Truck (33 page)

A man for whom I have great respect once told me that the power of nonfiction resides in trust—once the reader no longer trusts the writer, that power is lost. The following book is set in the years 2003–2004. Using items including calendars, notebooks, correspondence, snapshots, and even receipts from Farm & Fleet, I have done my best to assure that chronology and veracity have been honored. Mistakes may be found. In some cases, names have been changed. Because the bulk of the book was written in 2005, I sometimes reference events, conversations, and writings occurring after 2004. While all the details of my gardening are sadly true, some of those details are drawn from different years. I may also have conflated two dirt-track stock car races (I got caught up in things and my notes are unclear), but I assure you I attended both and have the hearing loss to prove it.

Regarding all references to the International Harvester Company, Irma Harding, and my truck in particular, I am not an expert, nor am I a collector. Drawing on a number of resources, I have done my best to be accurate, but I trust there will be points of disagreement among those more informed than I, as I often found disagreement in research and reference materials (for instance, on whether or not my truck was
produced
in 1951 or
sold
in 1951). I refer to my truck throughout the book as an L-120, because that is what the lettering on the side of the hood says it is, and I reference that lettering several times in the book. International made a myriad of L-models (sixty-six, if my research is accurate) and there is a plate inside the cab of my truck stating it is actually an L-122. For the purpose of sparing both the reader and writer confu
sion, I call it an L-120 throughout, since that's what people see on either side of the hood. I respectfully leave the finer details to the experts and hobbyists, who have been very helpful to me in this endeavor. For those of them brave enough to read this book, I suspect they will feel as if they are watching a walrus attempting to play a piano.

Thanks to:

First and foremost, to my parents—anything decent is because of them, anything else is simply not their fault.

Mark, who said, “Yeah, I could help you with that.” And Kathleen, obviously. Uncle Mike, you started it all. Matt Marion, for giving me steady work and two eyebrows. Tony Baker, for being right around the corner. Dan Baker for handling security and introducing me to the people of a certain island, in particular the Hennings and the Red Cup. Speaking of coffee, Racy's, always Racy's. Shimon Lindemann, my favorite possibly German hipsters. Our Colorado family. ALR, rhymes with cigar. Kris and Frank, one last look in the fridge.
Mi cunado,
for a faraway place to hide out and write. To C. Dale Young, whose writings and poetry—while not specifically cited in these pages—stood powerfully behind certain moves. “On Beethoven's Ninth” gave me two barrels of resolve.

All International people, from informal conversations to formal correspondence, and special thank-yous to the Wisconsin Historical Society, Al Pancake, Guy Fay, Lee Grady, Daniel Hartwig, and Marguerite Moran.

Men's Health, Outside, Backpacker, Hope Magazine,
and
Wisconsin West,
for publishing essays from which some of the material for this book was drawn.

Alison, Jeanette, Tim, Jen, Scranton. Tina and Lisa. Blakeley, for everything that comes after the typing is done. Krister, from all over the dang map.

Frank,
without you…
Jayne and Chris, and miss you, Mr. B. The McDowells. Mags, whatever dimension. And everyone of the two tables: corner of the Joynt, kitchen of Taylor.

Everyone who shows up on the road, thanks.

If I missed you, say so. Gently.

And always, no matter where, “Nobbern.”

Michael Perry
is the author of the critically acclaimed and best-selling memoir
Population: 485,
as well as the essay collection
Off Main Street.
He lives in Wisconsin.

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