someone is settling it themselves. You'll see them advertised as just in time for hunting season

or perfect for the farm. You know what you're getting there, and a seat warmer probably ain't going to be on the list at probably ain't gonna be a lot of wiggle room on the price either, but there'll be some, and you need to haggle a bit. Remember what Gary Newcom said about the measure of a man and buying a used vehicle. Haggling over a price makes men feel like men, and both of you come away a winter. Remember,

we ain't buying a show truck. We're not looking for this unit to do anything outside of getting us to the country and back without breaking a sweat or swinging her arms. So a little dent here and there ain't gonna bother us. That's character like a broken pair of leather boots or scars that reminds you of a past adventure. Heck, if we add a din or two along the way, your first thought might have had nothing to do with getting it fixed. It could be thanks for the check

insurance man. Ain't nobody gonna notice that little dent, cause they're gonna be too busy looking at my neutroller motor when our cruise passed them headed to the river without order to get you squared away and pointed in the right direction. If or win and you decide to update your fleet with a new to you country cruiser. I hope you all enjoyed our visit today if you have shared with other country minded folks that might enjoy it. Remember you ain't got to be from the country, Bee Country.

This is Brent Reeves signing off. Y'all be careful.