Bubba
My Bubba truck. Ford F250, 1986. Add some rust to this picture and you get the idea. Bubba's strong; he waits neglected until the boat needs hauling or debris needs removing. He's helped friends move, loaded concrete blocks, and served as the official hurricane vehicle when trees are down and the water is high. Bubba's not fuel efficient, but when he's called in, no one's worrying about fuel, they're wanting Big Bubba's eight cylinders of power.

Bubba's companions in our family fleet are both little Japanese jobs; one uses a combination of gas and electricity. Bubba sneers at them, prissy little shuttles, and takes a deep swig of petro. Like James Brown said, "If you need me why don't you call me."

I usually drive Bubba once a week, just to keep the gaskets from drying out. It is part of my on-going effort to become a full-fledged redneck (more on that later). The response I get driving him is always interesting. People are so materialistic, they make assumptions based on light waves bouncing off their retinas and travelling up to their brain. Often their assumptions are wrong. Bubba and I just laugh. We laugh and laugh.

Nothing's better than driving in an old pick-up down a country road as the sun sets. Nothing.