When my dad decided to replace his work truck, "Whitey" became the farm truck. Whitey was so named because he was a white Ford F-150. I think he was 1970 something model but he could have been older. By the time he retired to become a farm truck he was more like white and rust and the color of dirt and road tar. Whitey didn't go to the car wash often but he did go across creeks, up and down steep hills, and across flat, freshly plowed bottom land.
Whitey's parking place, once he was no longer the work truck, was in the side yard near the house. He'd be driven to town if he was needed. He'd also be driven around the farm. My brother became the principal driver once he got his license. Oh, my! That's a story! My brother was allergic to paying for his own gasoline. Seriously. If you could and would pay for it, he was willing. He'd siphon Whitey dry if he needed gas. Sometimes that backfired. Sometimes Brother had to drive Whitey and if Whitey was empty... well, you see the problem. My brother, being quick thinking and allergic to buying gasoline as I've already stated, would then siphon gasoline out of somebody's vehicle. None were safe. You had to be vigilant around him. I'm sure he wasn't above sneaking out in the middle of night to siphon gas so he wouldn't get caught. I've had a few sleepless nights knowing he was on the loose and I had to get off the hill the next morning. He'd also get the heating fuel and put it in the tractor but that's another good story.
My brother also collected Mt. Dew cans. The problem with that is that he never recycled them nor did he turn them into art. He just stashed them in Whitey (or any other vehicle he was driving for that matter). As his collection grew, there was less and less space in the passenger seat and you literally had to be careful getting in and out because your feet had to go on top of the cans. He'd also stash some in the bed, just in case, you know. At one point they were so deep, I'm sure my knees were even with the dashboard! You didn't want to have to go far in that condition. He also collected paper bags from carry-out at the Stop-and-Tell Restaurant, the Dairy Treet, and the Dairy Queen. They got wadded up and tossed in the seat, the floor, or in the bed. My dad added to Whitey's misery by always keeping a change of clothes, a jacket, and several long sleeved shirts in the cab because "you never know when you'll need 'em, Frenchman", as he said when I questioned the necessity. There were also bulldozer caps of all kinds and small hand tools. The tools presented a problem because you couldn't see them under the clothes and if you sat on the clothes you could be stabbed by a claw hammer, claw up.
One day my brother took Snoopy, our dog, to the vet in Falmouth. Whitey's services were needed. As Brother, the dog, and Whitey went down the road the floor mats began to blow. You see, the floor board, like the bed, was rusting out. Snoopy was surprised and decided he needed to sit somewhere else. I'm sure he realized he was just one mud puddle short of a bath or maybe even one bump short of falling through. He jumped up in the seat. God love his little heart! I just don't know how he managed it. The seat was nearly impossible to sit in. He started barking and continued to bark every time the mat blew up for the entire twelve mile ride. I'm sure he was hoarse when the vet saw him.
Whitey sat in his place of importance with the keys in the ignition when not needed. One thing is for certain, no one ever stole him.
An Arial shot showing Whitey in his place of honor.
The picture was taken around 1979/1980.
A closeup reveals all the valuable items in the bed and the tank to the left that was likely in the bed sometime before the picture was taken. Well, you never know when you'll need a tank, right? It belongs threre.
