This action might not be possible to undo. Are you sure you want to continue?
The words I had just spewed out to Ross while hurriedly grabbing supplies had rolled off my tongue so normally I was, for a moment, shocked at what had just been uttered. The reality of it was brief, but powerful. What if I was still back in Piedmont? Words like that would never have entered my mind. “Ross! I’m just going to the dump and I’m taking Ginger with me.” He hollered back. “Can you pick up some milk and bread as you go by Walshes?” Suddenly thrust back into the reality of things via Dorothy-esque epiphany, I climbed into the battered work truck aptly referred to by Ross and I as The Toyota. The battered piece of crap looking, but always sturdily reliable truck, was our primary work vehicle. The back tray was usually loaded with a myriad of work dogs, chainsaws, fencing or any number of other odds and ends I would never of thought I needed when living back in the States. The wench on the front bulbar had pulled us out of many bogged encounters, provided there was a strong tree around or another vehicle. The tow bar on the back often pulled an additional trailer or piece of farming machinery. There was even a side vent located at the passenger’s feet that could be kicked open if air was needed. It was used sparingly to prevent the seemingly constant onslaught of dirt and water that battered us from all directions from coming into the cab. Like any responsible vehicle operator that drives through horrifyingly unforgiving terrain on a daily basis, The Toyota must adoringly be referred to as a member of the female sex. Of course, this same protocol would be taken for just about any piece of machinery, including, but not limited to, tractors, dishwashers, airplanes, boats, scooters and electric toothbrushes. It is common knowledge that referring to any inanimate machine-like object as female will make it last longer, and even bail troubled motorists out of life-threatening jams. No matter the level of disarray your machinery may be in, quietly stroking it whilst repeating softly, “come on girl” will make it work after a little while. Today, our beloved girl was loaded with the unburnable, non-biodegradable garbage that had accumulated over the past few months, slowly metamorphosing into a kind of living reptilian cesspool. I found myself yearning for the luxury of weekly garbage pick-up. I used to bitch and moan when mustering the energy to take the trash to the end of the driveway each week back in Piedmont. Now I have a truck full of it slowly festering, fuming, and
baking in the hot dry sun right behind me.