The Door

Bicycling, in the heat, far beyond our limits, we stopped at the shop to beg a ride home. 

"Take my truck," offered Bill. "Just don't forget to pick me up, later."

Taking the keys, I glanced at May; she winked. We loaded our bicycles. We had Bill's truck! the ratty, spit-and-string 1/2 ton with peculiar wooden bed, that he loved more than his wife...me.

"Let's go take a quick look at that barn I told you about," May suggested. So I turned north instead of south and headed for Ham's farm. Driving up the dirt road that would take us into a former cow pasture, I spotted my inlaws' car, parked...and breezed right by. Down the rutted track, through what was now a Christmas-tree farm, we pulled up close to the lovely old barn.

Spencer Ham built it, planing, fitting and pegging each beam and board. Seventy years later, it was still square and true...beautiful.

Back in the truck, I turned the key..."whirraaa-a--a--". Again...nothing! I've pushed vehicles; maybe I could get it rolling (backwards) fast enough to jump-start. Tiny May would drive. It rocked enough to roll over a bump and started downhill, while May, gear in reverse, foot on the clutch, waited for the perfect moment. Unfortunately, she hadn't closed the door and it found the huge boulder beside the track.

With a crrrunch-grind-shriek, everything stopped.

Between my inlaws and the land-owners, we chose throwing ourselves on the mercy of the Ham brothers, who bundled us into their pickup to go jump Bill's truck, by an alternate route.

We escaped clean, sort of. Days later Bill said his parents had seen his truck going into the Ham's upper field, but not coming out... very strange...and his truck door was closing funny, did I know anything about that?

NOooooooo!