LETTERS FROM HOME: DREAM ACQUIRES SOME RUST

Dear Leslie,

The Great Old Pickup Search just ended. It's old. It's a pickup. And who knows, with some paint and a few lights here and there it might be great.

Truth is, after three weeks of cruising the want ads and used car lots, I just gave up on the dream -- dark green, rust-free short-bed Chevy, runs good, looks good, with air, practically free -- and looked reality in the eye.

Reality said: That truck isn't for sale. Dream on.

But the looking was some fun. DC and I drove to Lutesville on a beautiful afternoon looking for trucks. Actually, Lutesville doesn't exist anymore since it was absorbed by the town next door, Marble Hill. But ever since I can remember, Lutesville was where you'd drive to get a good deal on a car.

So we drove through Gordonville and Burfordville to Lutesville, wishing all along the way that we'd remembered the camera so we could send you Californians some local color. Each hill is a Monet right now.

At the place that used to be Lutesville we met a nice Chevy salesman whose best try was a 4-by-4 Ford and a nice Ford salesman who wanted to sell me his brother-in-law's old Chevy, but the dream wasn't there. So we had a piece of blueberry pie at a cafe. Some fellows in bib overalls were having coffee at a big table. Guess their crops already were in.

It has occurred to me more than once that men and women don't look at cars in quite the same way. They portray who we are or think we are or wish we were. Maybe that's sexy and powerful. Or rich. Or nonconforming. Or responsible if you so choose.

In my case, a little rusty around the edges seems accurate.

But most women of a certain age don't seem to invest a car with such meaning. A car gets them where they're going. Good tires and brakes are important. So's reliability and neatness. All of which needn't cost half as much as a house.

This car difference between the sexes has been a source of conflict in my past, but DC seems to understand how it is. How a man remembers every car as if it had a name. Even if he never spent any time under the hood.

The other night, while DC already was asleep, a guy calls me about his truck. The price was the only thing that sounded right, but one thing I've learned about truck-hunting is that "must see to appreciate" is sometimes the truth. Must see to believe is, too.

I returned about an hour later and awoke DC to tell her we have a truck. I told her it didn't have any paint. Which, when you think about it, is the next best thing to dark green. How it only has 38,000 miles on it but that's because the odometer somehow got disconnected somewhere along it's 25-year journey to me.

How I'd only been able to look at the truck under the lights at a car wash but didn't notice too many missing parts. And how a Highway Patrolman had stopped us during the test drive because the tail lights weren't working.

Before rolling over and going back to sleep, she said, "I think you're nuts but in front of family I'll support your decision."

What more can you ask?

Love, Sam