A Green Truck

When I traveled out to Wyoming back in 1998 to do research for When Esther Morris Headed West, I was stunned when I got off the plane in Cheyenne.  It was so unlike anyplace I had ever been I thought I might have landed on the moon.

I walked across a brief stretch of tarmac into the terminal and found my suitcase right there waiting for me.  When I stepped up to the counter to claim my rental car, I was told they were all out of cars and I would have to take a truck instead.  “I’ve never driven a truck before in my life!” I stammered.  In my head was a vision of a semi with a million gears.  Was it legal to let a city slicker like me drive a truck?  I put on a brave face, took the keys, and located my truck.  It wasn’t a semi.  It was a step or two bigger than a van…easily manageable.  He could have told me it wasn’t a semi, I thought.

When I checked into my hotel the fellow at the desk asked what vehicle I was driving.  “A truck,” I told him.  “What kind of truck?” he asked me.  “A green truck,” I told him.  He looked at me as if I were looney.  I had always thought a truck was a truck but, evidently, there were distinctions among trucks that were completely lost on me.

That green truck took me from Cheyenne to Laramie to South Pass City, where Esther Morris lived almost 150 years ago.  It was hard for me to keep in mind how high off the ground I was and I fell out my truck more often than not but I started to feel like a Wyoming native.  I began to close the door of my truck with a certain flourish.  I acquired a strut.  I briefly considered acquiring a dog to ride with me in the front seat.  I started to think I might just like to own a truck.

When I got back to Richmond, I proudly showed my husband all my pictures:

This is the front of my truck.
Here’s a shot of the back of my truck.
Here’s a side view of my truck…