So I’m thinking about my truck, and it just hits me how good a purchase she was. For the kingly sum of $2800, I bought a (then) 20-year-old truck with cash, trusting it would get me home to Baltimore from Lancaster, PA (it did), pass Maryland inspection (it did), and run reliably for the untold future (it has). I went out yesterday to start her up after sitting miserably under a cover for the past three weeks in the shivering cold, and when I sat in the seat, her smell hit me-old vinyl, rubber, motor oil, and dirt-and it was perfume. I pumped the gas once, turned the ignition, and cranked her for about three beats. “Come on, baby,” I asked quietly. Another turn of the key (no gas), about two grinds, and she fired to life, rumbling choppily. I smiled and patted her dashboard, sat the action figure of Chewbacca up in front of the wheel, and straightened her up while the idle evened out. Few things are as reliable, bring me more simple joy, bring me to the edge of depression quicker, or remind me of my humanity as well as the Scout. I miss her, and it can’t be spring soon enough.