If I had a dollar for every time
someone asked about the pickup under the shelter, I would have enough money to
fill its gas tank—several times. I’ll
admit the Ford F-150 does look a little dusty and under-exercised. However, the 1986 fleet-side is cranked 52
times a year to make sure it’s ready for a special day. That day came last week, but I’m getting
ahead of myself.
For
about a dozen years, we lived across the street from my parents. For Alan, Emily and Eric, every trip across
Ninth Street made them smile, because their grandparents made all their
grandchildren feel special. Decades
later, our three can describe the opening sound of their grandparents’
hollow-core back door, and for certain, they knew the whine of their
granddaddy’s six-cylinder. I think it
had something to do with the clutch, as he shifted the three-on-the-tree
gears. Every time I turn the ignition
switch and step on the clutch, I can feel him sitting beside me.
Big
Dink was Depression-Era thrifty. Even though he could afford a new truck, he
waited until he was 64 to drive one home.
And when the air conditioner conked out, he had it fixed. But the next time it quit, he just rolled the
windows down and carried on. He loved
that truck, and our children loved riding with him, air conditioning or not.
In
1997, for his 75th birthday, sisters Sandy, Sheila and I decided our
dad deserved a new truck—another F-150. We had just one request: He should keep his old truck. Big Dink was beside himself. Like a kid with a new bike on Christmas
morning, he drove off to show his friends.
A year later, he was gone. We debated
and decided to sell the classy new ride.
We vowed we’d never part with what would always be “Granddaddy’s truck.”
That’s why it’s been pampered for 19
years, awaiting last Friday.
My
dad died before any of his great-grandchildren were born. You’ve heard me say this before: “People die twice. The heart stops first, then the memories.” I was determined our eight grandchildren
would know their great-grandfather through family stories, repeated over and over. And what better way—on the weekend of Thanksgiving
–than to take them on a slow, dirt-road ride in his pickup truck?
With
a little barnyard ingenuity, I rigged an old school-bus seat on a wooden
platform. Wyatt, Hayes, William, Henry,
Fenn, Smith, Bayard and Stella clambered up the tailgate and jockeyed for a
spot on the burgundy bench from a retired Blue Bird. Three wound up sitting on the floor, but no
one was complaining. When Eric eased off
the clutch, they all got to hear that nostalgic whine. They had heard the stories long before. And now, they were making their
great-granddaddy smile down from heaven. Who
could imagine that old tan truck, with all its nicks and dings, could make for
so much happiness and laughter among eight children?
I could.
dnesmith@cninewspapers.com
