Somebody told me this story years ago. I do not know if it is true, but if it isn’t, it ought to be.
There once was a forester who lived in the little timber-town of Grove Hill, Alabama. As you might guess, most foresters drive pick-up trucks, and he was no exception. He had two, one that he used for work in the woods during the week and one that he drove mostly to town on Saturday and to the Grove Hill First Baptist Church on Sunday.
The work truck was kind of beat-up. Some dents and scratches on the outside and some stains of unknown origin on the upholstery. This is typical of forester pickups. Which is why I will mention to you at this point in the story that you should never buy a used pickup from a forester. They will clean it up real nice inside and out and make it look good, but trust me, they have got about all the ‘goody’ out of it or it would not be for sale.
But I digress.
This other truck, the Sunday-go-to-meeting one, was in pristine condition. Although it was nearly 20 years old, he had treated it with kid gloves, so much so that he wouldn’t even let his rather large wife Nelda eat her ice cream cone in it on the way home from Sunday dinner at the Dairy Bar, a matter that she still holds ill-feelings towards him to this very day.
Although he loved that truck, his neighbor down the road a piece had recently purchased a brand new ’72 Ford with air conditioning. It was the first pickup he had ever seen with that feature, and it caused him to covet. Ironically, the preacher at F.B.C. Grove Hill had preached on not coveting your neighbor’s something or other just that past Sunday. He could not remember all the details of the sermon, because truthfully, he was half-asleep through most of it. He just knew that coveting was something he ought not do.
The very next Saturday he drove up the road to the Ford dealership in Thomasville. And there she sat – the pickup of dreams—an orange F-150 with pearl white side panels. Air conditioning so cold that he might even consider letting Nelda have that cone on the way home from dinner, even in August.
The dealer put the hard sales pitch on him, but he remained stoic. He had been up and down the road quite a few times over the course of his career as a forester and he knew how to trade, be it timber or trucks. He knew he could buy that new truck at the price he wanted to pay, but the problem was that he was not going to get a fair price on his trade-in. After all, his truck was immaculate. He was not going to just give it away.
So, he did what all country folk did back in the day. He parked the truck out in his yard with a “For Sale” sign that he had bought at the Thomasville Western Auto right after he left the dealership. He did not post a price on the sign, but he knew what he would take — $500 cash money.
Now at this point in the story you may have noticed that the forester has not spoken. There is a reason for that. He did not talk much because he stuttered.
If I may pause here, let me say that I am quite sure that I just lost a few readers (particularly the young ones) because I just wrote a word that is probably no longer politically correct. I am sorry about that, I truly am. But the word “stutter” was still a perfectly good word in 1972, so some newer phrase like “speech impairment” would be out of place in the chronological sense since it did not exist then. Besides, ‘stutter’ is still a solid word. A word like that is called “onomatopoeia.” Look that up, youngsters.
Now as I said, the forester stuttered. Badly. It was a condition he was born with, but a kindly second grade schoolteacher, Mrs. Pope, had taught him a technique to deal with it. Whenever he had to speak (and he tried to keep this at a minimum) he was to take a long pause, look at the person’s eyebrows, and concentrate on the sentence before he attempted to say it. “Don’t flinch,” she said. “Stay in control.”
He did not know what the word “flinch” meant because it was not on his second-grade vocabulary list, but he got the gist of it. “Gist” was on the second-grade vocabulary list at Grove Hill Elementary.
He used this technique for years with great success. For example, when Nelda was ready to leave the Dairy Bar and go home to spend a quiet Sunday afternoon on the couch watching “Hawaii Five-O” reruns (Jack Lord, now there’s a good-looking man, she’d think), she would say “Horace, let’s go home.”
And he would say “…..Nelda…..Finish…..your…..cone.”
This took a great deal of concentration. His brow would furrow. His eyes squint. His lips thin. Anyone who did not know him might confuse all that facial contortion for anger or at least agitation, but it was nothing of the sort. It was, as I have already mentioned, simply a mental device Mrs. Pope had taught him to overcome his affliction.
About a week after he had parked the truck in the yard, gleaming in the south Alabama sunshine, a city fellow from Mobile happened to drive by and see it. He couldn’t slow his ’69 Mustang down fast enough to stop, so he drove on to the first place he could turn around (which happened to be the driveway to the Johnson place about a half-mile up the road). He was not French, but he considered himself a connoisseur of Fords of any kind, and he recognized a Sunday-go-to-meeting truck at first glance.
He hurried to the door and knocked. From somewhere inside he heard a woman shriek “Horace, will you answer the dadgum door. You know I am right in the middle of my show. I think this is the one where Steve says ‘Book ‘em, Danno.’
Truth be told she was not going to get up for Horace if Jesus himself was at the door. She was still aggravated about having to eat her cone faster than she would have liked.
The city-fellow wanted that truck. A Baptist might even say he ‘coveted it.’ He started nervously yapping before Horace had even stepped off the porch.
“That’s a fairly nice truck to be so old,” he said. “What will you take for her?”
Horace just looked at him. He wanted to say $500, but he just stood there, trying to get the words out.
After about 30 seconds of silence, the city fellow decided to make the first parley. “How about $250?”
Horace just looked at him. He concentrated. Stared at his eyebrows just like Mrs. Pope had taught him. But before he could counter the man said “okay, how about $400.”
The city fellow was starting to sweat. To be fair, everyone in Grove Hill, Alabama is either currently sweating or starting to sweat.
“Okay,” he said. “How about $700. That’s my final offer.”
Horace said “Suh…suh…suh…sold.”
Now as you may know, most stories are “cautionary tales,” which means they have been written to advise us ‘what to do’ or more likely ‘what not to do’ in any given situation. As such, there is always a moral of the story.
This is, indeed, that kind of story.
You, dear reader, may be scratching your head at this point. There are, after all, several possibilities. Which should you choose?
One is “the first person to name a price always loses in a business transaction.” This of course is true.
Another is “Be wary of buying a used pickup truck from a forester.” This one I have already mentioned. It rings just as true at the end of the story as it did near the beginning.
A third might be, seek out a kindly second grade teacher like Mrs. Pope if you have an affliction. She may have an answer that will serve you well for a lifetime. Also valid.
But the real moral of the story, as I see it, is much simpler and will be easier for you to follow as you travel life’s backroads.
It is this: “Never buy a used pickup truck from a stuttering forester on a Sunday afternoon in Grove Hill, Alabama. You’ll end up getting skinned.”
Consider yourself warned. Or at least ‘cautioned.’