An Old Truck Never Dies--It Gets Towed Away

To this story, a man would say, "No big deal."A woman would say, "Poor dear."
A psychiatrist would say, "Displaced anger--you're nuts--get meds."
Someone might ask, "Why didn't you have your husband towed off instead?"
Another might ask, "Why?"

The window is broken but it doesn't show in this picture.

It sat nigh unto 19 years in our front yard.  THE TRUCK.  It was an ugly, gigantic front-yard ornament that I used as THE identifying feature for directions to our home.  "You can't find our house by the address because it is not numbered in proper sequence, so just look for an old, beat-up, yellow and brown Ford pickup that is sinking into the ground,"  I'd say.  Lovely visual, right?

THE TRUCK turned it into an evil thing over the years.  I allowed it to become my nemesis-- a punishment that I somehow deserved (The inward suffering which is the worst form of nemesis--George Eliot). It was a symbol of defiance and disregard.  How did THE TRUCK, an inanimate object, become transformed into something destructive?  It was all a product of my over-active imagination, with a passel of childhood history of being discounted mixed in.  It was an obsession with needing perfection (a place for everything and everything in its place, with its logical place being the junk yard!).

I had asked my husband (sweetly at first)  to move the Ford beast back behind the house if he wasn't going to have it towed away and instead planned to let it rot in the yard.  I hated that it was the first thing everyone saw when they came by our house and the first thing I saw going into or out of the driveway, even at night when the headlights illuminated it in all its deteriorating glory.  IT was in my face as a reminder my husband wouldn't do anything about something so important to me.

Using the process of deduction, it became obvious he love THE TRUCK more than me!  Who would have thought I'd be second best to a thing with four flat tires!  I only have one flat tire around  around my middle.  I should me the more desirable woman based on that.  Still, my husband wouldn't drop his affair with THE TRUCK to grant a much desire favor (the demise of it) to me.  For ME!  This triangle of whatever? became a personal issue that hurt deeply and played with my psyche until I was sorta insane, especially when my disassociation from the issue periodically broke down and my brain was forced, front and center, to "associate."

Meanwhile, through all this drama trauma, my husband obliviously went his merry, contented way.  He never realized the magnitude of the problem and the negative impact the disheveled outside environment had on me. 

 I know this state of affairs was my own undoing.  I once prayed for patience when I was ignorant as to how well prayers are answered.  Not only did I sabotage myself in that way, but I gave that stupid truck power over me to torment and torture all those years.  (Yes, I know it wasn't the truck that was stupid).  

I assigned THE TRUCK to be the surrogate object of my frustrations, disappointments, dead dreams, and unfulfilled  expectations (warning:  expectations are SO dangerous!).  It was kind of a complicated punching bag of sorts.  I could have learned somewhere through those years that I wasted with stuffing the destructive thoughts and emotions, to just let go of the things I cannot change, but I wasn't wise enough to know the difference (thanks AA).  Letting go of my rage as it sat there day after day would have been the smart thing to do.  It obviously wasn't going away any time soon.  But, no, I proved my marbles were lost when I stubbornly, tenaciously, and defiently held on to the idea that my husband would do the sweet and loving thing and show he cared about my feelings by getting rid of the truck.  This was transference in its worse form--to a truck?  Take that to the psycho analyst's couch.  Dang, and I have a master's in psychology?  Go figure.

Whew, what a waste of energy!  Just think if I'd taken all the negativity and turned it into good thoughts and deeds instead of ranting and raging inside myself over those long years, building up mountains of resentment and anger while plotting wicked plans in my head to blow THE TRUCK up (I actually asked the neighbor if he had any dynamite), or have the county send us a notice that it was violating the ordinances, or have a tagger paint bright green and pink graffiti to turn it into a  humongous work of art or eyesore, depending on one's taste.  I mean, if you're going to have a decrepit, disintegrating piece of junk metal in your front yard, the uglier the better, right?  Gee, I probably lost years of my life stressing through this garbage.  

Ta Da!

Did THE TRUCK become the icon of a marriage power struggle?  It wasn't something I could nag about because it wasn't worth upsetting my husband whenever it was mentioned.  I could hear the heels digging in.  Over the years, it was rarely mentioned unless there was an opening like we were leaving for a couple years and "wouldn't it be nice to get that out of the yard before we go?"  Once in a while I'd ask if I could call one of the places to donate and get a tax write-off.  Someone once even offered to buy it, for heaven's sake!  Nothing would budge my husband until a couple weeks ago when he asked me, out of the blue, to call the Kidney Foundation and see what it takes to donate a vehicle.  We have more excavators coming to do work on the driveway and yard and he decided the truck would be in the way.  I dutifully called, trying not to look too eager, got the information and wrote it on a yellow sticky note and stuck it in the middle of the kitchen counter where it could be seen at least fifty times a day.  It sat there for a couple of weeks and then my husband called to arrange the tow.  He told me that he had some news that would "probably make me happy."  That is the understatement of the century!  I tried not to jump up and down with glee.  I even feigned sympathy that he'd finally have to let go of his darling.

When the tow day arrived, my husband was off playing golf.  I went outside to document the glorious event.  I told the tow-truck driver how happy and grateful I felt that this was finally happening.  He looked knowingly at me and said rather pointedly, "And I bet your husband is also relieved to have this gone."  I defensively replied, "I didn't nag him about it, but it did get ridiculous keeping something like this in the front yard."

He told me he had a perfectly good looking truck sitting in front of his own house and that his wife knew he was a car person when they first dated.  He had picked her up in a 1967 Impala. He and his five sons now do demolition derbies.  He said she doesn't like the old vehicles around, but that they are important to him.  So, what was this?  Did God send this man to teach me something I should have learned 20 years ago?  He could see the dismay on my face as I struggled to understand that I may have been way off base in this whole thing and my husband wasn't the only man in the world holding on to vehicles forever.  He said, "It is a man thing."  Then I remembered . . . it isn't just a man thing . . . 

                                                       

I had a '65 Chevy Nova that was painted yellow after I'd been rear-ended a couple of times.  The kids called it "The Taxi."  It was yellow so I'd be seen and other cars would leave me alone.  When it quit running, I parked it with the intention of getting it fixed for our oldest son when he could drive (I think he was 12 at the time).  Anyway, it stayed parked in our driveway for 15 years until it was apparent it was never going to be resurrected.  We needed the money and sold it for far less than it was worth as a classic.  I was sad.  I miss her.

I now realize, since I bothered to put the shoe on the other foot, that my husband is sorry to see his old pal gone (mistress?--silly me).  He told me he sat in it one more time the night before it was picked up.  Then, I told him about the feelings attached to it finally leaving and about the strong negative emotions I had struggled with, the resentment that had built up, and that it would have been one of the nicest things he could have done for me once upon a time.  He said, "That truck was never about any of that stuff you imagined."  Simply said.  No apology.  No real understanding of my goofy thinking either.

Like he said to me once, "I'm not a complicated person.  Things are what they are and I try not to waste time reading meaning into everything."  Hum.  Simple.  The chapter is closed on that episode.  Door slammed shut tight and locked.  Dissipated.  Kaput.  Etc. 

There she goes . . .  off in a cloud of whatever                                                       

 I guess this whole thing is like having one's appendix out.  It irritates until it is out and then you're cured.  I just had a truckectomy and I feel better already!

Well, that's an anticlimax for you.

Sequel:  How I handle the other old vehicle taking up room in our garage!