I went home Friday for turkey and noodle leftovers.
My dad and I were walking around the house to check the mail - as we walked he explained how he tricked his hunting buddies into helping him rake the leaves - and he got an insurance check for an accident he was in last month.
The accident totalled his truck. More precisely, his pride and joy, which is certainly not the pride nor joy of the driveway or neighbhorhood.
The truck is his hunting truck, a 1989 Ford Ranger with the doors dented in (not sure how that happened) and rust covering good portions of it. But it's good for hauling his hunting dogs in, five beagles.
I offered him $500 for the truck this summer when I briefly (very briefly) entertained the idea of buying a junker truck to haul my bike around in. He should be so lucky to get that much for it, I told him.
He scowled, insulted, and said, "Shut yo' mouth, girl. You ain't gettin' my Ranger."
Well, last month he was driving home with his dogs in the back when an elderly man pulled out in front of him on a country road.
"I thought about getting out and smackin' the old man," he said, in his dramatic retelling of the accident. "Hurt my truck. But then I saw he was old, 84-years-old, so I didn't. But, well, it made me mad. I turned the wheel to keep from him hitting him on the drivers door. Coulda hurt that old man, you know. Did $800 damage to his Cadillac. Said his wife was going to be mad at him."
My dad thought the Ranger was drivable and told the Sheriff's deputies he didn't need to tow. To be sure, though, he got back in to start it up. Then, Surprise! No brakes!
"I turned the wheel to the right and then the left and it turned all right, then I hit the gas," he said. "Everything seemed fine. Then I went to stop and BOINK! Right into the back of the deputy's car."
"You hit the cop car!" Perhaps I was a bit too excited about this part.
"Yeah. But I wasn't going very fast. Anyway, I needed a tow. Didn't have any brakes."
"Was he mad," I wanted to know.
"Didn't seem to be."
(Awesome. I now know someone who has a hit a Sheriffs deputy's car. And that someone would be my dad. Oops!)
As he was swinging around the check for $900-some, dancing around on the sidewalk singing "A-shopping-we-will-go," he said the check was only for his truck, not his "injuries."
"Did you get hurt, Dad?" Suddenly I was concerned. He hadn't mentioned this before.
"Oh yeah! I told the insurance lady that I hit my shin, jammed my hand and got a place on my arm. And my dog died."
"Oh no! One of your dogs died! You didn't tell me that before."
"Yeah, Fancy died. But I don't think it was from the wreck. She was sick. Though those five puppies sure were shakin' when I went back and checked on them. They were scared, boy."
"I bet they were," I said. "So wait, you told the insurance lady the crash killed your dog?"
"No. I told her my dog died, which was true. She did die."
Hmmm. Then he went on.
"She asked me how much a hunting dog like that costs and I told her about $300 to $400. She said, 'I live in Dearborn County and you can get a hunting pup for $50 to $100 around here.'
"I told her you get can't get a dog like I got for no $50 to $100. Huh. 'Bout made me mad." For effect, he shook his head in feigned disgust and adjusted the safety orange hunting cap he had on.
The Tall Drink of Water and I stood there on the sidewalk, amused and amazed.
So this insurance woman asked my dad if $650 would cover the cost of a new dog and the pain of his "injuries."
"That sounds about right," he told her.
For $50 he bought the totalled truck back from the insurance company, and now it sits in the driveway worse than before. Instead of just dents and rust it now also has a crushed in front end.
Ahh... Thanksgiving at the Daugherty Farm. (And by "farm" I mean the acre of land where my dad has parked his junk trucks since I was born.)
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