It's a 1992 Ford Ranger, 4cyl, with well over 100,000 miles on it. It died last night, fortunately in my driveway, and we had to buy it a new battery. Thank the lord that was the problem, and my baby is running like new again. This morning I had to make an Atwoods run. Do ya'll know Atwoods? It's a "country" store, that is, they sell stuff that country people need; chickens, horse vaccines, salt licks, chicken feed, dog food, hardware, Western clothes, canning supplies, toy tractors, the works.
Anyway, I was there (as I often am) with my truck in the parking lot alongside all the REAL trucks with their V8s and hemis, their automatic steering and double cabs and heavy duty tires; none of them older than 2007. You might think I'd be embarassed about my little, ol' truck, but I'm not. I looked at those trucks, then thought about mine and all the miles and adventures we've had together. I raised two boys with this truck, took them camping to lakes and mountains and prairies, deserts and caves. I've also raised chickens in the hundreds with this truck, hauled chicken feed, dog food, dogs, ducks, hay, straw, wood, mulch, trees, flowers, sofas, fishin' tackle, lawn mowers and just about anything else I could fit into the back of it.
The front left tire is low, and the topper isn't the right size. I bought that used for $50, and it doesn't lock, but along with the bed liner, I keep the goods high and dry.
I'm pretty sure my Ranger has done more work than all the V8s at Atwoods put together, and as long as it'll keep running, I don't ever want another.