It started during harvest season a few years ago. My husband, Brett, was driving the grain truck to the local co-op, and from our rented house not far off the main road, I would watch truck after truck roll by my office window to unload their grain for the season.
I knew which trucks belonged to us — the faded blue one with the busted radio, the red-and-white one sporting the newer logo and the red-and-black semi, my personal favorite. But while I watched our trucks roll by, I couldn’t always tell who was behind the wheel. Was it Brett? My father-in-law? My brother-in-law? I was nosy and wanted to keep tabs on who was driving what.
Finally, curiosity got the best of me. One night after a long day of combining and driving trucks, I asked my husband, “How many loads did you take in today?”
In-between bites of whatever late-night dinner I flung together, he gave me his answer, then asked, “Didn’t you see me?”
Nope, not from that distance. Even with 20/20 vision and a keen eye, there was no way to tell who was behind the wheel when they were flying past at 55 mph.
The next day, I watched the road again as the trucks made their rounds. First the blue one passed, then a while later the red. Finally, the semi came around the bend on its way to town with the first load of the day. This time, though, the driver honked three times, and I found myself wondering what that was about.
A little later, I got a text from Brett while he was waiting in the grain line: “Did you see me go by with the semi? I honked three times. I said I love you.”
Our Own Little Love Language
Our poor neighbors must have been sick of the trucks rolling by that fall, especially once the “three honks” tradition began. No matter which truck came down the road, I always knew when Brett was behind the wheel because a distinctive “Honk! Honk! HONKKKK!” would ring out across County Road R.
We’ve since moved to the farm, and our house is no longer on the path to the co-op. During our first fall at the new address, I mentioned how I missed hearing those three beeps go off throughout the day. Brett cracked a smile when I told him this, and mischievously said, “Challenge accepted.”
Now, I’ll hear those three blasts echo from a pickup, a tractor or whatever rig he’s driving that day, and I just smile. Those three honks have become our little ritual. It’s simple, it’s sweet and it’s probably annoying to everyone else in the area, but it’s ours. And it’s a reminder that love doesn’t always need words, sometimes it just needs a truck rolling down the road and three short honks.
