Heading back to Austin from family and Houston on an early Sunday morning, I pulled a 180 degree turn for a photo-op, as I often do on the open stretches of FM's (farm-to-market's) and highways that get me from A to B in Texas. A U-turn is oftentimes nestled between spotting the picture and taking the picture when on the road, as it can take me up to a quarter of a mile to decide whether what I passed was worth the shot. Normally, I'm pretty careful about what I pull my truck into, and the grass on the side of FM 955 to Fayeteville (see below) appeared safe enough.
The recent rain that had come with a cold front escaped my memory just long enough for me to become very much stuck on the shoulder. I gave the gas one good punch trying to get out, knowing the more I tried the deeper I'd get. Not only was I stuck, the friction of the tires against the grass caused some of the vegetation to start smoldering, which required some frantic foot stomping. Now what?
On a desolate Texas highway early Sunday morning, it took all of 90 seconds for someone to first offer assistance. A kind old man in a truck rusting at the seams offered to pull Betts (yes of course that's my truck's name) and I out. We chained the two vehicles together and I was released from my muddy bonds. For a few minutes we sat and talked and he told me about the acres he owned and the money he'd made of an oil well that helped put his kids through college. I thanked him and we went our separate ways.
The whole operation took no more than 10 minutes, and during that time we had 3 more offers for help.
In a brief story that seems ripe with symbolism and allegory, I laugh at one absolute truth: no matter how big your truck is, around here there will always be a bigger one.
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