The Ol' Ford and The Banty Rooster

Papaw had an old Ford work truck he used to haul firewood and tobacco. He parked it up by the woodshed, and he always left the keys in it. One Sunday after dinner, my cousins and I loaded up in the ol’ Ford, and I was in the driver’s seat. I turned the key, and she rumbled to life. Exhaust smoke drifted through the cab, taking my breath for a second. I pushed the faded yellow button on the dash, sounding the horn. I was too small to know how to work a clutch or shift, but that didn’t stop us.

Somehow, the truck started rolling. Yes, rolling. I wasn’t driving. I didn’t know the first thing about it. However, I knew how to get it started, and thankfully, I knew enough to hit the brake. I stomped it down hard, stopping the truck just before the front tires dropped into the creek.

My cousins tumbled off the bench seat. Quarts of oil and chunks of tree bark broke their fall. I gripped the steering wheel and held the brake while they untangled their arms and legs. When Papaw got mad, he had fits we called “the banty rooster dance.” I was in for a flogging. There he came, mad as hell, jumping up and down, hollering, and shaking his finger at me.

Blocks of wood were placed around the back tires of the Ol' Ford to keep it from rolling, and Papaw never left the keys in his vehicles again.