another truck

As near as I can tell, it was about 10 or 12 years ago when I cruised Roger Tripp's junk yard (Salvage Automobiles) looking for a Ford truck fender and hood. Someone else had broken that truck and I'd bought it at the SADISCO salvage sale out on Scuffletown Road. It was a Ford, after all, and I've made it known since college that I had just as soon walk down the road with a Chevrolet hubcap under my arm than ride in a Ford. But my little red Mazda truck was dying and I needed a replacement. It's always a traumatic experience to see the one you love just wasting away and there is nothing you can do. Being desperate, I opted for that Ford pickup because it was an easy fix, the price was right, and I hoped that by only driving it at night nobody would see me in it.
You've heard of love at first sight? You have heard about the lightning bolt? Wel, right there in the upper third of Tripp's junkers, I found true love.. There was a black extended cab Dodge Dakota sitting there without a pimple on it's butt anywhere. It was fairly new, clean, nothing seemed to be missing and even the tires were fair. The first thing I thought was, it's not a Ford. It's black, maybe to match my soul. And if it's cheap, and not too much is wrong with it, I can sell that Ford and clear the Dodge. I've already said this but I am going to say it again. It's Not A Ford!
So I ambled back by the office and axed about the truck. I already knew Roger fairly well. He had read my stuff in the paper, and just swore up and down he had gone to school with my wife. (He didn't.) But if I could get a better price on his parts, I didn't much care what he believed.
The first thing I asked was what was wrong with it. He said the motor was blown. He went on to explain the engine would turn over, but wouldn't hit a lick. I asked how it sounded, turning over, and he shoved me the key. He told me the battery was good, and to go listen to it myself and make up my mind. He also said he hoped I didn't want it because he would have to move three or four cars to get it out.
When I listened, I couldn't find anything wrong with the engine excapt it wouldn't crank. It wouldn't hit a lick and I thought, electrical problem, and went hustling back to Roger. He made me a price and I cried. I moaned and groaned and offered him half of what he wanted. He seemed shocked and I explained that the engine really was blown. He took my offer. Two hours later we had it cleared enough to get on the rollback and headed towards Route 4 Piedmont, home of a great nurses, one broke-down writer seveal good used cars and a growing inventory of trucks.
I couldn't wait to tear into that 3.9 engine. But I was gonna be cool. What I knew about Dodge engines could be recorded on the back of a stamp. And my background in electricity stops anywhere beyond wiring a home.
(Let me get off track here. I am an expert on home wiring. You only have three wires. You have a white wire, and black wire, and a green wire. I call it the Olympic Theory. Folks are going to read this and call me a racist. That's ok. I was born in South Carolina, lived my whole live here so far, and have bought a paid for a plot that should keep me here until Greenville Memorial Gardens becomes a mall. If you think I am racist for this, have at it. Here's my Olympic Theory. In the games, the blacks win the gold medals, the whites win the silver medals, and those folks from route 2 Asia get the bronze medals. So, using this theory on house wiring, the black wire goes to the gold screw. The white wire goes to the silver screw. The geeen wire (bronze) goes to ground. In the electrical box, the black wire goes to the circuit breaker, the white wire goes to the bar on the outside of the box, and the green wire goes down to the bottom as ground. Remember this and you, too, can be a rasist and wire a home.
Now to get back on track.  Any automobile past an A-Model has more than  three wires. The t-Model, not so much. You didn 't need a wire going to a hand crank, the turn signals consisted of sticking your arm out the window, an while there may have been brake lights, the odds were no other cars were behind you and everyone already knew where you were going.
I don't do electrical work, but for what I paid for that truck, I'd take an uneducated shot. Besides, I already had a Dodge Dakota sitting out on the road for sale, and I could look at it for a pattern.
What I especially wanted to do was get this truck running so fast she wouldn't have bad things to say and I'd end up sleeping in it. She and I don't fuss. Well, I don't fuss. I was raised in a constant battle of words, and vowed never to have to live in such, so it usually just ends up with me telling her what I had done, she saying, 'whatever' and leaves me hoping something terrible will happen to take her mind off whatever I did.
So I was about to pitch a tissy to get that truck running. I didn't have time to talk to much. I was too anxious to find that problem. With the loving wife looking on, with somewhat of a hard stare, I opened the hood. And everything was just exactly where it should be. It looked normal. So I opened the fuze box, and immediately noticed an empty hole among the relays. I pulled a relay that controlled the wipers, and plugged it in the gap. Then I walked around, turned the key, and cranked the engine. There wasn't anything wrong with it. It purred like a kitten. I'm a dog person, so I use purred like a kitten hoping it fits, I've never owned a dog that purred. To say, 'it barked like a dog' just didn't fit the description. The durned thing ran.
Ran good. I didn't cut cartwheels because I'd end up in the hospital. So I concentrated on smiling. I smiled a lot. I had nealed that truck. I didn't have to drive a Ford.
"What now?" she asked, and I told her she was looking at the new Fant Mobile. The Ford had just gone on the auction block. (Actually I sold it out of the front yard, like lots of other castoffs have gone.) I just had to fix it first.
As soon as I got the door, hood and fender on the Ford, it went to the front line (there has never been but one line. The front.)  That same day I got a call from Winn-Dixie saying they had an emergency delivery to Biloxi, Miss., and would I be interested in making the trip. I didn't want to go, but asked what it paid, and when the man said, $1.000, I asked how soon he needed me to leave and what was I delivering? They had two pressure chicken fryers that just had to go to a store in Biloxi and had to be there within 36 hours. The only problem was, they were too big to carry in my Dakota. But they would fit right in the back of that Ford. I told him I would be there to load in just over an hour, snatched the tag off of something there in the yard and made the call to my insurance company. They were closed, of course, so I left word that I 'might' be buying a Ford truck, and read off the vin number. I told them I'd let them know for sure within 72 hours. I headed for the Winn-Dixie warehouse. I loaded up, stopped and filled up the second tank, and headed south on the Interstate. Somewhere the far side of Atlanta I was running out of gas. I hadn't filled up the main tank because I didn't need to. There was already a good bit of fuel in it. So when I was running out, I smiled, hit the switch to go to the other tank, and coasted to a stop on the side of the Interstate. Obviously, the switch didn't work. I was out of gas and sitting on 18 gallons. There is a sign in Skin Thrasher's hot dog place that says feel free to use the same language here you use in church. The things I said in the cab of that truck were bad enough to get me kicked out of all churches, the Shriners, the Masons, the YMCA and the Boy Scouts would be demanding my merit badges be returned. It was not nice.
I had barely coasted to a stop when some guy pulling a landscape trailer pulled up in front of me and got out. He stopped by the trailer to grab a gas can, and said not a week before he had been out of gas out there, and someone had stopped to help him. He had been given fuel, and asked only to pay it forward. So that was what he was doing.
The gas he provided got me to the next exit and I was once again on my way.
Finally I saw the sign alerting me Biloxi was the next exit. I got off that Interstate, looked, and there sat a Winn-Dixie store. I was elated until they said it was not the right store. I went another 10 miles, to another Winn-Dixie, only go get the same news. The store I was seeking was on down the road.
Finally, becoming more and more frustrated, I spied my third Winn-Dixie store. This, indeed, was the right place.
But the manager was less than thrilled when I spread my good news. "We don't need it or want it. We have one that is working fine. Just take those back to Greenvlle."
I wouldn't do it.  He said I would have to because, A, the hydraulic lift was not working and I couldn't get them unloaded, and B, he wasn't going to sign for them.
I went around back and sure enough, there was a problem with the loading platform. I pulled two pins and the lift worked fine, except it was very unsafe. That didn't slow me down at all. I backed up to it, rolled the fryers off, then pulled away.
I want back to the manager and told him they were out back. He said he still wasn't going to sign for them. I said I didn't have any paperwork anyway, and left.
I made it back to up to Montgomery before I stopped for the night and by the next day at noon I was back on Route 4, Piedmont, the Ford was back on the 'front' line, and I had called the insurance company to say I had changed my mind and wasn't going to buy the Ford and to cancel the request for insurance.
Then I drained the second tank. A man came by saying that was exactly what he had been looking for, and how much. I went up a hundred dollars as soon as he said that was what he was looking for.
I told him about driving it to Mississippi and we agreed on a price. he told me he was a Greenville County Deputy, and I said there was a deputy that lived over on the next road that flew the helicopter for the Sheriff's Office. He said that was him.
I told him that every time he took off in that thing he would swing over his house and check it, and his circle took him right over my place. And he was just screwing up my gardening completely.
He laughed, paid me, and drove off.
It more than paid for my new Dodge ride.
Some time later I heard he and his wife had split up and he had left the truck just sitting in the yard. The new owner had put it in a junk yard. He said if I had a Saturn engine, he would trade me. I did, and we did. They delivered my new old truck, and after taking two loads of trash to the dump out of the back, I started trying to get it running again. I pulled off the bed, but two fuel pumps in the tanks, and cranked the truck. I went to see him, who by now had lef the sheriff's office. I introduced myself, and he said, 'Oh yes, I bought a truck from you one time.' He looked sort of shocked when I told him I had it back, but that I didn't have a title. he told me to just do what I needed to do to get one, and that he would sign it over to me. I explained that I had leaerned to read and write, and I was perfectly capable ot filling out the papers. I just wanted him to know.
I sold the truck again, and made more money on it the second time than I did the first. Years passed, and I kept driving that Black Dakota.
Until last spring.
I saw where a man was selling a late-model Dakota, up above Inman, for what seemed to be a very cheap price. I went to look, and was told the heater would not work, that he was freezing to death, and just wanted to get ride of it.
I paid him and dreove home cold. But when I got home, I hooked a water hose to the heater hoses and blew great gobs of trash from the heater core.
It started heating up just fine, and I retired the black Dodge. It only have over 300,000 miles on it, had been hit in the side, hit in the back, turned over once, and had lots of minor injueries. The gas tank gauge didn't work. So I put it up for sale, and it lasted two days before someone met my price.
Now I'm down to my last few trucks. I have two Ford box trucks and two Chevy box trucks I use for storage. I have the Chevy dually, the 82 4x4 Chevy, another Dakota, make tha two, and a Mazda truck. Oh, yeah, i've also got the 96 Z71 truck. And I've just traded for a 96 Ford with the 7.3 turbo diesel. My wife says that's enough, but I would still buy a bargain.
And the little black Dakota went smoking off towards Walhall, ( I think). I really didn't care, except to yell, 'keep checking that oil' as he smoked away.
So there is an empty spot in my yard  If you have something I like (cheap) let me know but please don't mention it to my wife.
Happy New Year, yawl.