RON MARR
WEED WARRIOR
I recently acquired a new truck. It’s a brawny beast of a thing that’s proven itself more than capable of hauling brush and lumber, traversing rough terrain, and yanking my lawnmower from the semi-swampy pasture where I regularly sink it.
My new ride handles well, zips down the highway with ease, and gets at least 12 miles per gallon. It lacks a few of the extravagant frills and options upon which most people insist, but I don’t really mind that the air conditioner doesn’t work, that the rocker panels are rusted out, or that the AM radio receives only static and engine noise. The pickup’s windshield wipers are functional every Tuesday and Thursday, so long as there’s no rain, and surprisingly, it does have a functional GPS.
I’m assuming, of course, that you define GPS as “good place to sit.” In other words, there are no springs or stuffing poking through the seat, and the scent of mildew and spilled gasoline is minimal.
I may have a slightly different interpretation of “new” than most folks. The behemoth of a GMC parked in my drive is new to me. so to my way of thinking, the fact that it rolled off the assembly line in 1997 is both inconsequential and irrelevant.
I’ve not yet encountered any snakes or rats in the cabin, something of a unique occurrence in the annals of my automotive history, which means the truck is on the verge of attaining the hallowed status of “luxury vehicle.” An angry black snake did come slithering out of the innards of the floor jack the first time I needed to change a tire, but the jack resides in the bed of the truck, and not in the cab. The freeloading serpent thus receives zero credit for actual incursion and/or occupancy. It does get credit for almost giving me a heart attack. Trust me when I tell you that an irritated snake slithering out of a floor jack ranks high in the disturbing and creepy department.
I will grant you that my truck is not the most attractive or efficient monster on the block. Then again, its haggard appearance and questionable reliability are more than offset by the fact that it only set me back about $2,500. I realize that our civil masters in Washington, DC, are insistent that we should all run out and buy a $60,000 electric vehicle, and while I have nothing against EVs, the chattering class seems incapable of comprehending that the cookie jars of the vast majority are about $59,900 short of that mark.
To be honest, if I did have 60 grand lying around, I’d probably make like Henry David Thoreau and spend it on things that would allow me to live in greater harmony with the planet. Purchasing a rifle and ammo would allow me to hunt more food, thus alleviating pressure on the supply chain. A new wood stove, log splitter, and chain saw would allow me to chop down more trees and heat my house more efficiently, thus alleviating pressure on the power grid.
Now that I think about it, the very act of buying this truck saved it from sitting eternally in a junk yard. To my mind, this is the epitome of sustainability and environmental stewardship. Therefore, if you want to save the planet, you should follow my lead and buy a very old, very large, very rusty, gas guzzler of a truck.
As I’ve just proven, you don’t need a lot of green to go green.
This column was originally published in the September 2022 edition of Missouri Life magazine.
