Green Farm Truck — “For Sale.” — Used: A running 1948 Studebaker.

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by Art James

“For Sale.” The Classified Advertisement Column.

Isn’t it a sorrowful day reading the front page news? It’s also filled with absurdity for me to have decided to put-up my farm truck For Sale. About the best occupation, IMHO, is to be in the organic farm business. To be out of harmony with multi-millions of people I can’t manage to live without, (we all need to eat) joins me to them in fate and destiny to offer up for sale, my used 1948 Studebaker farm truck. Or, and I question, if trying to sell something, in a worse sense a potential vanity symbol, offering it to my fellow human kin, something, I am not supposed to get? What is the monetary worth of a running farm truck soul? I’m the worst one alive to give others financial advice. The answer is beyond my ken.

Money is not important. When we have been robbed and become broke money is very important. People have declined offers to sell the soul and have witnessed a Black Friday procession of crows’ line up to haul-off loads of material objects post-thanksgiving which will just possess and benumb them. To ask, “How to keep” things which can imperceptibly ruin ‘us’ is like buying worry-wrinkles for our forehead. Taking advice from me about financial investments and “how to keep” things is to try to learn if maybe I can sell my version of a status SUV. Who wants to gain status? A progress in life when we were born was learning to place foot in front of foot. We learned how to walk. Yet come what may, ‘we people’ all march along to finish life’s journey some way or another. In other words, as we grow with age, it’s best not to horde corn in our barn that may mildew.

The truck was a steal. It was stored in a hay barn during the seventies. The former neighbor owners who sold it to me apologized. Former owners were apologizing because they added fifty dollar for inflationary increase and to supplement social security incomes. “It once ran” the happily married hay-sales farmers exclaimed to me… “We stored it in the barn and it ran swell.” The battery is just dead.” “You,” [brotherbruz] were called because you always admired that truck. And we are too old to haul manure or take Sunday drives.” But in truth being told, they hinted they wanted me to use it and not profit from a resale truck deal. The couple is dead. I use to buy horse hay from them. I miss them and talk of the return of the horse plow days. I’d say. It is a serious mental trip I am forced to ponder when the question rises to…‘sell or not to sell’…It imposes an ethical dilemma and forces me into a wieldy bout with a private conscience. Sell or not to sell?

If the profit from the truck deal were lodged in the wrong hands, imagine the danger and threat imposed upon our world. A drunk could kill thousands on holiday road trips. A farmer may be forced to discontinue food growth. The farmer’s truck-patch profession has withered enough from drought in fifty-eight years. A miniscule membership of calloused-hand ‘organic’ (die-hards) stubbornly refuses to poison the Earth. A lethal drip of toxic Round-Up spray that kills beetles will eventually kill and harvest you? Why bother about e-coli or e-mail contamination when time is running out?

In general there is real insensitivity toward local and “yokel” agriculture. Let’s honestly admit how hopeless it is to believe the USDA’s policies are any more beneficial than the DOD or the DoJ’s. Why rush to a bank if they fail? The government taxpayer subsidies will continue to go to the steroid hog fattening pharmaceuticals, tax breaks and environmental legislation will allow industries to degrade… and everything will favor profit Study Groups which kill family farm communities. Not to mention water, air, and Oh, reaping money from the poor…“they” will continue…Oh, thou seem to believe in a kind of biodiversity and intercrop aphid control so poor suffer more and…. ‘Thou filthy rich will reap more?’ Why ask.

The Back Market neighborhood we operate ‘round here is a ‘no questions asked,’ honest industry rural-management system. You watch the black car Mennonite worshippers of community throughout the year and you’re discovering you’re on Nature’s schedule. There are cheap wives-tales, moon planting observances, and a few inquires directed toward me from fellow agrarians who seek me out about harsh worldwide maladies of war. “War still going on?” We talk whether the daily news weather has forecasted rain? Why anyone would complain to me about anything, granted, we all need to gossip and complain: …of cheap corn, urban sprawl, grant subsidies to Agribusiness petroleum conglomerates, and the multitudes of theories abound about how to improve aphid’s usefulness and save other beneficial insects. We opine what we think, approximate endlessly, wondering what we should do, within reason, for better market controls.

We know where to buy fresh white milk. We know where to go to buy brown eggs @ ninety-nine cents per dozen, cracked corn, and even a grass-fed-hen. A gentleman ‘farmer’ operator will manage an honest milk system under the table so we can buy raw non-pasteurized (take your own jug) fresh milk. We know where to find a sale of goat milk too. We drink fresh goat milk before it begins to smell like ‘ole Bessie. Why ask if the milk taverns are licensed or the proprietor is engaged in illegal profits? It’s relative. Black Friday shoppers ‘round here don’t ask private questions to those waiting in long lines, “What source did all your wealth come from? How you afford all the impractical junk?

If more people were free of financial distress, gadgets, and accumulation of more stuff, there are many things we could find to do to ennoble our stature-image in our local world. I grow a few tobacco plants only to attract aphids away from fall brasica’s. I never sold t‘um dry plants (compost yea). It be foolish to try to scheme in unethical business profits. It’s always smart to let bumper-crop yields go back into replenishment of the soil.

Succeeding generations have zilch-hope if humans continue to ignore an earthen common sense fertility practice. I mention health that embodies, prepares, and nourishes posterity’s future’s interest. In terms of talking about what is sustainable for the next generation, plans are already pre-scheduled, and government arranged to steal. What is occurring is a daylight robbery. It’s not going to be investigated either. The proverbial ‘dogs’ in congress are leashed to corporate CEO’s owners. The ‘gun to our head’ gangs operate like street thugs. Well, not much public discussion about that is happening, right? We understand the dumbest rich man has got to eat. It is embarrassing to steal or beg for our daily bread. What is accumulated by fraud (more than three meals per day) will mold and not be suitable to fill the foolish grandchildren’s belly. A portion of profit that IRS assures the rich is…in addition to manmade laws and foreign shelters…something for soup makes its way to the ‘underserved’ homeless. Say ‘Cheese.’

One who is remembered for being an enthusiastic philanthropist of good causes, you’d think, would be the grandest and happiest people on Earth. A proponent of good causes deserves to be jolly-happy-rich. I think pockets of horded wealth must be the greatest affliction that yields a weak character. Is it sad or what to see? You wonder why ‘they’ would purchases that sour sneer. Yes.

History is replete with sad testimony of verbal tales from offspring who were neglected or uncultivated. At some past time a one time breeding may have occurred at some bed-time on a black night outing for a sensual barnyard moment. From the moment of conception, sperm greets the egg, and the problems that have been neglected are always followed, looking within, at the ‘footprints’ of the “wham-bam” man. We all can be the one who sneaked out, (who’s business is it, anyway) like a deceiving horny rich-rooster. But if faking success by ignoring the young, yet, while at the same time flaunting purchased junk, as if the ‘yardstick’ is misused to measure a pandemic virtual insecurity! Any adult, male or female, can easily squander an entire lifetime by neglect of what’s most important. Literature and experience inform; tragedy will follow in the path of poor A good economy in olden days was a fertile backyard. To administrate a harvest time which was well spent with children; the rewards of hard labor brought obvious facial joys. A countenance brought a shine to the physical surface of a family’s face which revealed a noticeable inner and hidden treasure. A smile can be robbed, but, it always returns if we live to enhance the larger ecosystem of our neighborhood. An impressive stock portfolio won’t cut the whey, curds, and cheese. Sir Albert Howard wrote a wonderful book published almost sixty years ago. The Agriculture Testament, warned that any nation would collapse if industry permitted ‘false-economies’ to flourish at the expense of sound fiscal agrarian principles.

The hideous greed in our lifetime has not been curbed. Without question, not all has been dog-curbed and what we daily watch endangers the next succeeding generations. A steward and trustee of accrued financial holdings would be foolish to hire me as a trustworthy friend to advise about Swiss Cheese accounting, but, if I were surrounded by hordes of selfish people who robbed everyone they could, I say, ‘Don’t follow in their footprints.’ I offer my two-cents worth of advice to bestow…


Don’t trust some people. Why should we? They are like the suave rankest smelling used-truck sales junk-yard-dogs you’d not want to encounter. A sour lemon found in a used-truck is not what I’m offering. The truck does have a dead battery. I will throw in free jumper cables. You must see this beauty truck to believe your eyes. “What a truck!”

The modified 1948 Studebaker is green. It has faded from its once lush, shiny, original paint job. The red-side-rails complement for that loss of gloss, however, once in DuPont Circle DC’s Fresh Farm Market; I had to yell at a farm-market shopper to “shut the hell up.” Over and over, the food shopper kept asking me, “Man, where’d you get that truck? That’s not fair. I want one like that!”
It was peak-profit Blueberry Hill’s day to rake in a fair payday. I had to condemn in the center of our nation’s capital that resident shopper.

Also: I must tell it’s no longer a true classic. It been modified to meet GMC high-speed interstate standards. It features under the hood a 1974—350 hp gas-hog combustion engine. It idles at 600 rpm’s if you point-gap tune @ .019. It has (evil) duel wheel axils too.

This 1948 Studebaker runs, except in the pouring rain. If you accelerate with ‘peddle to metal’ the windshield wipers stop. Serious offers only. Free jump cables. Why shouldn’t everybody have one? Buy now on this Black Friday. It’s near where the Thurmont, mountain top, Camp David, White House Retreat is located.

The 1948 Studebaker is perfect for shuttle runs to and fro from wherever ‘they’ wish to go with the dough. Not responsible for breakdowns. Sale is final. Sealed bids accepted. Buy one die-hard battery and you’re on the road heading into the heaven’s sunset. Firm.

Hint. Texan Hog Rancher’s planning for retirement should note this as a solid investment.
This 1948 Studebaker hauls heavy manure loads. The hauling good waste to the garden is the best intrapsychic release of tension a gentleman can ask for to get rid of forehead wrinkles in whole wide world. Yes.

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