I don't care how excited you are when you get your driver's license as soon as you turn 16, you probably have not yet been blessed with the experience of driving behind a huge chicken truck on a narrow, two-lane country road with nowhere to pass.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining about chicken trucks being on the road. Goodness knows, they have to make a living just like everybody else. My older brother, Britt, has two chicken houses, and anyone who knows anything about the business knows that that is a 24/7 job.

However, getting stuck behind a huge chicken truck is not necessarily, well, shall we say, the most pleasant driving experience in the world.

I was driving back from Greenville to Luverne last week and had this wonderful experience. Again.

I got to looking at those poor chickens all cramped into those little wire cages together, and soon realized that if any of them suffered from claustrophobia, well, they'd just be in a pickle.

Talk about needing some serious therapy after that ride.

I know, I knowŠ..that IS their last rideŠ..

As much as I would love for it to snow around here during the wintertime, I guess riding behind a chicken truck really helps with that fantasy, too, because you know those feathers just go flying all around you.

Poor chickens.

Now, if I had been a really rude driver, I could have begun to blow my car horn and be all impatient and pass that truck at the first (probably dangerous) opportunity. But, I didn't.

Did you know that your car horn actually says something about you, the driver, as well as the machine in which you drive?

That's right.

For example, when I was 16 years old, I drove a 1972 four-door Ford LTD that didn't get a scratch on it the night I almost took out one of the carport posts at my parents' house. They just don't make cars like they used to.

Plus, like I've said before, that car was held together by the be-all and end-all of southern repairs- duct tape – so you know it was indestructible.

And, that boat had a loud, deep car horn sound to it; you know, the kind that says, &#8220GET OUT OF MY WAY!”

Today, I may love my compact two-door sports car, but my car horn only says, &#8220Um, pardon me, excuse me, please,”

So much for blowing my horn at the chicken truck.

And the feathers continued to fly all around me. It was a good thing I had the windows up.

Who knows? Maybe it will snow this year after all. One can wish, you know.

After discussing the drive behind the chicken truck with Samson, my 21-pound tomcat, he went and got his little helmet that he uses when he rides in his sidecar that's attached to my Venice scooter. He was mumbling something about putting racing stripes on his helmet so he could go faster and then be able to catch that chicken truck, andŠŠ.

Yea, right. Good luck, big boy.

Regina Grayson is managing editor of The Luverne Journal. She can be reached at 335-3541 or by email: regina.grayson@luvernejournal.com.