Livin' on a Prayer

Growing up, it was never a question in my mind, "what kind of car will I get when I turn 16?" I never had the expectation of my parents gifting me with a car, not because I had an older sister who also didn't get one, we both just always knew it wasn't going to happen. I was perfectly okay with that, and I still am to this day, because we had something better.

My mom drove the family car and my dad had a work truck, but we were lucky enough that we also had a farm truck, a 1987 Dodge Ram, to be exact. My sister and I both knew when we got our license we would "inherit" Old Gray, and he would become our school vehicle.

My sister was less than pleased, and I can't entirely blame her! Old Gray wasn't pretty. He was a dingy, dark gray complete with rust spots randomly dispersed along his metal exterior. Even better, because he was the farm truck, he also came with a hay spike attached to the bed. Every girls dream car, right?

Thankfully, by the time my sister graduated and it became my turn to drive Old Gray, everyone in my grade had already met him and anticipated his return. Sometime through the years classmates even gave him a new nickname, The Tank. Therefore, I was ecstatic to get to drive Old Gray to school. He made me unique. He made me feel big and powerful, plus with the hay spike on the back, no one would dare mess with me. It also helped that we lived in a small farming town, so it was somewhat normal for kids to drive trucks to school. My FFA advisors always "joked" that our dad was genius, because if we had a wreck, the truck would be perfectly unharmed, AND Old Gray would intimidate any boys from coming near us (insert eye roll here).

Apparently, The Tank didn't always feel the same excitement about me driving him. My best friend, Emily, often rode with me, and we said many a prayer in Old Gray. He was old, worn down, rusty, and I often flooded him while trying to start him up. Emily and I first tried sweet talking him, telling him all the newer, fancier, female trucks in the Ag. Department parking lot weren't going to be impressed by him if he didn't start for us. When that didn't work, and it never did, we'd pray. Sometimes it would take a few minutes, (it felt much longer!) but The Tank was trusty, and in the end always started back up.

I'm thankful my parents made my sister and I drive the old, farm truck. I learned how to parallel park like a beast in Old Gray. He taught me to be perfectly happy and content with not having the newest, nicest, shiniest car in the parking lot. I learned to laugh in times of frustration when vehicles don't start. If I could, or should I say, if he would make it here, I would still drive him to school, even if that meant daily livin' on a prayer.