Now I'm a grandpa and have my own truck and the grand kids love it. We drive it on the highway, on dirt roads, across the pasture and on the gravel creek bed. The little ones like to rest their hand on the floor shift knob and feel the vibration of the engine. I place my hand over theirs and we trace the shift pattern as we make our way through the gears. Whenever we leave the pavement they prefer to ride in the back. Just as my grand father's old red truck has a prominent place in my recollections, my grand children are now forming their own memories centered around my pick up. If you're going to be a grandpa you need to drive a truck. Your grand kids will be talking about it long after they leave childhood.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
When I was a kid I loved my grandpa and I loved his truck. He had a 1954 Ford pickup , red with white sideboards. I would ride along with him to the rear of a local market where he would pick up the waste produce the store had set out for him to take home to his ducks. Before we loaded the truck we would enter the store where he bought me a Coke and two cans of Rainier Ale for himself. Back at the truck Grandpa would down those two cans of ale faster than a college boy with a beer bong. I remember the trips back to his house, driving slowly, Grandpa in his plaid flannel shirt, grey twill pants and scuffed brogans. His white hair curled up from under his ball cap. He whistled through his teeth as he drove along working the clutch and and shifting gears.