Another editorial

[wdfifteen]

Here is part fo an editorial I wrote for one of my magazines. It's mostly a true story. Hope you enjoy it.

I have mixed emotions about Ford AAs. On one hand, they are historically important - it was the most popular truck of its day - they look kind of neat, and thousands of people love and swear by them.
On the other hand, I’ve driven one.
It wasn’t much of a drive. In fact, I barely left town. I had a small field of straw to get under cover and the forecast was for rain. I was desperately trying to get some real work done and as much as I like playing with a quaint old truck, that was not on my agenda that day. I needed a truck. What I got was Jake’s Ford AA.
My friend Jake, who passed away 12 years ago, was one of that strange breed who can be intensely proud of his truck even though it’s a piece of junk and hasn’t seen regular maintenance since Ike was in the White House. Jake had been driving the truck since the ‘40s, and he didn’t seem to mind, or maybe he just didn’t notice, all its foibles and eccentricities. He probably didn’t realize it was a piece of junk and a death trap. When Jake heard that I needed to haul more straw than my pickup would carry, he proudly announced that his truck was just what I needed and insisted that I borrow it for the job. Maybe he thought if I survived after beating myself up in that cramped cab and risking death at the wheel of the clattering heap, I, too, would find something endearing about the old wreck.
His driving instructions went something like this: “The only funny thing about this truck is the door latch is broke so you gotta use this wire to tie it shut. Remember, when you shift from first to second, you push the clutch in, pull it into neutral, and let the clutch out. When the engine gets pretty quiet, push on the clutch and pull ‘er into second. She don’t idle, so if you wait too long and let the engine die, you have to start ‘er up and gun ‘er to get ‘er going. Just try to catch it on the way down between runnin’ and not runnin’—just when it’s nice and quiet but not all the way quiet. Don’t let ‘er die too many times ‘cause the battery’s about shot and if you run it down, you’ll have to crank ‘er to start ‘er. The blinkers don’t work, so you have to use hand signals. Don’t try to use the brakes unless you got both hands on the wheel real good—they pull pretty bad. And don’t worry about the noise they make. Take care of her.”
I was perplexed by the possibility of having to coast to the side of the road and crank start the engine every time I tried to shift into second gear. And the part about keeping both hands on the wheel when I used the brakes while using hand signals to announce my intentions—well, I wondered if Jake noticed I only have two hands.
It occurred to me that old Jake may not have been as neighborly as everyone thought. What we took as a lot of friendly waving all those years may have been Jake frantically trying to signal his turns and slow down at the same time. I didn’t question him, I figured if he’d been driving the truck that way for 50 years, it must be possible.
Once I got behind the wheel it didn’t take long to figure out that as soon as you took your foot off the throttle the engine tried to die, slowing the truck dramatically and eliminating any need for the brakes. I don’t even know why the truck had brakes. With a worn-out worm gear rear end, I don’t think it would have coasted down Pike’s Peak.
I forgot the “only funny thing” about the truck and didn’t wire the door closed, so letting off the gas not only brought the truck to a near standstill, but also sent the door swinging around to slam against the front fender. In spite of the distraction, I caught the engine before it died completely and ran the first stop sign I came to in second gear, with a flapping door and a tottering load of straw, at a blazing 2½ mph.
I got the hang of driving the AA soon, and I stayed pretty busy there in the cab, sawing away on the wheel with one hand, furiously waving my other arm out the window, and keeping my foot dancing on the gas to keep the engine from dying. The whole thing might have been fun if I hadn’t had a half a mile of traffic blowing horns behind me.
I don’t know what happened to Jake’s truck after he passed on. If there is any justice, it is clattering through heaven with him at the wheel, grinning and waving at the angels. Or signaling a turn. Who knows?