I have a thing for pickup trucks - real pickup trucks, the 4x4s with chrome bumpers, with dents, with patches of peeling paint, with mud splattered on the tires, with fist-sized holes rusted through the body metal.

My dad has always driven a pickup. As kids, my brother and I would beg him to let us ride in the back, and if he wasn't going far he'd let us. We'd climb up onto the bumper and hop the tailgate and scramble over to the wheel wells, which we used as seats. Dad would say, "Hang on tight, okay?" and we'd nod as he slid behind the steering wheel. Then we'd bounce along the backroads, faces turned back, watching the ribbon of pavement unfold behind us. Sometimes I'd face forward, the rush of air making my eyes water, blurring my vision and sending streams of tears across my face. On some trips the force of the air was too much even facing backwards and so I'd crawl onto the floor of the bed and sit cross-legged right behind the cab, gazing through the rear window at my dad. He'd have his window rolled down, his left elbow resting on the door, his right arm casually guiding the steering wheel. Sometimes I'd see him shift gears, his left knee stretching out for a moment while simultaneously his right hand reached down to the gear shift on the floor and his left hand moved slightly to steady the steering wheel, all in one fluid movement. Driving that truck, he seemed completely capable of anything that might come his way.

On the farm, we rode in the back of the truck too, unless we were going somewhere too steep, and then my uncle would insist that my cousins and I pile into the cab. We'd squish together on the bench seat, and whichever kid was sitting next to my uncle would fling his or her legs over the rest of us rather than have knees constantly bumped by my uncle shifting gears. The cab, like the body of the truck, showed signs of constant wear. The armrests on the doors were worn smooth, the dash was cracking, the mats were encrusted with dirt. There were tools scattered on the floor, along with sweat-stained handkerchiefs and little calendar pages of months gone by, torn from the sticky-backed mini calendar, hanging right below the radio, that was a freebie from the local livestock market. In the farm pickup, there were no joy rides because we were always headed for a task - herding cattle or mending fences or making hay. Trucks were for work, for hauling, for crossing streams, for towing, for taking the shortcut across the fields, for leaning against while guzzling from the water jug on a hot day. They were for earning a living off the land. They were for hard, honest work. They were for good, honest men. Even now, I have an innate respect for men who drive pickups. And an implicit trust. When I pull up next to one at a stoplight, I feel a kinship. I feel safe.

When Rob and I visit the farm, he always insists on helping out. That usually involves driving the pickup somewhere, and there is nothing sexier than seeing him drive that truck. Maybe it's oedipal or maybe it's that he's embracing my roots or maybe it's just that a pickup truck has become a symbol of strength to me. But there is nothing sexier. That without looking he knows right where to reach to release the parking brake, the nonchalant way he shifts gears, the confidence of his gaze under his baseball cap, the ease with which he can back right into a hitch - all of it is a turn-on. I like to slide across the seat so I'm sitting right next to him, straddling the gear stick so he has to reach down across my thigh to shift. And as he drives I say things like "There's a reason this thing's got a bed in the back" and "You know what rhymes with truck?"

There's just something about a pickup.