Notes from Maine - 2022/07/17

It’s dry and hot here. There’s no growth in the pasture for the horses, so I’ve been feeding hay. I can’t remember a time when I had to feed hay all through the summer. Hopefully we’ll get some rain soon and chase some of the brown away. The walnut tree out front has prematurely dropped most of its nuts, and the apple tree is giving up on apples. They litter the ground. Albert takes his frisbees down to the creek to lose them under the water, but it’s almost dried up.

When I was a kid, we would have loved this summer. We wanted every day to be hot, sunny, and perfect for swimming. I would rather have a mix now. A nice rainy day of sitting on the porch with a book would be lovely. I suppose it could be worse. I just looked up my area on the US Drought Monitor, and we’re only in a “Moderate Drought.” I would hate to see, “Severe,” “Extreme,” and Exceptional.”

Last week, I bought my father’s truck. His will is clear—I have to liquidate all property and possessions. So, as the executor, I had to sell the truck to myself for fair market value. I’m not complaining. The estate has enough money that I’ll get it back in the end, and my brother and sister will get their fair share of the asset. None of that bothers me.

It’s weird driving his truck though. I’ve had my GMC Envoy for seventeen terrible years. Every few months, something breaks and I have to repair or replace a part. Ever since the warranty ended, it has been a struggle to keep that thing on the road. I’m stubborn when it comes to such things. Even now, I would rather drive the Envoy over to the feed store than take Dad’s truck. I’ll get used to it, I’m sure. Maybe I’ll even like it eventually? Either way, I’ll adjust. I can’t possibly hate it as much as that stupid Envoy. 

Dad gave me a truck once before, years and years ago. He had an old GMC pickup that had been through a couple of “Acts of God,” and he was replacing it. When you strike a deer, or a deer strikes you (one of them ran into the side of Dad’s truck when he was driving it), they call it an “Act of God,” for insurance purposes. Dad told me I should buy his old truck to take stuff to the dump with. He was obsessed with the dump.

I said, “No, thank you,” at the time. I didn’t want to buy the burden of having his truck.

He took offense.

“It’s a perfectly good truck. You need it to take your trash to the dump and bring back whatever you find there.”

“No. Thank you, but no.”

Finally, he filled out the paperwork and asked if he could borrow a dollar. When I said yes, he signed the bill of sale, having sold it to me for one dollar. I sighed and accepted it.

I started using it to go to the feed store and actually found it somewhat handy to have around (to go to the dump), but then it started to rust. One day I realized it was no longer coming to a stop when I stood on the brake pedal. This was one of the truck’s features that I needed more than most. The brake lines had rusted through and were shooting fluid everywhere. 

Another time, the truck died in the pasture. The spark plug wire harness had failed (I don’t understand how, but it did). I rigged up one of my horses and had him tow the truck back up to the driveway so I could work on it.

Every time that truck broke, it felt like my father was judging me. Maybe he was just being defensive about his gift, but when he would say, “I never had any problems with that truck,” it felt like he was saying that I wasn’t caring for it correctly. Maybe I wasn’t. The thing just sat in my driveway most of the time, rusting away. I stopped telling him about repairs when he asked. Eventually, the frame rusted through and the State said it would never pass inspection again unless it had a new frame (frame repairs are essentially illegal, I gather). I sold it to someone for parts.

Maybe that’s why I don’t want to drive Dad’s truck—I’m afraid it will break down and his eternal slumber will be interrupted by the need to judge me.

We had a yard sale at his house yesterday. The stuff we displayed in the driveway was a mixture of things that he bought thirty-plus years ago, and things that he found at the dump. Most of the stuff that actually sold came from the dump. I think we’ll have one more yard sale and then we’ll have to donate the rest. We saved all the framed photographs and family heirlooms, of course. My brother made me take my grandfather’s chair. It’s a piece of furniture that I’ve known my whole life, but I didn’t feel any desire to have it in my house. I put it in a room that I rarely go in. In a few more months, the remnants of Dad’s life with either be gone or folded into our lives. 

Maybe seventeen years from now, I’ll be complaining about this truck.