My dad used to say, “Never trust a man who drives a clean truck.” He was referring to pickups that hauled bales of hay as opposed to bags of groceries. He was never impressed by jacked-up rigs with chrome bumpers. This son of his followed his lead. I put 300,000 miles on my last truck. This was due, in part, to the difficulty of locating a suitable replacement: a stripped-down work truck with a regular cab, a six-foot bed and windows that require a crank. (Long have I lamented the demise of the standard clutch.) Some folks would call my truck “Plain Jane,” but I call it “St. Joe” because I bought it on the Feast of St. Joseph the Worker. In addition to that coincidence—if you want to call it that—the salesman who sold me the truck sends his kids to St. Joseph Catholic School. I figured he could use the commission. The day that I drove the truck home, I ordered a decal for the back window: a sketch of St. Joseph holding a hammer with this invocation beneath his image, “St. Joseph, Patron of Workers, Pray for Us.” I like my truck. And so would Dad. Yesterday, despite my father’s admonition, I gave the truck a good washing. I live on a dirt road, so I figured "Joe" would be covered with a respectable layer on the next trip to town. It felt good to clean the windows and buff the fenders. When finished, I stood back and admired the way sunlight glinted off a new addition: a crack stretching across the windshield caused by a stone thrown from the tire of a cattle truck. Dad would consider the “add-on” a nice touch. I suspect St. Joseph, Patron of Workers, does as well.