Somebody has to say it with a voice that’s loud and clear. Somewhere along the line, we’ve lost our souls. Heck, we’ve driven our Souls away from the lot and traded them for a Prius.
It’s no secret. The American soul lived in American iron, sent across the great American lakes to the home of soul in Detroit. There, to be crafted into trucks by the hundreds, and thousands, and tens of thousands. And all those for cowboys and cowgirls by the millions.
Americans have always lived for freedom. It’s bred into every fiber of our being and lovingly infused into every half-ton of truck on the line for a century. It’s been lost with every mile of pavement, and every mile per gallon saved.
We all just want to be cowboys, and we don’t ask for much. A beat up old 150, with a box in the bed and a rack in the back. Something to take our best gal honky tonkin’ on friday night, to mend a fence in a place not on Google’s map, and to pull a neighbor from a ditch.
There’s something environmentally healthy and emotionally healing about seeing a retired old friend sitting out front of the double-wide each day, quietly welcoming critters and visitors alike, while slowly returning to earth from whence it came, and freely giving a part to those in need.
Yes, we all want to be cowboys. But first, we need our trucks.
Bruce John | Kansas Flinthills