A great Alliance tradition renewed itself this past weekend with the 22nd annual Thunder on the Prairie auto show sponsored by the Route 385 Cruisers.
Observing the beautiful and well-preserved gas buggies always sparks an ocean of nostalgia – and I swim in it as if it were the chance to obtain an Olympic gold medal.
About a week after my 16th birthday – July 7, 1975, to be exact – my mother drove me to Wahoo, and I took my driver’s license exam at the Saunders County Courthouse.
I aced the written test and then drove around a few Wahoo streets with the examiner.
Then those angelic notes entered my ears.
“Congratulations, Mr. Horn. You passed.”
I had my license and the responsibility that accompanied it.
I still didn’t have a vehicle, but Dad promised me I could use his truck to transport my sheep and hogs to the upcoming county fairs.
One month later, that momentous day arrived that all young men anticipate vigor akin to sneaking into an R-rated movie: My father informed me that one of his co-workers had a pickup for sale.
I could tell by Dad’s enthusiasm he thought it was a good truck, and he believed the asking price was fair.
I became the proud owner of my first vehicle; a light-blue 1972 half-ton Ford pickup truck.
It was a four-speed stick shift on-the-floor with a clutch. It didn’t have air-conditioning, and the radio only aired AM stations.
I had been saving most of my paychecks for the past year with the hope of buying a vehicle, and I paid $1,750 cash for my three-year-old truck.
Dad made a set of removable stock racks for animal hauling, and he also added a set of side mirrors.
She had 62,000 miles on her, and I planned to drive another 62,000 miles in the next week or two.
The truck hauled eventual blue and purple-ribbon livestock to both the Lancaster and Nebraska State Fairs in Lincoln that summer and was used for various FFA projects throughout my junior year of high school.
While the bed of the truck transported several head of cold-nosed livestock, very few girls ever warmed the interior of the cab.
In fact, the number zero comes to mind.
Since I was a skinny kid with horn-rimmed glasses who sported hair that resembled a brown scrub-brush and a face that served as a breeding ground for acne, not many girls expressed an interest.
Not to be repetitive, but the number zero comes to mind.
Even though I never had female companionship, I did have transportation AND a father who owned two large bulk gasoline barrels.
Dad’s only rule was to keep track of how many gallons I burned, as he expected to be paid.
At 55 cents a gallon, it wouldn’t take long for me to run up a sizeable debt – but I had my own wheels!
As my junior year in high school began, I talked Dad into letting me take the truck on a 25-mile trip to Wahoo and attend the Raymond Central vs. Wahoo volleyball game.
After the game, I accidentally ran a stop sign in downtown Wahoo.
I didn’t see the sign, but a Wahoo cop saw me. He pulled me over and wrote me a ticket.
Telling me he was issuing a citation wasn’t the worst news; informing me that my parents would be telephoned by the Wahoo police dispatcher was.
Smoke was coming out of Dad’s ears when I arrived home and a stinging lecture followed. Dad pointed out how I had received more tickets in two months of driving than he had received in 30 years.
I was fined ten dollars, and my name appeared in the Wahoo newspaper, much to the delight of some of my classmates.
It was the first but not the last speeding ticket I received. But those came long after I graduated high school.
Prior to my 1977 high school graduation, my pickup and I spent many miles together cruising Saunders County roads.
She was the only consistent relationship I had during high school and college.
I’d pay a king’s ransom if I could have her back.
If they are truthful, other guys my age or older would share that our first vehicle is our first true love.
And that the whereabouts of that first true love is unknown.