But, honey, it’s just a small dump truck

Lori Clinch

Are We There Yet?

When my beloved husband first mentioned the prospect of building a new home in the country, I have to admit I was intrigued. A little place far away from it all. Gentle breezes, tranquil nights and the blissful sounds of tumbleweeds as they lodged themselves in the fences.

Then he enlisted my help with the building process, and that, my dear friends, is when things changed. He used to be a perfectly good companion. He was the kind of guy who would open the doors for me and give me his coat when I was chilled. He’d fix me a sandwich, pour my coffee, and if the timing were right, he’d touch my knee as he asked me to pass the salt.

Time changed all of that. By challenging my anything-a-man-can-do-I-can-do side, my husband has turned me into a lipstick-toting construction worker. Over the course of the past year, I’ve endured horrendous days in extreme conditions, doing things no woman would want to do. I’ve poured concrete, installed windows and worn coveralls that made me look like a she-man.

All I needed to complete the look was a tattoo of an anchor on my forearm.

I feel I’ve been a pretty good sport about it all. Oh sure, I’ve done my share of cursing in the sub-zero temperatures. But you’d complain, too, if you were hanging insulation in a Gortex suit.

At first I put my foot down when it came to the operation of the heavy equipment. “But it’s a small dump truck,” he said of the oversized vehicle that sat on the driveway.

“I won’t drive it, and you can’t make me.”

I’m not sure how he does it. Perhaps it’s his charm. Could be his award-winning style. Most likely he said something that once again appealed to my stubborn streak. Within the hour I found myself smack dab in the middle of a sandpit, trembling as I got my back box filled to the brim by an enormous loader. I sat in the cab with my eyes shut, and shaking like a leaf as I clutched my purse and rued the day.

“That’s it!” I said sternly when he came home for dinner. “I won’t be cajoled into driving that thing. I’ll swing a hammer, bend the rebar, but I won’t drive that oversized beast.”

“No more dump trucks?” he asked as if I’d just hurt his feelings.

“No more dump trucks,” I replied roughly.

He’s left me alone about it until just recently.

“I wonder where I could find a strong-willed person,” he said as he watched me out of the corner of his eye, “to drive the dump truck to the bottom of that hill to get a load of fill dirt.”

“Drive that beast to the bottom of the hill?” I exclaimed with disbelief. “You’re messing with me, right?”

Driving the truck on city streets was one thing. But taking it down an overwrought cow trail meant for tractors and farm implements, that’s quite another.

Before I knew it, I was once again climbing into the cab. I tossed in my purse, checked my hair and applied a fresh coat of lipstick. I may have been driving a dump truck, but there was no sense in looking like an animal. As I was bringing the rig back up the hill, a feeling of power overcame me. I had the truck in first gear and it was giving me all it had. When the time was right, I put it into second gear, and as I rounded the corner, I leaned to the right in hopes that the truck wouldn’t roll over to the left. When I reached the summit, I backed that bad boy up into a two-point turn and pressed on full steam ahead.

My beloved spouse turned and looked at me as I drove it home. I was sure our eyes locked and the bond between us strengthened. I just knew the look he was giving me was one of love and adoration. When I saw him say something to our son, Lawrence, I’d imagined it was something along the lines of, “Did I marry a great gal or what?”

I was beaming with pride. I’d taken on the odds and I’d won. What more could I have asked of myself?

I hopped down out of the cab and Lawrence ran to my side. “Your Dad is quite the romantic, isn’t he, Honey? What did he say when he saw how I was handling that truck?”

“Well,” said Lawrence, “Dad said, ‘Your mother’s getting braver, but she didn’t get a full load of dirt.”

I think I’m going to have to bite the bullet and get that tattoo.

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” Her e-mail address is [email protected].