When I think about the old farm truck, I can smell it.

If there was to be a scented candle crafted in honor of the farm truck, it would be a unique blend of baked gravel dust, farm mud, sweat, stale gasoline, and dog hair. The logo on the candle would have to include a poppy flower hanging from the rearview mirror — something my grandfather put there in remembrance and one of those fleeting images of my childhood that always bring back a flood of memories.

The farm truck of my youth was a 1979 Jeep Wagoneer with a V8 engine, automatic transmission, and a feature called quadra-trac, which was engaged via a switch in the glove box. I remember opening the glove box, mesmerized that a light turned on when the door was opened. I pointed to the quadra-trac switch and asked what that was for?

“Don’t ever touch that! You’ll ruin the transmission.” Was my dad’s completely unhelpful response. It could have launched missiles for all I knew, and the desire to touch the switch only intensified with the mystery of it all.

The Jeep was as utilitarian as it could get. It had a plow on the front during winter and I can still see my dad driving back and forth, clearing the farm driveway of snow and heaping it into neat rows, which were perfect for making snow forts.

The original color of the upholstery was lost to time; I remember someone saying “white”, which was laughable. The interior was anything but white, and the rear seats were long removed. The space where the seats would have been was a constantly changing inventory of fencing supplies, tools, discarded food wrappers, boots, gloves, and eventually — the gas tank.

Countless farm kids learned how to drive on their respective farm trucks well before their time, myself included. I believe I was in grade school when I received my first driving lesson, much to the horror of my older brother and cousin, who would’ve been driving by the ripe old age of middle school.

I can still hear the ignition, and how the engine cranked when you started the Jeep. I would have sat far forward on the bench seat to reach the pedals; adjusting the seat would have been out of the question. My dad took me down a gravel field road to drive up and down the waterways, just to get a feel for it. What a feeling! The exhilaration of the first driving experience can never be replicated, particularly when coupled with my dad’s legendary lack of patience.

Another sign of the times was my first parts run. I remember a mechanical breakdown on the farm. This was, of course, before cell phones. My dad called the implement dealer from one of the farm’s three land line telephones to make sure the parts were available and ready to go. He sent me into town with the most helpful instructions of, “Whatever you do, don’t get pulled over.”

Of course, I got pulled over.

As I recall, the officer approached the Jeep. The windows were already rolled down, simply for the fact that they didn’t roll up. When the officer asked if I knew why I got pulled over I apologized and remarked, “I’m just trying to get parts for my dad before the shop closes.”

The officer responded, “Is your dad John?” Which of course, he was. So, I was let off with a helpful warning to check the brake lights, use my turn signals, and slow down, all of which would have been possible if the taillights, turn signal, and speedometer actually worked.

Another legendary farm truck incident involved my grandfather. My dad and I were driving home, and got behind my grandfather driving the Jeep. At that time, my grandpa had an Irish Setter, who rode with him in that Jeep wherever he went. With the bench seat, the old faithful Irish Setter would sit directly next to my grandpa. As we followed the Jeep, my dad burst into laughter. As he explained, from behind, it looked like my grandpa was cuddled up next to a redhead as he drove down the road.

By the time the Jeep was retired, the rear quarter panels were completely rusted out, and you could watch the wheels spinning as you went down the road — from the inside. One day, the fuel tank fell off. My dad improvised by rigging a 5-gallon gas can in the rear compartment with fuel lines running through the dash to the carburetor. One day, the smell of fuel was particularly strong, so my dad popped the hood.

Under the hood, he discovered that the improvised fuel intake line had sprung a leak, and was spraying the nicest, neatest stream of gasoline directly onto the exhaust manifold. Shockingly, the Jeep was retired shortly thereafter. I remember it not wanting to start, and something about the main bearings going bad.

At any rate, the Jeep was traded off for a brand new quad bike, which never did offer the same caliber of memories. To this day, I can still see that poppy flower swinging from the rearview mirror, and I think about my grandfather driving down the road, cuddled up next to that redhead, and how much it made my dad laugh — all memories of the farm that can never be replaced.

— Dan Wegmueller is the owner of Wegmueller Farms and his column appears regularly in the Times. His website is https://

www.farmforthought.org.