Neither M nor I get overly excited about mulberries. However, while they are rather nondescript and bland, they are also free, and so M has used the fruit from the trees to make jam and other delights.

Last week she made a mulberry cobbler for us, for a bedtime snack.

“We can eat half of it tonight, and the other half tomorrow morning,” she said.

That sounded quite reasonable to both of us, but when we found only one quarter of it remaining, I suggested, “Let’s just eat it all now.”

“Okay,” she said.

It was a fine idea, I suppose, except that with just an eensy-weensy bit of the cobbler left, I realized that I just couldn’t take any more.

It made a fine breakfast appetizer the next morning.

I have entered a time of grief.

After being listed on craigslist for just several hours, my truck sold yesterday. This evening, the buyer drove for three hours from his office to haul it away. He paid me thirty-three twenties, so M scrounged up $10 change and, as we had previously discussed, wrote down the buyer’s license plate in case the cash turns out to be counterfeit (he seemed like a terrific guy).

It was time for it to go, the truck. The transmission was failing, the back bumper was falling off, the engine stuttered in the rain, and the stereo was completely dead. As my craigslist post stated, “FOR SALE: 2WD 1994 Toyota pickup with 222K miles, just inspected. 5-speed manual transmission (pops out of third and fourth gears). Runs great (in wet weather, must warm up first). The stereo doesn’t work, and the back bumper needs to be replaced (rusted out), but overall, a little workhorse. Snow chains included; bed cap optional (free). $650 or best offer.”

Its life was fast approaching a “nickel and dime” era–a condition that we would be stretched to accommodate–but its small (even cute) body being towed down the driveway into a new existence marks for me the end of several eras.

I was practically given the truck in 2001 by my uncle, who had used it for hauling firewood and Amish, just after completing a year of voluntary service. Certainly I had little money at the time, but I felt rich driving around in the peppy, burgundy pickup.

It continued to be my primary transportation for the next eight years, until yesterday, that truck. It chased fire engines when I wrote for a newspaper one forest fire season. It hauled camera tripods and lights when I worked as a photographer for a software company. It found itself at the homes of the broken youths I mentored.

It took M and me on our first “casual date” to see the Indigo Girls in concert, and over the next seven months accompanied me home on the many late-night treks down the interstate after our hours of conversing, biking, and even getting engaged. It carried our wedding presents. It drove me to my final interview for my current job; on the way home I stopped at a rest stop to eat my lunch and call M to tell her that I was pretty sure I’d been hired, and an old couple from New Jersey commented about all the “Tie-otas” they were seeing.

And it helped move us from our honeymoon townhouse to our apartment to our farmhouse.

Already I miss it.