NORMAN — For about a week, I’ve had some song stuck in my head about honky-tonk angels. And I can’t remember the entire verse or the artist.
This constant lyric loop all started over a long Independence Day holiday when I was spontaneously invited to spend an evening at a Kansas Hereford ranch. There’s nothing more relaxing, I’ll tell you, than spending a couple of hours in the middle of no where.
Knowing that the driveway to this ranch is exactly one mile long, I knew my city slicker vehicle wouldn’t cut the mustard. So I borrowed my dad’s rough-and-tumble truck.
I knew I was about to step into a time warp when I was trying to unlock the truck door with that fancy electronic box that we all use now to get inside our vehicles.
After about two tries, I realized that high-end gizmo, although convenient, wasn’t going to get me inside this truck. Maybe the car it was made for, but not this truck. The only way to get inside this Dodge was to go old school and actually use a key.
But the throwback didn’t stop there. As soon as I turned over the engine, I realized that not only was I subjected to raw horsepower but also a cassette player. Hence the song about honky-tonk angels.
From there, I had to maneuver that long machine out of the garage. My first car was a Dodge Diplomat handed down to me from my Aunt Mildred. I had plenty of years of practice backing that beast of a car out of the garage. It was two car-lengths long compared to today’s transportation, and reverse was always a struggle. Over the years, thank goodness, I became a master.