All week I have been thinking about my friend Meri Hyoki. In fact, I think that every time I go to Rebecca farms
event, I will think of her. See, three years ago, unsuspecting Meri agreed to assist me as I moved across the country from North Carolina to Washington State. I, courageously, believed that the event would be a good mid-way stopping point and destination after 3 days of driving. And so long as I was driving that way, I may as well ride a few horses, maybe the novice, training and heck, why not the CCI** too.
When she got to my house in North Carolina I was just finishing the last touches of packing, the 5 garden hoses were putting up a good fight but I eventually got them wedged between the vacuum and the salad bowls. I think now that when Meri agrees to go to an event with someone she is compelled to first ask them a few questions to make sure that it wont be a repeat performance: Can the dog actually look out the windows, or will it be sitting in a canyon of cardboard boxes? Are you bringing more than 5 brooms, 3 garden rakes, 4 pitch forks and 2 shovels? How big is your truck’s fuel tank?
That last one might seem like it is a standard question and not worth asking, but we discovered the hard way that Rosie’s fuel tank is very very very very small. Or perhaps, if we had not packed half my house in the truck and trailer, fuel consumption would not have been such a big problem though. We were two days into the trip and I was bristling with irritation that we had to fuel up about every 4 hours on a 3000 mile road trip!!! My new F-550, Rosie, has a flatbed and not only was the tank a miserly 40 gallons, but the intake tube was flat. This resulted in fuel flopped onto your shoes, pants, the ground, endangered butterflies and poisoning rare mice every time that we filled it. It was more than annoying. So, mid way through South Dakota, we made the horrifying discovery that we were going to run out of fuel. We panicked (I panicked) and we pulled over and tried to fill up the tank with a canister of diesel, but it was impossible because of the flat intake tube. Several farm boys, slowed down just enough to hear the cussing coming out of our mouths, and sped off laughing. If you go to Unkiedunk, SD now and eat at the local diner, you might still be told the tale. Realizing that we just had to try to get to the next gas station as best as we could, we limped along at 50 mph because I had read somewhere that you get better mileage that way. But it really only slows the torture. Somehow we managed to get behind two of the largest combines that Ive ever seen and followed them down the exit ramp at 2 mph when Rosie’s luck ran out. She read: zero miles to empty. I suppose everyone always wants to know how accurate that is. Im here to tell you that they mean every single bit of ZERO, and not a teaspoon over. She was sputtering and stalling as we pulled into the gas station and I was shite as a wheet. The extra fuel tank was the first thing I bought when I got to Washington.
That night we were treated to beautiful storm thunderheads rolling over the prairie, and it was worth it. I wanted to stay in that town for just one more day and attend the weekly lawn mower races. It was a toss up, make it to Rebecca in time or possibly get a catch ride on a Kub Kadet? Next installment: when someone with dreadlocks gets hit by lightning, do the dreadlocks stand up?
loved this blog!