Three generations, I thought as I turned the truck out onto Renas Rd. It was a simple thing but I realized that I was setting out into a ritual that had been played out by two generations previous to mine. It began with my grandfather. After retiring from GM my grandparents moved to Gladwin, just miles down the country road where my parents lived. Some of my earliest memories are of my grandfather taking his nightly ‘patrols’. Getting in his old GM truck with his old collie Mac and two-legged mutt Ruby riding shotgun, he would drive up Renas Rd to the east and turn south onto Shearer. My grandfather was a sort of unofficial neighborhood watch, especially for old Joe. Joe was city dweller that kept a cabin next to a branch of the Cedar River that crossed under Shearer Rd. Joe was a colorful sort of fellow; he cussed like a sailor, kept a loaded pistol in his pants, was mildly racist, and when asked about his wife would say, ‘She’s like good wine; getting better with age!’ Joe and his wife, Vera, would drop in for a visit whenever they were at the cabin. The cabin did have electricity but its outhouse across the river and rustic construction made it a cabin only in the academic sense. Still, my grandfather was a good neighbor and drove by when Joe wasn’t there to check in. After ensuring all was well, my grandfather would continue his patrol to the dead-end of Shearer, also checking on the 80 acres my parents leased. His patrol might then entail a trip up the north side of Shearer or a slow cruise over the bumpy two-track that ran through the rolling pastures behind his house.
Eventually the old GM gave out and my grandfather got a shiny, light blue pickup which was immediately put into use in the nightly patrol. Soon, Mac and Ruby gave out and my grandfather’s patrols continued alone until, too sick to drive, they came to an end. After his death in 2001 the then fairly old pickup went to my dad. It was that pickup that I saw pull up last week with Andy, my parents yellow lab, sitting up proudly in the passenger seat. Andy loves driving the fields and roads around this house looking for deer with my dad. Joe’s small patch of land, hedged in on two sides by our property was recently annexed into the Shellenbarger kingdom. Due to lack of use and the hard work of termites Joe’s old cabin will likely not last the year. My grandparent’s house is still there but with a fresh coat of paint and strangers moving about inside familiar windows. A for sale sign leers at me each time I pass, reminding me that the house I have visited since birth will one day soon no longer have ‘Shellenbarger’ on the deed. I can thank Michigan’s bad economy for delaying that fateful day. My parents have since built in the pasture just to the west. Whether we like it or not, things change. Yet, the patrols continue, though, without the same regularity. A man, his dog, and his truck.
All this flashed across my mind as I took the trash out; Monday is trash day. “Use the old truck”, my dad said as I headed out the door. On a whim, I grabbed the leash and called Andy knowing how much he loves a ride in the truck. Driving the long winding driveway across the field in which I had once bailed hay and ridden a decrepit old snow mobile, I jumped out to deposit the garbage cans by the road and glanced down the hill toward my grandparent’s farm. A man. A dog. And a truck. Without a second thought I jumped in and turned east on Renas and south onto Shearer. So this was a patrol.
The cab of the truck has a certain nostalgic smell; an earthy mix accumulated after more than a decade of use and lack of cleaning. Andy paced on the bench seat, anxiously scanning the fields and road for deer. The sight of deer off to the left sent him barreling on top of me, nearly causing me to swerve off the road. Would the window have been open I’m sure he would have jumped out and taken up the chase; he literally quivered and let out soft, pitiful whimpers. We enjoyed the slow meandering trip up to the end of Shearer, followed by a slow meandering trip up to the northern end of Shearer. We probably never exceeded 25 MPH as we gazed out; Andy scanning for deer and I taking in the simple beauty of snow-covered pastures and stands of evergreens. In a time of immense transition, I found it deeply comforting to drive a beat up old pickup down an otherwise unknown dirt road, sitting in the same seat my grandfather had and my father still does. My life is generally very different from that of my father and grandfather but at this moment things weren’t so different. Life is certain to bring changes as time passes, but for the moment I was content to enjoy my patrol. A man. A dog. And a truck.
Eventually the old GM gave out and my grandfather got a shiny, light blue pickup which was immediately put into use in the nightly patrol. Soon, Mac and Ruby gave out and my grandfather’s patrols continued alone until, too sick to drive, they came to an end. After his death in 2001 the then fairly old pickup went to my dad. It was that pickup that I saw pull up last week with Andy, my parents yellow lab, sitting up proudly in the passenger seat. Andy loves driving the fields and roads around this house looking for deer with my dad. Joe’s small patch of land, hedged in on two sides by our property was recently annexed into the Shellenbarger kingdom. Due to lack of use and the hard work of termites Joe’s old cabin will likely not last the year. My grandparent’s house is still there but with a fresh coat of paint and strangers moving about inside familiar windows. A for sale sign leers at me each time I pass, reminding me that the house I have visited since birth will one day soon no longer have ‘Shellenbarger’ on the deed. I can thank Michigan’s bad economy for delaying that fateful day. My parents have since built in the pasture just to the west. Whether we like it or not, things change. Yet, the patrols continue, though, without the same regularity. A man, his dog, and his truck.
All this flashed across my mind as I took the trash out; Monday is trash day. “Use the old truck”, my dad said as I headed out the door. On a whim, I grabbed the leash and called Andy knowing how much he loves a ride in the truck. Driving the long winding driveway across the field in which I had once bailed hay and ridden a decrepit old snow mobile, I jumped out to deposit the garbage cans by the road and glanced down the hill toward my grandparent’s farm. A man. A dog. And a truck. Without a second thought I jumped in and turned east on Renas and south onto Shearer. So this was a patrol.
The cab of the truck has a certain nostalgic smell; an earthy mix accumulated after more than a decade of use and lack of cleaning. Andy paced on the bench seat, anxiously scanning the fields and road for deer. The sight of deer off to the left sent him barreling on top of me, nearly causing me to swerve off the road. Would the window have been open I’m sure he would have jumped out and taken up the chase; he literally quivered and let out soft, pitiful whimpers. We enjoyed the slow meandering trip up to the end of Shearer, followed by a slow meandering trip up to the northern end of Shearer. We probably never exceeded 25 MPH as we gazed out; Andy scanning for deer and I taking in the simple beauty of snow-covered pastures and stands of evergreens. In a time of immense transition, I found it deeply comforting to drive a beat up old pickup down an otherwise unknown dirt road, sitting in the same seat my grandfather had and my father still does. My life is generally very different from that of my father and grandfather but at this moment things weren’t so different. Life is certain to bring changes as time passes, but for the moment I was content to enjoy my patrol. A man. A dog. And a truck.