Free Truck by Michael Perry Page B

when it began skipping tracks, driving home the fact that I got exactly what I deserved for buying a $24.95 piece of outsourced superstore junk despite knowing full well as I stood there in the cavernous aisles of the High Church of Cheap Consumption that any money saved would one day be expended threefold on blood pressure medication and knuckle stitches. I own two of these chintzy electronic farces. Both havefractured stubs where the CD lid used to attach. As slow learners go, I am a real drooler.
    Despite my Samsonite gorilla act, the radio receiver still functions. For basement puttering, I split my time pretty evenly between public radio and Moose Country 106.7. I like that Moose Country. They play the one-namers: Waylon and Willie. Buck and Merle. George and Tammy. Loretta. It is silly to say bad things about popular music, but for the record, Johnny Paycheck is to Kenny Chesney as corn whiskey is to wine coolers. This new stuff suffers from overgrooming. Even the redneckiest tunes ring tinny. One sometimes fears the lyrics of the latest busted-heart song were transposed from a marriage encounter handbook. It isn’t that today’s superstars aren’t talented and hardworking. It’s just that their way of doing things has passed me by. I look at the pretty cowboy on the Jumbotron and think, It is one thing to polish your craft, it is quite another to wax your abs. Recipe for the real deal: Combine two parts busted heart with one part busted knuckles, sprinkle with cheap trucker speed and crushed Valium to taste, and marinate in hard luck and leaky motor oil. Stir in Genesis and Revelation, add a dash of hope, and finish off while being forcibly evicted from a hotel bar. Hello, Tanya Tucker.
    The local public radio station is on the opposite end of the dial. Literally, and however else you wish to parse it. The Venn diagram of listenership may come up a little short on overlap, but I’m happy to go on record as supporting both formats (it being only fair to point out that both have supported me ). Near as I can tell, the commonest complaint about public radio is predicated on the inconvenience of encountering opinions in conflict with your own. That, and unctuous tone. Indeed, the NPR snootiness sometimes unhinges my own inner redneck, but in general I defend their usually steadfast refusal to dumb down. One does not ask Alistair Cooke to do the Chicken Dance. Any reservations I had about the format remain neutralized to this day by the fact that during the OJ Simpson trial, NPR was the only place to which I could tune at the top of the hour and expect a newscaster to lead off with news .
    I will listen to NPR today because I have brewed a mug of green tea, and nothing says public radio like green tea. I dial the needle leftward until I pick up the unmistakably civilized tones of WHWC 88.3. I rollthe tuner back and forth, easing the stereophonic sound to full swell. It shortly becomes clear that the host and guest are discussing the Rwandan genocides of 1994.
    Pulling nested trays from a shelf beneath the bench, I unpeel them one by one and begin to parcel out the potting soil. After shaking the trays to settle the soil, I press the eraser end of a pencil into the center of each cell, creating a depression to receive the seed. Then I place the seed company shipping box on my lap and open it. The packets are in a uniform row. Fingertipping through them Rolodex-style, I pull out the ones I think will benefit from an early start. Leeks. Peppers. Tomatoes. Peel back the gummed flap, tip the seeds into my palm. Pinch them one by one and drop them in the pencil dimples. Top them off with another sprinkle of potting soil and a pat, then move on to the next seed packet. I take my time. There is no clock in the basement, but the top of the hour is marked by a chirp tone that triggers local station identifications, followed by the familiar, “ From NPR news in Washington …”
    The familiar voice will