Life Lessons from an Old Jon Boat and First Truck
Image of old jon boat and truck
Growing Up in Old Florida
There comes a season in every country kid's life when the world quietly gets a little bigger.
It doesn't happen with fireworks or birthday candles. It isn't marked by a graduation ceremony or a fancy speech. It usually arrives on an ordinary afternoon when someone tosses you a set of worn-out keys and says, "Take it easy now."
For me, growing up in Florida, that moment didn't begin behind the wheel.
It started with the handle of an old tiller motor.
Long before I was trusted with a pickup truck, I was trusted to point a jon boat across blackwater creeks, ease through lily pads without spooking the fish, and learn that responsibility usually comes disguised as something simple. Looking back now, that little aluminum boat was less about fishing and more about growing up.
By the time I finally climbed behind the steering wheel of my first truck, I realized I'd already been practicing for years.
The Old Tiller Was My First Steering Wheel
Our jon boat wasn't much to look at.
The paint had surrendered years earlier. Every scrape along its sides told the story of one more hidden stump or forgotten sandbar. The aluminum floor rang like a church bell every time someone accidentally dropped a pair of pliers.
The old tiller motor had a personality all its own.
Some mornings it started on the first pull.
Other mornings it acted like it was negotiating a peace treaty.
Granddaddy would smile, tug the rope again, pat the cowling with one hand, and mumble something that probably wasn't printed anywhere in the owner's manual.
Eventually it would cough, sputter, sneeze a cloud of blue smoke across the creek, and settle into that familiar putt...putt...putt that still sounds like childhood to me.
The first time he let me steer, he didn't offer a lesson.
He simply stepped back.
"You know where we're going."
That was all.
No lecture.
No warning.
Just trust.
The creek became my classroom.
I learned that quick turns threw everyone sideways.
Too much throttle wasted gas.
Too little left you drifting into cypress knees.
Smooth was always better than fast.
Funny how those lessons kept showing up later in life.
a weathered aluminum jon boat, its once-bright surface now worn to a soft, silvery patina, resting gently beside a tranquil Florida creek at the break of dawn.
Roads That Didn't Have Names Yet
Back then, not every road showed up on a map.
Some were little more than twin tire tracks winding through palmettos and pine flatwoods.
Folks didn't give directions with street signs.
They'd say things like:
"Turn left at the old oak with the lightning scar."
"Go past where the cattle guard used to be."
"When you see the mailbox painted like a fish, you've gone too far."
And somehow everyone found their way.
My first truck wasn't exactly what you'd call impressive.
The bench seat had enough tears to qualify as ventilation.
The speedometer worked whenever it felt inspired.
The radio only picked up country music and baseball games, and even then it depended on the weather.
The passenger door had to be slammed twice.
Three times if it was humid.
Which, being Florida, meant nearly every day.
Still...
To me it looked like freedom parked on four tires.
That truck didn't care whether the road had a name.
It only cared whether I remembered where home was.
☀This story is part of the “Lessons From the Porch series—
The Day the Lake Swallowed the Sun: A Lesson at Eleven
A Florida Lesson in Patience, Fog, and Growing Up
Learning to Drive Like the Folks Before You
Nobody around our place taught driving from a handbook.
Lessons happened one mile at a time.
Don't throw dust on somebody's porch.
Wave at every passing truck.
Slow down when you pass horses.
If someone needs help pulling out of the ditch, you stop.
You don't ask questions first.
You ask where they want the chain hooked.
Granddaddy believed the way you drove told people nearly as much about you as the way you talked.
"If you're always in a hurry," he'd say, "you're liable to miss what God put beside the road."
At sixteen, I thought he was mostly talking about deer.
At fifty-something...
I know he wasn't.
Some of life's best memories never happened at the destination.
They happened on forgotten roads where someone spotted a fox crossing the trail, an old church tucked beneath live oaks, or a fish camp that smelled permanently of bacon and coffee.
You can't rush those moments.
They're stubborn.
They only appear for folks willing to slow down.
An old Florida dirt road disappearing beneath towering live oaks, sunlight filtering through Spanish moss as a vintage pickup truck sits parked beside a weathered fence.
Every Machine Came With a Lesson
That little tiller motor taught patience.
The truck taught responsibility.
The tractor taught persistence.
The chainsaw taught respect.
Even the push mower found a way to teach humility whenever it refused to start after twenty determined pulls.
Looking back, none of those old machines were really about the machines.
They were classrooms wearing grease.
Every scrape on your knuckles reminded you to pay attention.
Every breakdown reminded you to carry tools.
Every flat tire reminded you that preparation beats panic nearly every time.
These days, cars beep when you're drifting out of your lane.
GPS politely tells us every turn.
Engines practically diagnose themselves.
It's wonderful technology.
But part of me misses the days when learning meant listening.
Listening to the engine.
Listening to the birds.
Listening to older folks who'd already made every mistake you were about to make.
There was wisdom hiding in those conversations.
The kind that doesn't come with software updates.
👉☀This story is part of theLessons from The Porch series
Growing Up Isn't About Getting Bigger
Somewhere along the way, the jon boat disappeared.
The truck got traded.
The dirt roads were paved.
Street signs appeared where there once stood fence posts and memories.
Housing developments slowly replaced old cow pastures.
GPS finally learned the names of roads we'd been driving for decades.
Progress has a funny way of arriving quietly.
Sometimes it brings better opportunities.
Sometimes it accidentally paves over a few good stories.
But every now and then, I'll hear the unmistakable putt-putt of an old tiller motor drifting across a lake before sunrise.
For just a second, I'm twelve years old again.
My hands are wrapped around that worn throttle.
Granddaddy is sitting on the front bench pretending not to watch me.
And I'm learning, one gentle turn at a time, that growing up isn't about how fast you can go.
It's about becoming someone others can trust with the wheel.
Whether it's a boat...
A truck...
Or eventually, a family of your own.
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A Warm Farewell from the Porch
If I could park that old truck beside the creek one more time, I'd leave the keys hanging in the ignition and spend the afternoon drifting through blackwater with Granddaddy instead.
Not because I want to be young again.
But because I understand those quiet lessons now.
The first truck wasn't really about transportation.
The old tiller wasn't really about steering.
They were both invitations.
Invitations to grow a little steadier, a little more dependable, and a little more grateful for the people who trusted us before we trusted ourselves.
Funny how the smallest engines often carry us the farthest.
So if you ever hear an old outboard echo across a Florida morning or see a dusty pickup easing down a road most maps forgot, give a little wave.
Somebody out there is probably learning lessons they'll spend the rest of their life remembering.
And that's a pretty good road to travel.
Thanks for spending part of your day with Florida Unwritten.
If this story felt familiar, salty, strange, or a little too Florida to explain at dinner, share it with someone who’d understand.
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Earl lee
Florida Unwritten
