By Nellie Curtiss ….
I want to yell out the window – “Move it or lose it!” Of course that won’t be much like a proper grammarian; but maybe that doesn’t apply to me since I am retired.
The huge Ford Pickup blocks my view as I try to back out of the parking space. Suddenly, a tiny Mini Cooper darts from the other side of the big bad truck. My vehicle is a low rider, of sorts, a Chevy Spark, and we stop. “I need adult size wheels,” I think to myself, as I almost kiss the dirt while emerging from the driver’s seat.
Later, as I’m cruising with a friend toward the Smith Reservoir, a driver in another huge truck, turns onto the gravel road without even a glance toward our direction. My friend quickly honks and maneuvers to the very edge of the ditch before another giant truck ever sees us. Those spinning wheels come within a foot of our thin compact car. I want to yell at the trucker: “Pay attention and look both ways!” I watched that trucker turning; he didn’t look north to check traffic; his head was turned south; then, the Clydesdale of trucks rolled through that hard-to-miss stop sign.
Whew! Close call!
It’s not that I spiritually hate big trucks, but I dislike very much the attitude that seems to accompany big trucks: “I own the road! Move over, ‘cuz I’m comin’ through!” How do I know this? Well, it’s how they drift to the middle of the road and hug that yellow line, like they are Josh Turner singing about that “Long Black Train.” I know these eight- or ten-cylinder trucks think they own the vast highways because of how fast they go – zoom, zoom, zoom!
That time the monster-sized truck drifted onto my side of the road was the gut wrench-er, for sure. My heart fell to my Keen boots, and I swallowed, no choked on my morning brew. I shouted out the window – “That wasn’t nice! Stay on your own side, will ya?” He was long gone at that juncture with the diesel fumes lingering when I just clutched the wheel for dear breath.
It could be that I’ve always had troubles with trucks; all my ex’es live in Texas and drive big “honker” trucks, the kind you saw on Smokey and the Bandit series, or the Clooney version of Oceans 11. It could be pure emotion from years ago when that Luv truck stranded my toddler and I near Tiki Island, just five minutes from the Galveston Causeway.
Then again, it could be that trucks are marketed exclusively, mostly anyhow, to men.
When was the last time an ad showed women driving or buying? When was the last time viewers saw a truck promoted with a storyline of a young mother toting that diaper bag, a baby in a carrier, a toddler and a burgeoning teen in tow? Never. Some auto companies are slowly changing.
Maybe it is that those big bad trucks exude maleness. But, come to think of it, maybe it is just that big bad trucks cost a lot more to build, buy and run than my steady 41-miles-to-the-gallon Chevy, not to mention those pickups are maybe a couple of tons of steel.
Oh. What the heck. It’s not about spirituality at all; it’s about living courteously; following rules of the road. We are cautioned to follow traffic laws and not to tailgate.
That’s what’s behind my chuckling: “I wish there was a law against big bad trucks.” Of course, there’s no law against driving pick-up trucks or semi movers; and so, when I need to haul room dividers, art gear or rocks (like Lucy does in the movie The Long, Long Trailer) I know I can borrow one of those big trucks!
— Nellie Curtiss is a retired college educator and long-time local columnist. Reach her at columnsbynellie.com or email her at columnsbynellie@gmail.com
Columns by nellie 