I learned a long time ago that 'things' are just that: things.
But I've learned much more recently that sometimes what those same 'things' represent can mean so much more.
My furniture is second-hand. My electronics are outdated. My minimal possessions that moved with me across the country and then from Okotoks to Edmonton all fit into one trip in a half-ton truck, and their value is based largely in sentiment. The only things I took with me with any monetary value are my cameras.
Then, a year and a half ago, I realized a goal.
I was debt-free, and had saved enough for a decent down payment on a vehicle. My own vehicle. Mine. No one else's. The truck I had dreamed of owning since I originally decided to move to Alberta. I had budgeted and worked out on paper what I could afford, and after 3 years, I was finally ready to make it happen.
In my head, it was cherry red, single-cab, and functioned just well enough to get me from point A to point B; I didn't need anything fancy.
What I walked out of the dealership with was a white, 4WD supercrew cab, 6.2 L V8 Ford F-150 Limited with air conditioned seats and a button to change the colour of the lights on the cupholder and under the dashboard. I named her Ashley until she was re-christened Betty White, and to me, she wasn't just a truck. She was freedom.
The financial freedom I had achieved to be able to afford such a thing.
The freedom to choose my very first vehicle at the ripe old age of 37.
The freedom to just GO.
She has taken me to so many new places, and back to old favourites. She's taught me to change brakelights and windshield wipers and the proper way to unhook a battery. I've learned more about gas tanks and wheels and exhaust systems and actuators and insurance than I ever dreamed I'd ever need to know. I bought pink fuzzy dice for the mirror, Cape Breton and Oregon decals for the window, and a sparkly license plate frame for the back. I gripe about the cost of gas as much as the next guy, but I've paid $35 for a car wash without batting an eye.
So when Betty was vandalized back in early May, I was more than heartbroken. She's not just a truck. She's the embodiment of my independence: an independence that I have learned is so deeply ingrained in every facet of who I am. It wasn't just my truck that was violated: it was my goal, all the hard work and focus I had put into achieving it, and most importantly, my freedom.
My very core.
"Insurance will cover it," they said.
And it did.
The missing parts were replaced, brand new and ready for action. My wallet benefitted legitimately and well.
But my faith in humanity? Not so much.
Peace of mind? There is no insurance for that.
And I was angry. Boy, was I angry. I still am, as I type this just over a month later.
I'll grant the jackass that did it that he could not have known the full impact of his actions. I have little doubt he'd have done what he did anyway, but I hang onto that tiny sliver of hope that says maybe, if he'd only known. Instead, he saw a truck with expensive parts and looked past the pink fuzzy dice and Cape Breton scarf that was a gift from my mom strung across the back seat, and completely violated the one thing I own of value. He took what he wanted and didn't give a second thought to me, or to anything else.
And I learned some more valuable lessons about humanity, about security, and about the blissful ignorance that had let me believe to this point that people don't actually do things like that to other people's property.
And I've learned that while possessions really are just things, sometimes it's what they represent that makes them become so much more important and deserving of respect.
