His Truck

The sticky summer air had a cool breeze that morning.  It rustled the leaves of the persimmon tree offered a sweet relief to the endless humidity.  I hugged the base of the basketball goal; one day I was going to climb the thick metal base to the top, but at the time, my feet were too sweaty and I was enjoying the change in weather.  “Hop in the truck!”  I looked up to see mom and daddy walking out of the garage carrying the red cooler.  My brothers and I scrambled to my dad’s green Ford pickup.  We barrel rolled into the big cab and held on as daddy started the sputtering engine.  The truck drove out of the metal gate at the end of our driveway and followed the gravel road up towards the woods.  We were going to the farm.  My dog ran along beside us and I reached down many times to pet him.  We stopped at a clearing lined with hay bales.  Mom sat in the back of the truck and dad raced my brothers and me to jump the hay bales.  I only fell once.

“Princess,” daddy said, “You wanna help me take Moses to the vet today?”  I jumped with excitement, for I always loved to take Moses places.  The big dog’s gentle composure and fluffy white fur drew crowds to pet and compliment him.  I was the proud owner, who would always sit by my daddy nodding and smiling, because after all, he was my dog.  But the reward of attention at the vet’s office was hardly worth the uncomfortable ride there.  Daddy knew Moses would jump out of the back of the truck, so he cleared away the jumper cables and tow ropes and folded down the back seat.  He then tossed a couple of dog biscuits back there and stepped away as the massive dog leaped in.  Daddy grabbed a leash and slid into the driver’s seat.  I buckled up next to him and looked up at Moses’ head leaned over mine.  He was a sweet dog, but drooled when he got nervous.  And the veterinarian’s clinic was over an hour away.  I prayed the whole way the steady stream of slobber oozing down my neck would halt but it didn’t until we had pulled into the parking lot and the back of my gray t shirt was slimy and wet.

I sat cross legged in the back of the old truck with my mom listening to the booming sound of the Country Club’s fireworks display from across the valley.  Every once in awhile, I’d see a spray of colorful sparks emerge over the black line of trees.  Dad and Adam were leaning down at the foot of the driveway, lighting a bottle rocket.  It sat in a brick stolen from the side of the house:  a home-made fix for lack of a proper firework base.  I covered my ears like I did every year no matter how old I got, and watched my brothers retreat as the firework shot up into the night sky and exploded.  I had my camera ready but barely missed the big explosion.  I leaned back on the spare tire and listened to the rhythmic sound of crackling and booming from all around the valley.  I pulled at a weed growing from under the mat in the cab.  Mom always joked that dad had a greener thumb than she did because he could grow a garden in the back of his truck.  Sometimes the plants would rise to the back window before one of us would yank them out of the dirt and shale.  Another firework exploded over my head.  I knew it had been a screaming dragon based on the obnoxious screech it made as it elevated into the sky.  

“Just one drive down the road,” David had said.  I hesitated, but climbed in the back of the truck any way.  David took his place in the driver’s seat and checked the mirrors, just like the driving manual had instructed. With an uneasy lurch, we rolled down the driveway and onto the road.  The speed increased and so did my grip on the edge.  The wind blew my hair and I shut my eyes.  No way was I ever letting him drive my car.   “David, no!”  I yelled too late as the truck flew around the curve, throwing me across the back.  One abrupt stop later, and he jumped out of the cab.  “How’d I do?” he asked eagerly.  “Slow down!”  I screamed at him and hopped over the edge onto the safety of unmoving grass.  

It seems that no matter how old we get, or how much we think we know, there is always something that draws us back.  Rather it is a decorative music box, an overstuffed chair, or a green pickup truck, it reminds us of home and life just isn’t right without it.  We can gain all the knowledge in the world, but for our own world to be complete, we have to have that special something.  Good or bad, it defines us, and makes us a symbol of who we were and maybe even who we will become.  

For me, it is my dad’s blue 1995 Ford 1-50 and if he sold it, I know I’d cry.  The doors rattle and the windows must be cranked down manually.  Jagged cracks run across the dashboard and the engine still makes a funny noise starting up.  Every pot hole sends the driver and passenger through the roof and the seats are stained from years of spilled gas station coke slushies.  But its sound and its smell bring me home.  The cloth seats and dents on the fender remind me of who I am and where I came from.  From the sunflower seeds packages under the seat, to the old baseballs rolling around in the back, I am reminded of everything my dad is and stands for.  

What is it about these treasures that make us so attached?  Is it a fond memory or a string of memories, good and bad, associated with that object?  Or is it simply the only constant entity in our ever changing lives?  These things keep us grounded and protected from our evolving world.  We all yearn for some form of a safety net and maybe these precious objects can provide just that.

I remember loading up the back with catcher’s equipment and baseball bats then riding to spend hours at the baseball park, devouring blue snow cones and famous Stormy burgers.  I remember riding in the back home from Mimi’s house and reaching out to grab leaves from the trees we whizzed past.  No matter where I go or where I’ve been, I can always come home to my dad’s truck parked at the end of the driveway.  It symbolizes my family, because we are Fords we are built Ford tough.