My Chevy truck had been with me since 1989.
She’d worn a little haggard, but was paid for. She was mine.
My good wife named her Doris. Seemed a strange name for a truck.
But Doris was dependable and never gave bad luck.
I could load her up with gravel, in the summer haul the hay.
We’d hauled more loads of firewood than I ever cared to say.
Her seats were torn and sunken in, right where I set my rear.
Old Doris needed TLC. That never was more clear.
One August afternoon when the sun was beating down.
I was thirsty as a cactus so I drove on into town.
I must have been an eye-blink from a soda fountain stool,
when Mosey Moe came driving in his BMW.
Mosey always figured he was better than the rest.
When Mosey opened up his mouth your patience was a test.
He waved then gave a belly laugh. “Your truck looks all worn out.”
I half smiled then admitted, “She’s had better days no doubt.”
Well Doris got her feelings hurt. Her engine wouldn’t start.
So the Mrs. towed us home. I swear it almost broke my heart.
We started with a tune-up and then we sprayed the engine clean.
We were gonna change our Doris to a well-maintained machine.
I drove to Harlan’s Wrecking Yard and found a matching seat.
I talked him down on tires and rims. A deal you couldn’t beat.
We sanded, blasted, filled the holes and pounded out the dents.
A coat of paint, a new windshield and blew out all the vents.
Old Doris was a beauty. You could hear her motor purr.
The rhythm sounded like we’d hired an auto connoisseur.
It must have been a week or two while driving down the road.
I saw a broke down Beamer with its driver Mosey Moe.
So, I asked ole Mosey if he might just need a tow today?
He looked down at his loafers, didn’t have a word to say.
I hooked my weathered tow rope to his BMW.
Then Doris pulled to town and dragged down main a few times too.
Doris held her hood up high when she dropped ‘em off in town.
Ain’t it kinda funny how Karma turns the tables ‘round.
