The ’56 International
was almost indestructible
when the straight-six fired
and the six-volt starter
got beyond slow groans
to ignite a spark,
explode the vapor
in the piston chamber
to run on her own.
She was temperamental
with smooth hood up,
heavy round fenders
and running boards—
a tough country woman
easy to personify
wanting procedures
in order
you had to remember
or become superstitious
with only juice enough
for two chances
to start over.
I never locked her up
when I left,
but always a toss-up
which way to go:
take the longer asphalt mile
and hope for a ride
or wade the creek
straight cross-country
in my wet boots home.
for Tim Loverin & Richard Barkley
drycrikjournal 
Once had an International Carryall about that vintage, Turquoise! They were a bit cranky but could out pull and outwork almost any truck around.
Love the poem about it. I should make one about ours while hauling a Nubian nanny in the back seat. She loved to stick her head out the window with her Nubian ears flying in the wind. Once while hauling her we were stopped with freeway traffic in LA and a fellow next to us rolled down his window and asked, “What kind of a dog is that?” Traffic started again so I never could explain to him no dog but a goat!
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Every old man must have had an old truck he loved at one time or another in his life . . .
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Love-hate, I think.
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