Until an afternoon in 1974, I had two vehicles I loved: my Triumph TR3 sports car (my third); and my 1970 K-5 Blazer. On that afternoon, though, my husband bought a 1958 Ford pickup truck for a couple hundred dollars and parked it by our barn. Like he did with our other farm vehicles, he named the truck by its color: Brown.

Brown's job was to transport home from a local sawmill the wood shavings we used as horse bedding. I hated the job, not only because I'd end up with sawdust in my ears and shavings down my shirt, but because in order to pick up the shavings, plywood sides had to be attached to the truck bed. Each four-by-six foot plywood panel had two-by-fours bolted at intervals on the six-foot side that were supposed to fit into the slots on the sides of the truck bed. I'd raise a panel and line up the slots and the two-by-fours before I lifted the panel. Somehow between lifting and setting, the measurements changed so that nothing lined up. About that time was when a gale-force wind usually arrived, leaving me shouting and swearing, trying to line up those posts and slots without being launched. Eventually the job got done, and from then on, picking up shavings was easy.

You might be wondering why we didn't just install the panels on Brown and leave them there. The reason we didn't was that if the panels weren't stabilized by the bulk and weight of the shavings, they would sway in the breeze in a lovely waltz-type motion that pushed Brown towards the center line, then onto the berm, then back towards the center line, and so forth ad nauseum. With the panels attached and no shavings load, Brown became a true child of the wind. I figured that at thirty-five mph Brown would be airborne, so I usually drove around twenty.

Oh, how I loved Brown! I loved doing the mechanical work on it and restoring bits and pieces. I left my TR3 and Blazer in the garage and chased all over town in Brown. My favorite thing about Brown (besides the Tinker-Toy easy-to-work-on engine and transmission) was the AM radio. It had tubes, so when I turned it on, I had to remind myself that nothing would happen until the tubes warmed up. Sometimes, while waiting, I turned the volume too high, so when the radio finally warmed up, the blast lifted me right off the seat, eliciting an adrenalin rush that left me shaking for a mile or two.

One day my husband announced that he'd given Brown to a friend. He hadn't asked my opinion, he'd just gone ahead and sent my wonderful pickup to a new home! My husband was sent to a new home shortly thereafter. Life was sure different; I really missed Brown.

But, never one to be down in the dumps for too long, I let Brown rest comfortably in my memory and got on with my life. I had the shavings delivered at an annual cost that would have easily paid for a dozen Browns.

I wasn't ready for another man in my life, but I sure did want another old truck! It took a year, but along came a 1960 Dodge pickup that my brother, Dick, found hidden in weeds in a field. I took a look at it, envisioning how it had looked new, thinking of how I'd restore it to that condition in no time at all. Then I raised the hood, and to my dismay saw that the engine was sitting sideways and tilted in the compartment. What a wreck! I moaned, "This is no good, the engine's not even in the right place."

When he recovered from laughing, Dick said, "It's a Chrysler Slant-Six engine." He didn't add "dummy" but I felt it hanging in the air. Obviously, as much as I knew about mechanical work on TR3s and Brown, I had a few things to learn about Dodge trucks. I decided to take the challenge, though. The owner's widow was

willing to take a hundred dollars for it. She took the money, all right, but she wouldn't part with the title. It took three months and numerous calls to the woman's attorney, and finally a day spent at small claims court in order to get the title.

That was an omen, but I didn't recognize it. For a ten spot a friend towed the truck to my house. I now had a hundred and ten dollar investment, still a rock-bottom-cheap restoration project.

Green (the last vestige of my marriage was that of naming vehicles by their color) had a major flaw that I'd failed to notice in the field. Most of the cab floor was gone. My cheap project rose to a hundred ninety dollars. The floor was another omen, another warning I missed. Nothing went easily or cheaply with Green. There was the engine rebuild, the new tires, the new everything! By the time Green began to look decent, my project costs were higher than I cared to admit, even to myself.

About the time I was ready to put Green on the road, a friend from fifty miles away stopped in. "She's so ugly, she's adorable!" he exclaimed, caressing the hood. "I have to have her! I'll give you four hundred bucks for her, this minute!"

How could I stand in the way of true love? After all, I didn't even know Green was a girl. I took the money and whispered goodbye to her. The first time Green was driven was when she left my garage. I never even got a ride. Green and I were just not meant to be.

I owned my fourth TR3 and a 1978 K-5 Blazer by the time the truck bug hit me again in 1981. It happened on a trip, when I spotted a 1930 Model A Ford pickup.

I came home determined to have a '30s Ford pickup. Suddenly, in the space of a weekend, I didn't like convertibles because dust got into my contact lenses and the sun beat down on me. I drove my Blazer, which I loved only slightly less than my TR3, and I read the ads for 1930s-vintage Ford pickups.

On Kentucky Derby day in 1982, I found THE truck! It was a 1932 Model B Ford closed-cab pickup with a four cylinder engine. The body was in fair shape, but, like Green, it needed a frame-up restoration. Once again I relegated most of my clothes to the "garage pile." Once again I got used to smelling like Liquid Wrench and to seeing my hands bruised and lacerated. Having rust in my hair was no big deal.

I sold my TR3 in order to buy all those new-old-stock parts. I must admit I cried a little when my TR3 was driven away by its new owner. But, after a couple of minutes I turned and looked at the Model B sitting patiently, waiting for my healing touch, so, as the tears dried on my face, I picked up my wrenches and went to work.

The Model B, by the way, was never named Black, even though "he" was. He was a wonderful mechanical project, but I couldn't do the body work. The thought of all that sanding made me turn from the Model B in disgust. As luck would have it, though, I met a delightful man who hated mechanical work but loved body work. He took the Model B home.

When the Model B departed in 1984, I told myself firmly that there would absolutely be no more truck restorations. I'd had my fling. It would take ten years to pay off my MasterCard. I promised myself that someday--if I really wanted to--I could buy another old truck, maybe even a 1958 Ford, but in the meantime I'd stick with my Blazer.

Thus mollified, life went on peacefully for awhile until one morning when I looked at my Blazer and realized I already had an old truck! The Blazer was eighteen years old! In seven years it would be a classic! What a discovery! All it needed was a new engine, and a new body....