Old Number 2 was one of the long-serving fire trucks in our town. Almost 20 years ago, she was replaced, but no one could bear to scrap her, so she was put out to pasture … literally.
Her rusting hulk stood for years in the empty field across from the post office — where she remained until they decided she was too rusty, old, potentially dangerous and needed to be scrapped — at which point she was adopted.
Old Number 2 was one of the long-serving fire trucks in our town. Almost 20 years ago, she was replaced, but no one could bear to scrap her, so she was put out to pasture … literally. Her rusting hulk stands in the empty field across from the post office — where she remains, even today, though now because the rust has started to win the battle, she is fenced off for safety’s sake.
This week’s topic is Older Than 50 Years (1965). The one question everyone asks if you can have people over 50. The answer is yes, but I would hope they have a lot of character and are closer to age 100. The possibilities for this challenge are endless.
Living in this part of New England, many things around here (including us) are old — and still very much in use. Barns and houses, old trucks and cars. Old mills and farm equipment to name just a few.
Views of my favorite old fire engine. I know, on one level, that he is an inanimate object. A truck. Metal and glass and rubber. An engine that ceased running years ago. A fire truck whose time came and went.
Despite knowing this, I feel like this old truck holds history in his rusty body. Memories. Fires, rescues. History.
I know I’m not the only one who feels this way because the countryside has many veteran trucks and other vehicles quietly rusting in fields, often keeping company with the growing corn and the grazing cows and sheep.
We invest our things with personality. Maybe we can’t help it. We are alive and we share at least the sense of life with those things with which we share our world.
Friends come in many sizes and shapes. Horses, dogs, cats and other warm fuzzy creatures give our lives texture and joy … and old things holding memories of other times and places … these too become friends, holding our memories and reminding us of the lives we have lived and things we have done.
Old Number 2 is one of Uxbridge‘s oldest fire trucks. Long out of service, he still has his own place, standing through the years and seasons in a field across from the post office. He’s become my old friend, put out to pasture but like me, remembering his glory days.
Horses in the pasture, friendly and hoping for snack, an apple or a carrot maybe …
Tinker, one of our two PBGVs romps now at the Bridge, but here, her big black nose pokes through the picket fence of our front yard. Just saying hello!
Many of our fur children have gone to the bridge, but they are never forgotten. More of them on other days, I promise.
One autumn day, in a rare family project, we made a couple of friends of our own … classic New England symbols of Autumn and the harvest. We made them from yard sale clothing, two bales of hay, and their painted faces on old pillow cases were created by Kaity and Stefania … at that brief period as they were transitioning from girls to young women.
Finally, we meet the farmer’s old truck. He stands in a field around the corner, behind the fire station … an old friend put out to pasture, holding too many fond memories to send him to a junk yard. Instead, he stands ever waiting if he should be called back to duty.
Just this, no more, all within a mile of home. It IS home.
The old number 2 Uxbridge fire truck has been standing in a field across from the post office for as long as we have lived here — thirteen years. I have no idea how long she was standing there before we came to town. She was the hook and ladder truck for the Uxbridge fire department. When it came time to retire her, no one wanted to junk her. So she was literally put out to pasture. It’s a pretty place, full of wildflowers and there’s an area where you can park if you want to visit.
Each year, I go and take pictures of her. With every season’s passages, she is a bit more faded, a little rustier. Yet somehow, the continued presence of the old engine comforts me. I’m glad she isn’t off in a junk yard. At least I visit her and the birds and animals come by to see her.
Who else visits her? I’ve seen people nearby. Do fire fighters drop by? Do they want to hear the old engine’s stories? She’s got so manytales to tell. You can hear her stories if you are very quiet. She will whisper to you, softly, softly as the grass sings in the breeze.
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